by Elise Bryant
At seven forty-five, I finally leave my room. My hair isn’t fully dry, but it’s as dry as it’s going to get, and after I picked it out a little bit, it actually looks really nice.
Dad’s already left for work, and Miles is in the family room, eating a bowl of cereal with his eyes glued to Dream Zone. They’re performing “Together Tonight,” his favorite song. Usually I get Miles his breakfast so Mom can finish getting ready. But she’s in the kitchen all dressed in her business casual and has already done my job. Except she’s doing this thing where she picks things up and then puts them down in another spot in the corner, moving piles around instead of really tidying anything. It usually means something is wrong.
She lets out a sigh, so loud I can hear it across the room, and finally pauses her restless hands, pressing them together into a steeple. Her eyes zero in on me.
“Why didn’t you just let Miles into the bathroom this morning?” she asks, the accusation clear in her question. “He said you weren’t in the shower.”
My stomach sinks, guilty, but then I puff my chest up with more confidence than I actually feel. “I was doing my hair. There are two bathrooms in this house.” I brush past her to grab a yogurt out of the fridge, but I make sure to avoid her eyes.
“Yeah, and he had an accident on the way to the other bathroom. It’s all the way on the other side of the house.” All the craziness I heard this morning makes sense, and my chest feels tight, thinking about the extra work it probably made for my parents, how upset Miles must have been. Mom shakes her head and then goes back to moving things around on the counter.
“We need to work together here,” she says as a carton of milk goes next to the sink, then over to the island, then eventually into the fridge.
“I know,” I say, looking down. “I’m sorry.”
“I just don’t understand why you couldn’t have let him in,” she continues. “It would have bothered you for maybe a minute. We could have avoided all this.”
That makes me bristle. It’s like she expects me to be able to anticipate every problem. Can’t she see that it’s my first day of school too?
“I said I’m sorry. How was I supposed to know he would have an accident? He hasn’t had one in months!”
Her eyes flicker to the family room, checking if Miles is paying attention, but his music continues on. “Watch it,” she warns.
Anger builds in my chest, hard like a rock, but I hold in my words and eat my yogurt instead. Fighting with Mom this morning doesn’t fit into the plan. I can feel her presence a few feet away—pacing, tidying—but I hold my body stiffly, refusing to look up. The yogurt is tasteless and feels heavy going down my throat.
When I finally walk past her to throw my trash away, though, she grabs my hand, and her eyes are soft again. “I’m sorry, Tessa. I’m just tired. There’s so much going on with this move. . . .”
The fury that was building inside me suddenly deflates, and I squeeze her hand. “I know.”
It’s our usual pattern: picking and poking and then apologizing. Tension and then release.
“This transition is really hard for him,” she continues, her eyes watery. “I think that’s why he’s acting out, and these old habits are showing up again. We have to be patient with him . . . and with each other.”
This transition is really hard for me too, I want to say. But I nod instead.
“We should leave soon, shouldn’t we?” I say, letting go of her hand. “Are you going to take Miles first?”
Luckily, the high school in our neighborhood, Bixby Knolls, has a program for students eighteen to twenty-two that’s perfect for Miles, so he won’t have to go far. But Chrysalis Academy is across town, closer to the ocean. School doesn’t start until eight thirty, but we’ll need to get going soon if I’m going to get there on time.
Mom’s giving me a confused look, though, as if this doesn’t make sense.
“I thought I told you,” she says, shaking her head. “I’m going to sit in on Miles’s class for the first period today. He’s really agitated about it, and I want to help him settle in.”
“How am I going to get to school?” I have my license, but no car. And it’s not like I can just walk the seven miles to Chrysalis.
“Sam from across the street is going to drive you. He offered last night when I went over to talk to Audrey. He seems like such a nice boy. Is that okay?”
I want to say that it isn’t. But then I think about Miles all alone at his new school. He hasn’t had an accident in a long time, so he must have a lot of feelings going on. Change can be so hard for him, even if he doesn’t always show it in conventional ways. I know Mom going with him is the right decision. Of course it is.
So I just force my lips into a smile and nod my head. “Sure.”
Chapter Five
Hawaiian Shirt Sam is wearing another Hawaiian shirt, if you can believe that, though it’s light blue this time. It must be, like, his thing. Only today, he has a corduroy blazer over it and khakis that are too loose, making him look like a kooky college professor. And he must be burning up, because September is still very much summer in southern California. Even this early, the sun is already peeking out.
I cross the street to his white Tudor-style house, trying to avoid the last of the season’s slimy purple jacaranda flowers on the ground so my shoes don’t get dirty. He waves at me, and there’s that same half smile on his face. “Hey, carpool buddy!”
I wave back and try to swallow some of the irritation I feel at Mom for putting me in this situation. I had a plan for this morning, and my stomach aches now that it’s all changing. She was going to drive me to school but drop me off half a block away, so no one would know that my mom dropped me off. I would walk up to my fresh start at Chrysalis, unencumbered by any history. Just me. A new girl in the creative writing conservatory with a perfect wash-and-go and a perfect outfit.
