A Promise Seventeen Years Old, Tennessee Early Decision
A Promise
Seventeen Years Old, Tennessee
My text thread with Bernie used to buzz with messages about soapy TV, plus check-ins about where Beck and I were, as well as reminders that he’d better have me home by curfew. For almost a year, though, the thread’s been one-sided: Bernie saying hello, Bernie hoping I’m well, Bernie sharing pictures of Norah and Mae.
I feel awful, having left her on read for so long.
Am I heartbroken or heartless?
With the peanut butter cupcake I ate earlier churning in my stomach, I rally my courage and key in a simple Hi.
I tap send before doubt has its way with me.
It’s late, so I’m not counting on a response, but one comes quick.
Girlie, hi. So good to hear from you.
Struggling to breathe through the heaviness in my chest, I scroll back, looking at the dozens of photos of the twins Bernie’s sent. It slays me, knowing I’ve missed out on so much of their growing up.
Can’t believe how big Norah and Mae are getting , I text.
A new photo arrives: two strawberry blonds, rosy-cheeked and grinning, in identical sundresses. I’m so thankful Bernie and Connor have them. They’re tiny sunbursts.
They’re loving kindergarten, she tells me. And then: How are you?
I go with unsparing honesty. Terrible. You?
Dreadful , she messages. But this helps.
Meagan was right.
What’s stunning, though, is that reconnecting is helping me too.
We miss you , Bernie texts.
I promised myself I wouldn’t spend today crying. Beck’s birthday should be joyful; it was in the past. I blot my eyes with my sleeve and ask, What are you watching these days?
Nothing. Teen dramas don’t feel right without you.
Nothing feels right anymore.
I think of the boy I noticed in the library on my first day of school. He and I don’t share classes, but I’ve seen him around campus, sometimes with buddies, sometimes on his own, backpack slung over his shoulder, expression thoughtful. His bottomless eyes and self-assured stride appeal to me in a way that’s as exciting as it is reprehensible.
No, nothing at all feels right.
I cross the room to my desk, where I flip through a drawer filled with completed journals. When I find the one I’m looking for, I turn to a page I created just after I turned eleven: Lia and Bernie’s Marathon List. Running my finger down TV show titles inked in purple— My So-Called Life , The OC , Gossip Girl , among many others—I find where we left off, then send Bernie another message: I’ll start Friday Night Lights if you will.
Done , she replies. And then, Love you, Lia. We all do. Beck especially. He loved you so much.
This I will never doubt.
Beck made me feel cherished every day, in little ways and big ways and ways in between. Scanning the bulletin board over my desk, I find one of my favorite photos, taken at Rehoboth Beach a couple months before he left for CVU. His hair is windblown, his freckles multiplied by the sun. His smile is wide and bright. I’m beside him, sporting a banana-yellow bikini and a messy ponytail, laughing so hard my eyes pinch shut.
He’s looking at me like I’m made of stardust.
My phone buzzes again.
Tonight , Bernie texts, do something special. Something for you. Beck would like that.
Beside the Rehoboth Beach picture are two photos pinned next to each other. Both were snapped in Charlottesville, during the weekend I visited Beck. One was taken by Bernie, crisp and clear, its colors saturated: Beck and me in navy and red, grinning among thousands at CVU’s football stadium. The Eagles went on to blow out Virginia Tech. The second was snapped early that same morning, a selfie of the two of us in Beck’s dorm room, focus hazy and dreamlike. His arm is around me, and we’re gazing at each other, noses practically touching.
My last weekend with him.
Our last meal, our last laugh, our last kiss.
My best weekend with him.
I will , I tell Bernie.
Early Decision
She spends the final hours of his birthday online,
researching CVU’s early decision process,
jotting notes and to-dos,
feelings and maybe-I-shouldn’ts in her journal.
The deadline is November 1st—
plenty of time to collect transcripts and letters of recommendation,
to contact the Office of Veteran Services with questions
about using the GI Bill her dad transferred to her,
to chronicle her time volunteering with the Key Club
and Dad’s various Family Readiness Groups,
to draft a personal essay.
She’s already filled out the FAFSA with her parents,
and there’s money for the application fee in her checking account,
so no need to bring them into her plan just yet.
They know her interest in CVU began when Beck decided on the school.
Before she and he were we,
she’d planned to return to the Pacific Northwest for college.
She’d missed its overcast skies and the gunmetal-gray Puget Sound.
She was sure she wanted a semester abroad too,
a chance to explore a country different from her own.
But since Beck passed, she’s been certain.
Four years at CVU will mend the tear in her soul.
The problem is, if her parents find out she’s applying early decision
—if she’s accepted, she’s committed to enrolling—
they’ll shit actual bricks.
But it’ll work out.
Eventually, they’ll understand.
She looks to the Magic 8 Ball that sits on her desk.
The one she and Beck used to play with,
the one they used to help with decisions both important and nominal.
She picks it up and whispers the question that’s been on her mind since she opened her laptop.
She gives it a gentle shake, then waits for the bubbles to clear.
Without a doubt, the blue triangle reads.
It’s settled.
She’ll submit her application early decision.
She’ll get word in December.
Then she’ll tell her parents what she’s done.