A Short Word

My name is Catherine. I never considered my life very fascinating. I had two parents who somehow managed to stay together for the 15 years it took to raise me to suffient maturity so I could handle the divorce. I had a best friend and an abundance of dead-end crushes.
	But after everything that happened, it makes a lot more sense that my counsellor once asked me to keep a journal, so here it is. ‘Catherine’s Journal’. It’s not exactly a journal since I’m not writing it as it happens, so a more accurate title is ‘Catherine’s Account of What Happened, Intermittent with Dumb Commentary, Goofy Teenage Love and an Ending She Never Expected’.
	Welcome to the rollercoaster that was my suddenly changing life. Enjoy the drama, love, stupid jokes, and especially the music.


Where I Was When It Started

	“Riley,” I repeated to myself. I loved the way it sounded. What a musical name, I thought.
	“That’s pretty,” Oliver said distractedly from his phone. He was texting one of the million girls from our high school who thought his pale mug was oh-so-adorable. “Is she pretty?”
	I gave him an offended glance without answering, mostly because I wasn’t sure if that was a lesbian joke or if he was just making fun of Riley. He probably didn’t see it, though, because he was still buried within the depths of his inbox. “He is the coolest guy. I met him at the music thing.”
	He looked up at me then. I had to admit that for a guy as girlishly cute and skinny as Oliver, he had the most piercing blue eyes. “Oh,” he cooed, gaze softening, “he must be gorgeous, huh? You’ve never been one for love at first sight.”
	Now, before I go on, I have to explain mine and Oliver’s relationship. We’ve been friends since I was in second grade and he was in first and we were adorable neighbors. The adventure began playing doctor at recess, then sleepovers and playdates every weekend, and then best friends forever. All in all it was inevitable, really. So it was no surprise what I did next.
	I threw a shoe at him. “I’m not in love, jerk.” He could tell I was teasing by my smile.
	When Oliver went back to his texting, I went back to that place in my mind. Riley, I repeated the name in my head. Riley, Riley, Riley! Riley Wilks.
	After a few minutes of me saying ‘Riley’ in my head in varying accents and inflections, and Oliver tap-tap-tapping away at his phone, it was suddenly uncomfortably quiet. He noticed and glanced over again.
	“Is sitting here drinking soda your idea of studying for your precalc test?” He had a hint of a smile on his lips.
	“Is ignoring your guest your idea of being a good host?”
	I had him there, so he shook his head but didn’t argue further. I usually came to Oliver’s to do pretty much any form of work because my house was always chaotic. My stepdad and my sister were always arguing. If it got bad enough, my mom would try to get them to stop, resulting in more yelling. My life may not have been all that interesting but it wasn’t boring at least.
	Of course, I’d been over for three hours and all I’d accomplished was writing ‘I hate math’ exactly 57 times on my study guide while lounging in Oliver’s beanbag chair. Also, I’d guzzled probably 12 sodas because my mom insisted we drink only water, juice or milk; sodas were off-limits. I was okay with failing my precalc test the next day, though. Even if I did study, my brain kept going back to Riley, and how we like the same music and how he leaned in close to talk in my ear and…
	Snap out of it, Cath, I told myself. But I didn’t have to snap myself out of it because at that precise moment “I Don’t Do Boys” started blaring in my pocket. I took a moment to contemplate why I had a cell phone in the first place if I never used it and my sister always stole it to do stupid things like that.
	I pulled the stupid thing from my jeans’ pocket and answered with, “Reagan.”
	“Hey little sis. Where the h-e-double-hockeysticks are you?”
	With an obligatory eye roll I answered, “Oliver’s.”
	“Shocker.” She paused. “Well, me and mister thousand-dollar wedding ring had a fight.”
	“I know,” I half-mumbled, and then added, “That’s why I’m here.”
	Oliver shot me a concerned glance from his spot at the computer desk – which, funnily enough, has no computer, since he had to share his laptop with the rest of his family. I loved his concern for me. He knew that eighty percent of the time Reagan pissed me off and the other twenty she made me laugh until I couldn’t breathe. My family and I were like that a lot.
	“Well, when you crazy kids are done experimenting with drugs and sex positions, stop being there and start being here. Dinner’s ready in ten.”
