Another Day (Every Day 2)

We need to know there’s no way Michael can be taken to Hawaii, so we use my phone to make sure all the last flights have left. Rather than have Michael take all the buses back, I offer to drive him—it’s not like I’m in any rush to get home. I’m going to have to tell my parents I’ve broken up with Justin, before they hear it from someone else.

As we drive, I ask A to tell me more about who he’s been. The damaged girl yesterday, and other people before that.

He lets the stories range all over the place—some sad, but most happy. As he’s telling them, I realize that for each event, he has to remember two things, while the rest of us only have to remember one. Not only who he was with, but who he was. Like with his first kiss. I remember my first kiss with Bobby Madigan—it was a dare in fourth grade that both of us had secretly wanted to take. When Mrs. Shedlowe wasn’t looking, we sneaked at recess into the woods. I remember how soft his lips were. I remember how his eyes were closed. It hadn’t occurred to me to close my eyes; if this was going to happen, I wanted to see it.

A tells me his first kiss was in fifth grade. He was in a basement and they were playing spin the bottle. He’d never played spin the bottle before, but the other kids seemed to know what to do. He spun and the bottle landed on a blond girl. He remembers her name was Sarah and that, before they kissed, she said, “Keep your mouth closed!” I ask him who he was at the time. He shakes his head.

“I’m not sure,” he tells me. “All I remember is her. I can tell you she was wearing a dress—like a Sunday school dress—so maybe we were at a party for something. But I can’t remember who I was.”

“Not even if you were a boy or a girl?”

“A boy, I imagine—but, honestly, I wasn’t paying attention either way.”

It’s strange to think about: All this time we’re spending together, all of these days. I am trying to remember who he was each day. But A?

A will only remember me.

—

Eventually, the map on my phone tells us we’re getting close to Michael’s house.

“I want to see you tomorrow,” A says.

“I want to see you, too. But I think we both know it’s not just a matter of want.”

“I’ll hope it, then.”

I like that.

“And I’ll hope it, too,” I say.

—

I float on that for a while, driving home. Then I remember everything else that’s happened, and I start to sink. When I get home, I can’t bear the thought of telling my parents about Justin, so I avoid them. My mom yells something about missing dinner, but I can’t even begin to care.

I call Rebecca for a status report. She tells me, again, that everything’s going to be fine. It will all blow over.

After I hang up, I stare at my phone. I click on the photo folder and it’s like my whole history with Justin is there. He couldn’t rip that up.

I know what I told A is true: It’s not over.

Justin and I are in the bad part now.

Chapter Twenty-Six

School is brutal the next day. All the whispering. All the stares. All the talk. Some of it ridiculous. Some of it true.

Everyone in this building has gone years without caring about me. Now I do something wrong, and suddenly they care. It’s disgusting.

There’s no email from A when I wake up, and I don’t check again. I feel I need to navigate this alone. A can’t help me here. I need friends like Rebecca and Preston to help me.

It is amazing to me how many people are fine with calling me a slut to my face. Girls say it low and guys shout it out.

Justin has made it clear to my friends that they have to choose, and that he’s the one who’s been wronged. He doesn’t care about Rebecca and Preston, which makes it easier for them. Stephanie, though, says she’s going to have to keep her distance when Justin’s around. Steve, too. She says she hopes I understand. I tell her I do.

“You’re too nice,” Rebecca says, overhearing this.

“No,” I say. “I don’t think niceness is my problem.”