“Your skin,” I say, barely a whisper. “It’s hot.”
“It’s always this way,” he says. Something rustles in the dark and I know he has moved his arm. His fingers hover half an inch from my face, and it’s like I can see them, burning hot and white. He drops his arm, taking the warmth with him.
And it’s the weirdest thing, but standing there with Kent McFuller in a room so pitch-black it could be buried somewhere, I feel the tiniest of tiny things spark inside me, a little flame at the very bottom of my stomach that makes me unafraid.
“There are extra blankets in the closet,” he says. His lips are right by my cheek.
“Thank you,” I whisper back.
He stays until I’ve gotten into bed, and then he draws up the blankets around my shoulders like it’s normal, like he’s been putting me to bed every night of my whole life. Typical Kent McFuller.
FIVE
You see, I was still looking for answers then. I still wanted to know why. As though somebody was going to answer that for me, as though any answer would be satisfying.
Not then, but afterward, I started to think about time, and how it keeps moving and draining and flowing forever forward, seconds into minutes into days into years, all of it leading to the same place, a current running forever in one direction. And we’re all going and swimming as fast as we can, helping it along.
My point is: maybe you can afford to wait. Maybe for you there’s a tomorrow. Maybe for you there’s one thousand tomorrows, or three thousand, or ten, so much time you can bathe in it, roll around in it, let it slide like coins through your fingers. So much time you can waste it.
But for some of us there’s only today. And the truth is, you never really know.
I wake up gasping, the alarm bringing me out of darkness, as if it has brought me up from the depths of a lake. It is the fifth time I’ve woken up on February 12, but today I’m relieved. I switch off the alarm and lie in bed, watching the milky white light steal slowly over the walls, waiting for my heartbeat to go back to normal. A swath of sunlight ticks upward over the collage Lindsay made for me. In the bottom she’s written in pink glittery ink, Love you 4ever. Today Lindsay and I are friends again. Today no one’s angry at me. Today I didn’t kiss Mr. Daimler or sit bawling my eyes out alone at a party.
Well, not totally alone. I imagine the sun filling Kent’s house slowly, frothing upward like champagne.
As I lie there I start making a mental list of all the things I’d like to do in my life, as though they’re still possible. Most of them are just plain crazy, but I don’t think about that, just go on listing and listing like it’s as easy as writing up what you need from the grocery store. Fly in a private jet. Eat a fresh-baked croissant from a bakery in Paris. Ride a horse all the way from Connecticut to California but stay in only the best hotel rooms along the way. Some of them are simpler: take Izzy to Goose Point, a place I discovered the first and only time I’d ever tried to run away. Order the Fat Feast at the diner—a bacon cheese-burger, a milk shake, and an entire plate of cheese fries—and eat it without stressing, like I used to do on my birthday every single year. Run around in the rain. Have scrambled eggs in bed.
By the time Izzy slinks into my room and hops up into bed with me, I’m actually feeling calm.
“Mommy says you have to go to school,” Izzy says, head-butting my shoulder.
“I’m not going to school.”
That’s it: that’s how it starts. One of the best—and worst—days of my life starts with those five words.
I grab Izzy’s stomach and tickle her. She still insists on wearing her old Dora the Explorer T-shirt, but it’s so small it leaves the big pink stripe of her belly—the only fat on her body—exposed. She squeals with laughter, rolling away from me.
“Stop it, Sam. I said, Stop it!”
Izzy is shrieking and laughing and thrashing around when my mom comes to the door.
“It’s six forty-five.” She stands in the doorway, keeping both of her feet neatly aligned just behind the flaking red line from all those years ago. “Lindsay will be here any minute.”
Izzy slaps my hands away and sits up, her eyes shining. I’ve never noticed it before, but she really does look like my mom. It makes me sad for a minute. I wish she looked more like me. “Sam was tickling.”
“Sam’s going to be late. You too, Izzy.”
“Sam’s not going to school. And I’m not either.” Izzy puffs out her chest like she’s prepared to do battle over it. Maybe she’ll look like me when she’s older. Maybe when time starts marching forward again—even if I get swept out with it, like litter on a tide—her cheekbones will get high and she’ll have a growth spurt and her hair will turn darker. I like to think it’s true. I like to think that later on people will say, Izzy looks just like her sister, Sam.
They’ll say, You remember Sam? She was pretty. I’m not really sure what else they could say: She was nice. People liked her. She was missed. Maybe none of those things.
I push the thought out of my mind and return to my mental list. A kiss that makes my whole head feel like it’s exploding. A slow dance in the middle of an empty room to really great music. A swim in the ocean at midnight, with no clothes on.
My mom rubs her forehead. “Izzy, go get your breakfast. I’m sure it’s ready by now.”
Izzy scrambles over me. I squeeze the chub of her stomach and get one last squeal out of her before she jumps off the bed and dashes out the door. The one thing that can get Izzy moving that quickly is a toasted cinnamon raisin bagel with peanut butter, and I imagine being able to give her a cinnamon raisin bagel with peanut butter every single day for the rest of her life, filling a whole house with them.