My dad took another step toward me, then stopped, both of us pretty much staying at our ends of the hallway. He ran his hand over the back of his neck, blinking at me like he was surprised to see me too. “I hadn’t realized that you . . .” He cleared his throat, then started again. “I guess I thought . . .” But this sentence trailed off too, and he pushed his shirtsleeve back to look at his watch. “It’s late, isn’t it?”
“Um, I don’t know,” I said, stopping myself before pointing out that he was the one with the watch.
“It’s after two,” he said, and I nodded, realizing that sounded about right.
“What were you doing up?” I asked, even though this really wasn’t that unusual. When my dad was home, he worked late most nights. And the weekends that I took the train to D.C. to stay in the apartment he kept in Dupont Circle—visits that always were accompanied by carefully crafted social media messages about how I was going to see my dad—I sometimes didn’t even see him; he was in his office or at meetings the whole time.
“I had to put some things in order,” he said, closing his eyes for a moment and rubbing the bridge of his nose. “There’s a lot I’m leaving half-done, and I want to make sure that it’s taken care of.”
I nodded and took a step back toward the staircase. “So . . . ,” I started as my dad took crossed his arms over his chest.
“Is this when you normally come in?” he asked, sounding more confused than anything else. “Joy was okay with it?”
I bit my lip hard, to make sure I wouldn’t laugh. I’d never really had a curfew to speak of. Ever since I was twelve, there had been a revolving crew of vaguely related people who’d come to stay and help out with me. There had been an actual nanny hired when I’d first come back from Camp Stepping Stone, the summerlong grief camp my dad had sent me to right after the funeral. But when his opponent during that election found out about it, he started using it in his speeches as a way to trash my dad, saying that he would never hire outsiders to take care of his children. So the nanny had been let go, and I’d had the first of many distant relatives come to stay. This had ended the controversy, thanks to Peter’s spin—my dad was just bringing in family to help out during a difficult time. It was pretty hard to demonize that, the grieving widower doing the best he could, even though his opponent kept trying, which probably contributed to my dad’s keeping his seat that fall. They never stayed all that long, these second cousins and stepsiblings’ children—they moved into the house or the furnished apartment above the garage, drove me around, and for the most part, let me do my own thing.
Once I was able to drive myself, the job had pretty much become symbolic, there in case someone questioned whether the congressman’s daughter was living unsupervised by herself while he was in D.C. The most recent person had been Joy, my dad’s stepsister’s stepdaughter, but as soon as the scandal had exploded and my dad had moved back, she’d moved out, leaving a note on the kitchen counter telling my dad where to send her last check. But the high turnover of relatives meant I could tell them whatever I needed to when they moved in, and one of the first things I’d told Joy was that I had no curfew.
“Yeah,” I said now, taking another step toward the staircase. “She was fine with it.”
“Ah,” my dad said, nodding.
“Oh,” I said, remembering and turning back before I headed up the stairs. We were at opposite ends of the hallway now, and I couldn’t make out his expression clearly anymore. “Peter texted. He wanted to know how you were doing.”
My dad looked at me for a moment, then sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. “I’m fine,” he said, even though I could hear the exhaustion in his voice.
“Well, you should probably tell Peter that. He seemed worried.” My dad and I just stood there until the silence between us started to feel suffocating. “Night,” I said, turning away and not letting myself look back, not even waiting to hear if he said it back to me. Then I hit the last light switch, throwing the foyer into darkness, and took the steps up to my room two at a time.
Chapter THREE
My phone rang the next morning at seven a.m.
I rolled over and reached for it, squinting at the screen. I didn’t recognize the number, but it was a Baltimore area code. I answered immediately. “Hello?” I asked, hating that it probably sounded like I just woke up.
“Good morning,” a woman’s voice on the other end said. “This is Caroline from the Young Scholars Program at Johns Hopkins. May I speak to Alexandra Walker?”
