Ellie is thankful for Murphy.
twenty-one
“You deleted her number?”
Kat’s voice rings through the phone with so much bewilderment, you’d think I’d insulted her personally. Whether it’s luck or perfect timing, she picked up without even a predial “can I call you” text, and I got her up to speed as quickly as possible on the happenings of the thirty-six hours since she left Geneva—most notably, the moving meltdown and the mass destruction of any and all Ellie evidence on my phone. I can’t believe the amount that’s happened in the few days since I’ve seen her, and as I sit cross-legged in the center of my bed, it all tumbles out like a verbal rockslide, leaving Kat to sort through the debris.
“God, what a shit show,” she mutters. “Are you okay? What can I do to help?”
“Hang on. I haven’t even gotten to the real reason I called yet.”
“Oh God,” Kat groans. “How could there possibly be more?”
“Well, at the study session—”
“You went to the study session?” she interrupts. “Great job!”
A smile creeps over my lips. Not what I was getting at, but the recognition feels nice.
“Yes, but after, Professor Meyers gave me back the Tupperware that I left at her house, and she gave me, like, this little pep talk about my grade and how to study better. More on that later. But inside the Tupperware, there’s this painting.” I’ve been thumbing the edge of the watercolor paper our entire call, but I only now realize it. “I’ll send you a pic, hang on.”
I position the painting right between two sunbeams spilling across my bed, then snap two photos—one of the painting itself and one of the note on the back—and hit send, chomping on my cuticles as I wait for Kat to review the source material. After a brief pause, she squeals.
“Oh my god, Murph. This is gorgeous.”
“Gorgeous,” I echo. “Do you see the tiny Ellie and Murphy out front?”
She squeals. “Oh my God, I missed that! Murphy!”
“But you have to read the stuff on the back. It’s from this Thanksgiving tradition they have where they write down what they’re thankful for.”
Another pause. “She gave this to you?”
“Yeah, that’s what Professor Meyers told me.”
“So this has to be an apology,” Kat says.
“I think so. At the very least, it’s a message. She’s going to New York after U of I, and I told her I want to live in Chicago after I graduate, so I think she painted that? Like, what that could be?” I suck the blood off the bleeding edge of my thumb. “I have to talk to her.”
“And say what?” Kat’s voice is so giddy and cutesy, I almost forget there’s a big, nasty truth we need to circle back to.
“It doesn’t matter,” I groan. “Because my dumb ass has no way to reach her.”
“Because you deleted her number,” Kat says, verbally tying the loose ends together.
“Yes,” I sigh. “Yes I did.”
“Fuck.”
Someone in the background shushes her, and I use the temporary silence to resituate so I’m facing away from the Wall of Fame. Staring at all the pictures I’m going to have to take down bums me out.
“Quick question,” Kat finally says. “Are you dumb?”
I snort. “Obviously yes.”
“Why did you have to delete her number? Why didn’t you just, like, block her or change her contact name to Spam Likely? Like a normal person?”
“Because I’mdumb,” I remind her. “But chewing me out for deleting her number isn’t going to bring it back.”
