Questions. I should ask a question. I read in a book once that it’s a good way to get people to talk to you.

How come you’re doing set design this year instead of acting? No, too loaded.

What kind of shampoo do you use that smells so good? Ugh, too creepy.

CAN YOU PLEASE TEACH ME HOW TO BE A NORMAL HUMAN? Yeah, right. That’s too Herculean a task for any mere mortal.

When do you need my painting? I finally text. So stupid, but it’s the only thing that might warrant a response. A couple of butterflies try to eject themselves from my stomach, but I talk myself down before it becomes a full-on chunderfest of the lepidopterous variety.

She answers quickly — she must have the same lunch period as me. I’m so glad you didn’t change your mind! The play opens the week after Halloween. It would be great to have it before tech week, if you’d be okay with that. Maybe the week of 10/19?

Me: *salutes* Brilliant. I’m back at a loss for real words even though our two-text conversation had all the substance of a boiled cabbage.

Zoe: *rejoices*

Despair fills me as I realize our conversation is over unless I do something to keep it going. I scroll through our previous exchanges, desperately looking for something to reference.

Me: *hopes your weekend didn’t involve any more misfires*

Zoe: Just the usual fires How was yours?

My heart leaps at her quick response, and at the fact that she asked about my weekend.

I write back: *hopes my next one’s better* *isn’t optimistic* Last weekend was a study in silence — and me lacking the brass ovaries needed to ask my mom about a trip to London, or whether or not she had any role in keeping Dad from suggesting it in the past. His email hangs over my head. I wonder if he still wears the Ravenclaw scarf I gave him when I was twelve, or if his graying hair is still as badly in need of a trim as it always seemed to be when he lived here, or if his eyes are really the same shade of brown I remember. The longer he’s away, the more I forget. I used to tell myself that’s how I wanted it, but I don’t really know anymore.

Part of me wants to tell him to sod off, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit the thought of going to that dumb Doctor Who museum with him dredges up all the best memories of my childhood. We loved that show in every incarnation.

As for this weekend, all I have to look forward to are first-person shooters or Homecoming, both of which sound about as appealing as brushing my teeth with a sandy pinecone.

Outside the bathroom stall, Syd and Erin finally pack up and walk out.