Bend in the Road

by Sara Biren

“Well, yeah. Why not?”

  “In a perfect world, right? I can’t oversee two farms this size, even if I did keep Laurel on to manage Stone & Wool. And I think I can be honest with you here and say there’s no way I’d be able to afford the buyout, anyway.”

  “Right,” I say, trying to hide my disappointment. That would have been too easy.

  “Thanks for thinking of me, though,” Frank says. “You’re a good kid, Gabe. Hang in there. Everything’s going to work out the way it’s supposed to. That’s what Leona always used to say.”

  My phone buzzes and I pull it out of my pocket.

  Chris: I took care of a few things on this end. PR guy from the label made a statement. All good.

  There’s a link to a video.

  Me: You didn’t think you should run it past me first?

  Chris: What have I always said? Control what you can control. Tell the story you want people to know. You should be thanking me not giving me shit.

  I sigh and look up at Frank as I click on the link. “Sorry, I think I need to watch this.”

  Clear up misconceptions. Experienced an isolated panic attack. Spending time at beloved family farm, focusing on creating new music. Cherishes the time he and Miss Green have spent together, best wishes for her health and recovery, blah-blah-blah.

  All the right things. I don’t read the comments or look at the reactions on social media.

  Suddenly, it all crashes down on me again—the album, the videos, Marley, the money, of course the money—and it’s not panic so much as it’s nausea, hot and swift and lurching. I stand up, fast, as sour saliva pools in my mouth. “Restroom? Where’s the restroom?”

  Frank frowns and points to a door behind the bakery counter. “What’s wrong?” he asks, but I don’t have time to answer.

  I make it to the small bathroom with enough time to flip on the light, lock the door, and kneel at the toilet, losing my breakfast in violent spasms. I kneel there for long minutes after there’s nothing left, catching my breath, wiping away stinging tears. Finally, I stand, wash my hands and splash my face, and return to the table. The server has cleared our plates, and Frank is signing the receipt.

  He looks up. “You look a little green around the gills. You OK?”

  “I’ll live.” I point to the receipt. “I’d like to pay.”

  “Ah, kid, I appreciate that. Next time?”

  I nod and follow Frank toward the front door. He reaches into a bowl by the cash register and hands me a small, wrapped peppermint.

  “How about I drop you off at the farm and you can take care of school tomorrow? You can sleep off whatever bug you got.”

  It’s the best idea I’ve heard all day. Unfortunately, I don’t think a nap will cure what ails me.

  Chapter Ten

  JUNIPER

  I lost this battle.

  Chris owns a garage full of vehicles. Ted lives less than a mile away. And maybe I came out on the right side of the grocery delivery argument, but no amount of reasoning could sway Mom on this. According to her, it makes the most sense for me to drive Gabe Hudson to school.

  “I’m not comfortable with it,” I finally said, a last-ditch effort.

  “What makes you uncomfortable?” Mom dug in. “The decision itself or the fact that you felt you didn’t have a say in the matter? Or does being around Gabe make you feel unsafe in some way?”

  That deflates my sense of injustice slightly. “No, it’s not that. More of a general discontent.”

  “I see. Well, here’s a tip, Juniper. All your life, things are going to make you feel uncomfortable. That’s what it means to step out of your comfort zone. You’ll have to get used to it. Who knows, maybe you and Gabe will become friends.”

  “Don’t hold your breath,” I snapped. “And I happen to like my comfort zone, OK?”

  I sit in the driveway of the main house now and wait, my fingers tapping against the steering wheel of the Chevy Impala that once belonged to Janie’s mom, who sold it to us for a song when she moved into an assisted living facility. Five minutes pass and still, no Gabe. I don’t have his number, so I message Ted instead.

  Me: Could you please text your notorious cousin to let him know that I’m sitting in the driveway and if he doesn’t get his ass out here in the next two minutes, he’ll be late for his first day of public education?

  Ted: Salty.

  Me: Don’t test me today, Theodore.

  Ted: Here’s his contact info. OMW 2 weight room. See ya at lunch.

