P.S. I Like You (18 page)

T
he next morning Isabel jogged toward me as I walked to first period, determination in her eyes. When she reached me we both stopped.

“Time’s up,” she said.

I smiled and she handed me some sheets of paper. Had she written me a letter?

“What’s this?”

“The last thing I thought about before I went to bed last night.”

I unfolded the papers. They were ads, printed off of Craigslist.
Gently used acoustic guitar. In great shape. New strings. Plays perfectly. $150. Or best offer.
There were several more similar to the first for different prices.

I smiled. Those prices were a lot more doable than four hundred, but they still seemed impossible. I glanced up at Isabel tentatively, knowing this was her peace offering, feeling bad for not having one of my own.

“I’m sorry,” we both said at the same time. Then we both smiled.

“Let me go first,” she said. “I should have told you it was
Cade.” She looked around and dropped her voice. “I’m so sorry I didn’t. It was wrong of me and I can only imagine how you felt when you learned who you’d been exchanging your thoughts with. And it hadn’t even occurred to me that you might have been telling him things that you wouldn’t want him to know. I really just thought they were letters about music.”

“I’m sorry, too. I should’ve shown you the letters and then you would’ve known. And I’m really sorry for getting in between you two when you were together.”

She shook her head so hard that her hair went one way and then the other. “No. Please don’t apologize for that. You can’t get in between something that isn’t already broken.”

I gave her a hug, choosing to believe she was sincere. Even though I now knew that on some level, she really did think it was my fault. But I’d own that because I knew in some ways, it was. “You’re the best friend on the planet.” I held up the Craigslist ads. “And thank you for this.”

“I know they aren’t your guitar,” Isabel said, nodding. “You’d saved up for a great one. But it’s something, right?”

“Yes. It’s perfect. I might be able to afford one like this in a couple weeks.”
Maybe in time to still make the deadline for the competition
, I thought, feeling a rush of hope. If I won that, I’d be able to afford a guitar and more. “Thank you, Iz.”

She smiled. “You’re welcome.”

I put the papers in my backpack just as the first bell rang. “So … I asked Lucas out.”

Isabel’s eyes widened. “You did? When?”

“Yesterday,” I said, feeling a jolt of nerves. “I asked him to a concert this weekend.” I turned to her. “
Please
tell me that you and Gabriel will go with me.”

“Of course!” Isabel put her arm around me. “I can’t believe you asked him out.”

“I can’t believe it, either! And he said yes.” I was still in shock.

“Of course he did.” Isabel nudged me. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. You don’t need anonymous letter writing when you are Lily Abbott.”

I laughed, blushing. “Let’s not get carried away.”

“So how did that go, anyway?” she asked.

“How did what go?”

She shot me a sidelong glance. “You stopped writing Cade, right? I know you. You probably felt the need to explain why in a letter. What did you say?”

I wrung my hands together. “I haven’t been able to explain why yet. But I will. I will.”

“I know you will. I mean, it’s Cade Jennings. Mortal enemy number one.” She laughed, gave me another hug, then turned around and headed to her first class. “See you later.”

Yes, exactly. Mortal enemy number one.

I’m sorry. It sounds like you were worse than sick—you were depressed. Is there anything I can do? I haven’t had
a blowup with a best friend, but it can’t be fun. I’m sure it will work out.

What did your brother break? I don’t have any younger siblings so I never have to worry about that stuff. I know how kids can be, though. Every year since freshman year I have to help coach a kids’ sports league—“volunteer” service. The kids can be punks but I actually really enjoy it. They’re fun. Wait, this started off as me commiserating with you. Kids suck. We should be born adults. Better? No, but seriously, if I had something irreplaceable and it was broken, I know I’d be mad. It’s understandable. Don’t beat yourself up about your reaction to your little brother. What was the awesome advice you gave me a few letters back? Hang in there. Chin up. Also, that song you made me listen to a few letters back, brilliant. Listen to that.

This was it. His last letter that I’d read. So it was okay to smile a little at the contents of it. But then remembering his “fluent in jerk” comment the day before at lunch made me angry again. Then rereading the letter made me soften. This was so messed up.

I couldn’t help but wonder how he was doing. We’d spent the last few letters talking about me. I wondered if he hoped every holiday season that his dad would call. What an awful feeling to be abandoned like that by someone who is supposed to love you. And here I was, preparing to abandon him.

I shook my head. I hated him for making me feel sorry for him. For showing me a different side to him. I had a feeling that this—the person in the letters—was his real side. But what good was knowing that? He’d never reveal that side in public. I wrote back.

You know, your awesome advice was just what I needed. I’m now hanging in there and the second I put my chin up I felt one hundred percent better. Who knew those bits of advice actually worked? Also, “made” is such a strong word. I think I merely suggested that you listen to that song. If my suggestion creates an undying desire to act, that’s on you.