“Speaking,” I said. I held the phone away from me for a moment and cleared my throat hurriedly, making myself sit up straight. Just hearing the words “young scholars” was enough for me to start feeling some giddy butterflies in my stomach. Maybe she was calling to give me a last-minute reminder, or an official, day-before welcome.
“Oh.” She cleared her throat, and I could hear some papers rustling on her end. “I’m sorry to call so early.”
“I was awake,” I assured her, hoping that my voice wasn’t contradicting this as I spoke. “And I’m incredibly excited to start the program tomorrow.”
There was a pause, and I heard the papers rustling again. “Yes,” she said, and then I heard her take an audible breath, the kind you take before something painful is about to happen. “About that. I’m so sorry, but we’re going to have to withdraw your acceptance to our program this year.”
I froze, and felt myself blink twice. “Excuse me?” I asked, turning the volume up on my phone and pressing it harder against my ear, figuring I must have just misheard her.
“Yes, I’m afraid . . .” On the other end, the papers rustled again, and my heart started to beat very fast, like I’d just downed my daily latte in one gulp. “It looks like Dr. Rizzoli has withdrawn his letter of recommendation. And since we did not have another on file for you, your place went to one of the students on our waiting list.”
“What?” I whispered, my hand gripping the phone so tightly my knuckles were turning white. “I don’t understand. I mean, this must be . . . There has to be something else I can do.”
“I’m afraid there isn’t. Your spot has already been reassigned. And I’m sorry for the late notice, but Dr. Rizzoli didn’t send us the e-mail until last night,” she said. I could hear the relief in her voice, like she’d gotten the hard part over with. She could see the finish line and just wanted to be off this call with me. “Your deposit and your tuition will of course be refunded.”
“Wait,” I said, not even having anything to follow this but somehow needing to keep her on the phone, to try to figure out some way around this. Because this couldn’t really be happening. It couldn’t.
“Again, our apologies,” she said, and I could tell how much she wanted to wrap this up. “You will be more than welcome to apply for next year’s program, of course.”
“But—” I said, willing myself to think faster. “I . . .”
“Have a nice day.” A second later the call was disconnected and I was staring down at my phone. The whole conversation, completely wrecking my summer plans and possibly jeopardizing my future as a doctor, had taken two minutes and thirty-three seconds.
My heart was still beating hard, and I had a desperate, panicky feeling flooding through my body. I needed to do something. I needed to fix this. Somehow, I had to make this okay again. These things had to be reversible. This couldn’t be over.
I looked across my room, the early-morning light slanting through my blinds, and saw my suitcase, the one that I’d packed last night, after having practically memorized the “What to Bring” section of my informational documents. Somehow, seeing it there was enough to steel my resolve. I had packed. I had made plans and built my whole summer around this. Some woman named Caroline was not going to stop all of that with a two-minute phone call.
I pulled up my contacts and scrolled through them. I didn’t have a number for Dr. Rizzoli, only an address from when I’d sent him his thank-you note. This whole thing had to be becaus
e of yesterday’s press conference. There was no other explanation for why he would suddenly be trying to distance himself from anything to do with my father—in this case, me.
But if he’d sent an e-mail undoing this, he could send another one putting things back into place. There was still some time, after all—the program didn’t start until tomorrow. This could all still be okay. I just had to convince him that this had nothing to do with my dad and that he needed to contact the program and tell them the e-mail had been a mistake, sent accidentally from the drafts folder, in an Ambien haze, whatever—I didn’t care what he told Johns Hopkins. But he had to reverse this. He had to.
And I had a feeling he’d have a lot harder time telling me he couldn’t if I was standing in front of him.
I pushed myself out of bed and ran toward my closet.
• • •
Twenty minutes later I sat in my car, across the street from the house of Dr. Daniel Rizzoli. He lived on Sound Beach, over by the water. The closer you got to the water, the nicer the houses got—gorgeous and huge and intimidatingly fancy, and Dr. Rizzoli’s was no exception. The last time I’d been there, it had been for a fund-raiser for my dad. The house’s gates had been flung wide, there had been candles in lanterns lining the driveway, and valets in white coats running around parking cars.
