And Hello

April 2021

I know I could just text Hanna, but scooping up some white pebbles from her mom’s garden and throwing them at her bedroom window is much more fun. When you only ever communicate with someone through your phone, any new way of making someone aware of your existence becomes a thrill.  Even pebbles.

Hanna's face shows up in her window.  She grins and holds up one finger.  I nod.  I can wait one minute, no problem. It's all we ever do now. 

She runs out the door, hopping a little to finish getting her ballet flat on.  She looks incredible.  Of course she does.  Her hair is short (she cut most of it off herself, about a month ago, to her mom’s annoyance) and she's wearing a bowtie, a vest, tight jeggings.  Her makeup is spotless and accentuates her already adorable face, her wide brown eyes.  

She looks amazing and I— I didn't check the mirror before going.  I forget that was a thing I used to do last year, back when we went to Morris High School for our education and I knew I might run into Ethan. 

I glance down.  I'm wearing red pants and a turquoise t-shirt and probably look like a cartoon character on a kid's television show.  Whatever.  We’re living through a pandemic.  Who cares.  

At first, it was only for two weeks. I didn’t mind since I had a chemistry test I was dreading. But then it got extended to a month.  I did mind, since Hanna was playing Lady Macbeth and her production got canceled.  Then it went another month.

We had a lapse in August. Infections were going down. Schools were set to open again. My mom and little brother and I went out for pizza and bowling to celebrate. A week later, all three of us were in bed sick. My brother got over it the fastest. He was playing video games and begging for ice cream while my mom called the doctor.

“I understand that,” she said over the phone. “Of course. I just wondered if we should be reporting this. And if you had any suggestions.”

When she hung up, she looked over at me and shrugged.  “Keep drinking water.”

None of us were surprised when schools closed again.

But now, infections are going down again.  Yet we can't be too careful.  Gradually, non essentials are opening up again.  But we still are practicing physical distancing.  We're washing our hands constantly, we're staying six feet apart. And Hanna and I, we're going to our high school Spring Fling.  It would have been our senior prom. 

I stand in the street so she can walk on the sidewalk.  I miss hugging her when I see her.  "How's your blanket?" she asks me.  

I knit to cope with the world.  It took me all of middle school to finish my first blanket. In the past year, I've made 14 blankets.  I give them away to friends and seniors on my street.  Hanna got the third one.  

"Almost done," I say.  "Number 15.  Which play are you on?" 

Hanna's project has been reading Shakespeare's canon.  All of it.  Every sonnet, every boring history play.  

"The Tempest," she says.  "Appropriately.  That was his last.  I'm hoping the universe gets the hint and lets us free now that I've run out of plays."  

"Any wisdom from Billy boy?"  I ask. 

She nods.  "Our revels now are ended.  These our actors, as I foretold you, were all spirits and are melted into air, into thin air . . ." 

In addition to reading Shakespeare, she's been memorizing passages from him.  I've never been that into the old stuff we read in English class.  It just never clicked with me the way it clicks with people like Hanna.  But I like how dramatically the words ooze from her lips and her eyes, invisibly filling the air around her.  

"—like this insubstantial pageant faded, leave not a rack behind—"

I zone out a little but clap when she’s done.

"Do you remember the others?" I ask.  

"Some but I won't bore you," she says.  

"Billy Boy's the bore, not you," I say.  She smiles.  

We turn the corner to get to our high school. A huge banner that says "keep your distance!" stretches across the school’s welcome sign. There are chalk circles on the sidewalk, indicating where we should stand to wait.  About twenty people are already waiting, scattered along the sidewalk for most of the street.  We know the drill.  Many grocery stores continue to do this to limit how many people are inside at once. 

"She's all yours," Hanna says.  She means the circle ahead.  She hates standing backwards in line so I always get the first circle and turn to chat with her.  She lets me know when the person ahead of me had moved up.  

Many people are chatting and laughing.  People are cautious, since we know better than to believe this will be the end. We've all learned that lesson together.  But the air is warm and the sky is light blue and people are happy to be out. I see faces I haven’t seen off of a screen in over a year.

I take my spot on the sidewalk and overhear a girl I vaguely recognize from history class two years ago go, "Oh my god I can't wait to touch a stranger!"  She catches my eye and looks embarrassed.  

"Physical distancing," I say.  

"You didn't hear?  They're monitoring at the door and lifting restrictions!"  

"We can actually grind," the guy ahead of her says.    

"Gross, Tyler," she says.  

"Where did you hear this?"  I ask. 

"The principal just got the go ahead today.  Because enough people have had it and are immune now, they can lift restrictions in specific cases.  Including Spring Fling!"  

