GENRE: YA Fantasy
Some say distance makes the heart grow fonder, but I think it just makes people forget. I hold a photo of Rachel, me, and Michael sandwiched in a hug on the last day of freshman year.
I cover Rachel’s image with my thumb and convince myself, for a moment, that it’s just Michael and me. I remember how he smelled that day—like charcoal pencils and fabric softener. When I pull my thumb away reality kicks me in the butt because I know his scent will have to be just that, a memory. And in the end, I know I’ll be forgotten.
There’s a knock on my bedroom door.
“Maya, honey,” Mom calls, “We need to talk.”
Anytime someone says, we need to talk, it feels like a drop kick in the stomach. There should be a ban on starting conversations with the words: we need to talk.
“Hold on a sec,” I yell. I set the picture back inside one of the many boxes scattered all over my room. I hate unpacking. No, actually, I hate moving. I hate picking up my life, throwing it into worn cardboard boxes labeled with black sharpie, and having to start over again and again and again.
“Maya?” Mom calls.
“I’m coming in,” Mom announces as she opens the door.
I throw my hands up in the air and refrain from giving Mom a look. What’s the point of knocking, if she’s just going to barge in anyway?