Page 59 of If We Say Goodbye
“Right . . .” She turns to me with her wide blue outlined eyes. “Look, we don’t have to go back to being friends or anything, but I need to graduate. And I can’t do that without you.”
I haven’t relaxed, and my emotions are twisting and turning in my stomach. I don’t know how much longer I can keep my lunch down.
“All I need is a math tutor, and you’re the best,” she says.
I’m frozen, unsure whether I’m still breathing. My brain is a maze filled with possible responses, but none of them can fix us. “I didn’t mean—”
She stands. “Don’t worry about it. I’m fine.” She bends to pet Buddy one more time. “Just show up tomorrow after school.”
I’m still processing before I realize she’s halfway out of the door.
As soon as it latches, I jump up, making a beeline straight for the bathroom. I’m unable to subside the violent storm in my stomach any longer.
* * *
Mom’s elbowsare propped on the island counter. In her hand is an old index card. The edges are bent, and it has a stain on the back, muddying the handwriting in that spot.
She sets it down and straightens her posture. “It’s been years since we baked anything together.”
She’s right. Baking, or any type of cooking for that matter, is not my strong suit. Every time I see images of mouth watering meals and try to make them, they come out looking haphazard and usually at least a little burnt—nothing like the picture.
“Well, I promised Jordy,” I say, scratching the back of my neck.
Mom opens the fridge with a delicate touch to avoid ruining her nails. Her fingers are all sprawled out. “That’s sweet of you.” She pulls out the carton of eggs that was on the top shelf and sets them down next to the recipe card. “Could you grab the flour and both sugars please?”
I do as ordered, plopping the ingredients down in a line. Our one pound sack of flour sags, leaning against the container of brown sugar.
Mom runs her finger down the index card. “Okay, now can you get the baking powder and baking soda? Oh, and the salt. I’ll get the butter.”
While rummaging through the cabinet searching for those ingredients, the doorbell rings.
“Never mind. Could you answer the door? I’m still trying to find the butter. I know it’s in here somewhere.” She’s gently moving things around our packed refrigerator.
The doorbell rings again, and this time Buddy’s ears perk up. He’s been laying on his dog bed in the living room, and he races in front of me, headed for the door with his tongue hanging out of his mouth.
I open the door, revealing Jordy with a notebook clutched close. He’s bundled up in a big overcoat, which seems a little excessive for walking next door.
“Hi,” he says. His expression is completely serious.
I laugh softly, leaning against the doorframe. “Are you ready to study?”
He nods. “I guess, but just so you know, I mainly came for the cookies.”
“What’s the notebook for?” I ask.
“For the recipe. You said it was the best.” He raises an eyebrow. “You don’t plan on gatekeeping it, do you?”
I shake my head with a laugh. “Nope.” A chill runs up my arms from the cold air seeping into our house. I step aside. “Come in.”
“Good idea. I was starting to think you’d never ask,” he says, strolling into our entryway. He holds the notebook out to me.
I take it, keeping it safe.
Buddy jumps up next to Jordy.
“Hey, puppy,” Jordy says, giving him a big hug. He sits down on the floor and pets Buddy’s fur.
“I didn’t know you liked dogs,” I say.