  I glance back up at the house, a second home to me. Ted and I spent a lot of time with Leona, especially during the summers. She taught me to crochet dishcloths, and I helped her can peaches and green beans and pickles. Ted and I played hide-and-seek in the cornfields and hiked up to the overlook in the park reserve and ate Leona’s homemade grape popsicles—frozen grape juice in Dixie cups—on her front porch. When she got sick and started chemo, we cleaned the house every Saturday morning, taking special care with the knickknacks and picture frames in the living room while she told stories of the people in the photos. Now, she’s a memory, too. A story to pass down.

  I save Gabe’s contact info and am composing a scathing text about how my time is valuable and I deserve respect (which, of course, I won’t actually send, but wasn’t it Abraham Lincoln who said you should write your “hot letter” and get everything off your chest even if you never sign or send it?) when the front door opens and Gabe takes his sweet time making his way across the porch, down the front steps, and across to my vehicle in the driveway. I watch his every move, and I’m not too pissed at him to recognize that his every move is loose and smooth and confident, like he’s comfortable in his own skin. He opens the passenger door and slides in.

  “Hey,” he says. He’s wearing a pair of dark jeans and a soft gray T-shirt under a moss-green Army jacket. No ridiculous, oversized wool coat today. He must be adjusting to the cooler temperatures. His curls aren’t quite as wild as they were yesterday, and he’s got those dark sunglasses on even though the sky is still a dusky pre-sunrise blue.

  I barely slept last night, worried about the farm and what Gabe plans to do with it once he turns eighteen, knowing that he met with Allan yesterday morning. I also tortured myself by playing the videos over and over and clicking through photos of Gabe at the airport. This morning, there’s a video of the guy from the record label reading Gabe’s statement, that he’s decided to spend time on the family farm to regroup and recharge and eventually work with Chris on his next album.

  I’m irritated with myself that I even care.

  “Hey,” I say and back out of the driveway. I glance at him and run my eyes over that jacket again. Is that—oh my God, it has to be.

  “Um, uh,” I stammer, “is that the jacket that Chris wore for Live in Berlin? European leg, ’97? It is, isn’t it? He gave that to you?”

  “Well, he is my dad,” Gabe snaps.

  “Well, it should be in a museum,” I snap back, “or at the very least, a Hard Rock Café.”

  Gabe huffs out a laugh. “Have you ever even been to a Hard Rock Café?”

  This conversation is going about as well as I could expect. “There’s one at the Mall of America, which, I will point out, is located in Minnesota.”

  “Ah, of course. The Mall of America has everything.”

  “Well, no, the American Girl store closed in March.” My cheeks warm at that comment. He probably doesn’t even know what American Girls are. I turn onto the county road. Only eight more minutes of this awkwardness to go. “My point, I guess, is that it’s pretty cool that Chris gave you the jacket. I’ve always wondered about Watson. His story. How many tours he served. If he’s doing OK.” And now I’m rambling.

  “Watson?” Gabe asks.

  “The name. On the jacket. Watson.”

  “Oh, right.” Gabe runs a finger across the name patch. “That’s . . . I guess I’ve never thought about that.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me.”

  “What�
��s that supposed to mean?”

  I wave my hand around vaguely. “You know. I’m sure you’re very busy worrying about your rep or something.”

  “My rep,” he repeats, then falls silent. He doesn’t say another word the remainder of the drive.

  “Meet me back here at 3:30 if you want a ride home,” I say as he gets out. He nods but says nothing, doesn’t make eye contact. I watch him walk through the crowd in the parking lot toward the front steps of the school. Everything about him looks out of place here with our cracked and rutted parking lot, rusty pickup trucks, flannel shirts, hiking boots. We are such a cliché.

  “Wow,” I hear from behind me and I close my eyes, take a deep breath. This is all I need right now. “He’s even hotter in person.”

