When You Reach Me

Sal and Miranda,

Miranda and Sal

Sal and I don’t wait for each other these days. Not purposely. But if we happen to be leaving school at the same time, if he isn’t going to a friend’s, or to basketball practice, and I’m not going to Annemarie’s or Julia’s—or Colin’s—then Sal and I walk home together. And we are better this way, together because we want to be. He understood that before I did.

We walk up to Broadway, past Jimmy’s. We walk to Amsterdam, past the garage, where the boys still say stuff to us and we ignore them. We walk past Marcus’s door.

We pass Belle’s. We cross the last street, to your old corner, where the mailbox is still scratched up with your words.

And when we are safely across, Sal always gives a little salute. And sometimes I look up, and shake my fist at the sky.