	“Reagan!” I protested. I think Oliver might have heard her, or guessed what she said, because he looked away uncomfortably.
	“P.S. for newbies, doggie style is effective.”
	And then she hung up.
	I hoisted myself up from my comfy spot and picked up my bag. Then I tracked down my graphing calculator, which was considerably less comfy than me, on the floor halfway under Oliver’s bed.
	“I gotta go.”
	He nodded like he had guessed as much – he probably did – and flashed a crooked, white smile. “I know. See you.”
	I gave him a quick, one-armed hug. “See you,” I answered, flashing one myself.
	I slipped out the window – the only proper way to exit Oliver’s house to avoid his monster younger brother and his suspicious parents. I headed for my house just two lots over, but instead of the window I decided to actually use the door. Reagan was waiting with my parents in the living room when I came in.
	“Where were you?” My mom asked. Without skipping a beat she followed up with, “A boy’s house?”, which caused Reagan to instantly roll her eyes.
	“Just Oliver’s,” I replied, tossing my bag through the open doorway to my room. Oliver wasn’t a ‘boyfriend-threat’, as Reagan so eloquently termed our mother’s suspicion of all males I spent any amount of time with. Or maybe she was actually just hoping I’d turn out ‘normal’ and get a boyfriend at all. Either way, she’d still be either relieved or disappointed at my response – Oliver wasn’t a threat because he was gay. He’d never actually come out ‘officially’ to me, but I was pretty sure.
	All at once my parents and my sister headed for the dining room. I put all my junk in my room and headed for the table after them. Awkward conversation ensued. My stepdad and sister weren’t looking at each other and honestly that was pretty normal for them. Conversation with my mom and I is typical.
	“How was your day?”
	“Good.”
	“Good. Mine, too.”
	“Cool.”
	“Anything new? Any tests coming up?”
	“Precalc tomorrow.”
	And so it went, as always. Dinner with my family always ran like a script. Mom asked about my day. What I answered would spawn some conversation between her and my stepdad – usually some nostalgic memory of high school days long past – while Reagan teased me about pretty much anything and I tried to blend in to the wallpaper. But that night it went differently.
	“I’ve been thinking,” Paul – our stepdad – started, “about your future, Catherine.”
	I hardly missed a beat. “I’m going to be a nurse.”
	He gave a distracted nod; he’d heard about my desire to go to med school. “Regardless, you need an arts credit.” Paul had a way of making it sound like he knew exactly what he was talking about, whether he did or not. He probably did, though, since he was an amateur artist himself. Meanwhile, Reagan was staring at us like she’d never heard anything so insane in her life.
	Thankfully at that moment a phone call broke the tension and Paul excused himself, our mom following after. Reagan immediately started in with hushed tones and lots of speaking with her hands.
	“Traitor!” She hissed.
	“I don’t know why he suddenly cares!” I protested, and I really didn’t. Paul didn’t care much about my life up to that point and I really couldn’t hazard a guess why he did now. Before we could continue our conversation, Paul and mom came back.
	“Change called. It’s here,” he said, eliciting a smile from his wife.
	Reagan and I exchanged glances, before following our stepdad to the door. We were followed in return by our silent mother, who seemed to buzz with a nervous excitement that let on that she knew what was going on. Paul opened the door and there was a truck with a covered trailer attached to the tailgate in our driveway. My sister and I stood staring in awe as he and the truck’s driver had a short, pleasant conversation. We still stood there as they wheeled it in. We continued to stare as the driver and truck left our driveway.
	Eventually, I made my way over to our new piano.


Where I Actually Was When It Started

	That night I had trouble sleeping. Every detail of the day was ping-ponging around in my head. I hated the piano. Sure, it was pretty – it wasn’t just any piano, but a baby grand. Shiny and black. I’d pressed a key and the note sounded bright and cheery, but to me its tone was singular and uninviting. Reagan had just ‘tsk’d the instrument, but I could see her fascination anyway. Her girlfriend played piano. I let her take over because it seemed so unfriendly towards me.
