by Emery Lord
“No,” Tessa said, “the wand thing.”
“Oh, right.” Morgan made a face. She’d finally gotten an appointment with a specialist after years of painful, unpredictable periods and being told she’d probably grow out of it. The doctor suspected an endocrine disorder, and Morgan was grateful for answers, but still processing—a cycle of relief, frustration, anger, and jokey updates that included hand gestures. “I’m glad the doctor will be able to see what’s going on in there, but so awkward, right?”
We bemoaned her reproductive organs and her erstwhile work crush until we heard Kayleigh arrive downstairs. She appeared at the bedroom door with a hefty white box, nearly obscuring her work polo.
“Hello, children,” she said, cheerful.
“What’s that?” Tessa sat up, eyes big as a Pixar character. She loved restaurants of all kinds, anything inventive or new to her. In her spare time, however, she ate like an unsupervised child on Halloween. Kayleigh’s bakery job was the second-best thing to happen to Tessa this summer.
“Well,” Kayleigh said. “It’s what happens when Jenna thinks she might be better at hand-lettering than I am.”
We all scoffed in disbelief. Kayleigh excelled in anything that required precision and an eye for design. Sitting at the end of the bed, she opened the box to reveal a round cake with red-icing letters veering downward: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MARFY!
“It was supposed to say ‘Marty,’ ” Kayleigh said, producing several plastic forks from her side-slung purse, “but the sloping was unfixable. So voilà! A long-distance-sucks cake.”
“It’s beautiful,” Tessa said, already shoveling a fork into one side. She sampled a bite and sighed. “Ah. Exactly what I needed.”
And then, in the next breath, she erupted into tears, hands flying to her face.
Morgan and Kayleigh snapped to attention, and I gasped, “Whoa! What is happening?”
“I don’t want to be away from you all next year,” Tessa cried. She’d buried her face from view. “Now I know how terrible it feels, like my whole world has been disrupted, and—”
“Hey,” Kayleigh said, reaching a hand to her leg. “Come on—we have so much time. I’ve already started planning spring break, and that alone will be a hundred memories. Best is yet to be.”
“She’s right,” I told Tessa. “And that’s coming from me.”
Max liked to joke that I saw the world as what was most likely to happen, instead of hoping for what I most wanted. Clearly, with my college choices, I’d taken the note.
“You know what?” Kayleigh said. “We need a list.”
“Is that your Paige impression?” Morgan quipped. “It’s good.”
I made a face at her, and Kayleigh ignored us both. “We list every single thing we want to do together in the next year. Everything greater Indianapolis has to offer—places we haven’t been in ages, places we’ve always wanted to try.”
“Like a bucket list?” Tessa wiped her cheeks.
“Exactly. Then, any time we feel even a little sad: list.”
“Come to think of it,” I said, pulling out my phone, “I think I jotted a few things down …”
When I was in my tiny Manhattan dorm room that first week, looking at photos of my friends carrying on without me, I’d coped by listing things we could do once I returned. The list had been forgotten as I found my place in New York.
“Of course you did,” Kayleigh said. “God, how far down are you scrolling? How many lists do you have on that app?”
“A few. Okay. The Fourth of July fest, Shakespeare in the Park, picnic at that one park we like downtown, mini-golf. Obviously, I was a little summer-focused here.”
“Mm, I feel like Max can go to the Shakespeare thing with you,” Tessa said, and I rolled my eyes.
“Holloway’s Pumpkin Patch,” Kayleigh said, dictating over my shoulder. “Senior trip over spring break.”
“And Ditch Day,” Tessa said. “Senior tag—”
“Homecoming and prom,” Morgan finished, while I typed quickly, trying to organize their suggestions in roughly chronological order.
“And some of this needs to be Core Four only, okay?” Morgan said. “No boyfriends.”
I was the only one with a boyfriend, so I gave Morgan a What the heck? look. As if these three hadn’t steered me toward Max with the single-mindedness of Captain Ahab on the damn Pequod.
“No offense,” Morgan said mildly.
“Some taken,” I said, and I passed my phone around for any additions.
The Senior Year List
Sleepovers
Indy Zoo
Newfields
Roller rink
Karaoke place
Rave Lanes Bowling
Football game student section
Holloway’s Pumpkin Patch
Homecoming
Fun new restaurants
Party
Ice-skating downtown
New Year’s party
Senior trip
Prom
Senior Ditch Day
Senior tag
Senior prank?
Graduation parties
Summer road trip
Concert(s)
Picnic
Botanical gardens
Oakhurst Fourth of July fest
Shakespeare in the Park
Outlands mini golf
“Good. And we can always add to it,” Kayleigh said.
Morgan waggled her eyebrows. “But which one should we do first?”
The List was how we wound up at the bowling alley, where Max, Ryan, Malcolm, and Josiah met us later. The List was how we planned for our last days of summer, mini golf and a trip downtown on a night I wasn’t working late.
It was how Tessa wound up smiling the day Laurel left for college, when the final, wobbling bowling pin fell. Tessa spun, arms raised in her favorite Dolly Parton T-shirt, sleeves cut off. “Finally! Victory!”
