Keeping the Moon(47)
Author: Sarah Dessen

I smiled. I had heard those words so many times before. And as I kept listening, I walked to Mira’s window and looked at the moon.

It hung brightly in the sky, a bit yellow, ripe and waiting for me. Then I glanced down at the little house. The porch light was on now, and I could see someone sitting on the steps. Someone with her head in her hands, a dirty lei around her neck, sitting under the light of Mira’s moon.

“If you try anything,” my mother went on, her voice building, “if you try to lose weight, or to improve yourself, or to love, or to make the world a better place, you have already achieved something wonderful, before you even begin. Forget failure. If things don’t work out the way you want, hold your head up high and be proud. And try again. And again. And again!”

Try again, I thought, thinking of my night with Norman as I looked down at Morgan, remembering how she’d been so happy that Mark had chosen her. And I wondered where that shiny ring was now.

Try again.

Chapter fourteen

The next morning Norman and I were the only ones who showed up for work. Morgan was on the schedule, but I opened alone; luckily it was slow, so I could handle it by myself. I’d thought it might be strange to be with Norman now, but it wasn’t. We just ate fat-free potato chips and played Hangman, listening to the radio while he huddled over a grocery list—secretive as ever—planning the Big Dinner. Still, I was glad when two-thirty came and I could close up and go home to find out what was going on.

“It’s crazy, Mira,” I heard Isabel say as soon as I walked in. “This morning I get up and drive all the way to Starbucks just to get her some of that special snotty coffee she likes so much, and she locks me out! She’s been over there crying and playing Patsy Cline ever since. This is bad, Mira. This is really bad.”

I walked in to the back room and saw Mira sitting at her drafting table, with Isabel on the couch beside her. They were both drinking iced tea with somber looks on their faces. Through the window facing the little house I could hear music. Sad music.

“Her heart is broken,” Mira said, sticking her pen in her hair. “You’re just going to have to ride it out.”

“But I should be there. I’ve always been there when she was upset like this. I just don’t get why this is suddenly all my fault.” Isabel looked terrible; her hair was in a sloppy ponytail and she was wearing jeans, a torn red T-shirt, and no makeup whatsoever. She saw me looking and snapped, “I thought I was only going out for a second.”

“Fine,” I said. I was not going to get on her bad side today.

“She has to blame someone,” Mira explained.

“Then blame Mark!” Isabel slammed down her tea glass. “He’s the one who cheated on her, married someone else and got her pregnant. All I ever did was—”

“Tell her he was no good. That he was lying to her. That she was going to get hurt,” Mira filled in. She shook her head ruefully. “Don’t you see, Isabel? She’s embarrassed. She’s humiliated. And when she looks at you, she knows you were right all along.”

“But I didn’t want to be right,” Isabel protested. “I just didn’t want her to get hurt.”

“But she did,” Mira said. “And until she gets over the shock and comes to her senses and gets angry, you just have to keep your distance. The timing is bad too, with the eclipse and all. Everything’s out of whack.”

Isabel rolled her eyes. “But it’s my house, too,” she grumbled. “I can’t even get to my clothes.”

“Give her time,” Mira said, looking down at the drafting table. “Or better yet,” she said brightly, “give her a card.”

“A what?”

“A card!” Mira said, gesturing grandly to the boxes behind her. “There are thousands of ways right here to console her on a loss. Just pick one.”

“He’s not dead, Mira,” I said.

“He should be,” Isabel said darkly.

“Go ahead,” Mira said cheerfully. “Take one. Take several.”

Isabel walked to the shelf and pulled down a box. Mira bounced in her chair, smiling at me.

“So,” she said. “Ready for that big date?” I’d told her about it that morning, during our cereal session.

“I guess,” I said, and she smiled at me.

Isabel opened up a card and read aloud. “ ‘I am so sorry to hear of your terrible loss . . . but I know that time, and love, will heal all wounds and that your little friend will live on in your heart forever.’ ” She looked at Mira, eyebrows raised.

“Dead hamster,” Mira explained. “Try another one.”

“Okay,” Isabel said, opening a second card. “How about . . . ‘There comes a time when we all must accept the loss of someone who may not have been truly real but was very real in our hearts. I know this loss affects you in a way some might not understand. But as your friend, I do. And I am so sorry.’ ”

“Dead soap opera character,” Mira said. “That’s not right either.” She got up and went over to the boxes, rifling through them. “Let’s see. How about a dead ex-husband? Or a dead former flame?”

“These are all too nice,” Isabel said. “What we need is a good, nasty, empowering card. But nobody makes those.”

Mira turned around, took a pen out of her hair, and then jabbed it back in another spot. She was thinking. “We could,” she said suddenly. “Of course. We’ll make a card. How stupid of me!” She went back to her chair, jacked it up, and pulled out a blank piece of sketch paper, folding it in half. “Okay,” she said, licking the tip of her pen. “What should it say?” She looked at Isabel.

Isabel looked at me.

“The truth,” I said. “It should say the truth.”

“Truth,” Mira agreed. “So maybe, the front should say something like . . . ‘I am sorry for your broken heart.’ ”

“Perfect,” Isabel said.

Mira bent over the card, writing with smooth strokes. Underneath, she drew a heart with a jagged line down the middle. “Okay,” she said when she was through. “Now we need the inside. This is the hardest part.”

We considered this. Cat Norman walked through, looked at the three of us, and sat down with a wheeze.

“ ‘I am sorry for your broken heart . . .” Mira read off the front. “but . . .”