  Chloe Harland, dubbed Chloe Horrible by Ted after their one “date” to his eighth-grade formal when she ditched him for Deacon Parsons, is your typical almost-mean girl. In a town like this, at our tiny consolidated high school, it doesn’t matter much. Everyone’s a friend in the most basic form of the word, and the friendships come and go in waves. Chloe looked down on me, though, for being a farmer’s daughter (especially because the farmer was a woman and a single mom) and for living in a house that we didn’t own on someone else’s property, someone who used to be a celebrity and was now a washed-up rock star drug addict. However, when Dig Me Under released “Juniper Blue” and Chris reclaimed both his sobriety and his celebrity, and was Harper Mill’s cherished son once again, Chloe welcomed me back into her fold.

  The three of us—me and Amelia and Chloe—survived a lot of sleepovers during the middle school years, until we hit high school and Chloe went one way (makeup, boys, drinking) and Amelia and I went another (mostly studying and hanging out with Ted). My association with Gabe, however, no matter how peripheral, is sure to revitalize my friendship with Chloe once again.

  “Hey, Chlo,” I say as I turn around to face her. Her ivory cheeks are rosy in the brisk morning air, she’s curled her strawberry blonde hair into perfect ringlets, and her smoky eye is flawless. She looks gorgeous, as usual. “What’s up?”

  “Maybe you should tell me what’s up. I can’t believe you’ve been holding out on me.”

  It’s all I can do to not roll my eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “Gabe Hudson is finally in town, and you’ve been keeping him all to yourself!”

  I start to walk toward the front door and Chloe follows. “I wouldn’t say that, exactly,” I say. “I’ve barely seen him. And honestly, if you’re trying to find an in with Gabe Hudson, I’m not the right person. Suck up to Ted, not me.”

  She flips her curls over her shoulder. “As if I need to find an in, Juniper.” She cuts in front of me and sprints to catch up to Gabe.

  A teeny, tiny part of me feels sorry for Gabe and almost wants to warn him about Chloe Horrible, but another, slightly larger part wants to let this play out on its own and see how Mr. Hot Young Celebrity handles it.

  Chapter Eleven

  GABE

  I’m as ready for my first day at Harper-Renton High School as I’ll ever be. Last night, Janie sent me a text to let me know that I was all set to start Tuesday morning, she’d meet me in the school office to help me register, and Juniper had offered to drive me every day. Sure she did.

  Today, Juniper’s hair is up in a high ponytail. She’s wearing a brown cardigan covered with what appear to be tiny, embroidered orange and white foxes set at various angles, a khaki-colored corduroy skirt that lands mid-knee, brown leather boots that almost reach the hem. And glasses with bright orange frames, like the foxes. She’d fit right in back in LA. Maybe not at my celebrity-saturated pretentious prep school, but in general.

  The ride to school is awkward as hell, and even though I have no idea where I’m going, when we get there I don’t waste any time. I pull open the front door of the old, worn brick building. I’m not sure what I was expecting—something from a movie, maybe?—but there are no security guards, no metal detectors. Just miles of sea green lockers and handmade banners on the wall cheering on the football team and announcing a Homecoming Dance.

  Oh God. I’m really in high school. There’s no going back.

  I will get through this day, and then the next one. What did Gran used to say? Worse things happen at sea?

  “Hey,” I say to a girl wearing jeans, a Rolling Stones T-shirt with a dozen different-colored tongues, and bright red rubber boots. “Can you tell me where the office is?”

  She narrows her eyes. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

  I’m surprised the news hasn’t spread. I shrug. “Don’t think so. I just moved to town.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Gabriel.” I’m not sure why I use my full name. Elise and her parents are the only people who ever call me that. “Big Rolling Stones fan?”

  She screws up her mouth. “What?”

  I wave a hand toward her. “Your T-shirt. You must like the Stones?”

  “Oh, right, the band. I saw this at Target and just like it, you know? I swear I know you from someplace. Where’d you move from? Esko? Did you play soccer there?”

  I shake my head. Who doesn’t know the Rolling Stones? “Doesn’t matter.”

  The girl frowns. “Well, Gabriel from doesn’t matter, take a right up there underneath that football banner and you can’t miss it.”

  I nod and turn in that direction as she walks away, but bony fingers on my arm stop me. I look first at the fingers—nails painted a shiny, glittery pink—and then up to a face with a pale, pointed chin, bright pink lipstick, and curly red hair.

