She smiles.
I smile.
She says, “I just handed in my Damsels application.”
“Really?”
She arches an eyebrow. “Sorry, is that shocking to you?”
“Only because I can’t picture you dancing in formation. I’m not getting the whole wielding-flags-and-wearing-the-same-costume-as-thirty-other-girls vibe. I see you as a do-your-own-thing girl. If you ask me, you’re better than the Damsels.”
“Thanks.”
She unzips her backpack and pulls something out, and at first it looks innocent—just a crumpled-up sheet of white paper. But then I read what’s written there: You aren’t wanted.
“Where did you get this?”
“My locker.”
“Do you know who put it in there?”
“No. But does it matter?”
And I know what she means. No, it doesn’t. Not really. The point is that it was sent at all, that anyone would think that or say that to her.
“People can be great, but they can also be lousy. I am often lousy. But not completely lousy. You, Libby Strout, are great.”
“I don’t know about that, but this right here is one reason I’m auditioning.” She takes the paper from me and waves it. “They can tell me this all they want, but I’m not listening.” She crumples it up and shoves it back in her bag.
I say, “I’ve got something to show you too.”
And then I go into my phone and pull something up and hold it out to her.
She reads the email out loud. “ ‘Dear Jack.’ ” And I like the way she says my name. I mean, I really like it. “ ‘Thank you for reaching out. We would be very interested in testing you. If you aren’t able to make it to Hanover, we suggest being in touch with Dr. Amber Klein, Department of Brain Sciences, Cognitive Neurology, Indiana University, Bloomington. Best, Brad Duchaine.’ ”
She looks up. “Is this about the prosopagnosia?”
“Yeah. I wouldn’t have written to him if it hadn’t been for you.”
“Are you going to do it?”
“I don’t know.” Yes.
“Wouldn’t you need your parents’ permission?”
“I’ll be eighteen soon.”
“When?”
“October first.”
She hands the phone back to me, studies the dash again, then looks at me with wide amber eyes.
“So let’s go.”
“What?”
“As soon as you turn eighteen. Let’s go to Bloomington.”
“Really?”
“Why not?”
Before I know what’s happening, my eyes are reaching for her and hers are reaching for mine. Across the seat, our eyes are holding hands. We sit like this until the sound of a horn makes us jump.
I wait until they drive away before heading to Masselin’s, where I’m in such a good mood that I’m civil to my dad. It stings a little to see how surprised he is by this, so I go one step further and talk to him about the robot I’m building for Dusty. It’s going to be as tall as Dusty, maybe taller. It’s going to talk. It’s going to be the best damn robot ever.
To his credit, my dad is polite and asks questions. We don’t mention Monica Chapman. We don’t mention the email. And for a minute I think, Maybe this is where we stay. Right here in this small radius where it’s safe. Maybe we can just stay right here, safe like this, forever.
Two hours later, when I get back in the Land Rover, it still smells like her. Sunshine.
After dinner, my dad and I watch TV with George. Dad is eating grapes one at a time, tipping his head back and throwing them into the air, catching them with his mouth as George swats at them. I lean my head back and catch one in my own mouth. I savor it the way I’m supposed to savor food that’s good for me. I bite it a little, and it bursts into an eruption of goodness.
I was on fire today. I lit up the old gym. You should have seen me! I’m making up for every lost moment when I couldn’t move or get out of bed. The dance is in me! Just wait till they see me at the Damsels audition. I’m going to nail it. I’m going to dance my heart out for all the world to see.
“The Masselin boy. Everything okay there? Is he leaving you alone?”
“He’s not bothering me.” Not in that way, at least.
“Libbs, you know you can talk to me about anything.”
And I feel myself going bright red. What if my dad can read my thoughts? What if he can see how I am, at this exact moment, undressing Jack Masselin while I eat these grapes?
“I know, Dad.”
For the first time in my life, I don’t want to talk to him. Not about Jack and not about the letters. If I do, I become something he has to worry about, and I’ve already been something he has to worry about for too long.
“I’m thinking of ditching school on October first.” One of the things my dad made me promise after my mom died was that I would always let him know where I was, and I figure I can at least tell him this much. “A friend of mine needs to go to Indiana University to take part in a research study.”
“Who’s this friend?”
“Just someone from school.” I don’t tell him it’s Jack. I figure it’s enough that I’m sitting here telling my father I want to skip school. “He’s going through some things right now. I want to be there for him.”
“Do you have any tests that day? Anything big that you’d be missing?”