I nodded. “Yeah. It’s so . . . uncrumbly.” I glanced at Kai, who nodded for me to go on. “And speaking of uncrumbly, have you seen the garage apartment? It’s gorgeous.”
“Apartment?” Her eyebrows rose like shoulder spikes on a Vivienne Westwood gown.
“Yeah.” I looked up the driveway and realized that the garage apartment wasn’t visible from the street. Even on an interactive map, it probably looked like just a garage. She followed my gaze and took a few steps up the driveway.
The clatter and clack of high heels sounded behind us, and my mom’s best Maryann Interiors voice drifted out. “My deepest apologies for the wait, Mrs. McMichaels.” She touched my shoulder and I let her pass. “Something cool to drink?”
“You’ve stalled long enough,” Mrs. McMichaels said, brandishing her inspection clipboard. She barreled straight for us, forcing us to step aside. I stumbled down onto the brick beside Kai, while my mom stepped backward, looking as if she’d invited Mrs. McMichaels inside.
My mom turned to follow Mrs. McMichaels as she stalked into the house, but glanced from Kai to me, and back to Kai. “You’re Mr. Thompson’s son, aren’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Kai said, and shook my mom’s hand. She looked from him to me, as if she could see our crimes—dusty-attic kissing, unauthorized paint-can movement, new-brick confessions.
“We’re studying. For French,” I said. Her eyes went vague as she listened not to me, but to voices from inside. Mrs. McMichaels was muttering about esteem and history and incompetence.
“Maybe go to the library,” my mom said, and shut the door in our faces. I let out a breath and slumped against the closed door. I gave Kai a let’s get out of here look, and we headed down the driveway, toward the sidewalk.
“I was sure we were busted,” Kai said when we stopped at the curb. “It was like she could see inside our souls.”
“She’s always been like that,” I said. “But she usually uses that power to look inside her clients’ souls, not mine.”
Kai glanced to the house. “I hope what we did works.” I pressed my lips together, too aware of him standing there on the sidewalk beside me, his head bent toward mine.
“Me, too.” I took a step closer to him. “It’s not too much to ask for, is it? A place in the world that feels like mine?” He shook his head, then pulled me to him and kissed my cheek, then my lips, right there on the sidewalk. It was sweet and breathy and over too quickly. His pocket was buzzing.
He pulled out his phone, frowning. “Sabine, I’m sorry. I’ve got to go.”
I remembered his soccer practice. “If you’re late, I can ask Charlie to give you a ride.” But he shook his head, still looking at his phone.
“That’s okay. I’ve got to call my brother. And my coach.” He rubbed the back of his neck, squinting at the phone like it might change its message to something he’d rather see.
A little flutter of fear winged in my heart. “Can I do anything?” He pulled his eyes from his phone and put it in his pocket.
“Yeah.” He took my hand and kissed the inside of my wrist. My hope bird just about tried to punch through my chest and fly away. “Keanu’s having a party tomorrow night at our place. Come.” I’d barely nodded before he was off, jogging down the block. I watched until I couldn’t see him anymore. My face had gone numb from smiling.
I sat down on the front steps, pulled an old box of Red Vines from my backpack, and nervously chewed through three of them until my heart settled. Then I pulled out my homework, since I wasn’t about to make it to the library now. I had finished a paragraph for French when Blythe walked up.
“Where did you go after school?” she asked, sitting down beside me. It was on the tip of my tongue to blurt it all out: city hall, the punch list, the paint cans, and kissing Kai. To tell her how Mrs. McMichaels was in there now, probably fining us within an inch of our house. To tell her that I was saving us from this place, even if she wouldn’t.
But Mrs. McMichaels’s voice echoed down the driveway, followed by Charlie’s.
A door slammed, and we both stood up to see the commotion. “I assure you there’s no limit to the number of fines I’m authorized to levy!” Mrs. McMichaels lifted her voice over echo of the slam. “I might as well be city hall as far as you’re concerned.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake.” Charlie’s voice rose as he followed her down the driveway. “You can’t stop every single project in Thornewood just to spite us!”
