32

“Don’t be dead, don’t be dead, don’t be dead,” I said as I ran barefoot to my car the next morning just minutes after I woke up.

I had forgotten to bring Grandma Ruth’s Ficus inside the night before and was relieved to find it had not even withered.

I hauled it out and told it, “Good. Not dead. Not dead is always good. Grandma Ruth would have . . .” I looked toward the street. “. . . killed me . . .”

Apparently Abigail hadn’t disappeared. She stood next to her bike at the end of Mrs. B.’s driveway. Watching me.

“It’s a Ficus,” I said, and I pointed at the thing.

“I see.”

“My grandmother gave it to me. For graduation.”

“So it’s a special Ficus.”

“Yeah,” I said, and laughed a little.

“My grandparents gave me this for graduation,” she said, showing me a little silver butterfly on a chain around her neck. “It’s supposed to remind me—” She lowered her chin, and with her thumb, she pulled the chain up a little higher for a better look. A couple seconds passed. Then a couple more. I took a few steps closer, still cradling the damn plant like a baby in a diaper.

She looked up at me and smiled. Lips pressed tight. Freckles blending into pinker and pinker cheeks.

“Nothing. Never mind,” she said.

“No. What? It reminds you of what?”

“That change can be a good thing,” she said.

“What kind of change?”

“Oh, you know,” she said, and slid the butterfly back and forth across the chain a few times. “I just graduated a couple weeks ago. College in the fall. That kind of thing.”

“Yeah, me too. You worried about it?”

“Not really.” The pink was fading from her face now.

“Me neither. I’ve been through much bigger changes. Well, one, anyway.”

She looked at me then like Grandma Ruth sometimes looked at me through her bifocals. Head tipped back, lips slightly parted.

“Good or bad?” she asked.

“Big.”

“But good or bad?”

“Not great, but life is what you make of it,” I said.

“Not always.”

“Sure it is,” I said. “Anything else is just negative thinking. And I’m Briggs, by the way. Briggs Henry.”

“That’s better than what some of my friends are calling you.”

“Meaning?”

“They were at the funeral yesterday.”

“Oh, great. So what am I? Captain Bonehead?”

“Something like that.” She looked like she wanted to laugh just then.

“I’m Abigail Howe,” she said.

“It’s nice to meet you.”

“Is it? How can you be sure?” She sounded genuinely curious, which surprised me enough to stutter.

“Uh—I—I—guess I can’t be.”

“Then you shouldn’t have said it.”

“You know, most people just say it back.”

“Are you the kind of guy who says what most people say?”

“I’m the kind of guy who says ‘nice to meet you’ because I think it’s nice to meet you.”

“But you don’t know anything about me yet,” she said plainly. “You might find out that you dislike me.”

“Dislike?”

“It is a word, you know.”

“No, I just—” I couldn’t help grinning. “I just think most people would have said ‘don’t like.’”

“Most people would have said ‘nice to meet you.’”

“Most people would love to meet a guy with a special Ficus.”

“I will say you’re the only guy with his own Ficus I’ve ever met.”

“And that doesn’t mean it’s nice to meet me?” I kind of teased.

“I don’t want to say it too soon. I’d hate to regret it.”

“You won’t regret it.”

“Since I’m trying to minimize my regrets, we’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?”

“I’ll bet you a million dollars that you will say ‘nice to meet you’ before I leave in August.”

“Do you have a million dollars?” she asked.

“Not yet, but I will. Someday.”

“So you’re the kind of guy who makes plans?”

Did I make plans? I almost laughed. I’m a Henry. We always have plans.

“Undergrad in three years,” I said. “Then a combined JD-MBA.” Law degree and Master of Business Administration. “Get out and start making money.”

“Yep. That’s a plan.”

She touched the tip of her tongue to the corner of her mouth for a moment. I only realized I’d taken a step toward her when she started pushing her bike down the sidewalk, saying, “I hope one of those big changes doesn’t happen again and mess it up for you.”

“I won’t let it,” I said, realizing my palms were sweaty. “Maybe I’ll tell you about it sometime.”

“Maybe I’ll ask,” she said, and she smiled over her shoulder. Well, sort of. It was a small smile, lips closed, as if she smiled like that all the time and knew exactly how to control it.

I looked at the Ficus and thought it was kind of a cool plant. But I’d still rather have a dog.