“Yes.”
“I thought tonight might be hard.”
“It was.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“The microphone was too tall.”
Mom burst out laughing.
Danny grinned.
I turned all the way around.
“I’m sorry.”
“For the microphone?”
“No.”
He waited.
“For deciding what you could handle before I asked you.”
His face softened.
“Okay.”
“And for thinking people might compare your gift.”
Sentimental gifts
“They did.”
My stomach tightened.
“They did?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
He shrugged.
“Everybody.”
I must have looked horrified, because he laughed.
“People compare stuff.”
He pointed at the box.
“Doesn’t change it.”
That was Danny.
Every so often he’d say something so simple it made the rest of us sound ridiculous.
DIY gift kits
The next morning, I went into the garage.
For months it had been off-limits territory.
Now the door stood open.
Wood scraps everywhere.
Sandpaper.
Pencils.
A burned piece of oak with the word MARRIANE spelled wrong.
Two failed sparrows.
Danny had been right.
The first looked like a potato.
The second looked like a potato that had been through something.
I kept both.
Mr. Alvarez came over while I was standing there.
“You finally see it?”
“The box?”
“The work.”
I nodded.
He showed me everything Danny had done.
The first crooked cuts.
The practice hinges.
The letters burned over and over until they were legible.
“Did you do much for him?”
Mr. Alvarez shook his head.
“I ran the dangerous tools.”
“That’s it?”
“I showed him once. Sometimes twice.”
He picked up one of the failed carvings.
“Kid is stubborn.”
I smiled.
“That part runs in the family.”
Mr. Alvarez looked at me.
“He talked about you the whole time.”
“What did he say?”
“Mostly complained.”
I laughed.
“Sounds right.”
“Said you study too much.”
“Also right.”
“Said you steal his fries.”
“He steals mine.”
“He said you’d say that.”
Then Mr. Alvarez’s expression softened.
“He wanted the box to be heavy.”
“What?”
“He kept saying that.”
I looked at the oak box.
It was heavy.
Solid.
“He said people keep things that feel heavy.”
My eyes filled up.
Of course they did.
I left for college in September.
Yes, Northwestern.
I went.
For a while after prom, I wondered if picking the farther school somehow meant I’d missed Danny’s whole point.
Prom dress rentals
He corrected that too.
“Come back doesn’t mean don’t go.”
He said it while helping me load the car.
Apparently I’d needed that spelled out.
College was harder than I expected.
Not academically.
Personally.
For the first time in years, I wasn’t automatically near the top.
Everyone there had been near the top somewhere.
My first chemistry exam came back with a 72.
I stared at it for ten minutes.
Then I called home.
Danny answered.
“I got a 72.”
“Out of what?”
“A 100.”
“Oh.”
I waited.
“That’s not great.”
“Thank you, Danny.”
“Do you want me to lie?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
Silence.
Then he asked, “Are you still smart?”
I laughed.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s dumb.”
“What?”
“You were smart yesterday.”
I sat down on the floor of my dorm room.
“One test doesn’t change that?”
“Obviously.”
I looked at the wooden ruler on my desk.
I’d brought the broken halves with me.
Danny had made me promise not to glue them back together.
DIY gift kits
“Thanks.”
“Come home Friday.”
“I have studying.”
“Saturday.”
“I’ll see.”
“Marianne.”
“Fine. Saturday.”
I came back.
Of course I did.
The box sits on a shelf above my desk now.
The bird.
The key.
The broken ruler.
The piano.
The book.
The house.
Every piece says something I probably should have figured out on my own.
The sparrow reminds me the oldest version of me is still in there somewhere.
The key reminds me to actually say things.
The ruler reminds me numbers are useful right up until I let them decide my worth.
The piano reminds me being imperfect at something isn’t the same as being bad at it.
The book reminds me I’m allowed to go.
The house reminds me I’m allowed to come back.
But the box itself matters most.
Because I spent months afraid Danny’s gift wouldn’t be enough.
Sentimental gifts
