Since You've Been Gone by Mary Jennifer Payne Page B

of ginger hair that is crisp with styling products around her index finger as she watches us scan the plastic menu boards above her head.
    â€œRoast chicken sub on white with pickles, tomato, and mayo,” I say. “Loads of pickles. And a coffee,” I add, glancing sideways at Jermaine, who is still trying to decide.
    â€œMeatball with loads of hot peppers and pickles,” he says. “And extra cheese if you have it.”
    â€œDrink?” the girl with the ginger hair asks. She blows a pink gum bubble toward us, then crushes it between her thickly glossed lips with a loud pop.
    â€œA full-fat Coke, yeah?” Jermaine answers. He turns to me and smiles playfully. “Coffee? You going to get all hyper on me?”
    My face flushes warmly. “I’m just a bit cold. That’s all.”
    Great. He jokes with me and my response is as wooden as Pinocchio. I wish I could think of something funny or interesting to say. Instead, I stare at my shoes, mortified.
    â€œReady?” the girl asks. She snaps her gum and holds out her hand. Another bored-looking employee finishes making our sandwiches.
    I reach into my knapsack, unzip the inside pocket, and feel around for some of the charity money.
    â€œHow much?”
    â€œEight-pound thirty,” she answers, blowing another bubble in my direction.
    I hand her the money reluctantly. It’s going to run out at some point and that reality is beginning to hit me.
    â€œIt’s kind of nice to be getting Subway,” I say. “There’s so many unfamiliar things here. My best friend, Rume, and I used to get it at lunch whenever we had extra money.”
    â€œYou have a computer and Internet at your flat?” Jermaine asks as he takes the tray from the girl.
    I shake my head. “Are you kidding? We don’t even have a home phone yet.”
    â€œWell, there’s an Internet café upstairs here,” he says, and, as though reading my mind, is already heading toward the stairs.
    The café turns out to be no more than ten or twelve computers that are dinosaur-age old. They’re separated from the main part of the restaurant by a cheap-looking plastic partition.
    We sit down at one of the tables and Jermaine unwraps his sub. Even though I’m starving, I find it hard to think about eating.
    Glancing at my watch, I do a quick mental calculation of the time difference between London and Toronto. It’s about ten to seven in the morning in Toronto. Rume always gets up early. She likes to check to see if she’s had overnight emails from her cousins in Bangladesh. I smile. It might just work; I might catch her on MSN.
    Butterflies of excitement tickle my stomach as I log into my Hotmail account.
    â€œYour password is Peaches2000?” Jermaine laughs through a mouthful of meatballs, bread, and tomato sauce.
    â€œYeah, it is. Do you have a problem with it?” I ask, half-jokingly. The thought of what might have become of Peaches still causes an instant lump in my throat.
    â€œIt just sounds like a stripper’s name or something.”
    I turn away from the computer and raise an eyebrow at him. “Takes one to know one,” I said.
    Clearly, I’m a complete failure in the witty, flirty comeback department.
    Jermaine stares at me. “Sometimes you’re kind of strange, Edie,” he says.
    â€œYeah, I was aware of that. Thanks,” I hope some massive, science fiction–inspired rift opens up and takes me away to another dimension. Why am I such an awkward nerd around guys? Rume understood me. We understood each other. I turn back to the computer screen.
    R u there? It’s me, Edie.
    I wait, my fingers hovering over the grey plastic squares of the computer keyboard in anticipation.
    And, suddenly, there it is, appearing on the screen like a mirage: a response from Rume.
    Oh my god! Is it really u? Where have u gone? I miss u so much, girl!
    London. In England, not Ontario. Long