She’s always been leaving, I remind myself. That’s not news. She ran away the first week she was here. This is just Harper being Harper.
Except it doesn’t feel like just Harper being Harper.
It feels like something ending before it ever really started.
System of a Down’s “Chop Suey!” starts blasting from the speakers, and Harper settles back in her seat with a satisfied smile that makes her look younger. Softer. She tucks her hands into the front pocket of that oversized hoodie she always wears instead of her Westfield Prep blazer, and rests her eyes shut. I have to physically stop myself from reaching over and?—
And what? Trying to hold her hand? Asking her not to go?
I just turned my application in for Harvard, along with a bunch of other Ivys and a few safety schools, also on the East Coast. My future is halfway across the country, one way or another.
Still, I reach down and turn the volume down halfway through the first verse, and Harper cracks one eye open to glare at me.
“You know,” I say, keeping my voice carefully light, “I think you can really get to know a person through their playlist.”
I’m babbling again. I always babble around her because I never know what to say, but I always want to get her talking. So I just say the first dumb thing that comes into my head.
“Oh yeah?” Both eyes are open now, watching me with that sharp intelligence that always makes me feel like I’m being X-rayed. “What does my playlist say about me?”
I take the turn onto the main road, using the movement to buy myself a second. “Well... you listen to a lot of music that has emotion.”
“Emotion?” She scoffs, but there’s amusement in it. “Metal isn’t about emotion. It’s about smart people screaming their rage.”
“Exactly. Rage is an emotion.”
I can feel the weight of her attention like a physical touch. “My playlist isn’t all metal.”
“No, I know.” I just keep filling the space with words because the alternative is sitting in silence, thinking about herleaving soon. “You also seem to really like intense female vocals. Marina and the Diamonds. Evanescence. Tove Lo. Women with cool voices who seem like they’re going through shit.”
“Okay, well.Somebody’sbeen paying attention.” Shesits up in her seat. “But it’s just like you said—I like them because they have cool voices. It’s not that deep.”
I shrug carefully, keeping my eyes on the road even though I can feel her watching me. “Maybe.”
The thing is, itisthat deep. Everything about Harper is that deep, even when she pretends it isn’t. The way she chose “Chop Suey!” because it’s about feeling trapped and crying for help. The way every song on her playlist is either defiant or devastated, with no middle ground.
She grabs my phone from the console before I can stop her.
“Okay, Sigmund Freud, let’s see what your playlist says about you.” She’s already swiping. “What’s your passcode?”
I glance over at her like she’s nuts. “I’m not telling you my passcode.”
“Oh my god.” She rolls her eyes. “It’s not like I’m going to try to break into your bank account and steal all your money.”
“Right, because you already tried stealing my wallet.”
“You mean I alreadysucceededin stealing your wallet.”
“And this is supposed to give me confidence in giving you my passcode?”
“Just give me your passcode, dork.”
“Dork? Oh, so now you insult me, and I’m supposed to?—”
“Let me guess.” She inputs 1-2-3-4.
The phone unlocks.
My face goes hot. Dammit. The truth is, I’ve tried changing it. Picked Mom’s birthday. Then the start ofthe Fibonacci sequence. Then random numbers. But every time I unlock my phone with anything else, I have to do it four times to make sure it works. Sometimes six. So 1-2-3-4 it is. Sequential. Clean. One attempt. Mostly.