By “move on” I mean I can have thoughts that don’t entirely revolve around Junie. I can consider my father’s offer of a job for life—no—and the prospect of college—not yet—and what that leaves me for near-term options—beats the squat out of me—without my mind being paralytic with concerns and worries and speculations about the existence of lovely June. And then my phone does that thing that it does. Message. I’m coming over. It’s from her. And just like that, as if all the psychological masonry that I had just carefully tapped and pointed into place has been rocked with a 6.5 tremor, I come spectacularly to rubble again. I jump out of bed, grab some clean underwear—that’s right, this time I was doing exactly the type of mind-clearing exercise they think I’m always doing—and I get dressed as if I am going to Wimbledon or boating or my own baptism, but in my bright beautiful whites I am confident that this is the sunny reboot of my summer right here. The doorbell rings, and I hear my mother padding to the door—but sorry, Mom, I cannot be denied—and I take three stairs at a go and practically break my ankle at the bottom, but I wobble and careen to the door first and fling it open on the wrong, wrong, wrong shade of goddamn blackened Blue.
