“Maybe we should have McDonald’s for breakfast,” Junie said. “Cary loves McDonald’s!”
“Doeshe...” Ryan said. He was going to haveaggressivewrinkles around that eyebrow.
Cary appeared in the kitchen doorway, looking directly at Shiloh. “I’m going to take off. Visiting hours have started. Thanks again for the last-minute save.”
“I hope you get to see your mom,” Shiloh said.
“Tell Grandma Lois I said hi!” Junie said.
Cary glanced down at Junie. “I will, Juniper. Thanks.”
And then he was gone. Shiloh heard the front door close behind him.
Ryan was staring at her. “Either you broke the rule,” he said, “or we change the rule.”
“We can talk about this later,” Shiloh said.
Thirty-Four
before
Shiloh had been trying all day to get Cary to sign her yearbook. All anybody was doing today was signing yearbooks and fucking around. The teachers weren’t going to make seniors work on their very last day of school.
Cary put her off until last period, and then disappeared into the darkroom with her yearbook.
Shiloh had signed Cary’s first thing. She wanted to claim a good spot—and she wanted to write something that would kind of embarrass him when other people saw it.
She’d signed on the theater page, over the background of a photo fromA Christmas Carol. She made some crack about Cary joining the Navy and told him that she hoped his hair would always smell like apples. And then she’d written their favorite line from the fall play, the one they still said to each other sometimes:“And that, Inspector Pierce, is the way the biscuit has crumbled.”Then at the bottom, in small letters, Shiloh tried to write something sincere. Something about how she wouldn’t forget him.
She should have thought it through first, because she was writing in purple ink, and once she’d committed to the first part of the sentence, she just had to keep going with it. What came out was clunky and earnest and might end up embarrassing Shiloh more than Cary if anyone else bothered to decipher it—her handwriting was terrible.
Cary stayed in the darkroom for most of eighth period. He had Mikey’s yearbook, too. When he came out, he wouldn’t let them read what he’d written.
They all went to Zesto’s with a bunch of other seniors, and Cary bought Shiloh a twist cone.
Thirty-Five
before
Shiloh,
I know that you’re worried about going away and leaving high school and home behind you.
You shouldn’t be.
You are as intelligent and capable as anyone you will meet in college. You are as intelligent and capable as anyone you will meet.
I know you to be brave and tenacious.
I know you to be perceptive and kind.
You’ll be a talented actress if that’s what you choose to do, but those same talents could take you anywhere, really. I think it’s up to you.
You worry too much about your height—no one else minds it. (If you would have joined ROTC, I would have taught you how to stand straight.)
You keep telling me not to forget you.
When I think of high school, I will remember that every good day started with you walking down your steps and getting into my car. I will remember that every bad day ended with meeting you out by the flagpole.
