As I was making dinner, the Conley children knocked on the door. I’ve never met kids like them. No wariness. No anger. No reserve that I can tell—all curiosity and unbounded enthusiasm.
Little James ran in first. “Have you jumped on the bed? It bounces really high.”
“Jamie, get off her bed! I’m sorry. He knows better.” That was eleven-year-old Isabella. “Do you like it here? I sometimes dream I live up here and that I can’t hear all of them.” She motioned to her three brothers.
Parker grabbed her in a hug and knuckle-rubbed her head. She feigned anger, but a giggle gave her away.
Then they showered me with helpful hints: stick my trash in the bins on the other side of the garage; their mom makes them clean the bathroom weekly, but she probably won’t check on me; the DVR cuts one hour of television down to forty-two minutes once you skip commercials.
They stayed for about forty-five minutes, until Mrs. Conley called them for dinner and homework. I like them. Just thinking about them makes me smile. I hope they liked me too.
One a.m.
I can’t sleep. Georgia O’Keeffe is keeping me awake.
Ashley came over last night to return a book I lent her and to see my new digs.
She walked in andooohhh-ed andaaahhh-ed perfectly. Then she noticed the O’Keeffe poster. “That’s nice, but you should hang something real there. A watercolor or an oil. You need more substance for the room’s focal point. The lilies are a bit cliché, don’t you think?”
Then she flopped on the couch and pulled out her phone and started playing on it. I stood there stunned. First about the poster comment, then because she sat texting or whatever for a full five minutes.
“What are you doing?” I finally asked.
“Updating my wall.”
“Why?”
“Sam, I’ve got over a thousand friends on Facebook. Do you know how much maintaining that takes? There’s an art to doing it well. Not that you’d care.” She waved her hand airily at me.
“ ‘There’s a meanness in all the arts. Whatever bears affinity to cunning is despicable.’ ”
“Nicely done.”
I knew she’d recognize Mr. Darcy.
She looked up and shrugged. “Don’t be so sensitive. I wasn’t being mean. I simply meant you should put more thought into the space above your bed.”
“You were being a snob.”
“Forget it. I thought we could have a conversation.”
“A conversation? As far as I can tell, you came to my apartment, insulted me, and are playing on your phone. What are you even doing here?” I was mad. I had thought we were friends, had hoped we were friends, but now I felt taken in—by an Emma.
Ashley tossed her phone across the couch. “You’ve got this wall around you. Figuratively speaking. Or is it literal?” Ashley tried to laugh, but tears came out instead. She quickly swiped them and glanced at me.
Did she hope I wouldn’t notice? She dropped her gaze and mumbled, “What does it matter?” Then the tears started to fall—really plop down her cheeks.
I didn’t know what to do. Part of me wanted to be all Elinor Dashwood—and Ashley did seem a bit Marianne-ish. Another part of me just wanted to kick her out. I was still angry, but I stayed quiet. I sat on the couch next to her.
Ashley blubbered on. “It’s like you’re the only one who’s clever and the only one who’s been hurt. I don’t even know who hurt you. I don’t know anything about you. You don’t let me in. Like when that guy hit you? Where’d you go?” She paused and then, thankfully, continued without waiting for a reply. “You don’t act like a friend, Sam. I could use a friend. A real one.”
I could too, Ashley.
“You don’t take me seriously,” she said. “No one does. My parents don’t. Will doesn’t.” She rolled against the pillows and swiped the back of her hand across her nose.
“Will?”
“Never mind. He’s just a silly boy. He’s not the point. Can’t we be friends, Sam? Real friends?”
