The next day, his reply read:
My dad calls me once a year around my birthday. I think he may have forgotten the exact date. It was hard the first couple years, now it’s kind of amusing. I make a bet with myself about how close to the real date he’ll actually get. His closest so far has been within two days. Not bad. This last year I was a jerk to him. I felt guilty and then I felt guilty for feeling guilty. If that makes any sense. I’ve written him off. Now he’s just someone that used to be in my life. He actually pays child support, which is big of him, right? Maybe that makes him feel better about himself. It felt nice for me when my mom let me buy a car with some of it. The unfortunate side effect of this choice is that now every time I drive, I’m reminded of him.
And that’s enough whining for one letter. You’ll stop writing me if all I ever do is complain. And then where will I be? Stuck listening to Mr. Ortega again? So what about you? I think I need some more complaining on your end.
I frowned down at the letter, my heart hurting. His dad had forgotten exactly when his birthday was? What kind of father did that? The kind that would move five states away and never visit.
Something about the way my pen pal wrote made him easy to open up to. I found myself doing just that as I wrote back.
Complaining? My complaints seem minor now compared to what you have to deal with. And again, I have no sage words of wisdom to offer. Hang in there? Chin up. What are some other cheesy, not-helpful slogans?
My main complaint about my own life is that I have no time to myself, at all. My whole family seems to dictate every second of my day. When I go out, eat, think. I’m living a collective life. Everyone around me decides my fate and sometimes I feel like I’m just along for the ride.
I see what you mean about a maximum quota of whining per letter. I feel like I just reached mine. I need to end with something lighter. Today is Friday. That’s good, right? Although, by the time you read this it will be Monday and Mondays suck. So that’s not a happy letter-ender at all. How about the fact that there are only three more weeks of school before Thanksgiving break, when we get a week off? Happy thought for you, or no? I can’t decide if I were you if I’d rather be at school or at home? I’m sorry, that was insensitive. I’m really not doing well here. Music. That’s the universal language, one I usually can’t mess up. Go listen to a band called Dead’s the New Alive. Track 9 off their new album. That will help. At least, for three minutes and forty-four seconds.
I folded the note, finding myself a little depressed as I stuck it in its place. Fridays were the worst. I had to wait all weekend before I’d get a reply. Was I really already looking forward to Monday? That was backward thinking. I should’ve been excited about the football game that night. The one my mom had said I could go to. David. Yes, I could get excited about seeing David. That would make Isabel happy. And maybe I’d get some more clues as to whether his name belonged on my Suspects list or not.
The night was my favorite kind of night—cool enough for a jacket, but warm enough for it to be a thin one. Now, if only we weren’t headed for a stadium full of screaming fans. Watching a football game wasn’t exactly my favorite activity.
Gabriel and Isabel were a couple steps ahead, arm in arm, talking too quietly for me to hear. I wondered if they were plotting the after-game activity where they expected David and me to fall madly in love.
Isabel noticed I had fallen behind and slowed down, hooking her free arm in mine. “This is going to be awesome,” she said as we reached the ticket booth.
“I guess,” I said. We paid and headed inside, climbing the steps to the stadium. Some of the kids were all decked out in paint and holding signs. I was glad Isabel hadn’t insisted we do that. When we reached the top, the noise that had somehow seemed muffled on the way up hit me like it was a living, breathing force.
“There’s the band,” Isabel said.
Gabriel looked at me, like I should have a response to that.
“Cool hats,” was the only thing I could think of.
It was five minutes to halftime when Gabriel said, “We should get food before David’s thing.”
“You guys go ahead. I’m good.” I loved Isabel and Gabriel, but I needed a break from the overdose of affection the two of them were displaying.
“Are you sure?” Isabel asked.
“Positive.”
They left for the food vendors. I sat back and looked for lyrics in the sights around me. Lights in the blackness. Waiting for the score. Putting on a face. Flirt a little more.
That last line, unfortunately, had been inspired by Cade. I’d happened to see him chatting with some girl. When he noticed me looking over, he caught my eye and winked. Ugh. I stood, deciding I wanted a drink after all, and pivoted toward the aisle to catch up with Isabel. I nearly ran face first into a chest. Even over the noise of the crowd, this close to him, I could just make out the beat coming from Lucas’s earbuds.
He tugged on the cord, freeing them. “Sorry … Lily, right?”
His presence here shocked me silent. Although to be fair, his presence always seemed to do that. But what was he doing at a football game? I didn’t know a lot about him but I did know this wasn’t his scene.
I tried to answer, to think of something clever … or just something … to say, but my mind was blank. I managed to shut my mouth, which had been open for at least one second too long.
“You okay?” Lucas asked. “Did I hit you?”