Heartbeat. Elizabeth Scott

like one.”

      “You have one. You talk to people in your classes. You dragged me to parties after the horrorfest that was Anthony. You went out with Pete last year. If you ever started using technology, you’d rule the school in a week.”

      “Nice try,” she says, and grins at me. “Roger said I have nice hair, but what does that mean? It just lies there.”

      “Olivia, you do have nice hair.”

      “It’s flat.”

      “You’d like Caleb’s hair,” I say, and she blinks at me.

      “What?”

      “I just—it’s wavy and stuff. Like how you’re always saying you want yours to be.”

      “I thought you didn’t talk to him.”

      “I didn’t.”

      “But you noticed his hair.”

      “We were in the same room, Olivia. He was about two feet away from me. It was hard not to see him.”

      “He’s cute,” she says, and now I stare at her.

      “No, not I think he’s cute cute,” she says. “Scary druggies don’t do it for me. But a lot of girls think he’s hot.”

      “Not the ones in my classes!”

      “No, you all think guys like Anthony are hot. Caleb’s got that whole quiet loner thing going, plus he has the cheekbone/eye/hair trifecta.”

      When I stare at her she says, “Awesome face, great eyes, amazing hair. A trifecta. What are you learning in your classes?”

      “Not that.”

      “Oh, right. How’s the New Deal paper coming anyway?”

      “It’s not.”

      She looks at me and then says, “For real?”

      I shrug.

      “I know you haven’t been buried in books like usual but I thought you wanted to go to one of those top ten schools. I thought you and Anthony were neck and neck to see who could have the best ranking and SAT score and all that stuff.”

      “Yeah, we were.”

      Olivia frowns and starts to say something else, but her parents come in. They are both blond, like she is, but that’s pretty much where any similarity stops. They work in IT support and their life—their world, in fact—is computers. I have never seen one of them without something that isn’t electronic in one hand. It reminds me of how Olivia and I started the whole hanging out on my roof thing.

      A few years ago, they gave her some sort of “does everything and can organize everything” gadget for her birthday and she came over, climbed up the trellis on the side of our house onto our roof, knocked on my window (and scared the crap out of me), and when I came out onto the roof, she cried and we talked. And then I threw her gift off the roof.

      Mom calmed Olivia’s parents down, then calmed Olivia down, and then gave her a birthday gift from “me and Emma” and put foot rungs on the trellis so she could get up onto the roof easier. Since then, it was something we did once in a while for fun, but since Mom died, it’s the only way she comes to see me.

      Her mother closes the door while typing out a message on some impossibly tiny thing, never looking up. Her father, who entered first, is using a strange-looking square, holding it in one hand and touching it with a plastic stylus, frowning as images flicker in and out.

      “This cube isn’t maximizing its storage capability or its potential speed,” he says. “It feels like more of a design idea than an actual product.”

      Olivia rolls her eyes at me, gets up and gets two energy drinks out of the fridge. “Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad.”

      “How are you?” her dad says as her mother smoothes a hand over Olivia’s shoulder. “You have a good day?”

      “Yeah,” Olivia says, and her Mom’s device starts to beep.

      “Have you eaten?” her mother says, and Olivia rolls her eyes again.

      “Yes. You?”

      Her mother nods, and Olivia looks at her dad, who flushes. “I’m going to,” he says. “But the cube came in and I wanted to see it. I’ll eat later.”

      “Something without caffeine or the word Energy! in it?”

      Her dad grins at her. “Yes. And hey, we have a little more work to do, but then we’re going to watch a movie.”

      “By yourselves?” Olivia says. “Without anything electronic in hand? Will you be all right?”

      “You,” Olivia’s mother says, and kisses her cheek. “Want to join us?” She looks at me. “How about you, Emma? You in for a movie?”

      I shake my head. Olivia’s parents drive her crazy and they aren’t around that much but they’re here, truly here, even if it’s not the way Olivia wishes they were, and I’m like a kid with her face pressed against the window, all the things I want and can’t have right in front of me.

      I spy a family.

      I miss Mom so much.

      “I’m going to hang out with Emma,” Olivia says. “She can spend the night, right?”

      “Sure,” Olivia’s dad says. “Is it okay with Dan?”

      I nod.

      “Do you need anything?” Olivia’s mom says, and I shake my head because what I need isn’t something anyone can give me. She looks at Olivia, kisses the top of her head, and then leaves, turning to the beeping gadget in her hand. Her dad grabs a package of crackers and wanders out, eating them one-handed as he starts to look at the cube again.

      Some people think Olivia’s hatred of technology is an act, like she’s pretending or whatever. But she really does hate it. It’s not so much because of her parents—although I think that’s part of it—as it’s what she doesn’t want her life to be. She thinks it’s sad that people would rather talk without ever seeing each other.

      “I just think life should be lived, you know?” she’s said to me more than once. “And how can all the talking with a keyboard ever be like actually talking to someone? It can’t. People need each other.”

      “I don’t know,” I always said. “I think it just makes life bigger. People are closer, actually.”

      “I’d rather have an actual talk with my mom instead of having her send me messages,” she’d say. “Wouldn’t you?”

      “Sometimes,” I’d say, and she’d say, “Okay, fine,” but I get what she’s saying now. Mom and I talked like everyone else does, in person and over the phone and in all the ways you can, but now that she’s gone, I miss talking to her for real. Hearing her.

      I could call her cell phone and hear her voice mail, but it wouldn’t be her. I could send her an email and get back the “I’ll be in soon!” message she put up before she left work, but it wouldn’t be her either. I would just hear and see electronic ghosts, and I already have a live one to face every day.

      I call Dan from Olivia’s room.

      “Hi,” I say when he answers. “I’m spending the night at Olivia’s. I’ll come home in the morning to get a ride to school.”

      “I don’t know,” Dan says. “What about your homework? You left your bag in the car. Plus we still haven’t talked about what happened—”

      “There’s nothing to say. You want a name. You pick it out.”

      “Emma, your mother would be so sad to hear you talk like this.”

      “She can’t be sad though, can she?” I say. “She’s dead. I’ll see you in