“You’re amazing the way you are,” he said, pulling me into a hug. “Now that you’re on the crew, I know we’re going to win.”
Status Report #11
Tuesday’s wish: Review of YouTube content
Dear Boss,
Sean’s channel on YouTube held nothing surprising. A brief video series that tutored high school students in statistics. A few clips of him dancing with Kimberley. Scattered moments from family events. Nothing about his diagnosis.
There is little footage of Sean himself, strikingly so. No doubt, this decision was deliberate.
I overheard Sara talking with Scott as he described his first independent landscaping project. Sara is concerned that the clients are overloading him with extras for which they haven’t contracted. She is wise to worry. Scott loves plants, not business. With his father distracted by an upcoming vacation, I fear that the clients might take advantage of Scott’s inexperience. I shall monitor that situation.
Regards,
Grant
16
Gleaming Purple Glory
Today was my birthday. Nineteen.
It was one of those boring birthdays. At eighteen, we became adults. At twenty, we left our teens behind. At twenty-one, we could legally drink, which made us dangerous in a lot of ways.
But nineteen? Meh. A prime number. A non-descript bridge between possibilities and probabilities.
It was the first birthday I would celebrate without my twin, which elevated nineteen from non-descript to poignant.
My mother had taken herself off the schedule today and disappeared. I’d be willing to bet that she was at Sean’s grave, complete with yellow roses from her garden, a beach chair and umbrella, a picnic basket with non-spoilable finger foods, and a bottle of wine or three.
So the big question was—would she acknowledge that it was my day too?
I shook these thoughts from my head as I pulled into the parking lot behind the shop. Mom had received several clothing consignments this week and left them piled on a table in the back. They were a complete mess. I needed to get them sorted and out into the showroom.
An hour later, after I had them tagged, on hangers, and ready to go, a wave of weariness hit me. I flopped onto a stool and stared at the rack of beautiful dresses, waiting to be put on display.
Both of my parents expected me to go into fashion merchandising and, given how much experience I had from the shop, it made sense, but it also made me uneasy. I wasn’t passionate about fashion, not the way my brother had been passionate about math and astronomy. Before he got sick, he’d planned to get his degree in science and teach seventh-graders to love constellations as much as he did. I’d held back on discussing my planned major with him, afraid he’d think it was too tame. But I finally did, late one night when he wasn’t feeling well. He’d just smiled and said, “Doesn’t matter whether it’s fashion or food or flowers. If you’re in charge, it’ll succeed.”
My eyes stung at the memory. Blinking away tears, I ran into our tiny staff bathroom, locked the door, and dug into my pocket for my phone. Like an addict seeking her daily fix, I needed to hear his voice. Rightnow. I clicked the audio clip inMy Favorites.
“You’re a brat, Sara. You know that?” Then his laugh.
I hit Replay. Replay. Replay.
And cried.
There was a tentative knock at the bathroom door. “Sara?”
It was the intern. “Yes?”
“You’re needed out front.”
“Be right there.” I grabbed a tissue. Blew my nose. Splashed water on my face. Bit my lips for color. Slid my phone into a pocket.
When I emerged into the showroom, Kimberley was waiting with a big smile. “Can you drive me somewhere?”
“Sure. Now?”
