“I’m not,” I say. “I’m not a lightning bolt of anything.”
The music changes from experimental jazz to sleepy indie, and Robert reaches into his backpack, resting a small manila envelope on the table.
“What’s that?”
“Old photos. Go ahead, take a look.”
At first, my fingers hesitate. What do you do when someone offers you the key to the city? But I take a deep breath and empty the envelope, cradling the half-inch stack of printed photographs and old-school Polaroids. The pang in my heart creates an earthquake through my entire body. Picture after picture of Mom with her tongue out, hair teased, pouty faces, and wild grins. Robert beside her, young and skinny, his arm around her waist. For the first time, the man across from me seems old. Spun through the washing machine too many times. In the photos, his hair is buzzed, his face clean-shaven. My mom, though. All you really notice is the way she lights up the frame. As if anyone in her vicinity was instantly happier, prettier, smelled perfume-ier, just by sheer proximity.
I look at the pictures forever, until tears well up in my eyes.
“Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“No, you didn’t. These are—I love them.”
He smiles.
“Do you mind if I make copies?”
“What? No, those are for you. I want you to have them.”
My heart bursts at the thought. A chance to remember her.
An alarm buzzes on my phone, and we both jump.
“Crap, I gotta go.”
“Already?”
“I have to be home before my grandparents get back from church.”
Robert scrambles to his feet as I do. “Can we do this again? I can stay in town a bit longer.”
I hesitate. Thirteen years without me, and now he seems desperate.
“What do you say?” he asks, voice inching up.
Yes, no. No, yes. I shift my hips. I could pretend I’m not interested, but I obviously am, or I wouldn’t have come. “How about Wednesday?” I decide. “After school.”
He grins. “I’ll be here.”
A few uncomfortable seconds pass. I mean, we’re standing so close. Less than a foot apart. Normal relatives might hug, but that’s not us. Not even close. In the end, I sort of dork-wave and duck around him, rushing out onto the street, head and heart spinning, mind exploding. As soon as I’m buckled up, I text Gabby and Leah.
Me: I did it!!!
Leah: What did he say?
Gabby: Where has he been?
Me: He didn’t say exactly.
There’s a pause, long enough to make my heart lurch.
Me: He brought a bunch of pictures of my mom. Oh, and he called her Mandy. Can you believe her nickname was MANDY?!
Leah: So cute. Is he nice?
Me: He was nervous. But nice, yeah.
Gabby: But he srsly didn’t apologize or ANYTHING?!?!
Me: He DID. He apologized a lot. Just without going into any details.
Gabby:
Leah: Are you going to see him again?
I hesitate.
Me: Yes.
Leah: Are you excited?!
Yes, I type, then erase it and write maybe, then erase that too. Words can’t compare to the colossal feelings tugging me in every direction. The epic wonder of coming face to face with my actual dad after all this time. Eventually, I type in a couple of screaming-face emojis and put away my phone.
That about sums it up.
5
But I can’t stop thinking about the photos.
After Gran’s checked on me and funneled chicken soup down my throat, I pull the photos out of my bag. Mom in a hospital gown, cradling a bald, red-faced baby wrapped in pink. Tired but glowing as she holds my swaddled body close to her chest. I stare at it, taking in the curve of her lips, the basil hue of her eyes. I wish I could feel myself there, warm and safe in her arms.
There’s a cute one of her and Robert, grinning for an off-kilter selfie in the back of a truck. And another one of Mom, posing in front of a café sign for Amanda’s Kitchen.
Amanda. Mandy. Mom.
I pore over this better-than-Christmas snapshot goldmine, her smile overpowering me. Glass half-full and rosy cheeks. Sunshine and laughter. Details appear like lightning bugs. A crooked tooth. Killer bangs. I’ve always pictured her with long, straight hair, but here it’s shorter and more feathered, framed with a thick hem of fringe. Bangs look good on her, and I wonder if they’d work for me too. Debbie Harry obviously rocked bangs.
I wonder if my mom was into Blondie. God, I hope so.
