Free The Presence by Eve Bunting

the end table as if she could inspect me better without them. "You can have your friends back, sweetheart. Friends don't stop being friends because something bad happens to you in your life. I think maybe
you
shut
them
out."
    I shrugged. Someone had started a memorial for Kirsty. Everyone had come to love her, her humor, her funny ways. They'd left flowers and notes and candles and a tiny Scottish flag at the spot where my father's Taurus, the car we'd borrowed for the party, careered over the edge. I was still in the hospital, and I was glad. Knowing what I knew, I couldn't have faced it.
    My parents drove me out there late one night, when I was sure I wouldn't meet anyone. I left the little kiltie doll I'd brought back from Scotland. I'd bought it in Paisley at the street fair. I scattered flowers at the crash site, and cried, and came home, alive, while Kirsty was dead. Her body had been flown back to Scotland.... But I was going to talk with her tomorrow, here, in California. How could she be buried in Kilbarcin and talking to me in Pasadena?
    Grandma put her arm around me and pulled me close. "My poor little Catherine," she whispered. "Poor little girl." I felt her cheek, soft as a flower, and smelled her sandalwood perfume.
    "I'm OK," I said shakily. "And I know I'm going to be better soon. Tomorrow. When I'm forgiven."
    Grandma pulled away a little and looked down at me. "What are you talking about, Catherine?" Then her face brightened. "I bet I know. You're going to talk with Dr. Miller. That would be wonderful. He is so wise and good. You've made an appointment with him for tomorrow?"
    "I might see him," I said truthfully.
    "I'm glad." We smiled at one another as the doorbell rang. "That sounds like it might be his son, come to call," Grandma said.
    And when I opened the door, there he was, wearing dark pants and a leather school jacket, his blond hair sticking up just a little bit in back.
    "Hi," we both said at the same time.
    "You look nice," he told me.
    "You, too."
    He smiled and called past me to Grandma, "Hi, Mrs. Larrimer."
    "Take good care, both of you," Grandma said. "And whatever you do, have fun."
    I promised myself I'd try.
    The Pasadena Civic was just a few blocks from Grandma's, but Collin brought his truck. As we came close, I saw that the sidewalks were jammed with people, walking, dressed in winter finery, though it wasn't even chilly by Chicago standards. There was celebration in the air.
    I glanced sideways at Collin. He wasn't handsome at all, tall and skinny and long-legged. But there was an easiness about him, a confidence. His whole face seemed to crinkle when he smiled. He had nice, small ears. I hoped I wasn't making goo-goo eyes.
    Maybe he caught me looking, because he suddenly said, "I bet you were a really cute little kid. I bet you had those long kind of bangs that came right down to your nose." He gave me that infectious grin. That made me grin back.
    "I don't think I even had bangs," I told him. "And I was fat."
    "Cute, anyway," he said.
    I decided it might not be that hard to concentrate on
The Nutcracker
and Collin Miller tonight.
    The Civic Auditorium was a big square building sitting like a mausoleum at the top of wide, shallow steps. A scarlet banner was looped above the doors. THE NUTCRACKER, it proclaimed in large gold letters. I was glad we hadn't had to pass St. Matthew's to get there.
    Our tickets came with preferred parking that was in a lot half a block away. We walked back together along the busy sidewalk. People, mostly kids, called out Collin's name as we went up the steps. He waved and called back. I sensed the curious looks at me. Who was this girl with Collin Miller? Hadn't seen her around before. Sometimes Collin pointed at me and called, "This is Catherine," in a braggy kind of voice that seemed to say, "See how lucky I am!"
    Our seats were perfect, up in the front balcony. I read the program, leafed through the pages, and told myself to make conversation so I