Friday, February 13

DAVID

I spend another lunch period in the bathroom, eating peanut butter crackers instead of spaghetti and meatballs, so I can get to math class early, right after Sammie. I mostly don’t mind the bathroom or the crackers because I’m pretty sure those meatballs are made from horse meat.

When the first bell rings, I’m out in the hall, holding my math binder with the valentine envelope slipped underneath so no one can see it. I watch Mrs. Knell’s door, and Sammie doesn’t even notice me as she walks into the class—first, as usual, with her apparently new best friend, Haley. Two beats later, Sean Cibelli appears. I count slowly to five, and then follow. In the room, Sammie’s backpack is on the floor between her and Sean’s desks. She’s bent over it, getting her math binder, so I stand awkwardly at the front.

“Are we going to have homework tonight?” I ask Mrs. Knell, watching Sammie out of the corner of my eye.

We always have homework in math, unless we’re having a test the next day, and then we still have homework, but it’s not checked because our homework is to redo the test review problems that we got wrong. Which Sammie always does, and I never do.

But Mrs. Knell smiles and says, “Of course.”

Sammie’s still bent over her backpack, so I follow up with, “Is it a lot or a little? I mean, how many problems?”

Mrs. Knell stops writing the Do Now and tips her head a bit. “Exactly the right number of problems, David.”

Sammie finally straightens up, sets her binder on her desk, and turns to talk to Haley, facing away from her backpack.

“Thanks,” I say, starting down between the rows of desks, then stopping between Sean’s and Sammie’s.

Sean is bent over his desk, drawing something.

“Did you do the homework?”

Sean looks up at me, puzzled. “Are you asking me?”

“Yeah,” I say, keeping my back to Sammie, with her backpack at my feet.

Sean motions with his chin to the paper on his desk. It’s the math homework, but in the margins are some tiny drawings. I lean over to get a better look. They’re all birds, done in pencil. One is sitting like it’s perched on a branch. Another is drawn in flight, its wings wide.

“Super cool,” I say. “That’s so good.”

“My math homework?” Sean asks, puzzled.

“The drawings,” I say. Then I remember why I’m standing here and ask him, “What’d you get for the first problem?”

Sean looks down at his paper, and I drop my envelope straight into Sammie’s backpack.

“Two seventy-three,” Sean says.

“Me too,” I say. Then I make my way to my seat while Sean stares at his math paper. As I sit down, Haley turns and looks right at me. I ignore her.

SAMMIE

David is standing next to my desk, with his back to me, talking to Sean Cibelli. I keep myself turned toward Haley, leaning a little bit to the side, away from David. I tell her about the latest episode of The Great British Baking Show, which the Peas watch religiously. When David finally moves away, I exhale and sit back in my seat. And see the envelope, faceup, resting on top of the binders in my backpack like it floated there on some gentle breeze. I recognize the handwriting: David’s. Which is smaller and neater than you’d expect from a guy. I bend over and push the envelope down in between two binders.

Haley catches my eye. “A valentine?” she mouths. I pretend I don’t understand, then turn my focus to the board and the Do Now.

At the end of math, when I put my binder away, I shove the envelope down to the bottom of my bag so no one can see it. I leave it where it is, buried in my backpack. I don’t even take it out in the library after school.

DAVID

As we’re walking to the bus after school, Luke says, “Want to hang out?”

I’m sleeping over at Kai’s tonight. Luke isn’t invited, because Kai’s mom will only let him have three friends over and he picked me, Andrew, and Spencer. But I fudge a little. “Can’t. I’m working at the store.”

“Tonight? How late is it open?”

“Uhh, tomorrow morning I mean,” I fumble. “Early. Pop said something about taking inventory.”

“What about Sunday?” Luke asks. “Or Monday, since we have off. I could ask my dad to take us to the diner.”

He doesn’t ask about hanging out tomorrow afternoon, or having a sleepover tomorrow night, probably because he already has romantic Valentine’s Day plans with Sammie. There’s no way I can go to the diner on Sunday, or Monday, and listen to Luke brag about his date with Sammie, so I say, “Big Presidents’ Day sale weekend. It’s going to be crazy. Everybody loves a sale.” I sound almost like Pop, which kind of freaks me out.

“Okay,” Luke says, sounding super dejected. “What about the other guys? Maybe they want to hang out?”

“Maybe,” I say. And then, to test him, I add, “Or maybe Sammie.”

Luke nods slowly like he’s thinking hard about it. “Good idea,” he says, like he hadn’t thought of it. “I will. I’ll ask Sammie to hang out.”

“Great,” I say, kicking myself.

SAMMIE

At home, in my room, alone, I take David’s envelope out of my backpack and open it up. Inside there are several pieces of paper, neatly folded. I unfold them. They’re stapled together like a book. Like one of the kitten books that David and Allie make, except this one is just David’s drawings. No words.

And the characters aren’t kittens. They’re all animals, though. Mostly dogs and one cat. They look a lot like the animals in one of Melvin Marbury’s Northern Province comic books, which no one our age except David, and me, has ever heard of. I flip through the pages. It’s a story about a baseball game. The cat gets a hit and gets on base, but then two dog teammates strike out, and it looks like the cat’s never going to get past first base. Then this kind of basset-houndy-looking dog gets up to bat.

Which is when I realize that this story is not about cats and dogs. It’s about David and me. I flip to the last page, which shows the cat sliding into home.

I flip back through the pages, but there’s no note. No explanation. No apology.

I remember that game. We won. In the car afterward, David kept congratulating me on the run. Mr. Fischer was proud and happy and laughing, retelling David’s hit, and how it turned the game around. The whole team met for fro-yo at Milly’s Vanilli Yogurt Bar and everyone was replaying the play and high-fiving David and me.

The thing is, David should have been proud of that hit. It was a good hit, and he doesn’t get many hits at all, to be honest. But reading his book, I realize that his hit meant something else to him: it was a gift. For me. A gift I never knew had been given.

I never thought about what David might be feeling or dreaming or hoping. He was my friend. My best friend, when I needed one. But maybe David wanted something else.