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kept babbling on, sort of apologizing, sort of not, staying things that you had to tune out or you might drive off the road — hey, I didn’t mean to upset you … next time I’ll let you know … you should loosen up, Duckarino, have some fun
    … Barbara is just your type, really, but I’m not going to force you … what about Sunny, I can tell she likes you, but she’s kind of out there, huh?
    Not getting it AT ALL.
    By the time you pulled up in front of Jay’s house, you wanted to plant your foot in his side and kick him out the window.
    As he opened the door, he had the NERVE to ask, “You still mad at me?”
    And you discovered what you do when your brain starts flashing murderous thoughts.
    You say nothing.
    And the guy you just went out of your way to drive home shakes his head and mutters, “Some friend. You’re just like Alex.”
    THAT’S the thanks you get.
    In Which Ducky McCrae
    Finally Opens His Journal
    After a Two-Day Vacation From Writing
    It’s Tuesday.
    Note to yourself: don’t ever get sick.
    Just got back from the hospital. The smell of the place made you nauseated. Not to mention all the WHITE — white uniforms, white walls, white sheets. It all gave you a headache.
    But when Sunny Winslow says, “Are you coming to the hospital with me after school or what?”
    you go with her. Somehow, when SHE demands a ride, you don’t feel like you’re being taken for granted. Unlike some other friends who will remain nameless (his initials are Jay Adams).
    Plus, you know she’s feeling nervous and upset about her mom, who has lung cancer.
    As you walked through the hospital corridors, she took your arm and muttered, “I hate this.”
    You tried to smile and look reassuring. The two of you were arm in arm now, passing rooms full of people connected to IV tubes, and the strangest thoughts were going through your head. You imagined Jay spying on you, smiling and giving you a thumbs-up, like, “Hey, you finally got her.” You imagine all the patients hobbling to their doors and applauding you. You shook all that out of your head — and then you were thinking about Mrs. Winslow and how you’d never met a person with cancer before. What would she look like? What would you say? WHAT IF
    SHE DIED WHILE YOU WERE IN THE ROOM? And you realized you were clutching
    Sunny’s arm just as hard as she was clutching yours, and you knew you were scared of meeting Mrs. Winslow, but that was ridiculous because she’s a human being and we all die sometime, and someday it’ll be your turn and you wouldn’t want anyone to dread seeing you — and you
    thought, “If this is how I’m feeling, imagine what must be going through Sunny’s head right now.”
    Then you were in Mrs. Winslow’s room. And she was there, watching TV. And she slowly turned to face you. And you saw her face for the first time.
    She looks like a mom. A thin, older version of Sunny, with very little hair. She was very nice.
    We [sic] talked about school and TV shows. You were nervous when Sunny explained who you were — the guy who drove her home on the night she ran away — but Mrs. Winslow just smiled and said, “Thank you.”
    You stayed for awhile [sic], chatting, nothing very memorable — and when you left, you felt relieved somehow.
    Not Sunny. She was out of control.
    She complained about her mom’s linens. About the air-conditioning. The slow nursing staff.
    The food. The size of the room. The visiting hours. “You see?” she kept saying. “You see?”
    You didn’t know what you were supposed to see. But you knew Sunny needed a lot of yeses and that’s-okays, so you gave them to her.
    Finally, when you were outside, you put your arm around her and she started laughing. When you asked what was so funny, she just said, “I never cry,” and then burst into tears.
    You hugged her. You and she rocked back and forth in the parking lot, cars whizzing around you.
    You realized something then. Something you should have known awhile