	Maybe that’s where people might consider ‘the change’ to be, sort of like Paul had. But in my honest opinion, the change started the day before. The ‘music thing’ I’d mentioned to Oliver wasn’t a seminar or a lecture or anything like I’d told my parents. I’d snuck into The Asylum – a club Reagan had introduced me to freshman year. It was a sixteen-and-over club normally, but a lot of the time you had to be twenty-one, especially for late nights when good bands were playing. That was the case that night.
	A band was playing. Some college grunge sort of sound, called ‘HAVOKK’. Unlike most local bands it sort of sounded like the singer knew what he was doing, and I figured they were quickly rising to fame considering I’d seen a lot of people wearing their T-shirts. I made my way over to a table and took a seat, wishing instantly that Oliver or someone was with me. Sneaking into a club alone wasn’t as much fun, but Oliver could barely pass older than a freshman, much less someone twenty-one – fake I.D. or not.
	I checked my watch. Fifteen minutes until nine. I decided to listen to the band for a short while, gettimg a Red Bull from the barman, who gave me an odd look since I was clearly perfectly sober. Then I looked for Amber, who I knew was at the club already. She had to be, she was another proclaimed fan of HAVOKK and the entire reason I was there in the first place. There were a few familiar faces in the crowd, amidst all the squirming bodies claiming to be “dancing”; a few jocks who probably were here for their girlfriends, a few of Amber’s friends whom I’d met but never really had a conversation with, a few punks.
	While I was looking, I did eventually spot Amber’s platinum blonde hair in the crowd, so I got up and started to push through, abandoning my Red Bull. The crowd was uncomfortably warm and smelled a bit of alcohol. When I finally reached my incredible blonde, incredibly white friend, she turned with a bright grin and threw her arms around me. Her breath already was tinged with alcohol.
	“Cath!” She yelled for the sake of my hearing her. “You having fun yet?”
	“Only now that I found you,” I joked.
	“Oh, Cath.” She gave a suggestive eyebrow wiggle. We were close enough to the stage that we were shouting our entire conversation straight into each other’s ears. She let go of me after a minute.
	“So who are you here with?”
	“John!” She beamed. “He’s am-azing.”
	Before I could ask her if she already had a replacement boyfriend for the one she just broke up with a week ago, one of the people from the dancing mass behind us that had been bumping into me nearly constantly gave me a tap on the shoulder. I thought it was an accident at first, but the person did it again and I turned around to see a taller man looking down at me with a crooked but confident grin. He was skinny with sharp features. That was all I really noticed before my brain complained, “Oh great, some drunk guy is gonna hit on you.”
	“Hey!” He shouted over the pounding music.
	“Hey!”
	“I just noticed your T-shirt…”
	I shook my head, motioning to my ears. “What?”
	He leaned in close to talk where I could hear him. “I saw your shirt. I dig.”
	I had to glance down at my shirt to remember which one I was wearing. A homemade shirt for my favorite band, the ‘Dove Chasers’. Plain white, with “Dove Chasers” in bubble letters sewn on. Not just that, but doves and flowers painstakingly sewn in. Even if it was sort of poorly made, it was about time I got some appreciation for my handiwork.
	“You ‘dig’?” I pointed out with a teasing smile. “How 2008 of you.”
	“I’m bringing it back,” he retorted with a similar expression.
	“From the hole it crawled out of in the first place!” We both laughed.
	“You’re cool!” He told me, leaning in close to my ear again. “What’s your name?”
	Maybe it was the fact that at that moment HAVOKK decided to play a slow, tender song, but with him so close, I suddenly noticed his other features. There was a tattoo across his chest of a band name – I assume – that I’d never heard of. He had a black V-neck shirt that was a little too big on his skinny frame, a two-part silver chain that hung at his clavicle. His hair was jet black with a large blue streak, layered, and reached the base of his neck at longest. He was attractive. Very attractive.
	“Catherine Stevenson,” I told him. The quieter music allowed us to talk at a somewhat more reasonable level.
	“Riley Wilks.”
	I remembered Amber at that moment and spun around. “And this is Am–“ She was gone. “–ber.”
	Riley put out one tattoo-sleeved arm and pretended to shake hands with someone who wasn’t there. “Hi, Amber.”
	“No, I – I’ll be right back.”
	I shoved through the crowd toward the stage, then slid along there, all the while looking for the dumb blonde. By the amp I found her with her legs wrapped around a somewhat muscular boy’s waist, pressed up against the wall.
