Page 48 of Amethyst

“Hi, Susanna. Will she see me today?”

“I don’t know, honey. She just got back from therapy, and she’s usually in a good mood after a session.. Let me check, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Come on in.”

I peer inside at Lexi wagging her tail, but all I can think about is Jenna curled up on my bathroom floor. “Actually, I think I’ll wait out here. But thanks.”

I shove my hands in my pockets, make a few faces at Lexi through the door, and then turn to face the street.

This street.

How many times did I ride my bike up and down the street, coming over to see Jenna? We played stickball in the end of the cul-de-sac, until old Mr. Rainey got the homeowners’ association to make us stop after we accidentally hit a ball into his car window. No problem. We continued our play. On the sidewalk in front of Mr. Rainey’s house.

It all worked out, though. Mr. Rainey found a lady friend, and once she moved in, he never gave us any trouble. In fact, she baked us chocolate chip cookies and brought them out to us while we played.

Mr. and Mrs. Rainey—they got married a year later—moved into an assisted living facility soon after Jenna disappeared. Are they still alive?

I shake my head. I haven’t thought about all this in so long.

Skateboards, running shoes, dodgeball in Jenna’s backyard.

I’ll miss this street.

I think I’ll miss it even more than I’ll miss my own street.

“Max?”

I jolt out of my thoughts and turn around.

Jenna.

Her face is red, streaked with a few tears.

“Jen, are you all right?”

She nods and sniffles. “I think I am, Max. I think I truly am now.”

“I’m glad.” I clear my throat. “There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

“There’s something I need to talk to you about too.” She grabs my hand.

“You want me to come inside?”

“Actually,” she says, “I think I want to sit out here with you. Like we used to do. Remember? After supper, you’d come back over to my house, and my mom would give us homemade popsicles. We’d sit out here and eat them because she didn’t want us dripping the bright red mess inside.”

The memory warms me. “Right, and you always wanted to buy popsicles from the ice cream man, but I always liked your mom’s better.”

“Yeah, what was I thinking? My mom’swereway better.”

“They were.” I smile.

I follow her to the redwood swing on the front porch and sit down next to her. The cushion is the same—cherry popsicle stains and all.

“What do you want to talk to me about?” she asks.

I inhale. “This isn’t easy.”

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