My mom hurried out, hands wide in appeal. “Mrs. McMichaels. There must be some course of action.” She was using her displeased-client voice. “A committee we can speak with?”
“I am the committee. The neighborhood vote was denied. You can put in permit requests every day for the next fifty years, but they won’t be granted.” Mrs. McMichaels swung her tote across her shoulder, gripped her clipboard to her chest, and planted both feet. “You have no choice but to stop these so-called renovations and sell Magnolia Blossom to the city. Good day.” She spun on her heel and headed toward a white Tesla decorated with the Thornewood crest: a tree that looked more like a brain.
Sell to the city. The relief I felt in that moment sagged my shoulders. We could leave. We could go home.
“What’s going on?” Blythe asked. Charlie and Mom were exchanging nasty looks worthy of their ten-year history. My mom flattened her lips into a line, giving Charlie a long look before she turned to us.
“You know what?” Her voice was suspiciously sweet, like it got when she talked to resellers who were trying to raise their prices on her. “I need you two to go next door and pick up our misdirected mail. The house with the big hedge. Mrs. Costello is waiting.”
“But what about the—” Mom cut me off with a hand, then pointed down the block. As we walked a few houses down to number six Highland, which sometimes got our mail, I opened my mouth to tell Blythe everything—especially now that my plan had worked. But she spoke first.
“Did I hear that right?” She glanced back at the house, where Mom and Charlie were walking back up the driveway, bickering. “We have to sell the house?” She shook her head. “I’m so sick of all this change.” She stopped on the sidewalk outside Mrs. Costello’s house and let her backpack drop to the ground. “I don’t want to move again. I finally found a school that works as hard as I do.”
The nervous flutter of my hope bird’s wings made me feel a little queasy. I chewed my lip as she kicked her backpack half-heartedly.
“We could move someplace here, in Thornewood.” I glanced around at all the sameness—big green boxwood and big white houses. It wasn’t what I’d had in mind. “There’s probably another place here for us. Just you, me, and Mom.”
Blythe kept her eyes on the ground. “Thornewood is expensive. We can’t afford another house here.”
I swallowed over that truth. “Kai lives in an apartment.” Blythe seemed to consider that, then shook her head, toeing her backpack. “But what’s the likelihood of us getting one? No. We can’t move. We need to figure out a way to stay.”
“What?” I tried to stop my face from showing how pissed off that made me, but I couldn’t. I’d just spent hours upon hours reading forms of tiny print and weirdly worded fifty-year-old Thornewood Historic District rules to make sure we could move. How did she not see that as long as we stayed here, every day would remind us that our lives were lies? “No.”
“What do you mean, no?” Blythe curled her lip, unused to me disagreeing with her. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to get into MIT? Rolly is a top-ranked school. If I do well, I’ll be a serious candidate.”
I just wanted a place that felt like mine. Why didn’t Blythe want that, too? Why was she so focused on two-point-seven years from now that she couldn’t see how bad now was? I had to keep it together and convince her to be on my side. “So in the meantime, we live in a construction zone, then share a room with s
trangers?”
She shrugged. “You heard Mrs. McMichaels. They can’t get their permit, so there won’t be any bunk sharing. Just get over it.”
I suddenly wished for the scent of my dad’s study—that smoky, cracked-leather smell. Manila folders and musty books. And I wanted the Handbags: A Love Story book he always kept open on a side table, in case I wanted to flip through it. I wanted a home for my family. Without that—without a true place that looked and felt like me—who was I? Nobody.
I swept my thumbnail across my lower lip. “I’m nobody, who are you? Are you nobody, too? Nobody, no body.” Blythe had turned to Mrs. Costello’s door, thinking the conversation was over. Now she turned back to me, hissing.
“Can’t you control the weird?”
I didn’t like to stop midphrase. “I’m nobody, who the heck are you? Shhh. Don’t tell. Never tell.” She yanked my hand away from my face. “You have a compulsion, you know that? This is a compulsion.” I swallowed until the words went back where they’d come from. “Can you try not to quote poetry at school anymore? Unless it’s for a class or something?”
