Page 20 of When We Were Younger

"So. Friends for now," she says.

"Friends for now," I agree.

She glances down at the table and starts to fiddle with her nearly empty mug.

"And maybe for longer? We can stay friends, even after I leave, right?"

And there it is. The cold hard truth. She's here now, but she'll be gone again.

And I decide right now, right here, that I'm going to make Dorothea mine again.

Even though she's leaving.

But maybe this time she won’t leave me behind.

11

DOTTIE

Age Fourteen

"Took you long enough," Stephen whispers as he holds his hand out, helping me over the windowsill of my bedroom window. I was supposed to have gotten out earlier, but Mom was on another one of her tirades. All the usual crap.

You’re lucky you’re pretty, Dottie Lynn, cause you’re not much in the brains.

I’ll never understand why that McKenna girl would hang out with you. She could be much more popular.

You’d better keep your legs zipped shut or else you’ll go ruining some boy’s life like your father ruined mine.

I shush Stephen and when my feet hit the ground, we start padding quietly through the wet grass to the tree line. It rained earlier this evening, but the sky is clear now. I made sure to hide a fresh towel under my pillow to wipe up any mud from my feet when I getback. Mom will be none the wiser that I've snuck out, again.

Let's be real. I've snuck out a million times in the last few years and managed to sneak back in without getting caught. The likelihood of Mom waking up and coming to check on me instead of pouring herself an ill-advised late-night G&T are slim to none.

Still, I love my midnight rendezvous too much to risk them–plus there's always the possibility of his parents catching us–so I make sure to be quiet, prepared, and sneaky when I leave the house to stargaze with Stephen.

Once we pass through the trees and out to the field, Stephen lays down two blankets, one on top of the other, so that hopefully the top one stays dry. Some nights we have a million things to say, but not tonight. The school year is almost over. We've both been swamped with finals and our term paper on Ancient Greece for Social Studies that we don't bother trying to come up with topics of conversation. We just lay there together, relaxing, decompressing, and counting the stars.

Crickets provide the background melody of our lazing, scratching their wings like the beat of the drum. A symphony that signals the beginning of summer. I try to match my breaths to their chirps, breathing in for a few chirps, and out for a few more. I find a rhythm that soothes me, settling the anxiety I didn't realize was still simmering in my stomach.

I can't pinpoint exactly what it is I'm anxious about,so I'll chalk it up to high school being on the horizon. I mean, in a few months I'll be going to school with students who are old enough to drive a car.

I don't think I'm ready to be that grown up just yet.

I look over at Stephen and find that he's looking back at me. His chest rises and falls in time with mine, and I know that he must have been watching me closely to align his breaths with mine so perfectly.

"Truth or dare?" he asks, breaking the silence we've been enjoying since he helped me out of my window. I'm not surprised by his question. It's a game we play while we lay out here, passing time away under the moon. We both tend to favor truths more than dares. There's only so much you can dare your friend to do in an open field in the middle of the night.

I did once dare him to eat a worm, and he almost had it in his mouth before I started crying and asked him to let the poor thing live instead.

"Truth," I answer, wanting to steer clear of any insect ingestion tonight.

"Do you ever get mad at your mom for not paying attention to you?" he asks, and it takes me aback. I mean, my mom's shotty parenting isn't a secret, but it's not something anyone really talks about. Even Mr. and Mrs. Hudson never say anything, though they're always quick to make sure I have lunch money or a signed field trip permission slip when I need it.

Besides, no one knows the full extent of what life in my house is like. The Hudsons, my teachers, the town, they think my mom is indifferent. Stephen is the onlyone who knows that she's downright neglectful. A drunk who resents my existence. It sounds tragic when I think of it like that, but it's just the reality of my life. I don't know anything different.

But I never tell Stephen about some of the things she says to me, like her rant earlier. His skin isn’t as thick as mine, and knowing would just hurt him.

I take a beat to think before I answer.

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