Page 73 of Falling Like Snow

It’s the worst day of the year. The day I wish I could just sleep through and pretend doesn’t exist.

But every year, I inevitably wake up before my alarm. I stare at the vintage Annie-themed digital clock on my desk, the numbers glowing bright red.

5:34 a.m.

Blinking. Inhaling. Exhaling.

6:01 a.m.

Dog barking. Garage door opening. Car starting.

6:20 a.m.

Old furnace rattling. Heat blowing. Mom’s muffled alarm blaring.

7:12 a.m.

Floorboards creaking. Front door closing. Pink hues and dark shadows. Silence.

7:47 a.m.

Memories—of Dad walking me to the bus stop in kindergarten, hopping over the cracks in the sidewalk with me; of Dad helping me collect bouquets of dandelions so we’d have pretty “flowers” to put in the center of the table at dinner; of Dad purposely misspelling everything for weeks so I wouldn’t feel bad after coming in last in the fourth-grade spelling bee; of Dad buying twenty-five pizzas from Cheesylicious and activating the phone tree to invite everyone in town to the square to celebrate me getting my first (tiny) role in a play in sixth grade; of Dad latching my cheap necklace before I went to my first school dance with Asher in seventh grade, telling me he couldn’t believe he was lucky enough to get to watch me grow up.

8:00 a.m.

Sunbeams slipping through the window. Heavy chest. Scratchy eyes. Salt-streaked cheeks. Wet pillow.

8:31 a.m.

Blackness.

I awaken to a soft knock on my door. The Annie clock reads 11:26 a.m.

I rub the sleep from my eyes, trying to orient myself. Mom insisted on working today, but maybe it ended up being too much.

“Come in,” I call to her.

The door opens slowly, and Asher walks in.

“Hey,” he says.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, my voice like sandpaper. “Why aren’t you at school?”

“I went for half the day.” He sits on the edge of my bed. “Then I suddenly came down with an illness.”

I stare at him.

“I couldn’t stay there knowing you were here like this, especially without your mom this year,” he says. “You shouldn’t be alone.”

My heart pinches. “Thank you. But I’m okay with being alone. It’s probably for the best today, honestly.”

“Please,” he says, pushing me over to make room for him. “I’m not leaving when you’re sad.”

“I’m fine.”

He lies next to me in his jeans and puts his hood up. “Okay. Well, I’m here if you decide you’re not.”

Lying side by side on our backs, we stare at the ceiling. Tears trail down over my temples and into my hair, until eventually my eyelids grow too heavy again and I fall asleep.