“You’regoing.”
“I’m going toDes Moines,” Shiloh said. “It’s two hours away.”
“And Mikey’s going to Chicago. And I’m going—I don’t even know where.”
Shiloh didn’t know what to say to that. It made her clench her fists. “Well,I’mnot saying goodbye.”
“Why not?”
“One, it’s stupid. Because we’re not, like,donewith each other. Just because we’ve completed Nebraska’s secondary-education requirements. And two, it’s too early—I don’t leave until August.”
“Things still change, Shiloh, whether or not you participate in the rituals of transition.”
She threw up her hands. “So you’re justdonewith me? Because we’re graduating?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“That’s how it sounds.”
Cary started to argue, but Shiloh cut him off—“We don’thaveto say goodbye. No one ismakingus.”
“But we aren’t going to see each other after this summer.”
“So? And also—why not?”
“Because we’ll be in different states?”
“Yeah, but—” Shiloh shook her head. She still felt like setting a fire. “We don’t have to, like, take orders from time and space.”
Cary laughed, genuinely. One loud bark. “Now you’re immune to physics.”
“People do what they want, Cary. We have free will.”
He looked over at her, more amused now than annoyed. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” Shiloh said, heavy on thehsound, reaching her head forwards. “We could just...keepbeing friends.”
“I can’t even get phone calls in boot camp,” he said. It came out sadder than Shiloh was expecting.
“I will write you letters,” she swore.
Cary was looking down. His voice dropped. “I know you will.”
“Furthermore,” Shiloh said, “I have a very potent presence. Do you remember Mr. Kessler?”
Mr. Kessler was their ninth-grade English teacher. Cary nodded.
“He said a little of me goes a long way.”
Cary snorted. His cheeks crinkled.
“So even though we aren’t going to talk as often, it’s still going tofeellike you’re gettinga lotof me.”
He peered up at her, lifting an eyebrow. “I’m just used toso muchof you...”
“I get it,” Shiloh said. “Your new friends might feel watered down in comparison.”
“Mild,” Cary said.
