by Kit Frick
I’m in my pj’s and about to open the book I’ve been reading at the beach—a story that’s set half in New York City and half in the world of a dark, ruthless fairy tale—when my phone chimes.
Movie night?
I entered him into my phone as CT. Not Caden, or something cute like Boy Next Door. Just CT. As if a part of me knows he shouldn’t be there. Not when his heart belongs to Zoe, and with Zoe still missing.
You want to go into town? What’s playing?
I’ve seen the little Herron Mills movie theater, but haven’t yet been inside. The temperatures are sure to spike into the nineties before long, and then Paisley and I will find our way there for whatever Disney and Pixar are offering up this summer.
More like stay in than go out.
My fingers hover over my phone screen. I’m sure Caden assumes I have a laptop, but I don’t. A computer for college is at the top of the list of things I’m saving up for this summer. I’m trying to figure out what to say when his next message appears.
There’s a film room downstairs at Windermere. Come over same way as last time and I’ll meet you around back.
Ten minutes later, I’m dressed and stomping through the trees again. Tonight, there are no cryptic visions of girls in white dresses or clutching fingers of panic. It’s not even dark yet; the sky beneath the branches is laced with shadow, but the last dregs of sunshine still filter through. My brain is focused on more mundane concerns: If this is a date. If I want it to be.
Caden meets me at the edge of the trees with a sheepish grin.
“Sorry about the uninspired destination,” he says. “I know it’s not the same as going into town, but I can offer a massive selection of horror and classic musicals on Blu-ray.”
“Horror and old musicals?” I ask, following him through the tall grass that surrounds Windermere toward a large stone patio. The area has been recently weeded, and the patio furniture looks wiped down and somewhat new, unlike the haphazard array of rocking chairs and end tables gathering cobwebs on the small front porch. The contents of Caden’s summer days are still largely a mystery to me, but it’s clear he’s been plugging away at projects around the estate, probably whatever he can manage without engaging Mrs. Talbot’s attention.
“I like movies that capture human extremes. There’s something equally fascinating about big song and dance numbers and gratuitous displays of gore.”
“That is very weird,” I say.
“Welcome to my brain.”
Caden unlocks the back door and swings it wide. I hold my breath and brace myself for more birds and their detritus, but the room in front of me is surprisingly airy and clean. It’s a parlor or living room of some sort, sparsely furnished with a couch, coffee table, and bookshelves that aren’t exactly new, but definitely aren’t antiques like the pieces that populate the front hall. To my left, I can see what looks like a kitchen through a pass-through in the wall.
“Servants’ quarters,” Caden says, answering my thoughts. “Or they were at one time. This wing of the house has been pretty much out of use for a couple generations.” I spot a thick stack of library books and an empty Coke can on the coffee table. From Slavery to Freedom; A People’s History of the United States; Women, Race, and Class; The Grey Album. Looks like Caden has been turning the unused wing into a library this summer.
“No Jake?”
Caden shrugs. “He’s sleeping upstairs, I think. This way.” He motions me toward a waist-high gate cordoning off a narrow spiral staircase at the back of the servants’ parlor / reading room, then leans over to undo the latch. As he holds the gate open, I peer down. There’s a railing, but the stairs look a bit perilous. I straighten up and press my palm against the wall, floor heaving up at me in waves at the base of the stairs.
“You go first,” I say.
“Not a fan of heights?”
“Not so much.”
“Sorry, wish there was an elevator or something, but this is it.” Caden starts down the stairs, not even bothering to hold the rail.
“I’ll be fine,” I say through gritted teeth. I keep one hand pressed against the wall and the other firmly attached to the railing and look straight ahead as I make my way down.
When I reach the bottom, my breath hitches in my throat. Caden wasn’t kidding about this being a film room. Instead of the flat screen I expect to find hanging before me, there’s a real movie screen. Caden presses a button on the wall, and a digital projector extends slowly from the ceiling. Six rows of vintage-looking theater seats with red velvet cushions are bolted to the floor, and along one wall is the largest display of Blu-rays I’ve ever seen. Tucked in a back corner is a half-used roll of paper towels and a bucket of cleaning supplies. The air smells faintly of antiseptic. Caden cleaned for me.
