“He has a person,” Graham said quietly.
“He has a person who sat at the top of the bleachers.”
“Yes,” he said. “He does.”
I looked at the profile in my hands again.
I hope whoever you are, you raise a kid who’s kinder than I am.
“I did,” I said. “Didn’t I?”
Graham’s face broke.
“You did,” he said. “He’s kinder than both of us.”
The next morning, Harper called me.
She had Diane’s phone. I could hear Diane in the background, saying something sharp.
“Ms. Holt? It’s Harper.”
“Honey. Are you okay?”
“Don’t take it down,” Harper said. “The fundraiser. Mom says you’re going to take it down. Don’t.”
“Harper, your mom doesn’t want your picture—”
“It’s my face,” Harper said. Fourteen years old, and she sounded exactly like a grown woman. “It’s my body and my leukemia and my picture. I’m the one who said yes to that picture. Wyatt asked me first. He asked me three times.” Her voice wobbled. “And I want to go to Philadelphia. I want to try. I don’t want to sit here and wait for eventually.”
