Kai blushed, not meeting my eyes. “I can read it.”
Nate bounded past Blythe and swiped the fine-point Sharpie from her back pocket. “You know who needs a longer title?” He held it over her shoulder. “Blythe Braxton. Know-it-all. Ruler of all things scientifically oriented, master of the lab report . . .” She swiped the pen back and grabbed his sleeve.
What was happening here? I thought she hated him.
“Nate Fong. Insufferable smart-ass. Holder of asinine attendance awards . . .” He ducked away from her and loped into the garden. She gave chase, continuing with the academic insults. Was she . . . flirting with him? Blythe ran past, and Nate caught up to her and yanked her hood. She yelped and took off running again. They dodged up to the fountain, and Nate leapt onto the side, his feathered hair flapping in the breeze.
“When did this happen?” I asked.
Kai laughed. “In a very romantic setting. Beside a bowl of dead sea monkeys.”
I laughed, watching Kai’s profile. Why did he have to look so stormy and Heathcliffy today? It shot a little dart of bittersweet right into my heart.
There were reasons Rolly girls gave Kai long looks. He had great style, even if his clothes were old or faded or, like his fleece, pilled with use, and he was good-looking with his tawny skin and those contrasting crazy-blue eyes. But I knew that the reason they kept looking was because he made life look so easy, so fun. Like life was a ride everyone was on, and he was glad just to be cruising, wearing a half smile and waiting patiently for the drop. It was so different from how I felt. I probably looked like every day was a winding road that made me carsick. I was probably tinged green right now. But when he looked at me, he didn’t look like he was having fun. His eyes were dark, as if the sky had taken up temporary residence there. Did he think I’d invited everyone to blow him off?
“I’m sorry I invited—” I said as he said:
“I should have known we’d run into—”
We both stopped talking, and the patter of the fountain filled the air. Storm clouds were gathering, fading the blooms around us to cool tones. I opened my mouth to tell him about Emma, to let him know that it wasn’t because I didn’t want a maybe-date, because I really did. But what came out of my mouth was what I actually wanted to ask: “Want to find a secret pathway?”
One side of his mouth lifted, and he took the end of my sparkly black scarf and tugged. We ducked beneath a wrought iron archway into an overgrown area of the garden. Along the gravel walkway were beds of roses in all varietals—brilliant red bushes, pale pink garden climbers, and miniature white roses. The colors were brilliant, and the fountain—ornate and huge and beautiful and spraying water into the air—made the garden feel festive.
“This must be where the fairies live. All these alcoves and winding pathways,” I said as we walked under a wrought iron arch trailing blooming vines. Kai hummed a few bars from a song I didn’t recognize and gave me one of his perfect, lopsided smiles.
“The Cure. It’s called ‘A Chain of Flowers,’ and there’s a line about finding a girlfriend in a chain of flowers, and I think it’s about being afraid to lose someone? Or maybe being afraid to let yourself feel too much, because you’re afraid of losing someone.”
I tried to hide the pinch of emotion that caught me at his explanation. I swallowed the feeling down, not knowing why it made me feel so raw. “Still not poetry,” I said, and bumped his arm with mine. His fingers wrapped around mine, and I settled at his touch—as if he’d wrapped a blanket around my heart. My hope bird nestled down as we walked on, hand in hand.
We passed “Jude the Obscure,” a white rose that looked like any other white rose, and “Double Delight,” which was white with beautiful bright pink edges, and “Barbra Streisand,” which was a big, fluffy pale lavender rose. Its fresh scent reminded me of honeysuckle and of the first bees of summer. And of my dad. Then we stopped beneath a mammoth Sally Holmes climbing rose. “We had one of these at our old house,” I said. “My dad called it Kong, like King Kong. It was twenty feet high and almost feet thirty wide.” I pressed my lips together tightly. I didn’t want to think about my dad, let alone talk about him.
Kai swept his thumb over my palm, and sparks lit my veins. “Will you tell me more about him?”