“Wow. This is seriously fancy.”
“My dad designed it,” Caden says. “There’s a whole closet filled with film reels, but the projector’s busted. He was a huge movie buff. My parents used to hold screenings here, invite all their friends.”
I close my eyes, try to imagine a different Windermere. Grand, bustling, filled with people. “That must have been really cool.”
Caden shrugs. “They used to do all sorts of entertaining at Windermere. The screenings were small, but my parents were known for throwing these legendary parties. The whole town would come, plus friends from the city. But I barely remember any of that.”
“Why’s that?” I ask, walking over to examine the wall of Blu-rays. In addition to the promised profusion of musicals and horror, there’s everything from recent comedies and Marvel movies to a large selection of biopics and a limited edition Lord of the Rings box set.
“Dad died when I was five. I guess my mom didn’t feel much like entertaining after that.”
“Oh right.” I can’t remember if Caden told me that his dad died from stomach cancer or if I heard it on one of Martina’s podcasts. I press my lips between my teeth, trying to trace the information back to its source before I say something I have no right to know. “Yeah, that makes sense.”
I think back to the stack of library books on the coffee table upstairs. “Was it weird?” I blurt out before I can stop myself. “Growing up here with white parents?”
“Huh.” Caden flops down in the back row and props his feet up on the seat in front of him. “What made you ask that?”
“It’s just, it’s not very diverse.” I gesture around the film room, but I mean all of Herron Mills. “Like you were saying the other night.”
At home in Brooklyn, my friends and I talk about race and class stuff a lot. Students of color make up well over half of our high school, and none of us are even close to rich. But this feels different from talking to my friends. Maybe because Caden and I aren’t much more than strangers. Maybe because of what he told me in the stable. Maybe because he’s a boy, and instead of flirting, getting him to buy me drinks, telling myself I don’t care when his hands rove like clumsy mitts across my skin, I actually want to get to know him.
“Well,” he says slowly, “in retrospect, yes. Now, I can’t not be constantly aware of the whiteness and privilege here. Even before Zoe disappeared, it could be suffocating. But when I was little, I didn’t understand a lot about being biracial.” I abandon the wall of movies and perch on a seat two rows up, back turned toward the screen so I can face him. “My birth mom’s white; she was seventeen when I was born. Birth dad’s black, but they didn’t stay together. So even though it was an open adoption, he’s not in my life.
“And Mom didn’t really know how to teach me about black culture. She was a great parent, don’t get me wrong. Her health wasn’t always like it is now. But yeah, it was weird. There was a lot I didn’t understand growing up about race, from either a personal or a cultural perspective. A lot of experiences I’m still putting into context.”
“Is it different at Yale?”
“Different, yeah. But Yale’s a weird place. New Haven is only thirty percent white and over sixty
percent African American and Latino. But at Yale, under six percent of the students are black. When you’re black, you feel that tension.”
I nod slowly, remembering what his friend Tim Romer said on the podcast about police sniffing around black kids on campus. Then I think how weird it is that I know things about Caden’s life that he hasn’t told me, how invasive, and I keep my mouth shut.
“How are your parents taking it?” Caden asks, changing the subject. “You nannying out here for the summer?”
“My mom was pretty weird about it at first. Took her a bit, but she seems to be adjusting to her baby being away.” I grin. “Haven’t seen my dad since I was four, so I doubt he cares.”
“Mmm, No Dad Club.” Caden smiles thinly.
“Yeah, guess so.”
“Cut your mom some slack,” he says. “You her only?”
“Yeah.”
He shrugs, and I know he’s thinking about his own mother, his decision to spend the summer here, when I’m sure he could be off doing some amazing internship or studying abroad or whatever other Yalies do for the summer.