“I miss you,” I whisper.
Wish I’d known you.
In a sentimental whir, I grab my phone and snap a picture of my favorite picture. It’s of the two of us—her blond hair and bangs framing her face, her chin resting on the top of my head, the both of us wearing giant sunglasses. I’m looking up at her, grinning.
I decide to post the photo with #meandmom and #imissyou. After, I hide the photos in the pages of a notebook and stand in front of the mirror, examining my reflection and touching my cheeks, picturing her face as I count our similarities. The texture of our hair, dreaminess in our eyes, a sparse constellation of freckles.
For the first time in my life, it’s like a piece of my heart’s not broken.
An untamed urge electrifies me, and I start digging through my sewing box, looking for my sharpest rhinestone-crusted scissors. I line them up along my forehead, holding my breath as I cut straight across my hair in one bold motion. Ten inches of blond pirouette to the ground. For a split second, I completely freak out. But then I look in the mirror, squealing at the sleek shelf I’ve created, piano keys falling above my eyebrows. I snip-snip-snip until it’s perfect, evening it out, creating layers around my face. The resemblance is uncanny.
When I’m done, my stomach rumbles from the smell of Gran’s famous cornmeal-crusted chicken. I put on my slippers, gravitating toward the sound of pots and pans clanging in the kitchen.
“Smells amazing, Gran.”
“Oh good, you’re up,” she says, facing the cupboards. She’s changed out of her church clothes and into a loose floral sweater and khakis, more comfortable for trimming green beans. “I was just about to—”
She swivels toward me with a cutting board and lets out the tiniest gasp. But, despite my silently chanting Mandy over and over again, I can’t read her face. Confusion? Surprise? Any kind of shock unscrambles, replaced by a friendly Southern smile. “Want to help with dinner?”
I nod slowly, fingers scrunching my hair. “Okay, but what do you think?”
“Well—”
The kitchen timer decides that’s the perfect moment to ding. Frantically, Gran reaches for a potholder as if the potatoes might explode, unless they come off the stove immediately. I roll up my sleeves to help her, draining water from the pot because of her bad wrist. Steam moistens my face.
“Will you make the potato salad?” she asks, handing me a green porcelain bowl. “It’s always so good when you do it.”
My heart falls. “Sure.”
Following a recipe I know by heart, I combine mayonnaise with a tablespoon of mustard, celery salt, and a dash of vinegar, then scrape in chopped celery and onions. I want to say something else, but the moment’s gone. Potatoes have stolen my thunder. I wiggle my nose, partly to stop my bangs from tickling my eyes, partly to know they’re still there. That her silence hasn’t obliterated them.
When the potato salad’s done, I grab our Sunday china with the pink azaleas and start setting the table. Grandpa’s in the living room, reclining on a leather lounger, TV blaring a football game. I wonder if Robert likes to cook and help out in the kitchen or if he’s old-fashioned like Grandpa. I wonder if it got under Mom’s skin the way it gets under mine.
Gran calls us to dinner, and the TV zaps off. As soon as Grandpa walks into the dining room, it’s as if he’s transfixed by the sight of me.
“Do you like it?” I as
k. “I cut it myself.”
“Wouldya look at that.” He smiles weakly, eyes darting across the table. “Katie?”
But Gran’s lips are stuck in a delicate line. “Hands,” she says, and the three of us have no choice but to take our seats and lower our heads. “For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful. Amen.”
“Amen,” says Grandpa.
“Amen,” I say, deflating all over again.
The chicken is warm and smells of butter and summertime, a welcome distraction from the dreariness of winter. I choose a crispy golden drumstick, along with a spoonful of potato salad and boiled green beans. Grandpa pours out three glasses of water. I pass him the salt. Gran asks for the pepper. Forks tap against floral bone china. But I can only squeeze the drumstick between my fingers. My favorite meal, ruined because of this absurd hairstyle-induced elephant in the room.
“Still don’t have your appetite?” Gran asks, eyeing my plate.
I slouch in response.