“No?” Another pinch caught my throat, and I thought about a girl in a circle of flowers, with crumbling stone around her—was she in a graveyard? I pinched my eyes closed. “Sorry.” We passed under the next archway, and he stopped walking.
“Don’t be sorry.” He glanced through the rosebushes toward the distant sound of Blythe and Nate bickering. “I’m just glad you want to be here with me.”
The wind swirled through the trees, lifting his hair from his forehead. He stepped closer, still tracing slow circles on my palm, sending little shocks up my arm. Before I could stop myself, my thumbnail brushed my lower lip. “The heart asks pleasure first,” I whispered. “Pleasure, pleasure, pleasure.”
Kai met my eyes, watching me carefully. And then he dipped his head, and his lips brushed my forehead. A soft stroke of warmth coursed through me, lighting my heart, stopping the words. I tilted my head back, and his cheek was against mine, his nose cold against my skin. I closed my eyes, thinking of grass, and spring, and flowers blooming. He smelled like cinnamon. I lifted my chin and forgot every word I ever knew as his breath met mine.
The thud of a walking stick hitting packed earth brought me back to myself, and I pulled away, Emma’s warning on the tip of my mind.
There was the rustle of leaves beneath feet and then from behind Kai: “Beware—the tour is about to begin.” It was Mrs. McMichaels brandishing a mean-looking pair of pruning shears.
“How are you today, Mrs. McMichaels?” Kai nodded in greeting,
“Emma will be along.” Mrs. McMichaels grunted and pushed past us toward the statue at the base of the garden. We followed her, our heads down. For a woman who must be approaching a hundred, she walked with long, lean strides. “I hope your mother’s considering the society’s offer to purchase your property for the city of Thornewood,” she called over her shoulder.
She stopped so suddenly I almost crashed into her. When she turned, her wide-brimmed hat cast a shadow over my face. “It doesn’t matter how many Zone C applications are put forth. No one can retro-activate a neighborhood vote. But if your mother and Mr. Parker sell, we’ll forgive the current fines.” She turned back to the garden entrance and strode on. “Imagine. Number six could finally be restored the way it should be. Maybe become a museum.”
It seemed so simple. Why hadn’t they sold? I ground my teeth. Charlie. He must have known about the offer. But did my mom? I was about to ask when Mrs. McMichaels lifted a hand for silence. “Mr. Fong! Do I need a bigger sign to keep people from using my father’s statue as a lounge chair?” Nate, who was leaning against the first mayor of Thornewood, stood slowly, his praying mantis legs unfolding like they had two joints. He glanced between me and Kai and smiled. I couldn’t stop a blush.
“I’m here!” Emma came down the center path, scattering gravel. She slid and bumped into Kai, laughing. Kai smiled, and buried his hands deep in his fleece pockets. I had the overwhelming urge to put my hands in his pockets, too. I thought of his lips on my forehead, his fingers wrapped around mine. The places we’d touched were white hot, like I’d been burned. But then Emma leaned against my shoulder, and I cooled, pushing away thoughts of Kai’s cinnamon breath. Emma hooked her arm through mine, and we followed Mrs. McMichaels into the garden.
At the fountain, Mrs. McMichaels raised her voice over the crash of the water. “Our first mayor, my father, brought well-to-do San Franciscans to this beautiful place. Thornewood. A safe, separate community.” Something about the way she said separate raised my hackles. “And his beautification society thrives today thanks to the original grant he bestowed. Though your parents should consider annual giving.”
“Remember to tell your parents about the fund!” Mrs. McMichaels lifted her pruning shears and walked off into the garden.
“Well, at least the tour was free.” Nate kicked a rock, and Blythe kicked it back at him. Emma gave us a grateful look.
“Thank you,” Emma said. “She loves giving that tour. And she doesn’t get a lot of takers.” As we walked toward where Nate was parked, Emma fell into step with Kai. I pulled out my phone to pretend I didn’t care, to pretend that I hadn’t been on a maybe-date, or had a maybe-kiss. To pretend that my heart did not shudder when Kai was around. On my home screen, Emma’s message about the house inspection was still there.