“Speaking of moms,” I say, reaching behind me to twist my hair into a thick rope down the center of my back, “I met yours last weekend.”
Caden raises his eyebrows. This is awkward, but if we’re going to be friends, I don’t want Mrs. Talbot lurking between us like an unpleasant secret. Might as well rip the Band-Aid off.
“During Tom’s birthday party, she stopped over to tell me to stay away from you.”
Caden clasps his hands behind his head and lets out a long sigh. “So she did see you that night,” he says. “When you brought the cookies. I thought I saw her looking out her window while we were walking up the drive.”
My mouth twists into a lopsided frown.
“It’s okay,” he says. “The thing you have to understand about my mother is, she loved Zoe. They were really, really close. And Mom has schizophrenia; she was diagnosed in her twenties. No one knows exactly how schizophrenia develops, but since there are likely genetic factors, my parents decided to adopt. Anyway, she has great doctors and she’s been on a treatment plan my whole life, but when Zoe disappeared, her negative symptoms spiked big time.”
I’m quiet a minute, letting that all sink in. I don’t know a lot about schizophrenia, except that it can be very serious and difficult to treat. “That sounds really hard.”
“It can be,” Caden says. “I love my mom. She’s a really wonderful woman. She’s also really difficult to live with. And Windermere …” His voice trails off, and he looks around the film room. “We needed small repairs, painting, when I was in high school. She kept putting it off. She stopped letting anyone on the grounds when I moved to New Haven. And then she got the birds. I was so into my life at college, I guess I just ignored it my first year. I wanted to pretend everything was fine at home, she was fine. But by last Christmas, it was getting hard to ignore. And when Zoe disappeared, things escalated.”
“That’s why you’re home.”
“That’s why I’m home.” Caden unclasps his hands and lets them fall into his lap. “So, Anna Cicconi, now that we’ve covered every inch of my life, tell me something about yours.”
He’s right, I’ve been doing nothing but asking personal questions all evening. It’s almost nine, and we haven’t even picked out a movie yet. Before I can steer things back toward the Blu-ray wall, though, I need to give him something in return. A piece of my past. A little bit of truth about the girl I’ve been.
“Before I came out here, I wasn’t exactly in control of my life. Remember the other night in the stable, I told you I was taking a break from drinking?”
He nods.
“My friend Kaylee and I, we spent most of last semester partying. I was fucking up a lot, and I kind of started to hate myself. The person I was when I was drinking.”
“And who was that?” Caden asks. I take a deep breath, debating how much to show him. I might be killing any chance of us getting together, if that was ever even a possibility. But more than a boyfriend, I realize I want a friend. Someone my age, who I can talk to. Someone who might understand something about living with a past that’s hard to let go.
“The old me? She hooked up with guys she didn’t remember the next morning. Blacked out. Woke up on strangers’ couches. Got brought home in the back of a cop car on more than one occasion.” I pause, waiting for him to say something. Judge me. “My friend Starr, she’s been on her own since she was sixteen. I used to think I wanted what she had, total freedom.” I shrug. “But freedom gets old. My mom works two jobs. She doesn’t have time to babysit me. I think part of me was just trying to get her attention.”
“And did it work?”
“Not really.” I laugh. “But I got sick of myself.”
“And that’s why you’re here?” he asks, throwing my earlier question back at me.
“When you’re in charge of a kid, you can’t screw up. So far, I’m keeping it together.” Barely, I almost add. I don’t say the other thing, the thing he knows already. That in a twisted way, I’m here because of Zoe. But there’s no point in dwelling on that. No matter why I got the job, the fact is, I’m good at it, most of the time. I’m going to be good at college too. I can feel it. I’ve been out here less than two weeks. There’s still plenty of time to become a new person.
“I believe in you, Anna Cicconi,” he says, using my full name again. I smile. “Now, are you feeling more haunted house, possessed child, witches, or slasher?”
“Um, maybe we should save scary movies for another night? I’m kind of in the mood for something light.”
