What Happens to Goodbye by Sarah Dessen

behind her ear—I noticed her tattoo again, that simple circle—then fell into step beside me. The halls were still packed with people and noise, all that energy of a day that hasn’t quite started yet.
    “It’s about Dave,” Riley said as we sidestepped two girls carrying guitar cases. “Was he on the bus this morning?”
    “The bus?”
    “To school,” she said. “You guys take the same one, right?”
    “I take the city bus,” I told her.
    “Oh, right. Okay.”
    This seemed like it should be the end of our conversation: question asked, question answered. But she still kept walking with me, even though my Spanish class was the only one on the dead-end hallway we were on. “I did see him, though. His mom brought over some brownies.”
    “Oh, boy.” She raised her eyebrows. “Let me guess: no nuts, no gluten, no sugar, and no taste.”
    “Pretty much,” I replied. “How’d you know?”
    She shrugged. “Experience. Dave’s house is not the place you want to ooking for a snack. Unless you’ve got a real yen for wheat germ and veggie jerky.”
    “Veggie jerky?”
    “Dried vegetables,” she explained.
    I raised my eyebrows.
    “Yep. It tastes just like it sounds.”
    “Poor Dave,” I said.
    “I think that’s why he likes working at Frazier Bakery so much,” she told me as a guy wearing headphones bumped me from the side. “The sugar and chemicals abound there, and he’s got a lifetime of making up to do.”
    We were at my classroom now. Inside the open door, I could hear Señor Mitchell greeting people in his cheerful immersion-or-else Spanish. “His parents seemed nice, actually. I was kind of surprised.”
    “Surprised?” she said. “Why?”
    “I don’t know.” I shifted my bag to my other shoulder. “You and Heather made them sound super-strict.”
    “Oh, right,” she said, nodding. “Well, the truth is, Dave’s changed a lot since he transferred here. I think it’s a good thing, because he’s, like, a real person now. But it freaks his folks out. I think they liked it better when he was just like them, completely under their control.”
    “Yeah. I get that.” I was thinking of my mother as I said this, the pleading, desperate tone of her final words before I’d hung up on her. Stop trying, I wanted to tell her, and make her understand. Stop forcing it and I just might come to you. I just might. “But you can’t help it if you change, I guess. It just happens.”
    “Yeah, it does.” She smiled. “Hey, I’ll see you later, okay?”
    I nodded, and she turned around, stuffing her hands in her jacket pockets and starting back down the hallway. I thought of her sitting on that bench a few days earlier, leaning forward to listen as Dave stood with his parents and the administrators. I couldn’t even imagine anymore what that would be like, to have so much—or anything at all—invested in a friendship. It was hard enough just taking care of myself.
    The bell rang, and Señor Mitchell turned, seeing me. “ Hola , Mclean!” he said, beckoning me toward him, like we hadn’t just met, and only the day before. Odd how it was so easy for a stranger to assume such familiarity. Especially when those who were supposed to know you best often didn’t, not at all.

    My phone, zipped away in my backpack, buzzed twice during Spanish. When I scrolled through the screen on my way to second period, I saw only one name, two times: HAMILTON, PETER. I stuffed it back in, deeper this time, picturing my mother watching the clock as she wondered how, exactly, I defined later . Minutes? Hours? Maybe she was calling to ask me. I wouldn’t be surprised.
    I couldn’t believe she was bringing up the beach again. Ever since Peter had bought her that house for a wedding gift—because houses are standard gifts, right?—she’d been pushing me to come there for a visit. Before now, it was always too difficult, involving at least one flight and possibly two, far enough away from everything that I