I looked at Blythe’s drawn-on sleeve. Talk about compulsions.
Probably hearing us on her front porch, Mrs. Costello opened the door, her long brown hair swinging. Her house smelled of gingerbread, and pictures covered the entryway and living room walls—family photos thrown in with art—some in mismatched frames, some tacked up without any frame at all. Maryann Interiors would never approve, but I loved it. On a sofa, there were tamped-down throw pillows, and the softwood floors were covered with scuffs. We’d never been allowed to put up family photos or art on the walls unless they were in matching frames, but still—something about Mrs. Costello’s home reminded me of our cottage in Dana Point.
“Wait a minute, okay?” Mrs. Costello said. “I have mail and ginger cookies for you.” When she walked into the house, flipping on warm yellow lights as she went, I turned on Blythe.
It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her that her clothing-drawing thing was just as weird as my poeting thing and that everyone knew she had a crush on Nate and that she should just go for it already because she may never find another guy who liked Sharpie as much as she did. But if I wanted to get out of number six Magnolia and into a home like Mrs. Costello’s, I needed Blythe. If I wanted to keep the memory of my mom’s head on my dad’s shoulder each night at the kitchen sink, then I had to get Blythe on my side. Because if we left this place, if we never had to see Charlie again, my parents could still be two people who were truly in love, and they could stay that way forever.
I took a deep breath. “Don’t you want a home like Mrs. Costello’s? All lived-in and comfortable?”
Her face was in her phone, and she didn’t look at me. “I want to get into MIT.”
I needed a new tack. Mrs. Costello was coming back, a plate of steaming gingersnaps in one hand and a pile of mail in the other. I had the overwhelming compulsion to ask her if I could live here, with her and her funky art-covered walls. I pinched my eyes closed tightly for one moment. Then I had an idea:
“Do you want to go to a party tomorrow night?”
17
WE NEVER KNOW HOW HIGH OUR HEARTS CAN FLY
The next night, Blythe and I stood in the parking lot beside Kai’s building, sweater-lint removing and teeth checking. Blythe patted her hair, which she had straightened and worn down, for once. I gave her a thumbs-up, and we followed the sound of rap music up to the exterior stairs to the second floor. At Kai’s apartment, the door opened, and two college guys stepped out, beer cans in hand.
Blythe raised her eyebrows. Neither of us fell into the prude category, but neither of us drank. In eighth grade at a sleepover, we’d gotten sick off of a bottle of my mom’s red wine, and I’d vomited burgundy onto our white shag rug. That was it for us and alcohol.
“They’re in college,” I told her. “Berkeley.” She gave a nod, like this made their drinking okay with her, and we walked in.
Inside, the music was booming, and people were everywhere. The crowd skewed white and Asian, but, like the Bay Area itself, there were people of all colors and all hairstyles and—what I liked to see best—people with some seriously great fashion sense. But I didn’t see anyone I recognized. I squinted through the dark, looking for Kai. Just the thought of seeing him sent flutters across my skin. I was having trouble stopping thoughts of me and Kai, Kai and me. When I thought of that kiss in the attic, which I did during most waking hours, my cheeks got hot, and I couldn’t help but wonder what would happen next. Would he be my boyfriend now? Was that how this worked? I tried not to think of the selfies we’d post together as I looked into the darkness for Kai’s now-familiar face.
But it was Nate, hair down and wearing a purple headband, who popped out of the crowd. He pulled us into the more well-lit dining room, where a group of people were playing beer pong. When we came in, they offered us cups. Nate grabbed a cup to play, and Blythe reached up and snaked his hairband off and put it on herself.
“Hey! That’s my beautification device.” He handed her the cup, as if in exchange for the hairband, but when he reached for it, she ducked away.
“Purple’s more my color,” Blythe said.
Nate threw his hands up in exaggerated frustration. “But you don’t need beautifying. You look great.” It took him a minute to follow that with: “You both look great.” But I didn’t mind that he was only looking at her. I’d convinced Blythe to wear a plain black V-neck, and when she’d tried to bring her hoodie, I’d thrown it back on its hook. If all was to go accordingly, and Blythe was to be wooed back to my side, I would not be needed for beer pong. So I stepped back to give them space and caught a glimpse of Emma in the kitchen. I heaved a sigh of relief. At least there was one person I knew here.