And I realized what I needed to do. I just had to give my mom and Charlie a good reason to sell the house. Like Charlie said, if they kept getting more fines, they’d have no choice but to sell. And if they sold number six, I’d never have to see or think about Charlie or the dad I never knew. And our lives could go back to the way they were before. Maybe we could even get the cottage back. My thumb hovered over the message for one more moment. I looked at Blythe, wondering if I should ask her what she thought. But what if she disagreed? I couldn’t take the chance.
I pressed delete.
14
MY FRIEND MUST BE A FEATHERED BIRD
I tried to ignore thoughts of Kai by spending every waking moment planning the downfall of number six Magnolia with Emma. The day after our rose garden adventure, I invited Emma over to the crumbling mansion, and we sat on the creaking front porch floorboards as I explained about my dad’s unique approach to relationships, Charlie’s plan for transitional housing, and Blythe and me becoming homeless. She was in.
“Everyone needs a home,” she said. “Even if it’s just a tiny place in the world that’s yours.” She looked away, her eyes welling with tears. “Thanks for telling me all of this.” She leaned against my side, and I leaned back, and even though Blythe didn’t care if we had a home or not, Emma did. And that felt like enough. We began recon right away. While I chatted up the job supervisor and found out they were about to frame a wall to turn the library into a studio suite, Emma took pictures of the Historic District permit check-off sheet. When she left, we were one step closer to selling and leaving the crumbly mansion and the moldy truth behind.
Thursday after school, we walked the block and a half to Thornewood City Hall. As we crossed the entrance, Emma waved to the valet. He was sitting at the edge of a spitting-cupid fountain, looking less like he was there to park cars and more like the handsome owner of a Tuscan villa. I tried not to be surprised by the excess. If Mrs. McMichaels could force everyone in the Historic District to paint their houses some form of white, she could raise enough revenue for a fountain and handsome valet service.
“Glad they’re using taxpayer money cautiously at Thornewood Headquarters,” I said.
Emma waved, and the valet waved back. “That’s Kai’s brother.”
Inside, I said: “I guess the hotness thing is genetic.”
We busted up laughing as we passed quiet offices lit with those money-green banker’s table lamps. We were still giggling when we arrived beneath gold letters that read: reco ds. As if we were there to see Dr. Reco, oral implant specialist. It didn’t seem very Thornewood for a sign to be missing a letter.
The door jangled as we walked in, and Mrs. McMichaels stepped from behind her massive nameplate. bernadette mcmichaels, thornewood beautification and historic district society president, thornewood city council member-at-large. “My darling girl. Look at you.” She seemed about to say more, but she noticed me. “And a transplant.”
“You remember Sabine.” Emma bounded over to Mrs. McMichaels.
“I didn’t realize there were two of you until I saw you both at the rose garden.” Mrs. McMichaels adjusted her glasses. “I’ve always thought twins were redundant.” It wasn’t the worst or the weirdest thing I’d heard about twins.
“She’s checking on the new permit application,” Emma said.
Mrs. McMichaels waved a hand in the air. “First let me look at you.” Emma gave me an apologetic look, hugged her grandmother, and then twirled, showing off another ruffly one-armed dress. Mrs. McMichaels lifted her glasses. “Why don’t you wear some of the clothes I bought? You look so nice in navy.” I pinched my eyes closed. How could she not see the amazing talent in front of her? Why buy clothes for someone who made them so well? For someone who stitched her ruffles by hand?
I pressed my lips between my teeth and walked into aisles of files like I knew what I was doing. Mrs. McMichaels’s hushed voice carried. “Is he keeping your clothes clean? Is he making you healthful meals—”
“Grandmamma, stop worrying. Dad’s fine.” Mrs. McMichaels pulled Emma close and spoke directly against her cheek. Emma pulled away, and her grandmother raised her voice: “When there’s a problem, we deal with it. By whatever means necessary. I want you to consider living in the house instead of—”
“I’ll come to brunch, okay?” Emma sounded not angry, but resigned. Brunch. I thought of purple cauliflower and shuddered. I trailed my fingers over the open shelving, through a sea of manila. I had no idea where to start.
