Page 52 of Wayfarers

“Did you say anything about me being able to stand and use both hands?”

“Admittedly, I didn’t,” I say through gritted teeth, my arm at a seventy-degree angle. Now my honor is at stake.

“Probably. Should’ve.” Sylvie grunts and then slams my arm the rest of the way to the table.

I’m laughing. Then she is. Until the point where we’re mostly laughing at each other laughing. “How’s the adrenaline situation?” I ask.

“What we didn’t account for is the rush I’d get from demolishing you at arm wrestling, so not great I guess.”

“I guess we better sit here for a while, then.”

We do. It’s a warm summer day and it’s nice to just be with her. We don’t say anything but make eye contact a couple of times and smile shyly. I look down and draw in the dirt with my foot. “I’m going to miss you,” I murmur.

Sylvie Hard

Ever since I turned fourteen, it’s felt like

every single person I know needs cheering up

and I’m the one to do it. Sylvie’s easy,

my mom said about me, and not in the way

where I slept with a lot of boys. Sometimes

it was like I was her tripod: picked up

unprotesting and carried over her shoulder

to be propped up (unprotesting) somewhere else

I didn’t want to be, another Sephora, another Junior League

luncheon with flower wall, while she took

pictures of herself in bad lighting. I don’t know

how to be the one who calls the shots. I don’t know

what to do with sad-eyed Knox in his cast

in this parking lot I’ve just puked in, looking at me

like I need something he can help with.

It makes me itchy, makes me scared, makes me

wonder what he wants from me after.

Sylvie

“You can’t miss me yet,” I say, “’cause I’m not gone. Speaking of missing things, I don’t want you to miss your bus because of me.”

I can tell he’s a little hurt. Not in the way where he was expecting something from me, but in the way that I just made light of his feelings.

I tell myself: Sylvie, you cannot do anything about this boy. You can’t even do anything about yourself.

In the van, I fish my keys out of my pocket, attached to the big gold disc of my key chain. Knox’s eyes are following the flash of it when I start the car.