“Is this about your hair?” She puts down her fork. “Well, I’ll be honest, I’m not sure why you did it. Have we reached the point where you don’t need to ask permission anymore? I don’t recall having had that conversation.”
“Jesus, they’re only bangs.”
“Watch it,” Grandpa warns. He shoots a work-with-me-kiddo look.
I tuck my hair behind my ears, some of the layers drifting back, dusting my cheeks. “I wanted to look like her,” I say softly. “I barely know how to, since there’s no photos up. But I do look like her, don’t I? That’s why you’re being all weird?”
“Of course you look like her,” Grandpa says carefully. “But it’s easier not having photos up.”
“Easier how? For who?” I press. “It’s not fair that we pretend she didn’t exist.”
“Not fair?” Gran says, pulverizing the word. “You’re right, Johanna. It isn’t fair. None of this is fair. But this is my home, and I’ll grieve how I choose. And if that means not having Amanda’s picture plastered all over these walls, then so be it. The least you can do is—”
“Katie,” Grandpa interjects, soft but stern.
She blinks as if she’s coming out of a trance and reaches for her fork. The bite she manages is small and obligatory.
It’s her home. It’s mine too, but that doesn’t matter. I’m a guest here, and I shouldn’t have pushed. I clear my throat. “Sorry,” I tell her, rib cage sinking toward my spine. “I didn’t mean to.”
“I know.” She smiles politely. “Now, eat before your supper gets cold. The potato salad’s nice, by the way. Your best yet.”
My eyes dart toward Grandpa, but his gaze is somewhere else. Somewhere that doesn’t exist. We finish our meal stuck in a silence so thick, you could lay bricks with it. Nobody feels much like the apple pie Gran baked for dessert, but I clear the plates and put the kettle on for tea while they watch the evening news.
After I take Magic out for his evening walk, after I’ve kissed them good night and changed into my PJs, there’s a soft knock on my bedroom door and Grandpa nudges it open. Ever since puberty, he’s treated my bedroom like a minefield—God forbid he trip over a bra or something—so he lingers tentatively in the doorway.
“You finish your homework?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s my girl.”
His eyes drift over to the framed photo of my mother. He wears the hurt all over him. An ink-stain kind of pain that will never go away, no matter how many times he scrubs it.
“JoJo, your hair looks nice,” he says. “You’re the spitting image of Amanda. Gran just wasn’t expecting it, is all. But it’s lovely. Really lovely.”
I don’t want to smile, but I can’t help it. All the way down to my toes and back up to my cheeks. “Thanks.”
“G’night, JoJo.”
“Good night, Grandpa.”
6
“What’s up with your hair?”
I shut my locker door and glance over my shoulder—and then down a few inches—at mousy Annette Martinez, student council president extraordinaire. There’s a pout on her pale face, lips souring as she glares at me from behind a clipboard. I swear, she probably cradles that thing in her arms while she sleeps at night.
“And hello to you too, Annette.”
“Isn’t that look a bit young for a junior?” she asks.
I smile back, not about to be mocked by some overachieving Goody Two-shoes with a J. Crew addiction—which, to be fair, defines about 80 percent of our school, my friends included. I fluff my dazzling new ’do and decide to cut Annette some slack. She’s the first female president (at least, since I’ve been here), not to mention the first ever Latinx president at our white-ass private school, and I feel like gals gotta stick together. Even if Annette is way too intense.
“I wanted a change.” I shrug. “Sorry you’re not impressed.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“Is there anything else you wanted to talk about, or may I be excused?”
“Oh yeah.” Her face softens, and she raises the clipboard. “I need signatures for my petition. I want Chavez Academy to make school uniforms mandatory.”
I crinkle my nose, instantly appalled but also totally getting it, coming from Annette in her navy-blue Jackie cardigan and khaki chinos. Yeah, school uniforms would be right up her alley. Better yet, mandatory pantsuits for all.
I refocus my attention on her clipboard, saddened but not swayed by the paltry handful of signatures. “Sorry, but no can do. My entire existence is based around my wardrobe. See this pencil skirt I’m wearing? Sewed it with my own two hands.”
