the bag into a suitcase. I’m sitting in Gretchen’s desk chair, one of the only surfaces in the room that’s not covered in open boxes, suitcases and laundry baskets. “You don’t have to turn your dorm room into your own personal CVS.”
“You are so funny, T.” Gretchen kisses me on the cheek and grabs a stack of socks from the dresser. “You must teach me your ways. How much shampoo are you going to pack?”
“I already packed, but I’m not bringing any shampoo. I’ll get some when I’m up there. How are you going to take all these suitcases on the plane anyway? Are your parents going to pretend your bags are theirs or something?”
Gretchen laughs. “Do you think I should bring all my shoes or just some of them? I can probably leave my cowboy boots here, right? They’ll take up so much space.”
I eye Gretchen’s closet door, still covered in photos from two years’ worth of debate tournaments. “You only own, like, two pairs of shoes. I think you should bring them all unless you want to go around barefoot.”
Gretchen sighs fake-dramatically. “I own more than two pairs of shoes.”
“Well, yeah, I guess there’s three if you count your sneakers and your Birkenstocks.”
Gretchen laughs again, even though it’s the oldest joke there is. For the last two years of high school Gretchen wore Birks every day unless it was raining or snowing. On those days, the sneakers came out. Gretchen always looked totally out of place in hallways filled with girls in designer ballet flats or chic dress code–friendly one-inch heels.
Not that any of it ever stopped Gretchen from becoming absurdly popular. That part was pretty much guaranteed from the first fateful Homecoming dance on. When you make that much of a stir before it’s even your first day of school, you’re going to amass a sizeable crew of devotees.
Which I guess meant I wound up being kind of popular, too. Walking down the hall holding hands with Gretchen every day was enough to make anyone feel like a celebrity. Winning that fight with the school administration junior year didn’t hurt, either. The blue plaid pants I finally got to wear looked ridiculous, like old-man golf pants, but it was such a relief to be out of those stupid skirts I’d been wearing since kindergarten.
Every time I walked down the hall wearing my old-man golf pants with my gorgeous girlfriend by my side—every single day felt like that night at the dance. Ever since Gretchen came here, it felt like I could finally be—well—me.
Now it’s all over. High school. Everything about the life I’ve had here. The bad parts and the good.
I watch Gretchen pack, dressed in an old pair of cutoff shorts and a tank top, blond hair hanging loose and messy, perpetual smile firmly in place.
Gretchen is definitely one of the good parts. Gretchen’s the good part.
I can’t keep pretending.
“I’m going to miss you.” I don’t mean to say it. The truth just sort of spills out of me. “So much.”
Gretchen turns around, face falling. Right away I feel bad. I hate making Gretchen look like that.
It’s been happening more and more lately. All summer we’ve been making plans, looking up our roommates online and studying the Boston T map and talking about what it’s going to be like to be on our own, but over the past week or so, Gretchen’s gotten a lot quieter. I think it’s only just started hitting home for both of us how big a change this is going to be.
“I mean,” I go on, trying to act nonchalant, “I know we aren’t going to be that far apart in the geographical sense, but it just feels like I need to see you every day, you know? This is going to be so hard. I actually kind of can’t deal when I think about how hard it’s going to be.”
“I know.” Gretchen puts down the socks and draws me into a hug. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” I squeeze tighter. I love the way Gretchen feels in my arms.
I can’t wait any longer.
“Hey,” I say, still trying to make my voice sound breezy. “You know how I snuck off at Target while you were in the toothpaste aisle?”
“Yeah.” Gretchen pulls back. “I figured you were buying something embarrassing. I saw you checking out that box set of Pretty Little Liars.”
“Well, yeah. You know I always had that thing for Emily. That wasn’t why I snuck off, though.”
“So why did you?”
Gretchen’s leaning against the hand-me-down dresser, the sad expression from before replaced by the smile we both get whenever we play this game. The I-have-a-secret-and-I-can’t-wait-to-tell-you game.
“Close your eyes,” I order.
Gretchen obeys.
“Now promise not to laugh,” I say.
“T! You know I can’t promise that. I always laugh, even when it’s not funny. I’m already laughing now just standing here!”
“Okay, but you have to promise not to laugh with malicious intent.”
“I swear I won’t laugh with malicious intent! Can I please open my eyes?”
I stand up and pull the tiny bag out of my pocket. “Okay.”
Eyes open, Gretchen looks inside the bag, then claps and laughs. “This is perfect! You really got this while I was picking out my Aquafresh?”
“Yep.” I grin and pull out another bag. When Gretchen gets happy like this, especially when it’s because of something I did, I always turn into a giant, embarrassing, grinning goof. “I got one for me, too.”
“Aww. You are such a sap! I love it!” Gretchen hugs me again. “That was such a fantastic night, remember?”
“Yeah, I remember.”
The Target has a kiosk where you can get jewelry engraved. I got us each a silver disk on a leather cord. Gretchen’s disk has a top hat in the center. Mine has a bare footprint.
When we leave tomorrow, Gretchen and I will be apart for the first time. We’ll be in the same city, but at different schools—Gretchen at Boston University, me at Harvard. We’ll only be able to see each other on weekends. Maybe the occasional weekday if we’re up for trekking across the city.
I wanted us to have something solid we could look at. Something to hold in our hands when we couldn’t hold each other. Something to remind us both of where we started out. Not that there’s any way we could forget.
“This is so insanely sweet,” Gretchen says. “I should’ve gotten you a present, too.”
“No, you shouldn’t. Don’t be crazy. It only occurred to me when I saw the kiosk.”
“Toni. Tell the truth.”
“Okay, I’ve been thinking about it for months.” We both laugh. “If you want, you can always pay my mom back for the twelve ninety-five I put on the credit card.”
“Your mom can afford it.” We laugh again, and Gretchen’s arms link behind my neck. I’m still freaked about tomorrow, but touching Gretchen helps. Touching Gretchen always helps.
“Thank you,” Gretchen says. “Really.”
“You’re welcome, really.”
We kiss.
Have you ever wanted to breathe someone in until they become part of you and never let them go? That’s what kissing Gretchen is like.
Maybe that’s how it is for everyone when they kiss someone they really love. I don’t know.
We break away and Gretchen goes over to the closet, where most of the clothes are still hanging.
“Hey, so, there was something I wanted to