Golden (3 page)

Except.

It feels like history in a manila envelope. Like something that should be saved. My heart beats a touch quicker.

Kat would take it in a second if she were here. She wouldn't even wait to open it. If she were here, I'd be the one to insist we put it back, because that's what I do. It's the role I play between the two of us—conscience to her temptations, reason to her impulsiveness. It's also the role she's always trying to get me to step out of, just a little. She never stops talking about the idea of pivotal moments in life, tiny ones that can either pass you by or make some big dramatic change somewhere down the line, depending on what you choose to do with them. This feels like one of those moments.

I know it's wrong to take it, I do. But something in me decides to do it anyway, and it's so quick and resolute I don't have time to change my mind. I know the period's almost over so I put Julianna's journal on the bottom of the stack and walk it back over to the table where the box and my backpack sit undisturbed. I smile politely at Ms. Moore when she looks up, and when she goes back to her work, I take a deep
breath and slide the bottom envelope into my backpack, zip it up quick. The bell rings, sealing my decision, and I have to hurry to get the rest of the journals in the box so I can get it back to Mr. Kinney like it's any normal day and any normal project he's given me to do. But as I step into the hall with the box in my hands and the stolen journal in my bag, I feel like I'm setting foot down a new road. One I've never traveled.

“But bid life seize the present?

It lives less in the present

Than in the future always,

And less in both together

Than in the past.”

—“CARPE DIEM,” 1938

I pull out a red chair with a swirly sun painted on it and sit down with my chai. Try to sound casual. “Do you know where Julianna Farnetti's family moved away to?”

Kat gives me a weird look from across the table and leans over her steaming cup. “That's random. No.” She takes a sip of her mocha and licks the whipped cream off her lips in a way only she can, which makes her new favorite coffeehouse worker smile as he puts his head down and pretends to wipe
the table next to us. Since Lane started working a month ago, Kat's become quite the coffee drinker, if you count white mochas and caramel frappucinos, which I don't, really. He's cute in the way most ski bum seasonal employees are—tan face from days spent on the mountain, scruffy, I-don't-care hair, easygoing smile. Not hard to pull off when you work just enough to pay for a winter of snowboarding and the weed to go with it.

He's doing a really great job on that table, but doesn't say anything, so she doesn't either. Instead, she pretends to focus on our conversation. “Where did that come from, anyway?” As she asks, her eyes slide past me to follow him across the café to the counter.

“I don't know,” I shrug. “I was just wondering.” I haven't decided yet if I'm going to tell Kat what's in my backpack in the front seat of her car. She'd have to read it as soon as she knew, and I haven't even made up my mind that
I'm
going to read it yet. “Something made me think of her and I just . . . wondered where they went.” It's not a total lie. I did, at one point in the day, decide the right thing to do would be to track down her parents and send the intact envelope to them. But then the thought seemed almost cruel.

Kat finally brings her eyes back to me. “I don't think anybody knows where they went. It's not like they had a whole lot of reason to keep in touch after. They just left and never looked back.” She takes another slow sip of her coffee and leans back in her chair. “You know, just like you will when you go off to college and leave me here to become a bad, small-town cliché.”

She winks at me and I kick her under the table. “
Shut
up.” I know she's mostly joking, and I try to sound like I am too, but at the moment, the letter in my back pocket feels like a weight around my neck. I need to just tell her and get it over with. “I told you, you should come with me,” I say instead. “You could get a job and we could have a cute little apartment near whatever school I go to, and we can share clothes and order takeout and live happily ever after.”

It doesn't come out sounding as plausible as I want it to since I know it's not. Kat will end up staying here because the mess that is her mom will make her feel like she has to. Where my mom drives me insane with her never-ending sermons on how important it is that I achieve more and do better than she did, Kat's seems to wonder why her daughter should ever want or deserve anything beyond a job that barely pays the bills, an endless string of guys she hopes will, and the resulting need to find comfort in a bottle when they don't. Kat's been privy to her mom's drama all her life and mostly brushes it off, but it sometimes makes me sad for her.

“Come on,” I say. “Come with me.”

She rolls her green eyes, then levels them right at me. “I'm not gonna tag along to college with you. Really. How could I leave
this
?” She sweeps her arm at the wide window in the front of the shop. In the pale afternoon light, the weather-worn buildings across the street sag beneath the last of the snow in a way that complements her sarcasm just right, and I feel like a horrible person for not telling her first thing this morning. I clear my throat.

“I'm a finalist. For the Cruz-Farnetti Scholarship.” I say it more to my chai than to Kat.

She leans back and practically yells to the whole place. “Did you just tell me that my best friend is up for the no-joke, tenth anniversary,
full
ride scholarship to frickin'
Stanford
?” I nod again, and in less than a second she's out of her chair, with her arms wrapped around me in a hug that's solid and proud and the slightest bit uncomfortable since my face is smooshed into her boobs. “Holy.
Shit
, Parker!” A lady in the corner shoots us a glare that doesn't bother Kat in the least. “When did you find out?” She pulls back so I can answer, ready to hear all the details, and I'm relieved because she looks happy for me. Genuinely happy.

“The letter came yesterday. I haven't even told my mom yet because I know as soon as I do she'll be on my back about writing the perfect speech. That's the biggest part of their selection process, and it's gonna be the hardest. I basically have to get up and somehow convince the entire board that I'm the one they should give hundreds of thousands of dollars to.”