My phone buzzed in the cupholder, and I looked down at it—it was a text from Palmer. She and Tom were going for breakfast at the diner in case anyone wanted to join them. I didn’t know why they were up this early, but I also didn’t want to get distracted by a text exchange. I had to focus. I put my phone facedown on the passenger seat, then flipped open the visor mirror of my car and gave myself a last look. I’d wanted to look like I was competent and deserving of a recommendation, but not too dressed up, considering it wasn’t even eight yet. I’d gone with dark jeans and a button-down, and since I didn’t want to waste time doing something with my hair, I’d pulled it into a knot on top of my head. I slicked on a tiny bit more lip gloss, then dropped it in my bag and flipped the visor up.
“Okay,” I said, taking in a breath, holding it for seven seconds, then letting it out for ten. It was actually the only thing I’d taken away from Camp Stepping Stone—a way of making your heart rate slow and calming yourself down. I used it whenever I was preparing to do something stressful. But while this was not the most pleasant thing I could imagine doing today, at least I was prepared. I’d turned the radio off and practiced my speech the whole way over. I had answers lined up for all the arguments I could imagine Dr. Rizzoli making. I could do this. I took a breath, opened the door, and stepped out into the sunshine. “Hello, Dr. Rizzoli,” I murmured under my breath, practicing. “Good morning, Dr. Rizzoli. Sorry to bother you . . .” I nodded. That was the one. I straightened my shoulders and headed for the house.
I was halfway across the street when I heard the dog.
There was the sound of loud, joyful barking, and I turned around and felt my eyes widen. A large white fluffy dog was galloping down the road, tongue flying sideways out of its mouth, limbs landing in a haphazard pattern that seemed to send it listing to the side and then scrambling for balance every few steps. There was a leash dragging on the ground behind it, the plastic handle scraping along the asphalt with a dull hiss, occasionally bumping over rocks, but the dog was alone—there was no indication that there had been a human on the other end at some point. I looked around, starting to get concerned as the dog zigzagged back and forth across the road. This wasn’t a busy street, but I still didn’t think it was a good idea for this dog to be running loose.
“Here, um, you,” I called, gesturing toward myself and feeling incredibly self-conscious about it. “Come here.” The dog stopped and looked at me, then sat down right in the middle of the street, which I didn’t think was an improvement. “Come on,” I said again, gesturing to myself again as I took a small step closer to it. The dog leaped up and ran a few steps away, then sat down again, and I could see his long tail thumping on the ground. Clearly, he thought we were playing a game, and he seemed thrilled about it. “Okay, just stay,” I said as I started to move toward him slowly. I was only a few feet away from the leash that was lying on the ground. If I could get ahold of it, I could at least try to figure out what should happen next.
I had very little experience with dogs. We’d never had one when I was growing up, and none of my friends had dogs either. Palmer’s family had cats that were semi-feral and came and went as they pleased, and Bri had Miss Cupcakes, evil feline. Nathan Trenton, who I’d dated sophomore year, had a really awesome mutt that I’d loved. Nathan used to complain that I was more excited to see his dog than to see him, and when I’d realized that was true, I’d broken up with him.
I moved carefully toward the dog, whose tail was still thumping on the ground. It was looking right at me, mouth open and tongue hanging out, and I could have sworn that it was smiling at me. I reached out slowly, keeping eye contact as I inched my way closer.
“Birdie!” This was yelled out in a loud, panicky voice, and I turned around to see a guy running up the street, looking around frantically. When he saw the dog, I could see his shoulders slump with relief, even from a distance. He started running faster, and I turned back to the dog, which was when I noticed two things at almost exactly the same time.
One, the dog was getting ready to run again, apparently convinced that his favorite game had taken on a new and exciting layer. And two, there was a car heading down the street toward us, going much faster than it should have been.