	“You’re gonna go deaf,” I mumbled irritably, turning back. She’d be okay on her own for a few more minutes while I finished up talking to Riley. I pushed my way back to where he was, now on the edge of the crowd.
	“Sorry, I had to track down my token white friend.”
	That made him laugh. “Well, Catherine Stevenson, would you like to take a walk?”
	Before I knew it, we were walking down Main Street together, talking. Riley was a really interesting person. He had a distinctly ironic sense of humor and was a sort of laid back person. He was cool, or what my take on cool was, anyway. He played guitar and was in a band – the one he had tattooed on his chest. He wanted to be a star.
	“That’s pretty amazing,” I mumbled in awe, referring to his playing guitar and plans for stardom.
	“Only pretty amazing, and not handsome amazing?”
	I laughed at that. Then he asked, “So what about you? Dreams? Fantasies? Boyfriends?”
	“Hm…” I murmured, gathering my thoughts. “I’m headed for med school.” Short and sweet. Riley glanced at me with a wily smile. It took me a minute before I realized I’d just told him essentially that I was still in high school. But I guess he would’ve figured it out eventually anyway.
	“All right, that’s a respectable dream. Fantasies?”
	I rolled my eyes. “That my sister would pay more attention to her own life than mine.”
	“I know that feeling. Last but not least, boyfriends?”
	“As if.”
	We walked in a pretty comfortable silence for a few minutes, but I kept feeling like he wanted to say something. I kept expecting him to, but he never did. Regardless, we’d looped around back to The Asylum’s half-hidden entrance.
	“Well,” he finally said, “don’t stress about it, right?” I didn’t know what exactly to say in response to that. “You’re really pretty.” He still seemed so smooth and confident. “And cool. Have you ever thought, the person you’ll fall in love with is on this planet right now?”
	I tried to find the right response, but before I could, he went on.
	“Maybe even in this city. Love’s already found you, it’s just waiting for the right moment.”
	Finally, after a long moment, my mouth started working again. “Is that in a song?”
	“Maybe,” he answered coyly.
	I laughed. “It’s nice.”
	“I wrote it.” He opened The Asylum’s graffitied door and held it for me. “After you.”
	The Asylum hadn’t undergone many big changes since we’d left. HAVOKK was still playing and out of nowhere Amber stumbled out of the crowd, missing the muscular boytoy from before.
	“Heeey,” she drew out.
	I gave a long sigh, looking up for a moment. “You’re drunk.”
	She tried to protest but I grabbed her arm, shaking my head. “No, I’m hauling your drunk ass home.”
	Meanwhile Riley was writing something on a ‘Save the Boobies’ wristband with a pen he’d seemingly produced from out of nowhere. I looked around for the guy she’d come with but he was nowhere to be found. I was kind of grateful for that, and that even when drunk Amber was oblivious to any and all sexual advances.
	“Uh, Riley, I’ve gotta get her home.”
	He nodded, then reached out to take my hand, slipping the rubber bracelet around my wrist quickly.
	“My number’s on the inside,” he told me. “Text me sometime.”
	I nodded a bit, tugging Amber towards the door. “I love you,” she told Riley. The thought came into my head that everyone I love in my life embarrassed me terribly all the time.
	He gave an uncomfortable chuckle. “Uh, love you too, hun. Get some sleep.” I smiled at him and gave a little wave.
	“See you, Cath.”
	That was it. We left and I loaded Amber into my car. She was pretty much unconscious by the time I’d buckled her up and started the car. Or at least, I thought she was, but then she looked over at me, head lolling back on the seat a bit.
	“Heeey, Cath…”
	“Hi, Amber.” Being a sort of no-nonsense person, my tone was flat.
	“You got a … boyfriend.” She giggled at that.
	“No,” I answered, glancing at the bracelet, “I don’t even know the guy.”
	“Well, you should.”
	“You’re so drunk.” I couldn’t help but smile.
	“You’re so drunk!” She countered, giggling again.
