is gone. “Hi, Chrissy,” she says, smiling as she settles on the ground. “Nice hair.”
Chris glares at her. “What are you even doing here?” I love that she says this—I love her.
“Peter and I were hanging out and he told me about what you guys were doing today.” Shrugging
out of her jacket, Genevieve says to me, “I guess my invitation got lost in the mail.”
I don’t reply, because what can I say in front of all these people? I just hug my knees to my chest.
Now that I’m sitting next to her, I realize how small this tree house has become. There’s hardly
enough room for all the arms and legs, and the boys are so big now. Before, we were more or less the
same size, boys and girls.
“God, was this place always so tiny?” Genevieve says to no one in particular. “Or did we all just
get really big?” She laughs. “Except you, Lara Jean. You’re still itty-bitty pocket-sized.” She says it
sweetly. Like sweetened condensed milk. Sweet and condescending. Poured on super thick.
I play along: I smile. I won’t let her get a rise out of me.
John rolls his eyes. “Same old Gen.” He says it dryly, with weary affection, and she smiles her
cute wrinkly-nose smile at him like he’s paid her a compliment. But then he looks at me and raises
one sardonic eyebrow, and I feel better about everything, just like that. In a strange way, maybe her
presence here completes the circle. She can take whatever’s hers in that time capsule, and this history
of ours can be done.
“Trev, throw me an ice cream sandwich,” Peter says, squeezing in between Genevieve and me. He
stretches his legs out into the center of the circle, and everyone else adjusts to make room for his long
legs.
I push his legs over so I can set the time capsule down in the center. “Here it is, everybody. All
your greatest treasures from seventh grade.” I try to whip off the aluminum top with a flourish, but it’s
really stuck. I’m struggling with it, using my nails. I look over at Peter and he’s digging into the ice
cream bars, oblivious, so John gets up and helps me unscrew it. He smells like pine soap. I add this
to the list of new things I’ve learned about him.
“So how are we gonna do this?” Peter asks me, his mouth full of ice cream. “Do we dump it all
out?”
I’ve given this some thought. “I think we should take turns pulling something out. Let’s make it last,
like opening presents on Christmas morning.”
Genevieve leans forward in anticipation. Without looking, I reach into the cylinder and pull out the
first thing my fingers touch. It’s funny, I’d forgotten what I put inside, but I know what it is instantly; I
don’t have to look down. It’s a friendship bracelet that Genevieve made for me when we were in our
weaving phase in fifth grade. Pink, white, and light blue chevron. I made one for her too. Purple and
yellow chevron. She probably doesn’t even remember it. I look over at her, and her face is blank. No
recognition.
“What is it?” Trevor asks.
“It’s mine,” I say. “It’s... it’s a bracelet I used to wear.”
Peter touches his shoe to mine. “That piece of string was your most treasured thing?” he teases.
John is watching me. “You used to wear it all the time,” he says, and it’s sweet that he even
remembers.
Once it goes on, it’s never supposed to come off, but I sacrificed it to the time capsule because I
loved it so much. Maybe this is where Gen’s and my friendship went sour. The curse of the friendship
bracelet. “You go next,” I say to him.
singke
(singke)
#1