Josie bites her bottom lip and rocks Lucy, but it’s no use. I swear Lucy’s screams get even louder.
“You try,” Josie says to Bernie, thrusting the baby out toward him.
Bernie takes a step back. “No can do,” he says. “I don’t do babies.”
“What in the world are you talking about?” demands Ned.
Bernie shrugs. “They creep me out,” he calls back, his voice loud over the screams. “They’re like little tiny people.”
“You know, Bernie, I never thought of it that way,” I say slowly. “But now that you mention it, babies are kind of like people.”
“See?” Bernie points to me. “He gets it.”
Josie ignores me, desperately bouncing Lucy up and down.
Ned rolls his eyes and says to Bernie, “He’s making fun of you, you idiot.”
“No, he’s not,” shouts Bernie, at the same time I say, “I would never—”
But before I can finish my thought, the cabin door swings open, revealing a small but serious Maddie Macpherson.
“What’s going on in here?” Maddie steps in and pushes her glasses up on her nose.
“Damn thing won’t stop crying,” says Ned.
“Ned!” Josie glares at him.
“Sorry,” he says. “Damn baby won’t stop crying.”
Josie rolls her eyes.
“I know,” says Maddie. “I’ve been trying to study my multiplication problems, but I can hear her all the way from my cabin.”
“I’m sorry.” Josie desperately jiggles Lucy up and down. “We just got here, and I’ve been trying, but—”
“Here.” Maddie crosses over to Josie, gently but firmly plucks Lucy from her arms, and crosses to the kitchen table, where a pink bag is perched. Maddie rummages through it, pulls out a pacifier, and in one swift move places it in Lucy’s mouth. Immediately, Lucy’s face fades from an angry red to a happy pink, her tiny eyes go wide, her clenched fists unfurl, and the cabin is miraculously, blissfully quiet.
Ned, Bernie, Josie, and I stare at Maddie as she rocks Lucy back and forth. Maddie’s brows knit together as she peers at the baby in her arms. Her rocking is steady and rhythmic, almost business-like. The baby squirms one more time before she stills completely. Maddie nods, apparently satisfied. She looks up at us.
“What?” she asks.
“You’re like magic,” I say.
Beside me, Josie nods.
Maddie rolls her eyes. “Please. When a baby is crying, you stick a pacifier in its mouth. It’s not rocket science.”
The door behind me creaks open, and we all turn. Wendy ducks inside, followed by Eric.
“What’s not rocket science?” She smiles at all of us.
“Getting your baby to be quiet,” Ned grumbles. “But I sure as hell couldn’t do it.”
Eric frowns. He’s a tall guy, over six feet, with thick dark hair and tanned skin and big broad shoulders. He’s huge, and he barely smiles, and he’s pretty quiet, which makes him seem even scarier. I used to think it was so funny that he was married to Wendy, the bounciest, friendliest, happiest woman of all time. But after Lucy was born, I could see why. It’s hard to shake the image of a giant manly man speaking baby talk. Watching him coo to Lucy these last few weeks has made me see the soft side of Eric. The side Wendy probably saw all along.
“Was she a lot of trouble?” Eric asks.
“No,” Josie and Maddie say in unison, at the same that Ned replies, “Yes.”
“I’m sorry if she made a fuss,” Wendy says nervously. “But she looks pretty happy now.”
“Why does it take two people to run to the store, anyway?” asks Ned. “You two got separation anxiety or something?”
Wendy glances at Eric and then to the ground, shuffling her feet, and a distinct red floods Eric’s dark cheeks. It’s then that I notice Wendy’s mussed hair and wrinkled shirt. And a distinct red mark on Eric’s neck. I look at Josie and raise my eyebrows, and she cocks her head, confused.
“W-Well,” Wendy stammers, but I cut her off.
“Don’t try and change the subject, Ned,” I say. “You can’t distract us from the fact that you couldn’t handle one tiny baby for one tiny hour.”