No, really, I feel a little better today. My friend and I made up this morning. I think we’re good. If not all the way, we will be soon, I’m sure. My brother and I are at a standoff. I know I’ll soften soon because he’s the prince of the house and as aggravating as he is, I love his face. He still won’t admit to what he did, though. I have a hard time with people who do one thing in one situation and a completely different thing in another. Once he aligns himself, I’ll feel much better.

Okay so that was a totally passive-aggressive statement but I couldn’t help it. I needed to get that off my chest. I stuck the letter in its home and was actually able to focus on Chemistry the rest of class.

“Y
our detention is really making my life hard.”

“Hi, Ashley, nice to see you, too.” I shut the car door and my sister peeled out of the parking lot. “What’s the hurry?”

“I have to get to work.”

“Then why didn’t Mom pick me up?”

“She has some craft fair out of town.”

“On a Thursday afternoon?”

“I don’t know all the details. Ask her.”

I stopped talking. I could tell my sister was done. I reached up and pulled out the elastic band holding my hair back then ran my fingers through my waves.

“Mom said somebody is picking up Wyatt in a little bit for his first club baseball practice,” Ashley added, “so make sure he eats something right away.”

“Okay.”

“And I guess dinner is whatever you want.”

That meant cold cereal. “Okay.”

She barely stopped enough for me to climb out of the car before she was off again. “Thanks for the ride,” I said to her taillights.

Inside, I yelled into the TV room, “Wyatt, eat. You have baseball practice.” Then I went to my room and changed my jeans for a pair of loose shorts, my blouse for a tank top and my flats for a pair of wool socks that went up to my knees—the socks because I wanted to dress like it was summer when technically it was heading toward winter. Arizona winter, but still. I felt better until I tripped over the edge of my guitar case. I snarled at it and kicked it all the way under the bed. My door creaked open.

“Uh, knock, please,” I said. When I turned around I could see Jonah standing in the small opening.

He pushed open the door but didn’t breach the threshold. I should’ve opened my arms and let him run to me but I didn’t. I offered him a stiff smile. “Yes?”

“Can you get me some cereal?”

“You know how to get your own cereal, buddy.”

He frowned at the space under my bed. “I didn’t do it.”

I sighed. “Jonah. It’s important to take responsibility when we do the wrong thing. If you can’t tell me what you did, then how am I supposed to believe that you’re sorry?”

His bottom lip stuck out. “I’m sorry that you hate me.”

I sighed. “I’m mad that my guitar is broken and I’m mad that you touch my things without asking. But I don’t hate you. I will never hate you.”

“I didn’t do it.”

It was a lost cause. One day the truth would come out. And even then, it wouldn’t matter. My guitar would still be broken. “Okay, go eat.”

I sat down on my bed and docked my phone on my stereo, turning it up as loud as I could stand. Listening to Blackout didn’t necessarily accomplish its intended purpose of relaxing me—because now they made me think of Cade and the letters. But I would not let him ruin my favorite band for me. I turned the music up another notch.

I opened my notebook and stared down a sketch I had started in detention. I wasn’t sure what I wasn’t liking about the design.

Jonah appeared at my door, his mouth moving but only music sounding. I switched off the song.

“Someone’s at the door,” he said.

“Oh, okay.” I stood up. I figured it was the mom of one of Wyatt’s teammates, coming to pick him up.

When I rounded the corner though, Cade Jennings was standing in the open doorway.

I’m sure my face fell in shock. Cade’s expression was also one of utter surprise.

I was so shocked, in fact, that I slammed the door in his face.

What was Cade doing here?
Did he figure out the truth about the letters? My heart was pounding. It was probably too late to go run and change my clothes. He’d already seen me and my knee high socks. I took one step back and then I heard Cade knock three times. I tried to pat down my crazy hair once before giving up and opening the door again.

Cade’s initial look of shock had softened to his normal look of smugness. He took in my hair and outfit.

“Shut up,” I said.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your face did.”

“Really? And what did my face say?”

“You know what your face said.”

He laughed a little and shrugged.

“Why are you here?” I demanded.

“I’m Wyatt’s club coach. We have practice today.”

“Oh.” Ugh. Cade was my brother’s coach? No wonder he’d been surprised to see me. He probably hadn’t realized I was Wyatt’s sister. “Okay. Just be nice to my brother … please,” I added.

I wouldn’t have felt the need to add that if the real-life Cade was like the one in the letters. But he wasn’t, so I did.

Cade shrugged with a smirk. “I will. He can’t help who his sister is.”

I let out an exasperated sigh. “Right. I’ll go get him.”

I hoped Cade would stay by the door but instead he followed me into the kitchen. Wyatt wasn’t there, though; only Jonah sat at the table, eating his cereal.

I glanced back at Cade, and saw that he was looking at the underside of his expensive sneaker. He’d clearly stepped on the crunched-up pile of Fruity Pebbles on the floor. Great. I watched as he brushed his foot against the kitchen tile, then leaned against the counter, almost knocking over a bunch of bowls that were still half-full of milk.