Ariel

I comb my bangs flat and give them a hefty blast of freeze spray. Still, Mom notices my bruise during dinner. “How did that happen, Ariel?”

I explain to her about tripping and cracking my forehead on my nightstand, leaving out one important detail—that I was rushing around like a maniac because Shane was pounding on our door. Fortunately, Mom’s so preoccupied with our upcoming trip to Elmira, his name doesn’t come up once. He’s there with me, though. All through dinner, I remember how fragile he looked crying in our kitchen.

The next morning, I wear Shane’s favorite outfit—an Old Navy hoodie that clings after it shrunk in the dryer, and my low-rise Riders. Except I have some serious PMS bloating going on, and the jeans fit tighter than usual. I check my backside in the mirror to make sure I don’t have VPL.

When I meet Olivia at Starbucks, there are two beverages on the newspaper box instead of one. “For you,” she says, handing me the taller one. “Chai tea. I figured you could use the caffeine since you looked like crap yesterday.”

“Thanks. I think.” I take the cup as we start to walk.

“So,” she says, “what happened after school yesterday? I thought we were going to try to do something together.”

“Sorry. Shane was there waiting for me when I got home.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t be mad, Liv.”

“I’m not mad.” She sips her latte. Looks away. “We just haven’t hung out in, like, a really long time.”

A gust of wind whips past, lifting my sprayed-down bangs.

Liv stares at my forehead bruise. “Ariel, what happened?”

I reach to smooth my bangs back, except my glove creates major static and my hair boings out in every direction. “Nothing. I fell.”

I start walking again, but Liv doesn’t follow along. I turn. “What?”

Liv beams a look of concern. “Ariel, is there anything you want to tell me?”

She’s channeling Dad the Psychotherapist again. “No, Liv, there’s nothing to tell. But I am freezing, so let’s go.”

Liv catches up to me, touches my sleeve, whispers, “Ariel, did Shane hit you?”

I think of what Shane said when he saw the bruise. I hope no one thinks I did that to you. This creeps me out, but I try to act normal. “No, Liv. God. Why would you say such a terrible thing?”

“I don’t know, I just—” She forces a frown away. “Never mind. Sorry.”

When we start walking again, Liv’s phone bleeps, and I’m relieved to have the focus off me. She flips it open, reads a text, rolls her eyes. “Puh-lease.”

I try to peek at the message, but her scarf is blocking the screen. “What is it?”

“Dad wants to friend me on Facebook. Isn’t that covered in a parenting manual somewhere? ‘Do not stalk your sons and daughters on social networking sites.’ She claps her phone closed. “Speaking of Facebook, you really should sign up.” She flashes a phony smile. “Virtual visits are better than nothing.”

“Come on, Liv. You know I’m too private to report my status to the world every day. Ariel is happy because she talked to her dad in prison. Emoticon: smiley face.”

Olivia laughs.

“I could see my profile page now,” I continue. “I’d have, like, two friends. You and Shane.”

“My dad’ll friend you.”

“Okay. Three. Except, wait, Shane thinks Facebook is for losers.”

“Excuse me? Maya Angelou accepted my friend request.” Liv shakes her head and turns. “And FYI, you wouldn’t have to worry about a shortage of friends. No one knows all the people in their network. I’m friends with orchestra nerds and band geeks from schools all over the country I’ll never meet.”

We stop at the walk opposite school, wait for a bus to pass, then cross.

“Well, in my book,” I tell Liv, “a friend is someone like you—a real live person I can hang out with and have an actual conversations with.”

“Yeah? And when’s the last time that happened for more than ten minutes?”

“Offering free guilt trips today?”

She smiles. “Speaking of which, you are coming to the dinner party, right?”

We start up the stairs to the school. “Sorry, Liv, I can’t.”

“Ariel, come on. It won’t kill Shane to give up one Friday night with you. Didn’t anyone ever teach him to share?”