Bernie laughs. “He’s right.”
Wendy and Eric both glance at each other, relieved, a look only I catch.
“Look,” Josie whispers. “She’s sleeping.”
Everyone creeps a little closer. I shuffle off to the side to make room for Wendy and Eric. Sure enough, Lucy’s eyes are closed, her soft eyelashes fluttering with every gentle breath she takes. The cabin, cozy in the now-darkness outside, is filled with a soft quiet.
I watch them all there, peering at the peaceful sleeping bundle in Maddie’s arms. Two wrinkled old men wearing faded trucker hats, a smug eight-year-old in pigtails, two blissfully happy young parents, and Josie. Josie, whose smile takes over her whole face, rounding her cheeks into apples and creasing the skin around her eyes and making her look soft and warm and beautiful.
Beautiful. I’ve never thought of Josie as beautiful before. I’ve never thought to think of Josie as beautiful before. But now here’s that word, humming in my head, as I watch her watch Lucy.
They look like a family, huddled in a group, the fading sunlight from the window casting them in a dusty glow. And here I am, close enough but still a few steps back. Enjoying the moment, but not quite part of the group. It’s always this way with me at Paintbrush. I hang around the fringes of every moment. Not because I’m not included or not welcome, but because, sometimes, I’m afraid I’ll get in too deep here. And then I’ll never be able to leave.
By the time the crowd in Ned’s cabin disperses, it’s almost nine. Bernie says he’s going back to sleep, Ned says he’s working on a whittling project, and Wendy and Eric head out to put Lucy to bed. It’s Sunday night, a school night. It’s time for me to go back to my cabin. And it’s time for Josie to go back to hers.
Which is why I’m surprised to hear the words tumbling out of my mouth. “How about a game of chess?”
Even in the darkness outside Ned’s cabin, I can see Josie squinting at me.
“You want to play a game of chess?” She sounds skeptical.
“Yeah,” I say, trying to sound casual. I cast around for an excuse in my head. “You know, school’s winding down for us. No homework and all that.”
“We have English homework,” Josie says.
“Oh. Right.” I pause for a second. “I meant . . . we should sharpen our brains while we have the chance. Studies show that playing chess can really improve your concentration, your memory, your focus. All of that. Real brain food.”
I’m totally babbling now, embarrassed just listening to the nonsense coming out of my mouth. Josie just looks at me.
“Brain food,” she repeats. She is not making this easy for me.
I take a deep breath, and I tell the truth. “I don’t want to go home yet. And I don’t want to be alone.” And I don’t want this day to end, I think. But that I don’t say. I don’t know what’s happening right now between Josie and me, what’s been happening these last few days. All I know is that today, which should have been totally miserable and awful, was actually kind of beautiful and good. And I know that Josie is the reason why.
But I have no idea if she feels this way. Maybe she feels like all my talking ruined her solitary nature hike. Maybe she thinks that I’m totally insane for wanting to play a random game of chess on a random Sunday night.
But after a brief pause, Josie nods. “Okay,” she says simply. And she follows me across the soft grass and through the dark, all the way to the Sanctuary.
Chapter Nineteen
Josie
“No,” I say.
“Yep.” Mitchell grins at me.
“Are you sure?”
“One hundred percent. There was a hickey on his neck and everything. They stuck Ned with their baby so they could go fool around.”
Hearing Mitchell say the phrase fool aroun
d makes my face heat up. I hope he doesn’t notice. “They must have been really desperate for some alone time if they stuck Lucy with Ned.”
Mitchell nods. “Agreed. You have to admit it’s pretty cute, though.”
I move a bishop. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, she just had a baby. Which I’ve heard is a pretty messy experience.” I scrunch up my nose at this gross image, but he continues. “And the last few months have been full of crying and diapers and baby food. Not exactly sexy stuff. But they’re still all over each other.”
I consider this. “I guess you’re right.”
“I’m always right,” he says.