I made my way toward her, ducking around couples dancing and a huge coffee table littered with red Solo cups. Emma looked gorgeous, and I couldn’t wait to see her dress up close—the hem had an asymmetrical line and no ruffles for once, just a little fringe on the hem and seams. It really flattered her narrow figure. I was so glad I’d gone ahead and worn my crazy thigh-high boots and red knit minidress. I could never compete with Emma for fabulousness, but at least my boots were awesome.
I finally got around the table and tried to wave to Emma, but people moved between us. I craned my neck and stepped into the doorway. That’s when I saw the guy she was with. He was leaning back against a cabinet, one arm loosely propped on her shoulder. I watched as she wrapped herself around his waist and nestled into his chest. Then she lifted her face and kissed his neck. Right in the muscled sweep beside his shoulder. My face fell off my body. I’d have to come back for it later.
Because . . . it was Kai. Emma and Kai. Kai and Emma. Emmai. Kaima. Karma.
I pressed my fingertips to my lips. I touched the side of my neck. Just yesterday, his hands were there, his lips were there. I could still feel the warmth of him. I could still taste his mouth, tingling like cinnamon. But he was standing there, letting her kiss his neck. Letting her run her finger around his collar. And down to his heart. I could still feel his heartbeat beneath my fingertips. But—she was blond and beautiful and great. Of course she would get the guy. Who was I, with my curls prone to random frizz and my brain prone to insane poetry? It wasn’t like Emma hadn’t warned me. I just hadn’t listened.
I closed my eyes and started to turn away. But it was too late. Emma was already waving me over. I lifted one hand in a pathetic wave and took three wooden steps into the kitchen, which was even more busy and full than the rest of the apartment, because it was where the keg was.
“Get a drink!” Emma pulled away from Kai for a single moment to do a little crazy dance, holding her red Solo cup high. When I shook my head—no thanks—she pushed the cup at me and said, “you need a drink!”
I could feel Kai watching me as I stood there, her cup waving towar
d my face, my face likely as red as my dress. I took a step back and grabbed a Pepsi can from the countertop. “I’m good,” I said, and held it to my lips. It was empty, so I pretended to take a drink. And that’s when the cigarette butt someone put out in the dregs of the can went right into my mouth.
I pressed my lips together to keep from vomiting and pushed past Kai and Emma toward the balcony beyond the kitchen. I shoved open the sliding glass door and hurried to the edge to spit the butt into the shrubs below. I stood there for a long time, spitting the taste of tobacco off my tongue and wondering how my day had gone from dreamy and perfect to a nightmare of ruffles and cigarette butts.
“Sabine?” I didn’t turn. I didn’t look. I didn’t have to. He was beside me. Something caught in my throat: a feather. And I knew how much I’d hoped. How high my heart had flown. I saw the view from the sky; I saw it all. I saw my life from a thousand feet in the air, and then my hope bird plunged to the ground.
I swept my thumbnail over my lower lip. “We never know how high we are.” I swept my thumb harder and harder. “We never know how high—how high our hearts can fly. Fly and touch the sky. How high.”
“Hi.” Kai came up to the balcony railing and leaned against it. Inside, someone closed the sliding glass door, hollering about how someone would call the cops with a noise complaint. I didn’t look back at them, and I didn’t look over at Kai. I kept my eyes on the night sky.
I wondered: Would he be casual, like, It turns out that I’m with someone? Would he act as if our kiss was no big deal? Maybe it wasn’t. We’d spent a few lunches together. We’d held hands in a garden. We’d kissed. It wasn’t a life commitment.
“I’m really glad you came,” he said. I glanced at him just once, quickly. His hair hung in damp waves, like he was just out of the shower. He smelled like cinnamon and cardamom—like he’d be good to eat. It turned my stomach.
I didn’t say anything. My lips were covered in sadness glue.
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