	Despite myself, I found that I was a little self-conscious of my forever-single status. I wondered if Riley was. I doubted it. But even more I wondered about nursing. Life in the hospital. Life in college for that many years. What was going to happen when I graduated? Community College first, then some university – whichever I could get into. I wanted to go with Oliver but he was a lot smarter than me, and anyway he was going to an art school. He knew exactly where he was going and how much it would cost.
	I thought I was figured out but maybe not.


Breakdown

	The weekend after the piano incident I was woken up by a text from Oliver around ten in the morning. We had a buddy system where we woke each other up – who sent the first message was based on who was busier that Saturday. This time his message was ‘Morning, Sleeping Beauty. Gave you an extra hour of sleep.’
	I smiled. Oliver had been up since eight because his family was insane. Well, actually it was because he had a family reunion or something to attend. Anyway, the text woke me up enough to get dressed, including the ‘Save the Boobies’ wristband from Riley. Actually, I wondered, should I call him? There was a three-day rule, right? Or was that only for guys?
	While I pulled my shoes on, I texted Oliver a quick thank you and then went out for my typical morning run. I gave Oliver’s house a little wave, even if no one would see it. Normally I went for a run every Saturday morning, but that day I just wasn’t feeling it, so I jogged a little and walked a lot. It was another thing my sister had shared with me, and it took a few minutes for me to catch up to her.
	“Hey!” I called, waving my arm. In hindsight, waving at someone who is walking away is kind of a dumb thing to do.
	“Hey,” she answered a little flatly, pausing a moment to let me catch up.
 	I raised an eyebrow. “What’s got your panties in a knot?”
	“It’s been a month,” she replied in the exact same flat tone as before. “I’m waiting for Beth to call.”
	“Oh.”
	Beth was Reagan’s girlfriend. I’d met her a few times before. She was the sweet, motherly type in contrast to my sister’s mischevious and secretive nature. She was supermodel gorgeous, too, and made even the tackiest Christmas sweater look great. The problem with her and my sister’s relationship was that jealous and naïve didn’t go all that well with playful and mysterious. She and Reagan tended to argue and misunderstand each other a lot. This time, Beth had asked for a month to think – while taking a “break” from their relationship – while she visited her parents, and she was supposed to be back today.
	“Well, it’s ten in the morning. Give her a bit of time, okay?”
	Reagan sighed, looking up at the sky. It was uncharacteristically hot for October but at the very least it wasn't humid. Then my sister started to jog, and I jogged alongside her.
	"I'm just… really frustrated," she panted. "If she wants to break up, we should just break up."
	"You don't mean that," I told her, and she looked away.
	"I know," she admitted. Then she was quiet  for a long moment, and the only sounds were our feet hitting the asphalt, birds chirping and the typical buzz of city life in the near distance. "So what about little sister, hm?"
	We took a sharp right turn. "Oh yeah," I murmured, reminded. "Reagan, what's the wait time for calling a boy?"
	"What, like, for a date?" We slowed to a walk as we came to the park.
	"Yeah." I showed her the wristband. "He wrote his number on the inside."
	"Of a 'Save the Boobies' wristband? Tactful." We both chuckled. "There isn't. Girls can call pretty much whenever they want to."
	I nodded. That was valuable information. Since I'd asked what I needed to, I looked out at the park. There was a little stream – possibly manmade – running along one side, lined with benches and, at the widest part, a pretty gazebo. The rest of the park was dominated by playgrounds and a skatepark at the farthest edge.
	"So, what's his name?" When I looked back, Reagan was wearing a wide grin.
	"Riley. He's in a band," I blurted. I instantly regretted that.
	"Well, aren't you just becoming a typical hormonal teenage girl? You meet him at the Asylum?"
	I nodded. After that I refused to answer any more questions about Riley and we spent most of the walk in silence until we got back to the house. Almost instantly when we did arrive, Reagan decided to make herself comfortable to perch by the phone all day. I went over to sit on the piano bench and pulled out my cell phone, then finally programmed in Riley as a contact. The numbers on the wristband were a little smudged but I supposed I could read them well enough.
	I sent him a text and asked him to have lunch with me at a local restaurant called The Vine.

	Later that day, I was sitting outside in the tree I always climbed when I was younger. It was one of two on our property, on either side of the walkway leading up to our house, and Oliver and I had always climbed them together and pretended we were birds, or spacemen, or that we could drink up the sky. Just as I was thinking that thought, Oliver's dad's truck – and thus, the boy himself – drove by and pulled into their driveway.
