What Happened to Goodbye(12)
Author: Sarah Dessen

“. . . sure you understand our position,” an older man with curly hair, wearing a dress shirt and jacket, his back to me, was saying. “Our son’s schooling has been a top priority ever since we realized his potential as a small child. Which is why we had him at Kiffney-Brown. The opportunities there—”

“—were exceptional,” a short, thin woman finished for him. “And, as you’re aware, it was when he transferred here that all these problems began.”

“Of course,” the woman opposite them, in a pantsuit and sensible haircut that screamed administrator, even without the laminated ID hanging around her neck, replied. “But we believe he can get everything he needs, both academically and socially, here at Jackson. I think that by working together, all of us, we can help him to do just that.”

The man nodded. His wife, clutching her purse with a weary expression and looking less convinced, glanced at me as I passed. She looked familiar, but I couldn’t place her, at least not at first. So I kept walking, taking a left and consulting my schedule again.

I was scanning doorways and room numbers when I saw Riley. She was sitting on a bench, leaning slightly forward and craning her neck to look out in the hall, a backpack parked beside her. I knew her instantly, from the rings on her fingers and the same puffy jacket, now tied around her waist. She didn’t look at me as I passed, too intent on watching the group in the hallway.

My math class was supposedly in room 215, but all I could find were 214, 216, and a bathroom that was out of order. Finally, I figured out what I needed was on the next corridor down, so I doubled back. I was just approaching Riley again when she jumped to her feet, grabbed her bag, and darted out into the main hallway ahead of me. The group was farther down now, by the stairs. The only person in the hallway was a guy with short hair wearing a white button-down oxford and khakis.

“What did they say?” Riley said as she ran up to him.

He glanced at the group, then back at her. “They’ll agree to let me stay if I keep up my U courses. And about a hundred other attached strings.”

“But you can stay,” she said, clarifying.

“Looks that way, yeah.”

She reached up, throwing her arms around his neck and giving him a hug. He smiled down at her, then glanced over at the group by the office. “Hey, shouldn’t you be in class?”

“It’s fine,” Riley said, flipping her hand. “I have drama, they won’t even notice I’m gone.”

“Don’t waste an absence on this,” he said. “It’s not worth it.”

“I just wanted to make sure they weren’t going to pull you out. I was freaking.”

“Everything’s fine,” he said. “Don’t freak.”

Don’t freak. It was only when I heard this that it hit me. I looked at the guy again: short hair, clean-cut. Your generic High School Boy. Except he wasn’t. He was Dave Wade, neighbor and storm-cellar dweller. The clothes might have been different, the hair short, but I knew his face. It was the one thing that no matter what, you could never really change.

Riley stepped back from him. “Okay. But I’ll see you at lunch, right?”

“David? ” His mom was standing by the office door, holding it open. Just beyond, I could see his dad and the administrator disappearing down a hallway. “We’re ready to go in now.”

Dave nodded at her, then looked back at Riley. “Duty calls,” he said, and gave her a rueful smile before walking away. She watched him go, biting her lip, before turning around and starting down the stairs. A moment later, the door banged, and I saw her jogging up the walk that led to the adjacent building, her bag bouncing against her back.

I looked at my schedule again, took a breath, then walked over to the other hallway and scanned the doors until I found 215. I wasn’t exactly looking forward to interrupting just as the teacher got things under way, much less having to take a seat with all those eyes on me. But it was better than a lot of other options, especially the ones Dave had spared me from the other night. I was lucky to be here. So I reached for the knob, took a breath, and went inside.

Two periods later, I braved the cafeteria, taking a chance on a chicken burrito that didn’t look entirely inedible. I brought it outside, along with a wad of napkins and a bottled water, then settled myself on the wall that ran along the main building. Farther down, a group of guys with handhelds played games in tandem; on my other side, a very tall, broad-shouldered guy and a pretty blonde girl were sharing an iPod and a pair of earbuds, arguing—albeit good-naturedly—about what was playing as they listened.

I pulled out my phone, turned it on, then clicked open a new text message and typed in my dad’s number. MADE IT TO LUNCH, I wrote. YOU?

I hit SEND, then scanned the courtyard before me, taking in the array of typical groups and cliques. The stoners kicked around a Hacky Sack, the drama girls talked too loudly, and those who cared about the world sat at various tables lined up along the walk, collecting money and selling baked goods for various causes. I was unrolling the foil on my burrito, wondering where exactly Liz Sweet belonged among them, when I saw the blonde, busty girl I’d met at the party on Friday night. She was cutting across the grass, wearing tight jeans, high boots, and a cropped, red leather jacket that was clearly more for show than warmth. She looked irritated as she passed by, heading for a group of picnic tables on the edge of the parking lot. After taking a seat at one she crossed her legs, pulled out a cell phone, and looked up at the sky as she put it to her ear.

My phone beeped and I picked it up, scanning the screen.

JUST BARELY, my dad had replied. THE NATIVES ARE VERY RESTLESS.

My dad expected to encounter resistance when he first came into a restaurant, but apparently Luna Blu was an extreme case. There were several “lifers,” as he called them, people who had worked there for years for the original owners, an older couple who’d moved to Florida the year before. They’d thought they could manage things long-distance, but their balance sheet quickly proved otherwise, and they decided to sell to EAT INC in order to enjoy their golden years. According to what my dad had told me the day before at breakfast, Luna Blu had been running for the last year or so on little else but the goodwill of its longtime regulars, and even they weren’t showing up the way they used to. There was no point in trying to tell that to the natives—employees—however. Like so many before them, they didn’t care that my dad was only the messenger. They still wanted to shoot him.