But now I’ll be arriving with Hawaiian Shirt Sam, and I can’t exactly ask him to drop me off down the block. And look, it’s not like I’m shallow or anything. I’m not. But with his dorky fashion sense and hair that falls down without any kind of style—and oh, I just realized that he’s wearing bright-white dad sneakers too, but like how a dad would, if that makes sense. With all that going on, Hawaiian Shirt Sam is going to attract attention. And I hate attention.
“I was just going to come over and get you,” he says, swinging a leather messenger bag over his shoulder. At least it’s not a rolling backpack. “Having a good morning?”
I shrug. “It’s okay.”
“Well, it’s about to get a lot better.” He practically skips over to his silver Honda Civic. “Man, I’m so excited. Aren’t you?”
I shrug again. “Yep.”
I’m planning on saying as little as possible on the drive over to Chrysalis, allowing myself to stew in my bad mood, so I can hopefully get it out of my system. But that intention goes out the window when I open the passenger door.
“Oh my god, what the heck is that?” The scent that wafts out of the car is so thick, I can almost see it moving through the air, curlicues and clouds, like a cartoon. It’s nutty and sweet and makes me feel warm inside, like I got a big hug. My bad mood instantly evaporates.
He laughs and reaches into the backseat to produce a muffin tin, as if he’s just pulled it out of the oven, the delicious smell getting even stronger. The muffins are studded with plump raspberries and covered with a crumble that seems to sparkle. My mouth waters just looking at them.
“Do you usually keep baked goods in the backseat of your car?”
He rubs the side of his face, suddenly self-conscious. “I don’t know. Yeah? I left them in here to cool this morning.”
“Okay, you need to explain that,” I say, laughing.
“Baking is my thing. Like writing is your thing.”
“So you’re in the culinary arts program?” I ask, sliding into the passenger seat. He nods, offering me a muffin. I scoop up one of the warm pastries gladly and eye
the other ones that he covers and places on the backseat again. “I saw on the website that Chrysalis just added that this year. Is that why you’re transferring this year as a junior?”
“Yeah, I’ve wanted to go to Chrysalis for years because . . . I don’t know, well, because. So when I saw they were creating the program this year, it seemed like fate or something. I still can’t believe I’ll get to do what I love for school credit.”
He gets a wistful look on his face as he starts the car and pulls out of the driveway. “I feel that,” I say, nodding my head.
“And I know people probably don’t consider cooking an art,” he adds hurriedly. “It’s not respected like dance or theater or painting or whatever, and I mean, it’s not like my muffins will hang in galleries. But I think we belong at the school just as much as everyone else.”
It’s almost like he’s rehearsing a defense that he knows he’ll have to deliver today, justifying his place at Chrysalis. So I guess I’m not the only one who’s worrying they won’t belong.
I try to smile reassuringly. “Of course.”
And then I take a bite of his muffin.
I thought the smell was special, but tasting it transports me to a whole other world—somewhere divine and holy and elevated. The taste awakens every one of my taste buds, as if they had been sleeping until this moment. It makes me feel safe, cozy. It reminds me of being little and crawling into my parents’ bed in the early hours of the morning when Dad would leave before the sun for work.
A car honks behind us, waking me out of my baked-goods trance, and Hawaiian Shirt Sam quickly turns his head back to the road and accelerates. He was watching me.
“Whoa,” I breathe, and he beams, his right dimple so deep I get the sudden urge to stick my finger into it.
“This is art,” I declare, making him smile even more. “You are a magician of butter and sugar. This belongs in a museum.”
“Brown butter,” he corrects.
“What?”
“I browned the butter before adding it to the batter. It’s like this, uh, process? That involves slowly cooking the butter after it melts,” he explains. He rubs the side of his face as he talks, faster as he continues. “The water cooks out, and then the milk in the butter caramelizes, you see, until it turns solid, into these brown little gems that sink to the bottom. That’s the nutty flavor you probably picked up on. It makes it really fragrant too. And the whole thing looks beautiful—going from bright yellow to this dark amber color. It feels a little bit like magic, getting it just right. You have to watch it carefully, because about two seconds after it’s perfect, the butter burns. And burned-butter muffins wouldn’t taste good at all.”
The explanation seems to transform him. Instead of the awkward, geeky guy in Hawaiian shirts and dad shoes, he seems like a master of his craft. Could I speak about my writing in the same way? Probably not.
“See? You’re an artist.” It’s clear that’s true about him, but I don’t know if I could say it about myself. “So why do you cool them in the back of your car?” I ask. “Is that some sort of special technique?”
“Yes, it’s an ancient baking secret. It’s been passed down in my family for generations.” His face is serious, but when I raise an eyebrow, a laugh breaks through. “No, it’s just that I wake up every morning at five to bake, and my mom asked me to stop keeping all my creations in the house. They were all going to her hips or whatever.”
“Well, I guess I can make the sacrifice and be your taste tester. If I have to.”
We spend the rest of the ride to Chrysalis alternating between me gobbling up muffins (I take two more) and him explaining why each bite tastes so good. I almost forget about where we’re going and my anxiety and irritation from before. I even start dreaming about a love interest for a new story I want to begin—a shy but charming baker who creates dishes based on the curly-haired girl he’s falling for. He wouldn’t look like Hawaiian Shirt Sam, though, because Hawaiian Shirt Sam is not one of those swoon-worthy guys who carry a romance novel.
