Made For You. Melissa Marr
smile. She also takes my Oreos. We’re both quiet while she repacks some of the junk food she brought for me.
I break the silence by saying, “Thanks for bringing clothes.”
Grace pulls out the skirts she and her mother bought for me. The first one is the sort of loud pattern that makes me wince visibly. It’s the brightest piece of clothing I’ve ever owned. “Still think my mom is perfect? She picked this one.”
I tilt my head. “It’s not that bad. The General has fine taste.”
Grace rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. We’ve been having the same discussion over her mother for at least eighteen months. She thinks her mom is overbearing; I think she should be grateful for having an attentive mother. Mrs. Yeung is awesome, and I’d wear a sack if that’s what it took to back my stance.
“I picked this one.” She holds up a solid brown skirt with a subtle peacock feather line drawing that starts at the hem and stretches over the bottom quarter of the skirt. The lines are in the same sky blue as the first skirt, but here, they’re a burst of bright on a dark palate. It’s exactly what I’d pick for myself.
She pulls out two more skirts, both more like the one she’d selected for me, and I know that she was responsible for keeping Mrs. Yeung’s appreciation for bolder colors in check. “Thank you.”
At the bottom of the bag are five short-sleeved T-shirts in various colors: pink, blue, black, gray, and brown. Grace doesn’t unfold them, just puts them to the side. “These are pretty basic, but I figured you could use a few clean shirts so you aren’t living in pajamas. Mom said she’d wash everything you have here now.”
I hadn’t thought about the state of my laundry until now. I had wanted some skirts because of the cast, but as Grace mentions my clothes, I realize that I’d have had to re-wear things if not for them. My parents are due back soon, but as usual when they’re away, it’s Mrs. Yeung to the rescue.
After a quiet moment, I blurt, “I saw Nathaniel Bouchet yesterday.”
“The Jessup man-slut? Here?” She sounds more like Piper in this moment than I ever would tell her.
I simply nod.
“He actually seemed surlier than usual at school today.” Grace shakes her head. “Which is saying something because when he’s sober, he’s about as friendly as a rabid dog.”
“He was in class?”
“Yeah.” She drags the word out like I’ve asked something stupid. “Every day this week I think, but text Piper or Laurel. They’d know for sure. I think Piper watches him even more than you do.”
I know I’m blushing, but I try to shrug it off. Most people don’t comment on the way I watch Nate. “I thought maybe he was a patient, too. When we talked he said he was in the lounge most evenings.”
“So, let me get this right: Nate don’t-talk-to-me Bouchet visited you, but Robert hasn’t?” Grace pauses, looking at me as if I’ll pick up the conversation.
“Nate didn’t visit me. He was here, and we talked … it’s different.”
“Mm-hmm.”
I motion toward my brush, which is on the nightstand. Grace hands it to me, and I busy myself brushing my hair. It’s already become habit to brush it more often, as if frequency will overcome the fact that I refuse to look into a mirror to see the results. “Robert texts me,” I say.
“About why he wasn’t there the night of the accident?”
I pause mid-brushstroke. “No.”
At that, Grace goes into a rant about Robert not deserving me anyhow, and how she “always thought he was an asshat”—which is nowhere near the first time she’s said as much. I’ve given up on trying to explain to her that Robert is nice, even if he acts a bit stiff. He’s been my friend forever, and while he’s never been the sort to want to climb trees or go sloshing in the creek, he was the sort to listen to me when I was angry or to bring me a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts when I was depressed.
I think about him while Grace repeats a lot of her usual complaints. I don’t think he’s “the one” for me, but he’s a good guy even though she can’t see it. Robert gets me. He’s a Baucom. It’s not quite the same as being a Cooper or Tilling, but if my grandfathers were selecting candidates for an appropriate match for me in Jessup, Robert would be on that very short list.
How do I explain Jessup traditions to Grace though?
When she takes a breath, I ask, “Who else is going to be willing to date me now, Gracie? Seriously, I can’t stand looking at me.”
“Oh, sweetie!” She grabs my hand, and I am gone.
I’m late. I know that Eva’s fine without me there, but she’s going to worry. I shove the rest of my books into my backpack. There are notes and photocopies, but I still don’t have an answer.
“Good night,” I tell the librarian as I walk past the reference desk.
She waves and smiles at me. I’ve been here a lot over the years, and the librarians are all sweet and very helpful. I wonder vaguely if there’s a librarians’ oath like doctors take. The thought makes me grin as I walk out the door.
“Eva? Eva!” Grace’s voices echoes in my hospital room.
I shake my head and yank away from her.
“Are you hurt? What’s going on? Let me get your—”
“No!” I can’t tell her about my hallucinations. I’m too embarrassed. It’s weird to hallucinate that I’m someone else.
“Shhh,” she soothes. “You’re freezing.”
She pulls my blanket up and sits next to me on my bed to hug me.
After a few moments of silence, I whisper, “I look like something stitched together in a mad scientist’s lab.”
Grace doesn’t miss a beat. “You’ll get better. Your leg will heal, and the cuts will heal, and—”
“I know, but that won’t fix how I look, not really.” Tears start falling again. I don’t have to ask for a tissue before she holds out the box of softer ones she brought for me. I dab at my tears because rubbing would hurt, and then continue, “I feel stupid for caring about this. I could’ve died. I get it. I’m lucky to be okay. I get that, too. But I hate that I look like this. I hate that even after these heal, I’ll always look like something slashed up my face.”
I take a deep breath, and then another one, and then a couple more.
Grace is quiet as I grab her hand and squeeze before saying, “I’m afraid to ask Robert why he hasn’t been here because I don’t want him to ditch me. We’re more convenience than anything, and I knew we’d break up eventually, but I like having a boyfriend.”
She holds my hand in silence for a few moments. Then she points out, “If he isn’t here anyhow, does it matter?”
“He texts.”
Grace holds my gaze. “If he were my boyfriend, what would you tell me?”
“He’s an asshat,” I say with a small smile.
“And?”
“You deserve better than an asshat,” I add.
“And I’d listen because you’re smart,” Grace says. She taps her chin with one finger. “Wait? Who else is smart? Hmmm. I know this answer. Who is it?”
“Grace Yeung. Maybe I should listen if she offers me advice.”
Grace’s expression is serious, as if she’s considering the matter, and then she nods. “You’re right. I am pretty