We Real Cool 17 In Bed

I dismiss it before I put the phone back on my nightstand and close my eyes for just one more second. Today is my last day at the program, and I cannot believe it; two weeks went by like two days. Two hours. Two seconds. And after what happened last night, I feel like I should spend another day here, with Red.

But reality won't let me. I have to get up as soon as possible so I'd still have time to clean up. I have to pack my things, surrender my room key, and head straight to the airport where my mom and I agreed to meet. I get going, but I don't want to. Every time I try to wriggle my toes in an attempt to get going, I only end up wanting to spend the rest of the day in bed, thinking about last night's adventure. If anything, I want to relive last night.

"Come on, Lizzie," I tell myself.

But I do the exact opposite. I remain frozen, lying as though I had all the time in the universe. With my legs and arms spread out as though I were on snow making a snow angel, I stare blankly at the ceiling above me, thinking. About Red. Our adventure. My first kiss. Last night. I think about our first encounter, the meal we shared, our spontaneous stage performance, our talk at the beach, and our ride back home from Fenway Park. After what could have been half an hour, I finally get up.

After putting my things in place, I head back to the bed, pick my phone up, head on to Spotify, and play Sweet Caroline. As the instrumentals kick in, I walk to the center of the bed, close my eyes, bring my arms across my chest, and start swaying from side to side. In my mind, I was dancing. I was dancing with Red. I raise my right and make a twirl, doing the exact moves I did when we actually danced to the song at the bus.

I was about to make another spin when my phone beeped twice, which stopped me from my little solo waltz. I had two messages: one from my mom and another from Phil.

"Happy birthday, honey," my mom's message read.

"Thanks, mom," I replied. But at the back of my head, I thought, your greeting is a day late—but it's okay. Better late than never, I guess.

Phil's message, on the other hand, was like a stab in the heart. A slap on the face. Dejection. I had to reread it again, check my calendar, and scour for Red's messages—results of which only break my heart. And because I felt like I had to make sure this was actually happening, I closed my eyes and pinched my arm before I looked at my phone again, checking and rechecking stuff. But Red's messages were nowhere to be found, and Phil's message was still there. It read:

I AM SO EXCITED FOR TONIGHT'S EVENT AT FENWAY!!! SEE YA!

Slowly, I sit down.

DON'T BE LATE!

Phil says in a following message.

"Okay," I text back. But in my mind, I want to be late. If anything, I would do everything—from skipping meals, running late, to losing my balance and embarra.s.sing myself—to make last night's reverie happen. I would dare myself to be bold, brash, and brave and to go out there, to run away. If it means knowing myself more, if it means finding my true self, so be it.

With these thoughts running in my sleep-deprived mind and with Sweet Caroline playing on the background, I lay on my bed and close my eyes.
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