After safely escaping the front office with my rescued phone, I went straight to my locker.16-26-32,I twisted and turned the combination lock and stuffed everything for the weekend into my backpack, including Grace, Isa, and Everett’s crap that I’d so generously collected. TGIF, but I was done now. I was taking off early.
There was no way I was walking through the lobby, though. Mrs.Flamporis might be busy with her manicure, but the others were unpredictable. Who knew? VP Navani could’ve returned to her desk, realizingsomeonehad to take up Principal Unger’s mantle for the afternoon.
Instead, I snuck through the darkened choir room. It was an extracurricular at our school, so the room was empty and had this ghostly vibe going on. Once upon a time duringfreshman year, I’d been in choir, but it hadn’t been a great fit. At least for me. I wanted to sing what I wanted to sing, which never aligned with the probably-too-religious-for-public-school songs we were assigned. I’d taken piano lessons for years as a kid, and from there was a YouTube tutorial guy.
But Isa was in choir. Music had always been her favorite class, and who could forget the annual talent shows we performed for our parents? Don’t ask me whose original idea it was, but we were about ten and I remembered Isa really worrying about her nonexistent act. “I still don’t know what I’m going to do,” she’d told me. We were sitting in the living room; she’d just come upstairs from the basement for a snack. “Grace has her gymnastics exhibition, and Everett has designed this whole agility course for the dogs.” Isa’s eyes pooled. She glanced at my family’s black Steinway. “I’m guessing you’re playing the piano?”
I shrugged. “It’s all I got.”
Isa nodded.
“We could do something together, maybe?” I ventured after a beat. She looked so sad. “You like to sing; I’ve graduated from the Disney songbook. How about it?”
We ended up covering a Broadway show tune that year (my skills were limited), but then in the following years we started putting twists on our covers; we played with the keys, altered lyrics, and shifted solo songs into duets. “Your voices blend sowelltogether,” Grace always said. “Now all you need is a real band name!”
There had been several, all terrible: Isa & James, Isa James,a whole string like that. The most original was Isa and the Angry Piano. We’d been thirteen and had creative differencesabout the Adele song we’d chosen; it was too mainstream, not our 1950s–1960s brand. But our performance slayed, so Isa and the Angry Piano remained my personal favorite.
Right now, I couldn’t help thinking of us as The Best Friend and The Brother.
Because we couldn’t be together until Isa told my sister about our relationship. Well, our potential relationship. Feelings had been declared, but nothing beyond stolen moments. Didn’t she want more than a kiss at the LUKOIL? I wanted to give her so much more.
The clock was ticking.
It’ll happen,I thought, trying to boost my confidence.Ithasto happen.
I’d wasted time in Unger’s office scrolling through Isa’s texts, but I couldn’t not, you know? I needed to make sure she was all right.I know I shouldn’t be texting you,she’d sent first.I don’t have an answer for you yet, but I can’t help sharing…
And then there were all photos or videos with Isa’s commentary.In the Luxembourg Gardens, John Singer Sargent (1879),she’d written under a photo of an oil painting. It showed a Parisian couple strolling arm-in-arm through the park at dusk, fully and contently at ease with each other.My new favorite.
I hadn’t needed to use Find My Friends to figure out theywere in Philadelphia. Isa had also sent a crystal clear photo of the Philly skyline, no doubt taken from the art museum’s steps. Its view of City Hall was an absolute money shot; it was like you could wave to the Billy Penn statue on top.
That had been a while ago, though. I’d need to use the app to track them, to make sure I could find them later.
Bright sunlight blinded me when I pushed through the choir room’s exit and into the afternoon. I blinked a few times before making a mad dash toward the baseball field, my pulse pounding. When I reached the Subaru, I couldn’t pull open the driver door fast enough.
Here we go,I thought as I threw my backpack in the back and buckled my seat belt.Philly, here I come!
Or not.
The low-fuel light dinged when I started the engine, and fuck, I would never reach Isa with this little in the tank. I sighed before shifting the car into reverse, backing out of my parking spot, and taking off for town.
Time to get gas.
I did Grace a solid and filled up the Subaru’s entire tank. On the few-and-far-between occasions I got the car to myself, I liked to annoy her by adding only a couple gallons, just enough to get me where I needed to go, but today I splurged.
What the hell?I thought cheerfully, then immediately afterward,What thehell?
This time it wasn’t so cheerful. On the side of the gas pump, someone had posted a small sticker. It was highlighter yellow and circular like a tennis ball…with the ridiculous#SavingGracestamped in the center.
How?!
How, I wanted to know, did this escalate so quickly? How didstickersalready exist?
I rolled my eyes and reluctantly pulled up Instagram on my phone. What was I going to find when I typed in the hashtag?
A shit-ton of shit, that’s what.
Photo after photo of Grace with heartfelt after heartfelt tribute accompanying each and every one.She’s so special…a true gift to this world…sending our love and support!