	I hopped down out of my tree and headed for their house after ten minutes or so. This time I knocked on the door instead of going straight for the window.
	"Catherine!" Exclaimed his dad with a smile as he opened the door. Somehow, he always managed to be happy to see me. Sometimes I thought he was the only one.
	"Hi, Mr. Finch. Oliver available?"
	From the kitchen, his mom answered, "He's been in a bit of a bad mood today. Try to cheer him up, would you?"
	I nodded and headed for Oliver's room, opening the door like I pretty much owned the place. I knew, though, that he wouldn't mind. At that particular moment, he was laying face-up on his bed, limbs splayed out, staring at the ceiling.
	"Why did the chicken cross the road?"
	It took a moment, but he did respond. "Why?"
	"To get to your house." I closed the door of his room, flopping into his computer chair. "Knock, knock."
	"Cath, are you just here to–"
	"Knock, knock."
	He sighed. "Who's there?" He used a copious amount of fake enthusiasm.
	"The chicken."
	That got a smile out of him. He sat up and smoothed his ruffled hair a bit. I went over and sat next to him on the bed. "I like you better with a smile," I told him. "What's up with you?"
	"Nothing; what's up with you?" I punched him in the arm. "Nicole," he murmured.
	"A girl?" I teased.
	He moved back to sit with his back against the wall. In general, Oliver was a happy person, so it was pretty strange to see him so down. I moved back too to sit next to him, putting my arm around his.
	"Yep. Girl drama." He sighed. "She wants to break up."
	I gave him a weird look. "Break up?"
	"I'm okay with it," he said abruptly.
	I kept giving him that weird look. Breaking up implied being together in the first place, which meant that my gay best friend was dating a girl. Which meant he either wasn't gay at all, or was hiding it from his parents, or was bi… It could mean a lot of things, really. And Nicole was a kind of chubby, cute sophomore. I didn't know that she knew who Oliver was, frankly.
	"I'm glad you're okay," I told him, "but I didn't know you had a girlfriend?"
	"You didn't?" He looked over at me as if I were the odd one. "For a little while now."
	I was a little hurt that he hadn't told me. "Well, I never really see you with anyone," I explained, trying not to sound defensive and, hopefully, succeeding. "You're kind of asexual."
	He smiled a little and shrugged. "I guess." His smile, however, was quick to fade and he set his head back against the wall. "I kind of thought she was 'the one'."
	I leaned back too and set my head on his shoulder. "I never liked Nicole anyway."
	It was quiet for a long moment while we were sitting like that, my head on his shoulder and our arms intertwined. It was always like this when one of us was down. We were just there for each other, and understood, even in silence. The moment wasn't even interrupted when my phone vibrated in my pocket and I pulled it out to read the text.
				WERE BACK 2GETHR
				From: Reagan Stevenson, 6:01 PM

	Ignoring my sister's blatant misuse of the English language, I only thought one thing. The thought just hit me and stuck. 'One door opens, one door closes.' One couple breaks up and one gets back together. One baby is born and someone else dies. Good fortune, bad fortune. I put my phone back in my pocket.
	"I wonder why they call it 'breaking up'," I mumbled. "It's not like it lifts anyone up. It makes everyone sad."
	"They should rename it 'breakdown'. Then it can go with 'nervous breakdown' and stuff. It can be a 'romantic breakdown'." Oliver's voice was a little more confident now as he said this. We both chuckled.
	"Yeah," I agreed. "'I'm suffering from a romantic breakdown!'"
	"Maybe I should just give up girls forever."
	"I would. Girls suck, and leading a life as asexual can be very fulfilling."
	He smiled and I did too. "Wanna play Mario Kart?"
	"I thought you'd never ask."


My Lunch With Ben Dover (The First Person I Never Saw Again)

	I stayed over at Oliver's house that night and we just played videogames and joked around all night. I hoped it helped him feel better. I woke up sleeping awkwardly on the beanbag chair and remembered quickly that I had a lunch date, regardless of how much I'd love to sleep until noon. In fact, Sunday was the only day both Oliver and I could sleep in – day of rest.