“Good call,” he says. “This did get a bit deep.” He leaps up from his seat and deftly pulls several movies from the wall. I review the options—a mix of musicals and comedies—and land on Singin’ in the Rain.
“Solid choice,” he commends, then gets the tech set up in the back. Soon, the MGM lion fills the screen, and Caden slips into the seat beside me. I kick off my shoes and pull my knees up to my chest, very aware of his hand on the armrest between us. He keeps it there for the entire film, doesn’t make a single move to brush it against my arm or curl his fingers toward mine. If things were different, I might be disappointed. He’s cute, and smart, and weird in a good way.
But he’s also very much not available. Not really. I remind myself that his fiancée is missing. He’s home taking care of his mother, who has a serious mental illness. What Caden needs is a friend, not a summer fling. And the new Anna wants more than that too. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to slip my hand over his on the armrest, rest my head in the dip between his neck and shoulder. But I think this is the start of a real connection, not some hookup. I keep my arms wrapped tight around my knees and resolve to keep the boundaries firm between us.
* * *
That night, I dream I’m back at Windermere again. The estate glimmers in moonlight, ethereal and grand. The walls are free of vines and the sturdy columns that stretch from the ground to the third-floor balcony extend like pale white pillars toward the sky. No peeling paint. No dust or cobwebs to sully the rocking chairs on the front porch. The grass is manicured and lush with the glistening residue of late afternoon rain, and in the front of the property, shielded from the road by a stately and freshly trimmed hedge, is the koi pond. Their lithe orange and white bodies gleam just below the surface, then vanish, swift and stealthy, far into the water’s black depths.
I’m looking down on the estate from above, and then I’m on the balcony, sitting all the way at the edge, legs pressed through the wooden rails and dangling down, down in the night. In the dream, the height doesn’t scare me at all. My fingers dance across the top of the railing like it’s a set of piano keys.
I’m not alone. On the balcony next to me sits a girl, a year or two older, with olive skin and the same unbridled mane of thick black hair spilling down her back. She wears a dress so yellow it’s almost gold, and one gold sandal dangles from the tips of her toe
s.
“You’re going to lose that,” I hear myself saying.
She laughs, and the sound shimmers in the summer night. Her head tilts back until I can see her teeth flash, two rows of pearls in the moonlight. My eyes travel down to the bright golden gleam of the initials ZS dangling against the birthmark on her collarbone. She swings her leg, one swift kick, and releases her sandal into the sky. It rises in a hasty arc, then surges soundlessly to the thick carpet of grass below.
When I draw my eyes back to the balcony, I’m alone. I glance down at my body, and a gold-yellow dress now hugs my skin where shorts and a worn T-shirt used to be. One of my feet is bare, and suddenly the ground seems very far below. I draw my legs back through the slats in the balcony railing and pull my knees in to my chest.
I wake with a jolt, grope for my phone.
It’s almost three. After a few minutes of staring at the ceiling, eyes adjusting to the darkness, I know I’m not going to get back to sleep. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, grab my hoodie, then make my way out of the cottage and onto the pool deck.
Night-lights dance along the water’s edge. It’s cool out here, but not uncomfortable. Curled up on one of the loungers, I pull up Messenger, open my latest exchange with Starr. Still no reply. I start to type.
Thinking about you tonight. What do the stars look like from the Magic Kingdom?
A drink would help me get back to sleep. I crane my neck, stare behind me through the windows into the Bellamys’ dark kitchen. Almost as much as I want a drink, I want to know more about Zoe. But I’m all out of podcast episodes, and I’m not sure what’s left to google. I open up Instagram and type her name into the search. Her profile is still up, but the photos stop in December. Scrolling backward, it’s mostly landscape shots of the beach in winter, then Providence in the fall, bright bursts of changing leaves and Zoe’s startled reflection captured in a puddle. Further back to California, tangerine sunsets and seagulls soaring above a marina. I have to scroll back to last spring to find many pictures of Caden, but there they are, the two of them together at Yale, then at Brown, faces glowing in selfie after selfie. I click out of the app.