“Saving up to win the prize?” I ask, kind of wanting to test the waters, seeing if she’s still angry with me.
“Something like that,” she says, and the smile remains, maybe even grows bigger.
“So…how was your night?” Please let it have been as good as that smile on your face is making me believe it was. Please, oh please, oh please. “Does that smile on your face mean what I think it means?”
“Nooooooo,” she says, but her cheeks are darn near fire-engine red. She looks like a thermometer in the ER during flu season. “We just…slept. But it was really, really, really nice.”
She’s still smiling. This is good. I think this might be very good, and I didn’t blow this friend thing with my selfishness. And Rowe looks happy.
“Hmmmmmmm, sounds really, really, really boring,” I tease her, feeling good that I can. “Wanna hear about my night?” I am dying to tell someone about my night! And it can’t be Paige.
“Oh god, no!” she says, her face immediately shifting back to a bright shade of red. I’m about to force her to listen anyhow, because oh my god I have to tell someone, but suddenly, Rowe is changing her clothes in front of me, and she freezes.
I freeze too.
I saw them earlier. The scars. But she’s not hiding them now, not even attempting. Her eyes are locked on mine, and she’s waiting to see how I’m going to react. I can see her terror. I’ve been that terrified. I’ve lived that terror. Oh, Rowe, your scars, they’re your story.
But the second that thought passes through my mind, I realize that the moment the welts, from years of shots, finally disappeared from my body, so did my story—by choice. The proof of MS was gone, and I was going to leave it erased.
Rowe doesn’t have that option.
“They’ve gotten better,” she says, turning slowly. She’s letting me see everything, and I can also see her body shivering with nerves as she does. This is scary to her.
“What happened?” I’m looking at her, because I think that’s what she wants. I am in awe of her bravery.
“Two years ago, there was a shooting at my school. You ever hear of Hallman High?” she asks. Hallman? I don’t even know if the name truly sounds familiar, and my mind has already raced ahead and filled in the blanks. Rowe has been through hell—actual living hell. And sadly, I can’t tell her hell apart from the dozens of other hells I’ve seen on the news lately.
“This sounds awful, but there are just so many school shootings—” I’m embarrassed saying this aloud, but Rowe is shaking her head in understanding. I watch her walk to her dresser and pull out a small stack of photos. I saw her hide those the other day, and my stomach is sinking even lower into the depths of grief for my friend.
She shows me a photo of Josh, her boyfriend, and I immediately think about Nate. A few days ago, Ty asked me about Rowe having a boyfriend, and he mentioned that she seemed strange about the topic. We haven’t talked about it in a while. But I have a feeling the picture is about to become crystal clear.
“Josh…he saved my life,” she says. “He was hit. It wasn’t fatal. But…”
She can’t finish her words, and I can tell her eyes are starting to overflow with tears, so I just nod and offer a silent smile. Josh was hurt—and he’ll never be the same.
She shows me photos of her best friend who died. Betsy. I love that name. I bet I would have loved her friend too. I flip through the pictures she hands me, and I soak each one in, my heart breaking for my friend with every face I see in those pictures. What gets me most, though, is Rowe’s face in those photos. She was so happy, so free. I look at her now, and I realize she’s a ghost.
She’s waiting for my reaction. And I bet she’s rehearsed this—the telling of her tale. And I know what it’s like to get the fake hugs and I’m so sorry utterances. I hate when people apologize because I have MS—like they bumped into me accidentally, and because of that I got MS. It’s ridiculous. I have a mental collection of all of the pep talks after my diagnosis:
“You can beat this, Cass.”
No, actually, I can’t. I can live with it, but I can’t beat it.
“It’s just a little adjustment.”
Right…to my life!
Oh, and my all-time favorite—“You have MS, but MS doesn’t have you!”
What the fuck does that even mean?
I’m looking at Rowe, and I want to tell her that I understand. I want to tell her why I understand. But Jesus…a school shooting? My problems are not even in the same ballpark. I understand, but I feel like I’d be comparing her bowling ball to my marble, and it would just be insulting. So instead, I give her a break from the pep talks and the pats on the hand and the understanding bullshit that no doubt she’s heard a dozen times.