around us as my heart stutters and struggles to keep pumping.
“That’s why you haven’t done the posters.” Artie’s voice is quiet.
I roll up the poster and turn to face my friend. “I didn’t know it…. I didn’t realize it until you just said it. It’s just —”
“Drop out,” Artie tells me.
“Like it’s that simple.”
“It could be.” Her eyes and voice are gentle, but I still feel them cut into me.
“I can’t — I can’t do that to Meg.”
“You have to do what’s right for yourself, too, Hayley. Don’t you?” Artie’s forehead wrinkles, like she’s confused, or maybe like she’s worried about me.
I know Artie’s trying to help, but somehow it just seems easier to suck it up and be the vice president than to have Meghan freak and deal with the fallout. I mean — it will be kind of fun. Parts of it.
The bell rings. “Are you going to put up the posters?” Artie asks. “Or should I take them home?”
I breathe once. Twice. “I’ll put them up,” I say at last.
Artie just nods. I wonder if she thinks I’m a wimp, or a dummy, or a martyr, or what. But “Okay” is all she says.
O ne time, in fourth grade, Artie and I were walking downtown, headed to get some ice cream, and a homeless man asked me for money. He told me that he couldn’t pay for his medicine. He told me that all he needed was a few more dollars.
I had a few dollars in the pocket of my shorts — enough for my ice cream.
“I’m diabetic,” the man said. And I gave him the money.
He turned to Artie. “I just need a little more,” he told her.
And Artie, who had the same amount of money I did, said, “Sorry.”
We walked around the corner and into the ice cream store. Artie went up to the counter and ordered a medium cone of black raspberry chocolate-chip. I got a cup of water and sat at the table, wondering if the man was really going to use my money for medicine. There was no way to know — not for sure.
Artie offered me a lick of her ice cream, and I took it. But that was almost worse, because the ice cream was delicious.
That’s the thing: Artie never really has a problem doing what’s right for Artie.
Sometimes, that seems harsh.
But sometimes, she’s the one eating the ice cream.
And I never really knew what to make of that.
“G ran?” Knocking softly, I poke my head beyond her bedroom door. “Did I leave my comb in here?”
“Sorry, darling?” Gran pulls off her reading glasses and looks up from the pile of brochures scattered across her bed. “Your comb?”
“I thought maybe I left it in your bathroom,” I tell her as I come to perch on the corner of her mattress.
“I haven’t seen it.” Gran huffs a sigh and scowls at the brochures. “Of course, things are so untidy that it may be beneath all of these.”
“How’s the wedding planning going?” I ask.
“Atrociously. Don’t let’s mention it.”
“That well?”
Gran places her reading glasses on the bedside table. “It was great fun the first time I did it. When I was marrying your grandfather, Gerard. But this time, it just seems like an unnecessary expense.”
I trace a finger over one of the pink embroidered roses on Gran’s bedspread. “You don’t want to get married?”
“What? Horrors! Of course I do! I just don’t want to pay for a wedding .”
“Well — it isn’t about the money, right?”
“That’s the sort of thing that people say when they have a great deal of money, and very little sense,” Gran says. “I happen to have a great deal of sense and little money. And I don’t see why I should spend heaps of money, time, and energy on something I don’t actually want.”
“When you put it that way …”
“If I’m going to spend a great deal of money on something, it will be your education, Hayley dear. Yours and Chloe’s. Or perhaps a house for your mother. But I’ve already had a beautiful wedding, and I don’t need another. This certainly isn’t my ‘princess dreams
“That’s why you haven’t done the posters.” Artie’s voice is quiet.
I roll up the poster and turn to face my friend. “I didn’t know it…. I didn’t realize it until you just said it. It’s just —”
“Drop out,” Artie tells me.
“Like it’s that simple.”
“It could be.” Her eyes and voice are gentle, but I still feel them cut into me.
“I can’t — I can’t do that to Meg.”
“You have to do what’s right for yourself, too, Hayley. Don’t you?” Artie’s forehead wrinkles, like she’s confused, or maybe like she’s worried about me.
I know Artie’s trying to help, but somehow it just seems easier to suck it up and be the vice president than to have Meghan freak and deal with the fallout. I mean — it will be kind of fun. Parts of it.
The bell rings. “Are you going to put up the posters?” Artie asks. “Or should I take them home?”
I breathe once. Twice. “I’ll put them up,” I say at last.
Artie just nods. I wonder if she thinks I’m a wimp, or a dummy, or a martyr, or what. But “Okay” is all she says.
O ne time, in fourth grade, Artie and I were walking downtown, headed to get some ice cream, and a homeless man asked me for money. He told me that he couldn’t pay for his medicine. He told me that all he needed was a few more dollars.
I had a few dollars in the pocket of my shorts — enough for my ice cream.
“I’m diabetic,” the man said. And I gave him the money.
He turned to Artie. “I just need a little more,” he told her.
And Artie, who had the same amount of money I did, said, “Sorry.”
We walked around the corner and into the ice cream store. Artie went up to the counter and ordered a medium cone of black raspberry chocolate-chip. I got a cup of water and sat at the table, wondering if the man was really going to use my money for medicine. There was no way to know — not for sure.
Artie offered me a lick of her ice cream, and I took it. But that was almost worse, because the ice cream was delicious.
That’s the thing: Artie never really has a problem doing what’s right for Artie.
Sometimes, that seems harsh.
But sometimes, she’s the one eating the ice cream.
And I never really knew what to make of that.
“G ran?” Knocking softly, I poke my head beyond her bedroom door. “Did I leave my comb in here?”
“Sorry, darling?” Gran pulls off her reading glasses and looks up from the pile of brochures scattered across her bed. “Your comb?”
“I thought maybe I left it in your bathroom,” I tell her as I come to perch on the corner of her mattress.
“I haven’t seen it.” Gran huffs a sigh and scowls at the brochures. “Of course, things are so untidy that it may be beneath all of these.”
“How’s the wedding planning going?” I ask.
“Atrociously. Don’t let’s mention it.”
“That well?”
Gran places her reading glasses on the bedside table. “It was great fun the first time I did it. When I was marrying your grandfather, Gerard. But this time, it just seems like an unnecessary expense.”
I trace a finger over one of the pink embroidered roses on Gran’s bedspread. “You don’t want to get married?”
“What? Horrors! Of course I do! I just don’t want to pay for a wedding .”
“Well — it isn’t about the money, right?”
“That’s the sort of thing that people say when they have a great deal of money, and very little sense,” Gran says. “I happen to have a great deal of sense and little money. And I don’t see why I should spend heaps of money, time, and energy on something I don’t actually want.”
“When you put it that way …”
“If I’m going to spend a great deal of money on something, it will be your education, Hayley dear. Yours and Chloe’s. Or perhaps a house for your mother. But I’ve already had a beautiful wedding, and I don’t need another. This certainly isn’t my ‘princess dreams
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