Grandma.
Especially Grandma.
“Morning, Miss Doris,” Chloe would call.
Grandma always corrected her.
“Mrs. Bell.”
“And I keep forgetting.”
“No, you enjoy annoying me.”
“Also true.”
They had a strange little friendship.
I noticed it because Grandma always seemed different around Chloe.
Softer.
Sometimes sadder.
I once caught her watching Chloe from halfway down the hallway.
Chloe was laughing with friends beside the trophy case.
Grandma was standing motionless.
There was an expression on her face I couldn’t identify.
“Grandma?”
She jumped.
“What?”
“You okay?”
“Of course.”
“You were staring.”
“Old people stare.”
“That isn’t a thing.”
“It becomes one.”
She pushed her cart away.
I forgot about it.
Mostly.
There were other odd details.
Chloe and I shared the same birthday.
May 22.
We discovered that sophomore year when a teacher made a birthday chart.
“Birthday twins,” Chloe joked.
I rolled my eyes.
“Statistically not impressive.”
“Let me have something.”
We also both hated olives.
Had the same ridiculous ability to curl our tongues into three folds.
And the same tiny crescent-shaped birthmark near our left elbows.
I only noticed hers once during gym.
“That’s weird,” I said.
“What?”
I showed her mine.
She stared.
“No way.”
For five minutes, we acted like we’d uncovered a conspiracy.
Then the volleyball coach yelled at us.
That was it.
Because real life isn’t a mystery novel.
People have matching birthdays.
Matching birthmarks.
Matching mannerisms.
Coincidences happen.
At least that’s what I believed.
Senior year arrived with college applications, recommendation letters, and the terrifying realization that childhood was almost over.
I had been accepted to State University with a partial academic scholarship.
Partial being the important word.
Even after grants and loans, I was going to be short several thousand dollars.
Grandma told me not to worry.
That automatically made me worry.
I caught her taking extra shifts.
She began leaving home at six in the morning and sometimes returned after ten.
Her hands became raw from chemicals.
One night I found her asleep at the kitchen table with an electricity bill beneath her cheek.
I shook her shoulder.
“Grandma.”
She jerked awake.
“What time is it?”
“Almost midnight.”
“Oh.”
“You’ve got to stop doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“Killing yourself.”
“Dramatic.”
“I’m serious.”
She picked up the bill.
“So am I.”
“I can defer college.”
“No.”
“I can work a year.”
“No.”
“I can—”
She slapped the paper on the table.
“Noah.”
Something in her voice stopped me.
“You are going.”
“We can’t afford it.”
“I didn’t ask whether we could.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It doesn’t have to.”
She pointed at me.
“You have spent eighteen years making me proud. Let me spend a few making you angry.”
“Grandma—”
“College.”
“Grandma.”
“College.”
I sighed.
She smiled.
Discussion over.
That was her favorite parenting technique.
Prom invitations began in April.
Posters.
Flowers.
Elaborate setups in the cafeteria.
One boy had his friends release balloons spelling PROM?
He received detention because three balloons got trapped in the ventilation system.
Everyone talked about dates.
I had no plans to go.
Partly because tickets cost money.
Mostly because I hated the idea of standing against a wall while Blake and his friends acted like they owned oxygen.
Chloe stopped me after history class one afternoon.
“You going to prom?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because dancing is a crime against human dignity.”
“You’re bad?”
“Catastrophic.”
“So?”
“So I’m protecting the community.”
She smiled.
“You should come.”
“With who?”
“You know you can go without a date.”
“I’d rather swallow a stapler.”
“That can probably be arranged.”
I laughed.
Then she tilted her head.
“Seriously, Noah. Senior prom happens once.”
“I’ll survive.”
She looked like she wanted to say something else.
Instead, she touched the silver pendant she always wore around her neck.
Half a circle.
Like a crescent moon.
Then she said, “Maybe you should ask someone who matters.”
I thought that was strange advice.
Three nights later, I understood.
Grandma and I were washing dishes after dinner.
She was humming.
The same lullaby she’d hummed my entire childhood.
I watched her for a second.
Then I said, “Go to prom with me.”
The plate slipped from her hand.
It hit the sink but didn’t break.
Grandma turned.
