“Forrest,” I say. “Yeah, at first I was ...not sure how that was going to go. But it’s working out. I don’t know. We’re kind of ...talking?”
“Oooh!” Dad says, turning back to waggle his eyebrows at me. “Talking?”
“Oh my god, not like that.” I roll my eyes. “Just, like, friendly, which is weird.”
“Weird how?”
“We didn’t have the best history,” I say. “He is—was pretty annoying. And I was worried...” I trail off. I’ve neverreally talked like this with Dad. When I was a kid, it was Mom who cuddled me when I cried, Mom who talked to the principal when a kid was bullying me in elementary school, Mom who was always watching over me. So it was Mom I turned to when I needed something. After the divorce, Dad was so in and out of my life that confiding in him never even crossed my mind; instead, I was busy wondering where he was, whether he was OK, and if he’d even be coherent the next time we talked.
I swallow hard, blinking back tears.
“You were worried ...” Dad prompts me, a few steps ahead, his back to me as we approach another stand of trees. The trail is looping, heading back to the start, and there’s an incline ahead.
“Worried he’d mess it up, I guess,” I say, digging my toes into the sudden steepness of the trail. For a moment, we’re both silent, concentrating on pushing up the hill, and then we’re over the top and hiking down into the trees again.
“But he hasn’t,” Dad says.
“Nope,” I say. “Kind of the opposite.”
“Well, sometimes people can surprise us,” Dad says. “Do you like talking to him?”
I nod, then remember he can’t see me. “Yeah, I do actually.”
“Then don’t overthink it,” Dad says. “Just do what feels right.”
I catch myself before I laugh. Dad has no idea what goes on inside my head; overthinking is an understatement. But up here, it almost feels that easy. Just do what feels right.
Which I guess means that Forrest and I might be ...friends?
On Friday, I wake up early to put together my Halloween costume. Strawberries are my favorite fruit, but I don’t have a whole lot of clothes in the right color palette. I’m more of an earth tones person, my coat hangers full of dark green, navy blue, burnt orange, gold, and black.
I pick out a shirt that’s more of a red-orange, and in the back of my closet I find a red velvet blazer I got at the thrift store last year. I put on dark green corduroys—my legs can be the strawberry vines—and my olive green beanie, for the little leaves on top. In the bathroom, I draw a strawberry on my cheek in bright red marker.
When I come out to grab breakfast, Mom is standing at the counter capping her coffee thermos. She sees me and her whole face lights up.
“Look at you!” she says. “Are you a...” She squints at me, taking in the whole outfit from my hat to my shoes.
“A strawberry,” I say after a few moments of silence.
“Yes, of course,” she says. “So cute. I love it.”
“Aren’t you usually gone by now?” I ask.
“I know,” she says, rushing to the door and stuffing her feet into her loafers. “I’m late! I stayed up working on a new brand direction for the client—they didnotlike what we came up with originally, and I’m the lead, so.” She grimaces. “It’s my responsibility! OK, your lunch is in the fridge, HappyHalloweenIloveyoubye!’
And she’s gone, the door slamming shut behind her. I wait for the click of the lock, but she must really be in a hurry, because it doesn’t come. A moment later, her car starts up and peels away outside.
“Thanks, I love you too,” I mumble, as if she’s still here, and pull open the fridge, snatching my lunch box. She didn’t have any idea what my costume was. I want to run back into my room and rip off all my clothes, scrub the stupid strawberry off my cheek. If I’d been thinking about it, I would have gone thrifting or borrowed clothes from one of my friends, but it’s too late now.
I’m a strawberry. And it’s time to go.
When I get to school, I see only a few people in costumes. Most people are dressed normally, and next to them I’m a pimple on unblemished skin, bright red and way too obvious. On the way to my locker, I definitely hear giggles. They’re probably not about me, but I keep my eyes ahead. Either way, I don’t want to know.
I text my friends to find out where they are, and weave my way from my locker to Anna’s, where I find her and Makayla. It’s not hard, because Anna is dressed in head-to-toe bright orange. Her earrings are huge orange slices made of acrylic, her dress is practically fluorescent, and her tights have a pattern that matches her earrings. Her eye makeup looks like a sunrise.
“Wow,” I say, stopping in front of them. Makayla is wearing a yellow shirt and mustard-colored pants, and gold eyeshadow that pops against her brown skin. She’s drawn asmall lemon at either temple, just under the outer corners of her eyes. I should have done something cute and subtle like that. The giant strawberry on my right cheek feels like a bad tattoo.
“All the fruits are here!” Anna says, throwing her arms out.
