Ava glanced behind her. “Hold on a second.”
I flattened myself against the wall in case her mother was coming. But after a moment, Ava returned. “She’s in bed. Why don’t you come up?”
Enter her room?
I reached up to grasp the bottom of the window, not sure I’d make it in.
“Find an empty pot to turn over,” Ava whispered.
I searched around and found a good-sized one. With the extra step, I managed to get my shoulders through the window. Ava pulled me through, and I dropped softly onto a rug.
A single lamp by her bed cast a soft glow over a pink bedspread and a dresser. One wall was covered with flowers cut from colored paper. I spotted roses, tulips, daisies, and many more I didn’t recognize. Some had faded, a testament to the years she’d been painstakingly taping them up, but others were bright. I walked along them as she carefully closed the window.
“When you mentioned paper flowers, I didn’t imagine so many.”
“They’re my greatest secret. The more I have, the easier it is to hide what I’m doing.” She lifted the leaf of one of the closest flowers. “Look closely.”
On the back side were tiny words.
I used my phone as a light to read them.
You were born in 2000. Your father left. Marcus Anthony Roberts. He married your mother in 1997.
“Whoa. Are there words on all of them?”
“No, it’s random. She’s never caught them.” She gazed proudly at the walls. “I wouldn’t have known so much of my history after the hospital without them. She’s changed my journal many times. I’ve gotten good at spotting which handwriting is mine and which is hers.”
She lifted a yellow flower from a small table by her bed. “This one is for you.”
I aimed my phone at it. Like the others, tiny words created the illusion of stray lines.
Tucker Giddings is beautiful, smart & perfect. I love him. Even if I lose my memories. My heart will remember. Always.
I lifted my gaze from the flower to her face. “You mean it?”
Her expression didn’t waver. “I do.”
“I love you too, Ava,” I said. “Ever since the disco room.”
We watched each other, her eyes glistening, until footsteps broke the quiet. A door closed down the hall.
“This way,” she whispered, leading me to her closet. She had built a space between cardboard boxes, covered with a quilt.
I ducked into it and she pulled the quilt down over the gap.
“Ava?” Her mother, slightly muffled, just outside the door.
“Yes, Mom?” Ava’s voice was thick with sleep. She faked it well.
Her door creaked, and I assumed her mother entered the room. “You left your light on.”
“Oh, sorry.” A small click.
“Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.” The door closed with a groan and a pop.
I waited. I held the flower, delicate and precious. I rolled it carefully so that it wouldn’t get crumpled and slid it into the pocket of my shirt.