When we pull into the Chrysalis parking lot, I’m snapped back into reality, the first-day jitters looming before me again.
Chrysalis isn’t a traditional school building. It’s a newer school, and it’s not like there are empty lots sitting around in a city as cramped as Long Beach. Most of the campus is a converted bank building, five stories tall, modern and sleek. They also got ownership of an ancient brown craftsman house that’s next door, a huge wraparound porch and wide green lawn surrounding it. Oh, and a few blocks in the distance, the ocean! I’ll never get tired of seeing the ocean just hanging out there like it’s no big deal. In Roseville, we would have to fight traffic and stay overnight somewhere to see the water, but I guess it’s going to be my everyday view now.
Students swarm around both buildings, and already I can see they’re different from the masses of South High: a couple in matching black lipstick and cat ears, girls with tight buns and swaths of gray and pink tied around them, a guy in knee-high shiny maroon boots. It’s thrilling.
I’m about to get out of the car when Hawaiian Shirt Sam stops me. “Wait.”
“Yeah?” Is he going to want to walk in together? My hesitation from this morning creeps back in.
“There’s, uh . . . there’s some white stuff on the back of your head. Like some hair stuff or something?” He rubs his neck and winces. “It’s just . . . I know you probably would want someone to tell you . . . so you’re not embarrassed.”
My whole face turns red as I feel around the curls on the back of my head. Sometimes the cream I use doesn’t get all the way worked in, especially if my hair is not completely dry yet. So much for the perfect wash-and-go.
“Did I get it?” I ask, turning so he can check. I’m equal parts grateful and mortified. But at least it’s just Hawaiian Shirt Sam and not some cute guy in one of my classes. I would have curled up and died then.
“Not quite.”
“Can you, like, help me? Um, show me where it is?” Desperate times.
“Okay, uh . . .” He lightly takes hold of my wrist. My heart speeds up. “I’m gonna move your hand to where it is. Don’t worry, I won’t touch your hair. I know that’s not kosher.”
That makes me giggle a little bit, breaking the tension. He moves my hand to the spot on my head. “There.”
I quickly work in the product some more, making sure to not lose the definition of my curls.
“Did I get it?”
“Yes. All good.”
I turn back around, and then I’m face-to-face with him, closer than I expected. I should be worried about how huge my pores look this close, or how he can see the cluster of zits on my chin. Those are the types of thoughts that usually spiral in my head when I get close to a boy. But instead I’m distracted. His eyes are the same exact shade of green as Thad’s, who used to be my favorite member of Dream Zone growing up. And there’s a sprinkling of dark freckles under his eyes, so precise they look like they’re drawn on. He smells like butter and sugar.
“Well, here we go,” he says.
“Yep.” I snap out of it. “I better get going. It’s late. I have to find my first class.” I jump out of the passenger side quickly, brushing muffin crumbs off my dress. “Thanks for the ride!” I call back to him. “Meet you here after school?” I basically sprint away, not even waiting for Hawaiian Shirt Sam’s answer.
I guess I can just call him Sam now.
Chapter Six
Turns out that academic classes are pretty much the same at Chrysalis as they would be at any other school, with the exception of my US history teacher, Mr. Gaines, trying to rap along his syllabus to the Hamilton soundtrack. It takes immense physical restraint not to roll my eyes.
The difference is the students, though. They’re nothing like the boring pod people I was surrounded by at South High (with the exception of Caroline, of course). I find myself getting distracted by everyone sitting around me, trying to figure out if the hippie-looking girl in a l
ong floral skirt, with hair full of dry shampoo, is in the visual arts conservatory, or maybe instrumental music. The guy vlogging all of precalc until Ms. Hernandez makes him turn off his phone has to be in film and television.
Another thing that keeps grabbing my attention is just how diverse the school is compared to Roseville. The area got a little more swirl from when Caroline and I first met, but at South High, there was always at least one period in which I was the only the brown face. I am painfully familiar with being asked to speak for the delegation of all Black people in too many history-class discussions, with English teachers who barely spoke to me all year telling me with confidence, “You’ll like this one!” once we got to the one short story by James Baldwin.
At Chrysalis, though, I don’t exchange any knowing glances with the other brown people in the room because there are so many of them, in so many different shades. And though each teacher allows us to sit wherever we want, there isn’t the natural segregation that I always noticed, people sitting with people who looked like them, where they felt comfortable. When this happened, I always felt like I didn’t belong anywhere, white or Black or somewhere else. I always felt like I had to perform what each group expected me to be as a Black girl, so it was easier to just not try with anyone.
But apparently no one at Chrysalis has been informed of the rules. People seem to flock to those who share their passions instead: a group of girls doing scales in the corner before American lit begins, a pair in matching Slytherin robes looking like they’re on their way to their first day at Hogwarts. It’s amazing what a different setting six hours and a few freeways can bring. Here, maybe I can fit in with anyone.