Seventy-Three
before
Senior year, whenever Shiloh got bored, she’d look up at Cary across the journalism room, or across the courtyard when he
was meeting her after school, or across the front seat of his car—and sing “Carrie” by Europe. Cary hated that song, and he hated it when Shiloh made pointless scenes. Shiloh didn’t have a great voice, but she was loud. “‘Caaa-arr-rie! Caaa-arr-rie!’”
Cary would roll his eyes. Sometimes he’d shout, “Enough!”
Shiloh loved embarrassing him. It was never enough.
One time, in journalism, Cary got fed up and jumped out of his chair, pointing at her. “‘Young child with dreams—’”
Shiloh shrieked with delight.
Cary kept singing. It was “Shilo” by Neil Diamond—Shiloh was named after this song. Cary knew all the words.
He backed her into a corner, against the paste-up desk. “‘Held my hand out, and I let her take me—’”
“This isn’t working,” she said. “It doesn’t bother me—I love it.”
Cary kept singing. His eyebrows were low. He did a great Neil Diamond.
Shiloh squealed—she really was embarrassed, no matter what she said. She was embarrassed, she was ecstatic. “Okay, stop! Stop!
I love it too much!”
“‘Shilo, when I was young—’”