I moved without even realizing I was going to. Going on instinct and panic, I ran toward the dog and grabbed its leash in my hand, then pulled him across the road. I felt the dog resist at first, but then it must have thought this was a fun idea, because it started running, first next to me, then past me, pulling me off my feet. I hit the ground just as I heard a screech of brakes and a guy yelling, “Hey!” I saw the car swerve, then head off down the street again, still going too fast.
The dog started covering my face in slobbery kisses, and I pushed it off as I sat up, still holding on to the leash in case he—because I could see now that it was a he—made another run for it. He was big—he had to be at least a hundred pounds, maybe more—with fluffy white hair and a nose that was probably black at one point but was now mostly pink. He had a tail that curled up over his back, black eyes, and stubby white eyelashes. He had not stopped moving for a moment, jumping to his feet, then sitting down and trying to kiss me again, like he was thrilled with the way everything had turned out, his smile still in place.
“Calm down,” I said as I released my grip on the leash slightly. I wiped the dirt and gravel off on my jeans, then reached out and patted the dog’s head, even though he probably didn’t deserve it. His tail started thumping on the ground more rapidly, and he tilted his head to the side, like he was showing me that I should really be petting him by his ears.
“Birdie!” The guy who had yelled before was running up to us, sounding half out of breath. “I’m so sorry—are you—okay? Is he?” He stopped and bent halfway over, his hands on his knees, taking deep breaths.
“I’m fine,” I said as I pushed myself up to standing. I was okay—like, I might have a bruise on my hip tomorrow, but otherwise fine. The dog looked up at me with his head cocked to the side, and I had to admit, he was pretty cute. For a moment I felt sorry that he had been saddled with such a stupid name. I mean, Birdie? For a dog? I brushed off my hands and then rubbed the dog’s ears once more. His hair was soft and silky, and there was so much of it—like if this dog got wet, he’d only be about half this size. I noticed a tag hanging from his green leather collar, a round gold disk with BERTIE in engraved capitals. So that at least made a little more sense than Birdie. But not by much. “Here,” I said, holding out the leash to the guy, who was still trying to get his breath back. I wasn’t going to be rude—that had been drilled out of me years ago, first by my parents and then by Peter—but that didn’t mean I ne
eded to be overly polite to a guy who couldn’t even keep hold of his pet. Also, I had something I had to do.
The guy straightened up and smiled at me. “Thanks,” he said.
I took an involuntary step backward. For some reason, seeing him from a distance, I’d assumed he was older than me—in his twenties, maybe. But this guy looked around my age. He was only an inch or two taller than me, which meant he was probably around five ten, and thin, but with broad shoulders. He had dark brown hair that was cut short and neatly combed and dark brown eyes. He was wearing a black shirt that read THE DROID YOU’RE LOOKING FOR in yellow capital letters, which rang a vague bell, but nothing I could place. I could see that he had two deep dimples, like parentheses around his smile. They were incredibly distracting, and I made myself look away immediately. He was wearing glasses with frames that were straighter on top and then became rounded, and his smile widened when I met his eyes.
“Sure,” I said as I took another step away.
“I—um, I really am sorry,” he said, looking down at the dog. It seemed like he’d gotten his breath back now. “I’m not sure what happened, but the leash got away from me.” He shrugged and went to put his hands in his pockets, and it wasn’t until Bertie’s head got yanked up that he seemed to remember he had a leash in one of them. I saw that his cheeks, and the tips of his ears, were starting to turn red. “Um.” He cleared his throat, his voice getting softer with every word. “I’m not great with dogs.”
I was about to say something to this—like, what kind of excuse was that? He clearly owned a dog—when I decided to let it go. “It’s fine,” I said, giving him a quick smile before I turned back to Dr. Rizzoli’s house. I had taken a few steps toward it when I realized that all the dog drama had taken place in pretty clear view of the front windows. Had Dr. Rizzoli seen what had happened?
The Unexpected Everything Page 5