She slapped Ryan’s hand as she hopped off the lane, and I applauded from my spot on Max’s lap. There weren’t enough seats for all of us, but I’d still hesitated—I can’t initiate contact with Max; he’ll know I like him as more than a friend! He didn’t miss a beat, though, curling one arm around me as he laughed at something Josiah was saying. As with nearly everything in his life, Max seemed sure of himself. It was hard-won, I knew—after years of the jerks in our grade taking him down every peg—but I still envied him.
Tessa sat down across from us, breathless from her celebration.
Kayleigh swung an arm around her shoulder. “Happy birthday, Marfy.”
“Happy birthday, Marfy,” Tessa agreed.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Please tell me that you’re kidding,” I said, staring at my dad’s delighted face.
He thrust the backpack at me. “Nope! And I didn’t save it for thirteen years to have you weasel out of this, so go on.”
It wasn’t enough that he still insisted on turning his night for dinner into “Back to School Bash.” A banner always marked the event—some foil thing he’d found at the grocery store years ago. He made baked ziti, Cameron’s favorite dinner, during the inaugural bash.
I trudged to the tiny balcony off his apartment and contorted my arms to fit the backpack—a purple number designed to look like a kitten’s face, complete with plastic whiskers shooting off. I sighed and looked over my shoulder—re-creating the picture from my first day of kindergarten.
“Say ‘twelfth grade!’ ” my dad prompted.
My sister smiled. “I’m so glad this is happening.”
“I saved your backpack, too, Cammy. A few more years and this’ll be you.”
Her smile dropped as mine widened. I craned my neck back with a final pose. “Good?”
“Yeah, I’ve got a few to work with.” He motioned me inside and shut the sliding door behind me. “Seems like just yesterday we were loading up that backpack for the first time. You were so nervous that you puked right before getting on the bus.”
“Did
I?” I’d always had a bad stomach, one that clenched like a fist when I got nervous. And I got nervous a lot.
“You did! With the kitty backpack on, no less. So sad. But cute.”
“It’s comforting to me,” Cameron said, “that you have always been essentially the same person.”
The oven timer went off, and I scowled at Cameron as my dad dashed to the kitchen. Stomach problems weren’t even the defining complaint of my young life; insomnia was. For whole swaths of elementary school, I lay wide-eyed at night, staring up at my ceiling. I worried about my parents dying, about bad grades, about being yelled at by teachers; I worried about floods, about waking up in a different reality. Some nights, the only way I could fall asleep was to read, to get lost in someone else’s world until I finally nodded off. Even then, nightmares often shook me awake with both hands.
Cameron placed the salad we’d prepped on the table and slid my phone closer to me.
“Max is texting you.”
I gave a quick don’t look at my phone glare, which I’d learned from her.
“How’s my brother-in-law readjusting to American life?” Cam asked.
The glare became several shades darker.
My dad put a hand over his heart. “Oh, Cammy. Cameron, my youngest, my baby. We don’t joke about that in front of dear old Dad. It’s bad for my health.”
I scooped out some ziti, and something—the smell of melted mozzarella and oregano, a constant in my dad’s apartment for years—shifted in me, nostalgia taking root. For all my groaning about the kitty backpack, I knew this night was the last of its kind.
“So,” my dad said. “I have some pretty big news to share with you both.”
I held my chin still, barely resisting a glance at my sister. I could feel her doing the same. We’d expected this announcement for a few weeks now—that our dad would be moving back into the house.
“I accepted a new job!”
“Wait, what?” Cameron said, at the same time I managed, “You quit your job?”
“Well, I got an additional job, I should say. Wyatt State University asked me to teach a few journalism classes. So as of next week, I’m Professor Hancock on a part-time basis downtown. Cool, huh?”
“Oh.” My sister spread her hands, as if laying the situation out before her. “Yeah. Cool.”
I couldn’t get words out, my mind flashing with the image of my parents across the kitchen table, reacting to the idea of film school. My mom’s horror at the cost, at my future debt. Had my dad gone out and gotten a second job because of it?
“That’s amazing, Dad.” I slid a smile onto my face like sleight of hand. Watch this ace of facial expressions, as I sneakily hide my panic up my sleeve!
“Yeah, it’s pretty neat. I’ll also get tuition remission to take a class or two, which is major. Journalism is changing so fast! Gotta bone up if I want to hang around this field for another twenty years.” He tugged his collar, joking about the pressure. “It’s good news, girls.”
My sister had picked her fork up and was digging in. “It’s great! We just thought you were going to say you were moving back in with us and Mom.”
“Moving back in?”
Cameron gave him a duh look. “Oh, c’mon, Dad. We’re not children.”
“You are, in fact, children. You’re my children. And we have to maintain some boundaries.” He looked to me, known relationship pessimist, for backup.
“At first, sure,” I said. “But you guys have been dating for over a year. I think we’ve crossed the threshold where it’s weirder that you’re not there.”
Cameron spoke around the cherry tomato in her mouth. “Agreed.”