At the top of the steps I hold the door open for her. “It’s not Shane’s fault. My mom and I are leaving for Elmira on Friday morning.”

“Oh my God. To see your grandmother?”

I nod.

“Are you nervous?”

“Big time.”

She loops her arm through mine and bumps my hip. “See, this is why we need some time together. Rent a few chick flicks, ingest mass quantities of sweet and salty foods, commit a few random acts of insanity—” She crosses her eyes and sticks out her tongue.

“Stop”—I elbow her side—“you’re making me laugh, and I’ve gotta pee.”

She elbows me back. “Don’t let Shane hug you then. Things could get ugly.”

We pause outside the media center.

“Well”—Liv tips her latte toward my locker, where Shane’s waiting—“I should let you go.”

“Yeah. Probably.”

“Call me after my cello lesson. Or stop by.”

“Yeah. I’ll try.”

Her tentative smile says, Bullshit, you will. “Buh-bye.”

I turn, approaching Shane, expecting him to look at least a little upset after what happened the night before. Instead he flashes a wide smile. How can he be the same person who cried his eyes out in our kitchen just over twelve hours ago? Studying him, I slip my jacket off and hang it on the hook. “Are you…okay?”

“Fine. But you’re finer. Look at you. Grrr.” He wrap his arms around my middle, pulling me closer.

My nether regions ignite. But the flame’s snuffed out when Shane pinches me, once on each side of my waist. Which hurts. “Hey”—I pull away—“why did you do that?”

He smiles again. “Just checking out your little muffin top.”

I’m so embarrassed, I could die. “It’s not a muffin top, I—oh, never mind.” When I reach for my books, I notice a gift bag on the top shelf.

“For you,” Shane says.

“Really? Why?”

“To make up for not having a real gift the other day. And”—he leans in to kiss me—“today’s our anniversary.”

I had no idea I was supposed to buy a present for our two-month anniversary, but I should’ve at least thought of a card. “Shane,” I confess, “I don’t have a gift for you.”

Thank God he doesn’t seem disappointed. He hands me the bag. “Open it.”

I wiggle my fingers beneath the tissue paper, gasping as I lift out a cell phone. It’s the same one I’ve been begging Mom to buy me at the mall. I flip it open. A photo of Shane appears on my wallpaper. He’s peering from behind a dark curtain of bangs, smiling that shy smile I love.

“I already programmed it for you.” Shane reaches over and pushes a button. A number I don’t recognize appears.

“Whose number is this?” I ask.

“Try it and see.”

I press the Talk button. “Only U” by Ashanti plays—Shane calls it our song. He reaches in his pocket and flips open a phone that matches mine. “Helllllooooo?” he answers, all sexy.

“I can’t believe you,” I say, talking into my cell. “This is so cool. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he says into his.

It seems weird to be on the phone with each other when we’re only a few inches apart, so I clap mine closed.

Shane holds his out, clicking a picture of me.

I blink at the unexpected flash. “God, thanks for the warning. Let me see.”

Shane shows me the picture.

“Delete it,” I beg. “Please. My eyes are closed and my mouth is open.”

“I know.” He licks his lips. “Hot.”

I try to grab his phone away, so I can get rid of it myself, but Shane tucks it back in his pocket. “Now we have our own private love connection,” he says, imitating Arnold Schwarzenegger. Then, in his own voice, he adds, “Seriously, now we can be there for each other twenty-four-seven.”

This creeps me out just a little. I mean, I love having a boyfriend and feeling on the inside of some club everyone else signed up for, like, years ago. But promising every minute of every day seems kind of over the top.

“You want that too, don’t you?” Shane tips his eyebrows and frowns. And even though it’s obviously a put-on face, it makes me think of him crying in our kitchen, showing me a side of himself he’s possibly never shown to anyone. Yes, it really did happen. Just like I remember. Despite how Shane looks or acts today, it was real. And you can’t mess with a person’s trust after he’s let you in that deeply, that completely. It would be cruel. “Of course,” I say, losing myself in his eyes. “Of course, I want that, too.”

