Leah looked shocked. “Seriously? That’s awesome !”
“No, not like that.” Olive picked at a hangnail on her thumb. “Like, just by typing out the words of what we would do…”
“Oh my God.” Leah clapped her hands. “That’s so kinky! I love it!”
Madison’s eyebrows were raised so close to her hairline that her forehead had all but disappeared. “Who was the guy?” she asked.
“It wasn’t—” Olive paused. “It was just somebody random from the Internet.”
Everybody was quiet, waiting for details. I couldn’t believe I’d known Olive for almost two months, and she’d never once told me about having online sex with strangers.
“Anyway, I answered the question,” she said after a long silence. “I think I’m ready to go to sleep now. I’m exhausted.”
Abby made a boo sound and stuck out her lower lip.
Olive fluffed her pillow. “Like Reyna said, we had a long day.”
“Actually, I’m kind of tired too,” said Leah. “I think my sugar high is fading.”
So we all zipped ourselves into our sleeping bags and wished each other good night. I expected to hear Olive drift off first, but Leah was the first to start snoring, followed by Madison, and then Abby. Olive just kept rolling over in her sleeping bag.
“Are you OK?” I whispered after a while, turning on my side to face her.
“Just lovely,” she answered.
“Are you tired?”
“No.”
I pulled my sleeping bag up to my chin and stared at the ceiling. We were silent for a long time. Then she whispered, “I still can’t believe I have in-school suspension for threatening Gretchen Palmer with a pitchfork.”
“I know,” I said.
“I’m sorry, by the way.”
“For what?”
“For getting you involved.”
I shrugged, but she couldn’t see me. “It’s fine.”
“I could have protected you myself, you know.” She scooted her pillow closer to mine and lowered her voice. “I wouldn’t have let them suspend you. I didn’t need Levi Siegel to step in like some kind of knight in shining armor. I can do that.”
“I know,” I said.
Olive smiled at me with her lips pressed tightly together, and then we drifted into sleep.
Let’s play a game.
OK.
Say someone tells you they’re going to jump into a pool with you on the count of three.
Yeah?
But say that when you jump, they don’t. Say they just stand there laughing.
OK.
What would you do?
Kill myself.
Ha.
Did someone do that to you?
My mom. When I was little.
At least you know how to swim.
Ha ha.
Olive, you laugh a lot for somebody on a suicide prevention forum.
So?
Are you sure you’re actually depressed?
What’s that supposed to mean?
You might just be cynical.
Screw you.
I’m just saying.
Seriously. Screw you.
I wouldn’t do that, by the way.
What?
The pool thing.
I know you wouldn’t.
I’d jump with you.
I know.
N ovembe r
5.
W hen your mom dies, Thanksgiving is the worst holiday. I still remember what she used to cook: sweet potato pie, hot spiced cranberry cider, gooey banana bread. The year I turned seven—the year of her accident—Dad put some chicken nuggets in the oven and we toasted her memory with apple cider from the A&P. After that, we stopped celebrating Thanksgiving at our house. Sometimes we went over to Abby’s and ate dinner with her family, and other times we just stayed at home and watched football on TV.
But this year, Lucy wanted to cook a bird at our house. She got the idea from a commercial—something about bringing people together—and once it calcified in her mind, there was no stopping her. I told Dad it didn’t feel right to me, but he insisted. “She wants to,” he said. “It’ll be fun.”
So when Olive called me the weekend before Thanksgiving and asked if I felt like joining her family for their annual torture-fest, I said OK. Lucy was upset—she heard me making plans on the phone and then burst out crying when I left the room—but I couldn’t bring myself to feel sorry for her.
“No, not like that.” Olive picked at a hangnail on her thumb. “Like, just by typing out the words of what we would do…”
“Oh my God.” Leah clapped her hands. “That’s so kinky! I love it!”
Madison’s eyebrows were raised so close to her hairline that her forehead had all but disappeared. “Who was the guy?” she asked.
“It wasn’t—” Olive paused. “It was just somebody random from the Internet.”
Everybody was quiet, waiting for details. I couldn’t believe I’d known Olive for almost two months, and she’d never once told me about having online sex with strangers.
“Anyway, I answered the question,” she said after a long silence. “I think I’m ready to go to sleep now. I’m exhausted.”
Abby made a boo sound and stuck out her lower lip.
Olive fluffed her pillow. “Like Reyna said, we had a long day.”
“Actually, I’m kind of tired too,” said Leah. “I think my sugar high is fading.”
So we all zipped ourselves into our sleeping bags and wished each other good night. I expected to hear Olive drift off first, but Leah was the first to start snoring, followed by Madison, and then Abby. Olive just kept rolling over in her sleeping bag.
“Are you OK?” I whispered after a while, turning on my side to face her.
“Just lovely,” she answered.
“Are you tired?”
“No.”
I pulled my sleeping bag up to my chin and stared at the ceiling. We were silent for a long time. Then she whispered, “I still can’t believe I have in-school suspension for threatening Gretchen Palmer with a pitchfork.”
“I know,” I said.
“I’m sorry, by the way.”
“For what?”
“For getting you involved.”
I shrugged, but she couldn’t see me. “It’s fine.”
“I could have protected you myself, you know.” She scooted her pillow closer to mine and lowered her voice. “I wouldn’t have let them suspend you. I didn’t need Levi Siegel to step in like some kind of knight in shining armor. I can do that.”
“I know,” I said.
Olive smiled at me with her lips pressed tightly together, and then we drifted into sleep.
Let’s play a game.
OK.
Say someone tells you they’re going to jump into a pool with you on the count of three.
Yeah?
But say that when you jump, they don’t. Say they just stand there laughing.
OK.
What would you do?
Kill myself.
Ha.
Did someone do that to you?
My mom. When I was little.
At least you know how to swim.
Ha ha.
Olive, you laugh a lot for somebody on a suicide prevention forum.
So?
Are you sure you’re actually depressed?
What’s that supposed to mean?
You might just be cynical.
Screw you.
I’m just saying.
Seriously. Screw you.
I wouldn’t do that, by the way.
What?
The pool thing.
I know you wouldn’t.
I’d jump with you.
I know.
N ovembe r
5.
W hen your mom dies, Thanksgiving is the worst holiday. I still remember what she used to cook: sweet potato pie, hot spiced cranberry cider, gooey banana bread. The year I turned seven—the year of her accident—Dad put some chicken nuggets in the oven and we toasted her memory with apple cider from the A&P. After that, we stopped celebrating Thanksgiving at our house. Sometimes we went over to Abby’s and ate dinner with her family, and other times we just stayed at home and watched football on TV.
But this year, Lucy wanted to cook a bird at our house. She got the idea from a commercial—something about bringing people together—and once it calcified in her mind, there was no stopping her. I told Dad it didn’t feel right to me, but he insisted. “She wants to,” he said. “It’ll be fun.”
So when Olive called me the weekend before Thanksgiving and asked if I felt like joining her family for their annual torture-fest, I said OK. Lucy was upset—she heard me making plans on the phone and then burst out crying when I left the room—but I couldn’t bring myself to feel sorry for her.