I raise my eyebrows and point to the board. “Checkmate.”
Mitchell groans. “Three times. Are you really gonna beat me at chess three times in a row? Couldn’t you have let me win one to save face?”
“If I let you win, how will you ever learn?” I start to collect my pieces.
“Round four?” Mitchell looks at me hopefully.
I glance at the clock. It’s almost midnight. I shouldn’t, I think. But I start to set up my pieces again. He does the same, shuffling his knights and pawns and king and queen back to starting position.
“It’s been a long time since I beat you at chess,” I say as we work.
“That makes it sound like I usually beat you.” He smirks at me.
I roll my eyes. “You know what I mean. It’s been a long time since we’ve played chess. Period.”
We learned to play chess together at this very table, back in first grade. John, Mitchell’s dad, taught us; he said knowing how to play chess is an important life skill everyone should have. Learning the game was annoying at first. But once we picked it up, Mitchell and I were unstoppable. We played every chance for months and months.
“I seem to remember you beating me a lot back then, too.” It’s like Mitchell’s reading my mind.
I shake my head. “It was pretty even.”
He points at me. “Don’t baby me. I can take it.”
“Fine.” I laugh. “I was definitely always better than you.”
“Not at blackjack, though.” He grins. “I was always better at blackjack.”
“Very true,” I say.
Another life skill we acquired in first grade: Ned and Bernie insisted on teaching us to play blackjack. They thought if they trained us early enough, we would be able to count cards when we grew up and hit it big at casinos. When Myra found out, she was horrified at first. And then kind of impressed when she realized we could actually play. We never got the hang of counting cards, though.
“It’s amazing what first graders can do when they don’t have TV to distract them,” says Mitchell.
The board is all set up for another game, but neither of us makes a move to start. Mitchell collapses back against the couch he’s sitting on. I lean forward on the folding table and rest my chin on my hands.
“That’s definitely why I learned to read so early,” I agree. “Nothing better to do.”
“Nah,” he says. “You were always so naturally smart.”
I look down at the table. The glow from the lamp in the corner is dim; hopefully he can’t see my cheeks turning pink.
“It’s true.” He leans forward, across the table, until our faces are only a foot or so apart. “Josie. Can I ask you a question?”
My heart pounds. The new nervous energy I’ve felt the past few days is definitely tangible now. “Yeah?”
“Why aren’t you going to college?” he asks softly.
My heart falls a little. I don’t know what I expected him to ask, but it wasn’t this. My shoulders tense, and I cross my arms.
“I am going,” I say. “To community college.”
“You know what I mean.” He sits back, running a hand through his hair. “Community college can be useful, and it saves you money, and I’m not trying to say anything bad about it. But you’re smart. You take all AP classes. You could have gone to so many places.”
I pick up one of my pawns, rolling it in my hand. “I don’t know what I would do in college.”
He frowns. “What do you mean? You would live in a dorm; you would go to class—”
“No, I mean what I would actually do. What I would study.”
“Lots of people don’t know what they want to study. You figure it out along the way.”
“It’s more than that. I don’t even have the faintest idea. I don’t feel pulled to anything, or passionate about anything. Everything I like is here.” I laugh weakly. “The only thing I like is planting tomatoes. And you can’t major in tomatoes.”
“You can major in agricultural engineering, though. Or biology, or botany.” He rests his forearms on the table.
I stay quiet. He thinks I’m boring, I think. Or pathetic. Or maybe both. I don’t really know what to say. So I go with my standard, easy answer, the one I’ve been telling myself since the college application deadlines came and went back in the winter.
“I want to stay here.” My voice wobbles. I do want to stay here. Right? I straighten up and square my shoulders, force my voice to even out. “My mom needs my help. And my sisters need someone who is actually going to watch out for them.”
“So you never want to leave Paintbrush.”
It’s a statement more than a question. He’s judging me. He keeps his expression neutral and blank, but there’s no way he isn’t judging me. Mitchell wants to leave here so, so badly; how could he ever respect someone who wants to stay?