* * *

On my way home, I get a craving for a Diet Coke. Mom never buys soda unless Aunt Lee’s visiting, and then we’ll have Dr. Pepper on hand.

I duck into Quik Pay, grab a can from the cooler, and get in line. When “Only U” plays, I feel in my jacket pockets for my phone, but it’s not there. Then I remember I zipped it in my backpack, which I totally trash before I find it. “Hi,” I rush out.

“Hey, what took you so long?” Shane asks.

“I couldn’t find the phone,” I admit, holding it to my ear with one hand, digging for change with the other. I slide five quarters toward Counter Guy—a tall kid with blond dreadlocks and a pierced eyebrow.

“It’s a dollar twenty-nine,” he informs me.

“Just a second,” I tell Shane. I set my cell on the counter and search for more change. But I come up empty. “Shoot,” I mumble, “I’m short.”

“Gotcha covered,” Counter Guys says. He reaches into a penny jar parked next to the TV Guides, removes four coins, and drops them in the register drawer. “You don’t recognize me, do you?”

“Um, no,” I say. “Sorry.”

“Music theory class last year. You sat two seats ahead of me.”

“Oh, yeah,” I say, even though I really don’t remember. “Thanks for the pennies.”

“Sure thing.”

I head toward the exit, trying to cradle the phone between my chin and shoulder, open the door, and pull the tab on my Diet Coke, all at the same time. No wonder Mom complains about people talking on the phone while they’re driving. Multitasking with a cell attached to your ear isn’t as easy as it looks.

“I’m back,” I tell Shane.

“Who was that?” Shane’s words are sharp and tight.

“A guy at the Quik Pay.”

“What’s his name?”

“I—I don’t know, Shane. He was behind the counter. I mean, he works there. And he claims he was in class with me. But I don’t remember seeing him before, I—”

“Why were you talking to him then?”

He’s scaring me. “Shane, I—I wasn’t, really, I just, well, I didn’t have enough money for my soda and—”

“Let me guess. Mr. Wonderful helped you out.”

My deodorant ups the Threat Level to orange, but I try to sound calm. “Shane, all he did was give me four cents. From a jar. They weren’t even his pennies.”

“Why didn’t you ask me? I would’ve come right over and given you the money.”

A nervous laugh escapes my throat.

“What the fuck is so funny?” Shane snaps. “That I care so fucking much about you that I’d drive a fucking mile to give you four cents so you won’t have to owe some fucking loser something for—”

“Shane, stop!” I shout, surprising myself. Then I add quietly, “It was four pennies. That’s all. Now let’s forget about it, okay?”

There’s a long silence.

My throat is dry. When I sip my soda, my hand shakes.

“Look,” Shane says, “I’m sorry. The minute I got in the door Ma started riding me about all this crap she needs done this weekend. Stuff my father should be doing.”

Shane never wants to talk about his past. All I know is that he and his mom moved here because his dad abandoned them to live with his twenty-one-year-old secretary. Shane has a lot of extra responsibility now. That would make anyone jumpy. “It’s okay,” I say. “I’m sorry too.”

Outside Quik Pay, our connection gets fuzzy.

“You’re breaking up,” Shane tells me. “Call me when you get home.”

“Okay. Talk to you then.” I stuff my phone in my backpack, take a swallow of Diet Coke, and decide to take the long way home.

* * *

Mom’s car is in the driveway. She’s almost never home before I am.

As I open the door, she calls, “Hi, honey, how was your day?”

I follow her voice. “Good.”

Two suitcases—the kind on wheels with collapsible handles—are parked in the hall between our bedrooms. One’s sky blue tweed, the other is black faux suede.

“What’s with the new bags?” I ask, tossing my backpack on my bed. It slides off my slippery comforter, does a double roll over onto my rug, and lands with a thump against my nightstand. I say a silent prayer that my phone’s okay.