Kat waves a dismissive hand. “Please. You've aced every essay you've ever written, mine included. You're gonna get it.”

I laugh, but apprehension seeps into my stomach. “I don't even have any ideas on how to start.”

“You will,” she says, with a certainty that makes me feel a little better. “You'll figure it out and come up with something brilliant, and then you can put all your energy into more important things. Like Trevor Collins.” She sits back in her chair and smiles, shakes her head. “I
knew
there was
something you were sitting on. You're a shitty secret keeper.”

“I wasn't keeping it secret, I was just . . . waiting for the right time to tell you 'cause I didn't know . . .” I don't want to say I didn't know how she'd take it once it became a real thing that might actually happen.

She lets me fumble a moment before reaching across the table for both my hands. “P, all that crap I give you about leaving is just that—crap. I'm happy for you, I really am. I'm gonna miss you like crazy, but this is
huge
. And well-deserved. We should celebrate.”

Before I can answer, the bell above the door jingles and Josh, the owner of the place, strides in, the smell of cold swirling all around him. He nods at us. “Ladies.”

“Hi,” I say, and look down at the table, wondering what I could possibly add to that. Josh intimidates me. He's older than us by more than a few years, with perfectly messy dark hair, warm brown eyes, and tattoos up and down his arms—which I normally wouldn't find attractive, but they're intriguing on him. He's good-looking in a quiet, unassuming way that somehow reduces me to one word answers and makes me wonder what he's really like. Kat and I have been in a lot over the years, but he's never said anything to us that wasn't necessary for business. Not that he's rude or anything. He just seems like one of those people who'd rather keep to themselves.

“Mocha's perfect today,” Kat chimes in.

“Good to hear,” he says. He gives her one more little smile, not the flirty one she's looking for, but one that says he's just being polite, then heads back to the counter that
Lane is making sure is spotless. I watch a moment as Josh sets his package down and fills a tall cup of coffee, greets Lane with a pat on the back, then surveys his café/gallery. It's a small, cozy space covered in art that is always changing. Paintings of all different sizes and styles cover every inch of available wall space, and above us, metal mobiles sway gently, their pieces clinking softly together before settling back into place. I've always assumed that somewhere on the walls Josh has a piece or two of his own hanging up, just because he has that whole ex-art student look, but I've never asked.

“I think he's depressed,” Kat whispers to me, watching Josh out of the corner of her eye.

“Because he didn't flirt back when you batted your eyelashes and leaned on your boobs just now?”

“No,”
she says. “Because he doesn't act interested in anyone. Ever. He just walks around with his head down all the time, which is a shame since he's so goddamn good-looking.”

“He's also way too old for us.”

“I don't know,” Kat says, with a wicked grin. “I bet he's not even thirty yet.”

“Okay then. Maybe he's just smart enough not to have any interest in seventeen-year-olds.”

She sighs. “There is so much you don't understand about guys, P.” We both watch him move around behind the counter, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he's our topic of conversation. And that we're staring.

Kat shrugs. “Maybe he's gay.”

“He's not gay,” I say. “And you're whispering too loud.”

“Whatever.” Kat shakes her head, but the grin creeps back across her face. “So. How are we gonna celebrate your shiny scholarship letter? Dinner? Hot tubs? Trevor Collins?”

“Oh my God,
stop
already. We can't celebrate yet. Not until I actually win it.” I take the last sip of my chai and slide my chair back. “I should probably stop by the store and tell my mom. Maybe she'll be so happy she'll let me go out or something crazy like that.”

Kat lays a dramatic hand on her chest. “On a
school
night?”

“There's a first for everything,” I say. “You wanna give me a ride?”

She waits a beat before answering, eyeing me carefully. “Only if you promise me one thing.”

“What?” I'm sure it's going to be something about not forgetting her or keeping in touch when I leave, and of course that goes without saying.

She leans in and grabs both of my hands again. “Now that you're going, and it's all official, promise me that for the rest of the year you'll ease up and actually enjoy the little bit of high school that's left.”

“What are you talking about?” I try to pass it off lightly, like I don't know, but I do. Kat's whole philosophy on life can be summed up in two words: carpe diem (which it is, in loopy script, tattooed on her wrist). Seize the day, live in the moment, soak it all up—good or bad. Which is fine for her. I just happen to think more long term, I guess.

“You know what I mean. High school's almost over, Parker, and what do you have to show for it?”

“Seriously?”

“I mean
besides
your GPA, and Stanford, and valedictorian and all that crap—which I'm totally proud of you for. I'm not knocking those things. But when's the last time you took a chance? Or didn't do what someone else expected of you? Or did something you really wanted to, even though you probably shouldn't have?”

I run my finger around the rim of my empty mug, think about Julianna Farnetti's journal tucked in my bag with the rest of my books, and I lie. “I don't know . . .”

She smacks a hand on the table, sending a splash of mocha from her cup. “Well, it's time. It's time to do something worth remembering.”

“Like what?” I ask, humoring her. “What wild and crazy things should I be out doing?”

Kat shakes her head. “You're missing the point. You don't need to go out and do anything wild or crazy. Just do something unexpected for once.” She sits back in her chair and looks at me like it's the simplest thing in the world. “Just one thing.”

Again, I picture the manila envelope with Julianna Farnetti's writing on it, stuffed between the books in my bag. I open my mouth, and I almost tell her I might have already done a thing like that, and that I don't even know why. Instead, I match the friendly challenge of her tone. “Okay. One thing.”