I turn back to Hanna.  "You hear that?"  

She shoots me two thumbs up.  We advance in line.  I can hear music now, a song that was huge two years ago.  I kind of want to cry.  I had stopped believing that type of life was possible, and yet here I was.  Only about ten people away from it now. 

Through the window, I see people dancing close to each other.  In a group.  Dancing.  Sweating.  Laughing.  Holding hands.  Things that I remember from my childhood. 

And at the door, entering the building now – a flash of blue hair and a familiar wicked grin. Ethan! A couple weeks ago, he had a Twitter poll on what color he should dye his hair.  I voted purple.  I didn’t think he’d really go through with it. 

Before entering the building, he glances back and catches my eye. His face lights up and he waves. I wave back, a quick hand up and hand down. Maybe he was waving to someone else. But he definitely was looking in my direction, and there is no one else within six feet of me. 

“Get it get it, girl,” Hanna murmurs.

“Shut up.”

When it's my turn, my old gym teacher smiles at me from six feet away. He holds a clipboard. "I just have a few questions for you," he says.  

"Of course."  I don’t expect him to remember who I am. I spent most of freshman gym class hiding in the corner pretending to stretch.

"Have you been infected with the coronavirus?"  

"I think so.  Not diagnosed but probably.  Yeah." 

"And do you have any underlying health conditions that would increase your risk if infected with the coronavirus?" 

"No," I say.  

He reaches into a basket and tosses me a thermometer with a gloved hand.  "We just want to make sure your temperature is okay before letting you in, but then you'll be good to go!"  

"What if I hadn't been infected?  Or if I did have underlying health conditions?"  

"Then for your own safety, we would recommend you go to the physical distance dance, down the street."  

I look back at Hanna.  

"Don't be an idiot!" she says.  "Go in!"  

I put the thermometer in my mouth.  Hanna calls to the teacher, "I haven't had it.  And I have diabetes and asthma."  

"Sorry about that," he says back.  He sounds genuine.  "But there's a community physical distance dance down the street, in the town hall auditorium.”

She nods.  "Thanks," she says, and to me, "Go have fun!  Maybe you'll see… someone..."  

She means Ethan. 

Now she was leaving.  I take the thermometer out of my mouth.  "It's over a hundred," I say.  "Sorry."  

"Hey, thanks for your honesty.  You should hold on to that and dispose it responsibly."  

"Thank you," I say, because thanking people is how we say goodbye now.  Thank you for doing your essential duty and selling me this rotisserie chicken my mom sent me to buy.  Thank you for still delivering the mail.  Thank you for not getting too close. 

I feel fine, of course.  Better than fine.  I shove the thermometer in a garbage can and run down the street to the second Spring Fling.  The one that I know nobody my age would ever volunteer to go to. This one will be filled with older people, more vulnerable people. 

"Hanna!" I shout after her.  

She turns to me.  Her eyes light up. But I can tell she’s embarrassed by how relieved she is to see me by the way she backpedals and acts cool.

"Hey," she says.  "Did you see Ethan?"  

"Didn't go in," I say.  "I was worried they wouldn't let me go from there to town hall.” 

"This dance won’t be as much fun—" 

"Blasphemy. We’ll be there."  

The line is shorter to get into this one.  There are no restrictions to get in, just restrictions once you're in.  Stay on a blue dot.  Cough and sneeze into your sleeve.  If you can make it, go outside to cough.  You may take one pre-wrapped cookie and one milk carton.  Take the one you touch.  Try not to touch anything.  Wash your hands before and after using the bathroom.  

This all may sound sad, but once we're inside it's not.  They're playing ‘80s and ‘90s tunes, music that my mom listens to when she cleans the house.  I choose a circle to stand on and start to dance.  Hanna picks one close to me and dances as well.  We're surrounded by people our parents’ age who are also dancing and having a great time.  They cheer when they see us, young people.  I don’t see any other teenagers, but there's a group of kids— a boy maybe ten, using his wheelchair to zoom around the perimeter of the room.  His friends chase after him, laughing.  

About twenty minutes into the dance, the lights dim and a disco ball lowers.  The crowd lets out a collective "ooh" and laughs at itself.  I laugh too.  I catch Hanna's eye.  We're six feet apart, but this is enough.  I'd rather be six feet away from someone I love than in the arms of a boy I barely know.  

"Thank you," I say.  Then, because I don’t want her to think I mean goodbye, I quickly add, "and hello!"  

"Hello!" she says with a laugh.  I cross my arms over my chest.  A distance hug.  She does the same back.  

As we dance our most ridiculous moves under the sparkling silver sphere, I feel like after months of hibernation, I'm finally waking up.