The Last Wish of Sasha Cade

While I’m waiting in a long line of cars trying to get out of the school parking lot, my phone alarm goes off, which is a little weird. I glance at the screen and see an alert from my calendar. Tomorrow is Mrs. Cade’s birthday, and I almost forgot. When I’d saved the date in my phone a few months ago, I knew I wanted to do something special for her in case Sasha passed away before then. I was going to carry on the tradition of going to Gigi’s Cupcakes. A knot settles into my stomach.

When I first got the idea to take her out for a birthday cupcake, I’d felt a rush of excitement. This tradition she’d always shared with her daughter could still be carried on through her daughter’s best friend. Maybe we’d even make it our own tradition now, remembering Sasha once a year with stories and cupcakes piled high with icing. I can’t stand knowing that our first year of this new tradition will be darkened by my worries over Elijah.

I try to focus on cleaning the flower shop and fulfilling orders, but of course Elijah is always on my mind. His entire life changed when he met Sasha, but he’s homeless because of me.

After sweeping, I get the mop out and scrub the floor. Izzy gives me a curious glance as I slide the mop past her feet, but she doesn’t say anything. I dust and wipe and organize the flower accessories on the back shelves. I peel off the old Credit Cards Accepted sign that was crooked and curling and print out a new one, then tape it neatly to the counter.

When it’s closing time, I help Izzy lock up. Then I’m sitting in my car in a dark parking lot, staring at a new message from Elijah on my phone.

Elijah0Delgado: Still mad at me?

RockiBoBocki: Still homeless?

Elijah0Delgado: Yes.

RockiBoBocki: Then yes.

***

Mrs. S. smells like cigarettes and coffee as she slips through the rows of students, dropping a graded chem test on each desk. I wonder where she gets time to smoke when there’s only five minutes between classes. The coffee isn’t a mystery; she keeps a coffee machine at the back of her classroom and never lets us have any.

She used a black Sharpie to grade our tests, and my paper still smells faintly like permanent marker. The Sharpie makes me think of Sasha. The grade — a seventy-two — is all thanks to her brother.

How the hell am I supposed to know what happens when a fluorine atom becomes a fluoride ion in a chemical reaction when I can’t stop thinking about a boy?

In my next class, I’m attempting to focus on Mr. Green’s lecture about the civil war when my phone vibrates in my back pocket. We’re not allowed to have phones in school, but people can usually get away with a sly text or two without the teacher caring. The thing is, no one really texts me anymore. Zack has forgotten I exist, and few other people even have my number. When the vibrating doesn’t stop, I realize it’s a phone call. Maybe it’s a wrong number.

I slip the phone out of my back pocket and bring it into my lap, keeping my eyes focused on Mr. Green to make sure he doesn’t see. Mrs. Cade’s name flashes across the screen. Dread slams into me, making it hard to breathe. The only time she ever called me at school was when Sasha was having a cancer emergency.

Why would she call me now?

I panic until it stops ringing, then a few seconds later, a new voice message notification pops up. I can’t stand waiting any longer, so I jump up and ask to use the bathroom.

Mr. Green gives me a sideways look, like he wants to say no, but I still get a little dead-best-friend sympathy, so he lets me go.

“Hurry up,” he says before turning back to the whiteboard.

Out in the hallway, I jog toward the nearest bathroom. Getting caught on the security camera with your phone is a fifty-dollar fine that I don’t want to pay. Once I’m safely locked inside a stall, I play Mrs. Cade’s message.

“Honey, call me back! Hurry!”

A million terrible things flash through my mind, and they only get worse as I realize that she’s my parents’ emergency contact. Did something happen to them? Oh God.

I call her back and lean against the wall on shaky knees while the phone begins to ring.

“Raquel!”

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh, Raquel, I can’t believe it.”

It sounds like she’s … laughing? “Mrs. Cade!” I say, my fingers going numb from panic. “Is everything okay?”

“I got a card in the mail.”

Goose bumps rise on the back of my arms. I gulp some air, now that I feel safe enough to breathe again. “A card?” I ask, but I’m pretty sure I know what she’s going to say next.

“It’s a card from Sasha! A birthday card for me that she wrote before she passed.” There are sobbing sounds from the phone and I blink quickly, looking toward the ceiling to hold back my own tears. “She wrote me a birthday note and it’s the sweetest thing, Raquel.”