I stretched as I got up, and popped my neck, too. Then I shook Oliver's shoulder. "Hey, Oliver." He gave a little mumble of acknowledgement. "I'm gonna go home and get ready for later."
	"Leaving?" He asked sleepily. "It's only… like… nine."
	"Ten-thirty." I smiled.
	"Bye."
	"Bye."
	Since I knew he was mostly asleep and wouldn't remember this conversation later, I decided to leave a note on his phone. I picked up the iPhone and unlocked it, noticing Nicole had texted. After leaving the note, curiosity got the better of me and I checked the text. I didn't even have to read it – just the preview, something about being sorry and 'still think you're an awesome person' – before I found myself, for some reason, deleting it. I guess the moral of the story is that I won't have you screwing with my best friend.
	Then I left, out the window as usual. I landed easily on my feet and walked back to my house and got ready for lunch. After my shower I stood in front of the mirror. Blue looked good with my dark skin, so I'd thrown on a blue and white striped shirt with butterfly sleeves. I ran a brush through my long, straight, and similarly dark hair. I brushed it and brushed it until every single hair seemed to be tamed, then I moved to put the brush down and it seemed to frizz up again. Why I was fussing so much to look nice for a lunch date with a guy I barely knew was a mystery to me.
	Skip to noon. I was sitting at an outside table at The Vine, listening to the music playing through the speakers, almost swallowed up by the sound of cars and people going by. To clear things up, The Vine wasn't really a restaurant, more a café. Still, it was really nice, and was right across from the park Reagan and I walked through in the mornings. I figured it was a good enough place for a first date, if that's what that was. I hummed a little to the vague melody that I knew from somewhere, though I wasn't sure where.
	Ten minutes, no Riley. I was a little concerned, but I just kept looking around. It's not like I had anything better to do all day. I noticed one guy standing at the stairs leading up to the entrace of the café, looking around. Eventually he made eye contact with me and we awkwardly looked at each other for at least ten seconds before he started walking over. I freaked out almost immediately; what did he want? Did he even know me?
	"Hey," he said with a wave, showing off a smile of straight white teeth. I remember thinking he could have been in a toothpaste commercial.
	"Uh, hey…"
	"You're the only one out here alone. You waiting for a date?"
	"Yeah, he was supposed to show up at noon."
	"Here I am." He sat down across from me. My alarms went on full blast. He looked unassuming enough in his green polo and khaki shorts, but I'd heard plenty of horror stories of serial killers and rapists who looked just as innocent. In hindsight, I realize I was being way too paranoid. He must have picked up on it, because he started to explain. "You texted me asking for lunch."
	I flushed red. 'You have got to be kidding,' I thought to myself. 'I got the wrong number.' The numbers were smudged. I'd read them wrong.
	"It's okay, it's sort of like a blind date." At the very least, he was my age. Still, that didn't make me any less disturbed. "Have you ordered anything yet?"
	"Tea," I answered numbly.
	He smiled that straight-toothed smile again. He would be attractive if I weren't so disturbed, I thought. Not my type, though – sort of a sporty guy, with lots of money. Maybe he played tennis or golf, and his family owned a country club or something.
	"I'm Ben."
	"Catherine Stevenson."
	"Nice to meet you," he said pleasantly. "I'll pay for your lunch if you want. I just wanted someone to talk to who doesn't know every detail of my life. A … friendly stranger, you know?"
	With that, the image of the creepy, smiling stranger fell away. There was a twinge of sadness in his brown eyes. Actually, now that I took a closer look, he wasn't that attractive. He was exceedingly plain. The type who you wouldn't notice if he didn't call your name first. Finally, I offered him a smile.
	"I'm friendly enough," I told him.
	He touched the edge of my hand with the edge of his. "Thanks." Then he moved his hand. "Thanks so much."
	We ordered lunch.

	Ben had talked about a lot of things. He told me about how, indeed, he basically blended into beige wallpapers. He told me how everyone believed that because he had money, it automatically meant he must be happy. How could you not be happy if you had a full ride to college, ladies interested, and everything you wanted, basically? He said a lot of things and I did a lot of listening.
	"I feel bad for you, Ben," I told him.