  “You’re Gabe Hudson,” she says as she sticks her chest out and nods to herself. “I’m Chloe. Chloe Harland. I overheard you ask Riley where the office is. If she had any manners at all, she’d have walked you there herself. I guess we can’t all be generous and helpful, though. I’d be happy to show you.”

  She smiles but I frown, lifting her hand to remove it from my arm. Nobody touches this jacket. I think about my conversation about it with Juniper in the car. That jacket should be in a museum. I can’t decide if it’s cool that Juniper recognized it or if I’m annoyed by it, if it’s weird that she thinks about the original owner of the coat or endearing.

  Chloe stands before me and blinks her heavy eyelashes, waiting for me to say something.

  “I’m good,” I say. “I’m sure I can find it on my own.”

  “No, really! It’s no trouble at all. Have you registered? I can tell you all the best classes to take. I hope we have some classes together. You’re a senior, right? I’m a senior, too.”

  She takes my arm again and this time pulls me in the direction of the football banner and the hallway that leads to the office. “I was so excited when I heard you were staying! So excited. You’re Ted’s cousin, right? Ted and I are such good friends. I’m sure you’ll go to all the football games, although you’ve already missed three.”

  I can tell this girl isn’t going to back down. I follow her down the hall, the heels of her ankle boots clicking, until we reach a set of glass doors that lead to the office.

  “Here we are!” Chloe trills. “Should I wait for you? Give you a tour?”

  “Oh, no,” I say. “This might take a while. You know.”

  “Are you sure? It’s not a problem.” Chloe looks up at me with wide eyes and a wide smile. I’ll have to ask Ted about her, what she’s like, if she’s genuine. God, I’m losing it if I think that a small-town girl in northern Minnesota is after something.

  “Well, you go on in, then. The office ladies will take care of you. Maybe I’ll see you at lunch! Or we’ll have some classes together! Bye, Gabe!”

  Chloe leaves me at the door, her heels clacking and her hair bouncing against her back as she speed-walks down the hall.

  The office ladies, as Chloe called them, welcome me to HRH and gush over me and my curls (just like Chris’s when he was my age, apparently). Janie handles everything, as she said she would. Barlow-Winston Ac
ademy for the Arts faxed over my transcript yesterday, and she and the principal here hashed out a plan so I can graduate in May. This trimester: World History, Creative Writing, Horticulture, Calculus, and Entrepreneurship & Business Management.

  “Horticulture?” I ask after I scan the schedule. “No offense, but it’s not really, you know, my wheelhouse.”

  Janie clucks. “Well, the fact of the matter is, we have an Earth Science requirement, and none of the classes you took at that fancy LA arts school qualify. Horticulture fits perfectly into your schedule this trimester. You’re living on a farm now, a farm that will partially belong to you in a matter of weeks.”

  Ah yes, there’s that. Not that I need reminding. It’s all I can think about, especially after the meeting with Allan—the farm and the money. Always the money.

  Ted’s words from the park at the river come back to me: Only an ass would sell.

  Suddenly, I’m hot and short of breath. I’m clutching the schedule, looking at it but barely registering the words. The school office is small, desks and copier and cubbies crammed into the small space. There’s not enough air. I gotta get out of here.

  “You can get through this, Gabe,” Janie says gently. “I know you can.”

  I snap my head up. Those words—not the exact lyrics, but close enough. Get through this, I know you will. The lyrics to “Juniper Blue.” I wonder if Janie even realizes it.

  “Sure. Thanks,” I mumble. Sweat drips down my back.

  “Here’s a map of the school. Do you want me to walk you to your first class? Or I could call Ted to come down and take you? Or Juniper?”

  I shake my head. “I’m good. Thanks for everything, Janie.”

  I leave the office, lean against the brick wall, pull out my phone, and type in the search bar. Cell service and Wi-Fi in the building are crap, but after a few seconds of spinning, my search results pop up.

  Commercial real estate Frederick Lake mn

  I find the link for the company I saw on the yellow-and-black signs Sunday night and click Call now.