“The bags in the basement smelled musty. No surprise. We’ve had them since we left Florida. These were on sale at Target. You pick, blue or black.”

I’m about to say blue since it’s my favorite color and the fabric matches my eyes. But then I think of Shane’s eyes, so brown they’re almost black, and point to the darker one.

Mom rolls it toward me. As I sit at my desk to unlace my Nikes, I notice she’s still standing in the doorway. Her look says, I need to talk.

Aunt Lee claims there are two kinds of people in the world: the Slow Easers, who remove a Band-Aid bit by bit in slo-mo, feeling every hair pull loose, and the Quick Rippers, who endure a sudden, sharp pain but have that baby off in no time.

“Wanna sit down?” I ask, in my typical Slow Easer style.

Mom, the Quick Ripper, says, “I’m mad at her.”

“Who?”

“My mother.”

“Why?” I know why I would be. I’d have a hundred reasons.

“For getting sick.” Mom swipes a tear—roughly, like she’s mad about crying too. “For making me be the one to come to her.”

“She really sucked as a mother, didn’t she?”

Mom reaches for my Kleenex box and dabs her nose with a tissue. “On a scale of zero to ten, I’d give her a two.”

I stare at the black travel bag. “Why do we have to go see her? Why can’t we just send flowers? Or call?”

“Because, she made a point to locate me. That tells me she wants me there. That she needs me.”

“God, Mom, look at the times you needed her, like when she found out you were pregnant with me and—”

“Ariel,” Mom interrupts, something she almost never does, “I promised myself I’d never be the kind of person she was—so consumed by my own pain that I wouldn’t have anything to give.”

“And you’ve kept your promise, Mom. This is different.”

She crosses the room to drop her tissue in my pail. “Maybe not as different as you think.”

“Mom,” I start, “what’s that supposed to—?” My phone rings, and I freeze.

“Ariel, is that a cell phone?”

“Um, yeah.” I bend for my backpack, digging through the pockets.

Mom reaches below my bed. The phone must have fallen out of my pack when it slipped off the comforter. She holds it out asking, “Is this what you’re looking for?” It’s obvious she’s waiting for an explanation.

“Can I explain after I take this call? Please, Mom?”

She hands me the phone, then leaves, closing my bedroom door behind her.

I flip the cell open. “Hi, Shane.”

“Decided to take the scenic route, huh?”

“The…what?”

“Your walk home. You went the back way—past the landfill and across the Meadows instead of going through town.”

I’m freaked out. “Were you following me?”

“Didn’t have to.”

“Then how…?” My voice fades, and the question hangs there.

He hums the Twilight Zone theme song. “Want some company?”

I tap the black bag with my toe. “My mom’s here.”

“Plan B then. Want to go somewhere? I don’t have to be at work till six.”

“Actually, Mom and I are kind of in the middle of talking.”

“About what? You sound worried.”

If I’m worried about anything at the moment, it’s telling Shane I’m going away for the weekend. Which is precisely why I haven’t mentioned the phone call to him yet. Like I said, we’ve never missed a Friday night date.

“Come on, Ariel. No secrets. Is this about the guy at Quik Pay?”

I almost laugh but think twice. “No, it’s not about him.”

“Then what?”

I walk to my window. Specks of half-rain, half-snow are falling, and it’s just starting to get dark. “My mom got a call from a hospital upstate. Her mother has cancer.”

“Bummer,” Shane says.

“Yeah.” Before I can chicken out, I add, “This weekend we’re driving to Elmira to see her. We’re leaving on, um…Friday.”

“Oh.”

A long silence follows. My shoulders clench.

“Well,” Shane says finally, “at least we’ve got our cell phones.”

I’m so relieved he’s not upset. “That won’t make it any easier to leave you.”

“You really mean that?” I can almost hear the smile in his voice.

I feel myself smiling too. “Of course, I do.”