	"Don't," he protested. "I'm gonna get out of this place."
	We finished out sandwiches.
	"I can't wait," he mumbled. "I'm gonna get married. I'm gonna make my life what I want."
	I smiled a little at him. "It seems to me that you didn't need someone to listen; you've got it all figured out."
	"No," he answered, smiling too, "but now that I've said it out loud, I figured it out. And now it's like, once I told you, now that I've told you, I have to do it. It's concrete. Soliid."
	I nodded a bit. I'd never been much for giving out random personal information, not even to friends, but I opened my mouth and words just came out, effortlessly.
	"I want to go to med school because it's competitive, and because it'll make my mom happy."
	"Will it make you happy?"
	I looked at my hand in frustration. Steady hands, long and quick fingers. I'd be like a stitches god. I'd be in a hospital, surrounded by patients to tend to and people I work with. Eventually even a group of interns that I'd teach. I'd be constantly surrounded by people, and I liked that. No aloneness.
	"I guess," I told him truthfully.
	He nodded thoughtfully. "The only advice I could possibly give you is to be sure you're sure. I'm surely sure now. But believe me, there'll be a sign. I'm not a religious guy, but I believe in epiphanies."
	"I believe in soliloquies." We both laughed.
	"Thanks a lot, Catherine. Sorry I wasn't your date but I did enjoy talking to you."
	I shrugged, smiling. "It's all right. I liked talking to you, too. May life be all you make of it."
	"You sound like a Hallmark card," he told me as he put down some money on the table and stood up.
	"I do that sometimes."
	"Well…" He looked up a moment. "Bye, Catherine Stevenson."
	"Bye, Ben– wait, I didn't get your last name."
	"Dover," he answered, and then left.
	I watched him go. Unsurprisingly, it didn't take very long for his green polo to disappear into the crowd. He was average height, average build, average coloring. In fact, it took just long enough for me to realize he'd introduced himself as 'Ben Dover'.
	I like to think he was grinning as he walked away.

	On my way home, I walked past The Asylum. There was a poster there I hadn't noticed before, if it had been there at all. It was for the band 'Nebraska'. If you hadn't guessed, that was Riley's band. It had a picture of all of them – four total members, Riley on bass guitar. He hadn't told me about the others so I took a moment to stare at it.
	There was a tall, gangly guy on lead guitar with sandy hair and freckles. He looked too tall for the mic in front of him, which I assumed meant he did backup vocals. The singer seemed to be very short in comparison and a little chubby, with a military haircut. The drummer was a big guy with a shaved head and a tattoo on his neck, with dark skin but blue eyes.
	The poster said they were performing on Wednesday night and again on Friday night. I grinned and walked happily home. When I did get there, the house was empty. Upon closer inspection, it was actually just my parents who were missing – Reagan was locked in her room with Beth. I went toward my room on the other side of the house when I noticed a folded white paper sitting on the piano bench. It wouldn't have caught my attention if it didn't have 'CATHERINE' written on it in sharpie.
	Opening it, another piece of paper fell out. I waited to read the first one before looking at that. 'Dear Catherine,' it said, 'Please give it a try. Just once. –Paul'
	I looked at the other paper, then. It was simple sheet music to 'Mary Had A Little Lamb'. I actually laughed. Above the notes were sharpie-drawn numbers. There were numbers on the piano keys themselves, too. Basic music class in elementary school had taught me to read the music, so I wasn't entirely lost.
	I sat down on the bench. I put the music on the little stand and my fingers on the marked keys. Then I played.
	A good story would be if I said I played 'Mary Had A Little Lamb' like no one had before. That I had an undiscovered natural talent for piano that I'd never have guessed about. But that's not what happened. I played the melody haltingly first. Every time there was a new note, it was preceded by a silent moment where I repositioned my fingers. Then I attempted the chords. I must have been pretty bad because I heard Reagan's music volume go up. I even tried both at the same time but it was pretty pathetic so I gave up halfway through the song.
	There, I'd done it. I tried it and it didn't make any difference. I still didn't like it. I found the sharpie and a new piece of paper. I wrote, 'Dear Paul, I tried it. Mary lost her little lamb.' Satisfied with my attempt at humor, I placed it on the piano and went to my room.