“And that’s the problem,” she says, clipboard rattling in her fist. “Fashion shouldn’t be more important than education. We’re here to learn, not judge one another’s clothes and show off.”
“I’m not trying to show off! I just like expressing myself. Putting me in a uniform would be like putting a swan in a straitjacket.”
Her head tilts. “You’re a swan now?”
“Blow me, Annette.” Gabby swoops in with Leah beside her. The two of them glance at the petition. “School uniforms? Please. Do I make you eat oatmeal every day? Is this fucking Hogwarts?”
Annette lifts her chin with gusto. The debate team has prepared them both well for this moment. “What about socioeconomic peer pressure?” she counters. Her eyes dip down Gabby’s designer jeans to her feet, swathed in gleaming white Gucci sneakers. “Girls like me show up every day, mortified that we’ll never compare to girls like you.”
For a second, Gabby falters. “I get it, Annette. And I’m lucky I have it so good, but that doesn’t give you the right to turn us into sheep. Make us look the same, and soon we’ll start thinking the same. I, for one, am proud of my individuality.”
Considering Gabby is one of the only Black kids at Chavez, there’s really not much Annette can do to argue against that line of reasoning. But she tries anyway.
“You—more than anyone—ought to see the bigger picture, Gabby.”
Gabby bristles. “Because I’m Black.”
“Because we’re both minorities,” Annette says. “All that matters is college—you know that. And you’re telling me, you think the Ivies care if you’re wearing Prada to calculus?”
“I know what matters, Annette. And the Ivies care that I’m a well-rounded individual with myriad interests who works her ass off. Don’t you dare play that card with me.”
“But—”
“Um, you guys?” Leah squeaks, waving skinny arms between the two of them. “This energy is starting to clog. Annette, you’ve made some really good points. Unfortunately, I’m allergic to uniform material.”
“Sorry,” I add, trying to sound genuine. Because I see Annette’s point. I just really like clothes.
An eye-roll battle ensues, which Gabby crushes, leaving the rest of us dizzy with minor headaches. Even as we’re walking away, Annette’s frustration lingers in the air. It’s not that all her ideas are bad. I
signed the Don’t Dissect Frogs petition and the one about better recycling on campus. It’s like she’s afraid that if she’s not the most aggressive president ever, they’re going to revoke her scholarship. Which sucks, but I’m just trying to make it through high school like everyone else.
The student lounge is filling up when we push through the doors, but we snag our usual corner spot, arranging our lunches on the smooth oak table. Chavez sells pretty decent food—you can’t ace tests if you’re hungry!—but today I brought some of Gran’s fried chicken. Atonement through leftovers.
“So, they were mad about your hair?” Gabby asks, dunking a straw into her Diet Coke. “I don’t get it.”
“Gran basically screamed at me for going behind her back and trying to keep Mom’s memory alive. Like it’s my fault.”
“Your grandparents never want to talk about her. Seeing you like that must’ve been a shock,” Leah says. Which only deepens the guilt hole in the pit of my stomach.
“Yeah, maybe. But it was still weird. They refuse to give me any shred of anything. I thought maybe the haircut would get the conversation flowing. Maybe they’d finally open up, but, nothing.”
“That sucks.”
“Sorry, sweetie.”
I shrug, popping a morsel of chicken into my mouth. Chewing occupies the silence for a minute, and I look around the student lounge, eyes landing on Milo a few tables over, his knees tucked up into his chest. He looks up from a copy of Just Kids, and his eyes brighten as they land on me. I mean, my dream boy is reading a Patti Smith memoir—are you serious right now?!
I bite my lip, enjoying this tiny, private moment. The way the room goes all warm and still as the faintest twitch of a smile passes over his lips. I blush and offer a twitch of a smile back. One of his eyebrows goes up a little, like he’s ESPing me a question, but then Gabby swats my shoulder and I jolt, glaring back at her.
“What?”
“I’m trying to give you a compliment.”
Accidental Page 4