Chapter 23
As the bus pulls up in front of Frankie’s, I see Sarah walking away with a white takeout bag. I’m so relieved as I run to her, calling out and waving wildly to get her attention.
Sarah glances over and smiles, then nods at me. “Hi,” she says cautiously.
She looks better than she did yesterday. Her hair is smooth and her eyes have been made up, but her jacket is long and conservative. It looks like something her father would approve of.
“Sorry I missed your text,” I say. “I’ve had a crazy morning.”
“It’s okay.”
“Have you talked to Harlin at all?” I can’t help but hope that he was worried when I left him. Maybe checked in with Sarah.
“The motorcycle guy?” she asks.
I pause. “Yeah.”
She smiles a little. “I always wondered what happened to him after he dropped out of St. Vincent’s. He was nice to look at.” She wiggles her eyebrows like I should agree. “Are you dating him?”
Devastation washes over me. Her expressions are so unfamiliar to me, so... cold. I almost can’t bring myself to ask.
“Sarah, you know who I am, right?” I ask in a small voice.
A look of guilt crosses her face. “Of course. We were in the same class, right?” She stops, darting her eyes around the sidewalk as a few people pass us. “I’m not going to St. Vincent’s anymore. My father thought a private tutor was my best chance to get into an Ivy League school next year.”
My heart sinks. I know damn well that Sarah doesn’t give a crap about Ivy League colleges. This is something she would tell a person she met at a charity ball. Something she would tell a stranger.
“I’m Charlotte,” I say, feeling my life drain out of me. “I’m your best friend.”
She steps back and laughs softly, probably trying to discern if I’m joking.
“Best friends? I think I’d remember that, Charlotte.”
“We’ve been friends since Ms. Cavanaugh’s seventh-grade gym class,” I say. “You forgot your swimsuit one day and were crying because you didn’t want to sit in detention alone, so I pretended to have lost mine so that I could keep you company.”
Her eyes widen. “How did you know about Ms. Cavanaugh’s class?” Her face is pale and I know that I’m scaring her, but I can’t stop. I want to remind her of how much I love her.
“And then we went to the junior prom in your dad’s BMW while everyone else took limos because you wanted to stand out. Matthew Bower was your date, but you didn’t like him because he was a wet kisser.” I laugh at the memory, remembering how often she recreated the disaster for me on the back of her hand or on her mirror.
“You’re starting to freak me out,” she says, moving away from me.
“And I was there at the museum when you drank a bottle of tequila to forget that you never feel good enough for your father. I was so scared for you. Harlin and I took you to the clinic and I needed to know you were okay.”
“Are you the one that dropped me off at the filthy free clinic? Are you a stalker or something?”
“No. I’m your only real friend.”
“Look,” she snaps, lowering her voice to a harsh whisper so as not to attract attention. “I don’t know you, and I don’t know what your deal is.” She looks like she’s about to cry and I’m not sure if it’s the fact that she’s scared or embarrassed that I know about the alcohol poisoning. But it’s not for the same reason I want to cry. I miss her. She’s standing right in front of me, and I’m missing her already. “Now I suggest you get out of here before I call the police,” she finishes, shooting a glance over my shoulder. I turn and see her driver get out and open the back door of the car.
There’s nothing I can do. There’s not one single word I can say that will make her remember me. So instead, I smile at her, wishing I could hug her one last time, but I don’t. I slowly back down the sidewalk.
“Take care of yourself, Sarah,” I say. She stares after me. “You’re better and stronger than your dad thinks. I’ve always known that.”
Her face crumbles a little at the statement, but she turns and hurries into the waiting town car. I watch as she drives away, out of my life.
When she’s gone, I walk slowly over to the bus stop bench and put my face in my hands. My fake face.
On the ride home, I stare out the window, wondering if I’ll see Onika this time. I don’t. But I know she’s not gone. She said she’d see me soon.