I don’t know what to say, so I shrug again. There’s an awkward silence. Mitchell leans away again.
“I didn’t mean—”
“It’s okay,” I say quickly. “It’s not a big deal.”
He runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t want you to think I’m judging you. I’m just curious.”
I take a deep breath. “I just don’t think I’m a college type of girl.”
Mitchell tilts his head, like he’s trying to figure me out. “Then what type of girl are you?”
So many answers tumble through my head, jostling for attention. A daughter. A sister. A Paintbrush girl. And one last answer, the most unexpected of all, and the one that sticks out the most: a girl who might really like you.
But none of these are good answers. They all sound stupid or boring, even in my head, and the last one is just embarrassing. So I say, “The type of girl who needs to go to bed.”
Mitchell laughs. “Yeah. That’s the type of guy I am right now, too.”
We put the chess pieces back, working in a comfortable silence to put everything in the right place. When we walk out the front door a little later, Paintbrush is totally quiet, the cabins enveloped in darkness. Every cabin but one.
“Are you kidding me?” Mitchell mutters. He stops and squints at his cabin in the distance, the only dot of light in the dark landscape. “It’s after midnight.” He groans. “I bet she’s in there. Trying to trap me before I go to bed.”
I reach out to touch his arm, but I think better of it at the last second and just shake my head. “I’m sorry.”
He slumps his shoulders and gestures back at the Sanctuary. “Maybe I should sleep in there again.”
“Or maybe . . .” I glance at him out of the corner of my eye.
He sighs. “Just say it.”
“Maybe you should go talk to her?” I suggest, my voice small. “I mean, it’s not really my business, but . . .”
“It kind of is your business, actually,” he says. “She made it everyone’s business with that dramatic dinner announcement.”
“It wasn’t the most subtle way of doing things,” I agree.
Mitchell snorts. It’s not quite a laugh, but it’s better than angry yelling. Or worse, crying.
“Okay.” He squares his shoulders.
“Okay,” I say back. But he makes no move to actually go.
“Okay,” I say again, more forcefully, and I give him a little push in the middle of his back.
He stumbles forward and laughs. “Okay, okay. I’m going. Here I go.”
He starts forward. After a few steps, he whips around.
I cross my arms. “What now?”
“Thanks, Josie.” He gives me a tired smile.
I’m not entirely sure what he’s thanking me for, so I just nod. He turns around and slowly starts making his way to his cabin. And I walk to mine, slipping into the dark living room and gently closing the door behind me and feeling unexpectedly, inexplicably, happy.
Chapter Twenty
Mitchell
I was right. When I walk into my cabin, letting the screen door slam behind me, my mom is sitting at the kitchen table. A book lies on the table in front of her, but it is closed. And a coffee mug sits in front of her, completely full and untouched. My dad is nowhere to be seen.
She shoots up when she sees me, her chair screeching backward.
“Hi, honey,” she says. She is buzzing with a nervous, tired energy; her fingers tap a frantic beat on her thighs, she bites her lower lip, and her hair is thrown up in a sloppy ponytail.
I stand just inside the doorway, making no move to get any closer. “Where’s Dad?”
She glances toward his closed bedroom door. “He went to sleep,” she says. “But he let me wait up here so I could see you.”
“Well, here I am.” I sound sarcastic and obnoxious, and I know it.
Her hopeful expression falls at my tone, and as terrible as it sounds, her disappointment gives me a definite sense of satisfaction.
“Sweetie.” She gestures toward the seat across from her. “I know it’s late. But can you please sit with me? Just for a few minutes?”
She’s practically shaking, the bags under her eyes like bruises on her skin. She looks so desperate, so sad, so completely terrified that I’ll say no. It’s so tempting to just walk into my room and slam the door. But I look at her red, tired eyes and reluctantly slide into the seat across from her. She closes her eyes, relieved, and then slowly takes her seat.
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