Exhibit B: During homeroom, everyone crowded into the student council lounge to retrieve the new yearbooks. Almost the entire senior class has signed mine, except Renner. There was a lingering moment when our eyes snagged. We could have passed each other our yearbooks, but we didn’t.
Exhibit C: He’s barely spoken two words in our career-planning class. Even Mr. Kingsley called him out for being uncharacteristically quiet.
I should be working on my time capsule letter to myself, but instead, I stare out the window, brainstorming a list of potential reasons for his behavior. Maybe his ego is hurt after I told him I’d never marry him in the event of a zombie apocalypse before falling off the ladder. Nah, not likely. He views my insults as badges of honor. At least, I think he does. Maybe he’s been body snatched by an alien and replaced with a silent version of himself.
I consider what Adult Renner told me—yesterday was the anniversary of his sister’s death. Maybe that’s the reason for his sullen mood. A quick Google search of her name pulls up an old obituary from the Maplewood Monitor. Date of death is exactly seven years ago yesterday—exactly as Adult Renner said. I consider the possibility that it wasn’t just a dream. But what’s more likely? Subconsciously remembering the anniversary of his little sister’s death? Or him slipping into some strange wormhole with me?
Besides, if we had time traveled, he would have mentioned it the moment we woke up in the gym. He’s a blabbermouth. I know this from four years of him purposely revealing the ends of movies and TV series. I still haven’t forgiven him for spoiling the Euphoria season two finale. It’s simply not in his nature to withhold information, especially information of this magnitude.
Still, as I stare at Renner’s profile two desks up, I find myself appraising him with a strange affection I never had before. It’s a feeling I can’t quite place. It’s like I’m looking at an ex-boyfriend or something, probably because I can’t tamp down the memories, especially from the rain. I had such strong feelings for him. And yet, it wasn’t a surprise feeling. It was a feeling that crept up on me slowly, so naturally that it felt like coming home.
When I look at him now, I’m not immediately filled with anger and annoyance. I see the kindhearted, stupidly charming Adult Renner. The one who’s desperate to make people like him. Who makes me late-night mac ’n’ cheese after a gigantic fight.
Maybe I’m just tired. Cranky. Disoriented. I am concussed, after all. Maybe I need to go back to the ER. Surely I’ll feel back to normal once I’m fully recovered.
At lunch, I find out why Kassie and Ollie didn’t show up to help decorate the gym yesterday.
Kassie stomps into the cafeteria in sweatpants and a baggy T-shirt, hair in its natural wave. It’s similar to Adult Yoga Kassie’s natural hair. Her mouth is set in a stoic line when she sits across from me, gripping her lunch tray. I’m tempted to inquire about her hair when she slams her reusable straw into her water bottle.
“What’s wrong? Allergic to the goat?” I ask. Yes, there is a goat at MHS today. You know you’ve done senior prank week right when there’s livestock in the halls, eating people’s homework.
Our class is really committing to prank week. Aside from the goat, we’ve TP’d the gym, poured bubbles in the vents, and set off confetti bombs in the lockers.
“It’s nothing,” she grumbles.
By the way she says nothing and slams her elbows on the table, I know it is, in fact, something. And while I hate that she’s upset, part of me is also just thankful we’re still best friends.
“Ollie is just being . . . annoying,” she finally says.
She and Ollie never fight, especially in public. They’re that sickeningly-in-love couple who feeds each other in the cafeteria.
It’s an effort not to gasp. I can’t help but connect the future, where Kassie and Ollie are history, to the sour face she’s making right now as she says his name. My stomach pretzels into a knot, and I place my hand over hers and squeeze. “How is he being annoying?”
“We’ve been fighting all week. It started Tuesday night,” she says with a frown.
Tuesday feels like forever ago. But I force my mind back to that day—the day of the tampon explosion. The day Mom tried to convince me to call Dad. I texted Kassie to vent and she didn’t respond. Now I understand why.
She shoves a forkful of beet salad into her mouth and chews vigorously, like she needs sustenance to fuel her explanation. “Every time I bring up apartment hunting in Chicago, he gets pissy. I think he resents the idea of living with me next year instead of being in the dorms. Who wants to live in a 130-square-foot room when you can live with your hot girlfriend in a fabulous downtown apartment?”