“Your great-grandfather will be pleased. You can even bring that boy.”
I stopped walking and looked back. Don’t let it be—
“His name is Kai.” My mouth went dry. He had brunch with her? And her grandparents? I turned back to the files, telling myself that Kai and I were just friends. Kai + Me was a harmless nonflirtation. We were an accidental hand-holding moment. That was it. There was nothing between us. There was no reason he should not go to brunch with her family.
So why did my heart feel like it was being pressed through a mangler? I rubbed my thumbnail over my lower lip. “My friend must be a bird, for it flies—on ruffles in the sky, it flies.” I pushed my thumbnail against my teeth to stop the poeting, reminding myself that Emma brought me here because she cares what happens to me. I took a deep breath, let it out, and lowered my hand.
“Kai has to work this weekend.” I glanced up to see Mrs. McMichaels flinch. She was seriously allergic to the word work. She leaned into Emma with a whisper/kiss then let her go. Emma practically ran down the aisle to me.
“Sorry about that,” she whispered. “Let’s see what we can find . . .” She ran her hands down the files and pulled one out and set it down on an big table at the back of the room. She opened it, and it was as if someone had taken the contents of the file, dumped them in a drawer, stirred them up, threw them in an oversized folder, and labeled it magnolia blossom. Seriously?
I looked at the mess helplessly. “What are we even looking for?”
Emma blew her bangs out of her eyes and grabbed a stack of mismatched papers. “Zone C apps are light pink. So just find pink,” Emma said. “Whatever came in should have been attached to that. But I swear I didn’t leave it like this. I don’t know what happened.” Emma and I dug through and sorted papers into colors. We sorted. And sorted.
When we’d gotten through a good quarter of the documents, Emma lifted her head. “How’s Blythe doing with her mash-up?” I stopped sorting.
“Um, I don’t know.” I’d forgotten Emma and Blythe were in the same English class. I looked back down at the forms. One was for “a residence above the stable for guests and household help.” The date was 1934. “It’s a poetry slam?” I felt a tinge of jealousy that Blythe got to recite poetry while I struggled through The Canterbury Tales.
“A poetic mash-up,” Emma said. “Rolly tradition.” At least poetry was better than their other tradition: pood
le topiaries. “HA!” Emma held up a piece of pink paper. Application for Zone C Alteration and Reuse of Historic District Homes. I snatched it.
We read aloud: “‘The house at number six Magnolia can be confirmed to have financial backing to be rezoned as a temporary housing facility for the needs of the Mission Project and its subsidiaries.” Emma wrinkled her nose. “What’s the Mission Project?”
“It’s where Charlie works.” I pulled off the attached documents and read aloud: “The Mission Project supports the progress of legal and social issues in the LGBTQIA+ community.” Stapled to the back of the pack was a new set of architect’s drawings. They were more detailed than the ones in Charlie’s apartment. The dining room, library, conservatory, and butler’s pantry of the house would all become studio units. The kitchen would be industrialized to serve two meals a day. And upstairs, which I’d just started getting used to, would turn into dormitories.
“This looks like a hostel or something.” Emma picked up the drawings of the upstairs rooms. “Isn’t this your room?” Instead of two twin beds, the drawing had two bunks—making room for four people. I shook my head, feeling nauseous. The world needed places like this. It did. But this housing was called transitional for a reason. I’d always thought there would be a home to come to. And I always thought it would be the cottage. I could get used to another home, but I wasn’t sure I could get used to this. Behind all the drawings was another Zone C permit dated almost three years ago. It was stamped denied. Just below the red stamp was a personal note in flourished cursive.
Mr. Parker: According to the town charter of the beautiful city of Thornewood, no Historic District home may be owned or operated as a business. The only way to bypass this is the neighborhood vote. It failed. There is no recourse beyond the neighborhood vote.—Bernadette McMichaels
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