Friday evening is a relief. Gigi and I are settled into her room for a Twilight marathon on Netflix. It's our latest obsession, and I've been looking forward to it all week, but tonight we only half pay attention. Gigi's curled up on the window seat, tapping away on her laptop, and I'm sprawled across her bed with my Kindle open to Ulysses by James Joyce. It's number one on the Modern Library's 100 Best Novels and I'm determined to finish it before the semester's over, but it's pretty slow going. And I can't concentrate.
All anybody could talk about at school today was that Tumblr post. A bunch of kids had the link emailed to them last night from some "Knock me out" Gmail address, and by lunchtime everyone had read it. Kendall helps out in the principal's office on Fridays, and she heard them talking about trying to track whoever did it by IP address.
I doubt they'll have any luck. Nobody with half a brain would send something like that from their own technology.
Since detention on Monday people have been careful and overly nice to me, but today was different. Conversations kept stopping when I approached. Kendall finally said, "It's not like people think you sent it. They just think it's weird, how you guys got questioned by the police yesterday and then this pops up." Like that was supposed to make me feel better.
"Just imagine." Gigi's voice startles me back to her bedroom. She puts aside her laptop and raps her fingers lightly on the window. "This time next year, you'll be at Yale. What do you think you'll do there on a Friday night? Frat party?"
I roll my eyes at her. "Right, because you get a personality transplant along with your acceptance letter. Anyway, I still have to get in."
"You will. How could you not?"
I shift restlessly on the bed. Lots of ways. "You never know." Gigi keeps tapping her fingers against the glass. "If you're being modest on my account, you can give it a rest. I'm quite comfortable in my role as the family slacker."
"You're not a slacker," I protest. She just grins and flutters a hand. Gigi's one of the smartest people I know, but until her freshman year she was too sick to go to school consistently. She was diagnosed with leukemia when she was seven, and wasn't fully disease-free until two years ago, when she was fourteen.
We almost lost her a couple of times. Once when I was in fourth grade, I overheard a priest at the hospital asking my mom if she'd considered starting to make "arrangements." I knew what he meant. I bowed my head and prayed: Please don't take her. I'll do everything right if you let her stay. I'll be perfect. I promise.
After so many years in and out of the hospital, Gigi never really learned how to participate in life. I do that for both of us: join the clubs, win the awards, and get the grades so I can go to Yale like our parents did. It makes them happy, and keeps Gigi from extending herself too much.
Gigi goes back to staring out the window with her usual faraway expression. She looks like a daydream herself: pale and ethereal, with blonde hair unlike mines and startling green eyes. I'm about to ask what she's thinking when she suddenly sits up straight and cups her hands around her eyes, pressing her face against the window. "Is that Abel Tesfaye?" I snort without moving, and she says, "I'm serious. Check it out."
I get up and lean in next to her. I can just about make out the faint outline of a motorcycle in our driveway. "What the hell?" Gigi and I exchange glances, and she shoots me a wicked grin. "What?" I ask. My voice comes out more snappish than I intended.
"What?" she mimics. "You think I don't remember you mooning over him in elementary school? I was sick, not dead."
"Don't joke about that. God. And that was light-years ago." Abel's motorcycle is still in our driveway, not moving. "What do you suppose he's doing here?"