“We’re trying not to mess with the balance.”
“And we appreciate that,” I said, an understatement. “But let the record show: both daughters are firmly on Team Stop-Making-It-Weirder.”
“Your votes are duly noted.”
“ ‘But this family is not a democracy,’ ” Cameron and I said, in mocking unison. A favorite refrain of our mom’s, over and over any time we tried to outnumber her in the divorce years.
“So, tomorrow,” my dad said, clearly hoping for a topic change. “My girls back in the same school for the first time in years. You nervous for high school, Cammy?”
“No,” she said reflexively. My sister was usually much better at acting cool. But even I could hear the too fast response for what it was: a cover-up. “I mean, middle school sucked, so bring on freshman year. Can’t be worse. Plus, you know, I already have my Dance Team friends.”
In that moment—in so many moments—I envied Cameron. What if I hadn’t been born feeling everything so deeply? What if my parents had split sooner, before I was old enough to remember how bad it was for so long? What if I hadn’t faced down unexpected loss at age fifteen? Sometimes, watching my sister’s life felt like watching a strange parallel universe: a more carefree version of me, on a three-year delay.
This was my dramatic streak: introspection. Weighing experiences carefully. Helplessly examining. Cameron, meanwhile, did drama in the form of proclamations that she’d die if my mom wouldn’t let her pierce her nose.
After dinner, I helped with dishes while my dad made brownies from a box, the smell of powdery cocoa filling the room. Cameron burrowed into the living room chair, phone in hand.
“The teaching job at Wyatt,” I said quietly. “Is that because of my school? Because of the costs?”
He waved this off, like he’d anticipated my hang-ups. “I’m diversifying my résumé, Paiger.”
So, not exactly a denial.
“We won’t know about financial aid for a while,” he said. “Your job is senior year and applications, okay?”
The cost-benefit ratio of film school was risky at best. Debt blinked like a giant minus sign, hovering over my future in red neon. But last year, my grandmother had admonished me to live my life. And for once, I trusted myself to do exactly that.
“Mom sold that china cabinet she refinished,” I said, realizing. Last week, she’d listed the powder blue piece online, and it got snapped up for a modest profit.
“Of course she did,” my dad said. “What was she gonna do—keep every piece of redone furniture in the house? She’d have to kick Cammy out to make space!”
“Funny,” Cameron called from the other room.
I frowned. “Right. Yeah. I guess not.”
“Relax, kid,” he said. I gave him a look that I hoped would convey: Oh, just relax? Is that all? All this time, my whole entire life, I just had to decide to relax? “You’re gonna get into your top schools; you’ll work your butt off like you always do. And I’ll be watching your shows on TV before we know it. You know, Shonda was only thirty-five when Grey’s first aired!”
Over the summer, he’d listened to every podcast he could find about showrunners, and now quoted them like they were his personal friends. Well, Shonda Rhimes says, he’d begin, advising me on all matters related to TV writing. You know, Mike Schur’s philosophy is …
“Okay, but she’s an actual genius? I’ll be lucky to get into one film school.”
He rolled his eyes. “You get this attitude from your mother. Let me plan my watch parties.”
“Dad,” I said.
The timer beeped, and my dad raised his eyebrows pointedly, as if the oven was chiming in to agree with him.
“Cammy!” he called. “Come eat brownies before your sister implodes from worrying about things she can’t control.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Three times before, I’d entered this building for the first day of school. Freshman year, nervous and wide-eyed. Sophomore year, in a haze of blurry grief. Junior year, on coltish legs as I tried to move forward.
And today, finally, steady on my feet. I looked over at my friends, at the changing-leaf red of Morgan’s hair, at Kayleigh’s easy half smile as she waved to someone, at Tessa’s gaze finding me, checking in. I gripped the feeling in my fists, the history between us, the comfort.
I’d gotten so used to this building, the banged-up red of the lockers, the lingering fumes of fresh paint on cinderblock. The squeak of new shoes, bought at back-to-school sales. In a TV script, I’d write for the camera to pan around, capturing the blur of detail.
God, how many times had I fantasized about leaving Oakhurst? I’d wanted a new beginning, somewhere my face didn’t make strangers think of a boy who died too soon. In the past year, though, I’d cut and pasted my life back together like a collage. Friends who knew me. Max. My quiet, happy room and Alcott’s. My scripts. My job at Cin 12. And now, when it had all fallen into place: time to plan my departure.
“Stop that,” Kayleigh said. When I glanced up to see who that comment was for, she seemed to be looking at me.
“Stop what?”
“You’re about two seconds away from chewing the ends of your hair. Just enjoy this. We’re finally seniors. No worrying.”
Why did people keep telling me to stop worrying, like it was a light I chose to keep on, a bulb burning at all hours? By what instant magic, honestly, could I rewire my core self?
As we walked toward our lockers, I felt a pulse throughout the senior hallway—somewhere between a thumping heartbeat and a ticking clock. The last first.
Some loud guy in our grade whose name I could never remember—Bryan Ames? Bryce Ames?—came down the hallway with some buddies. Loudness seemed to be his dominant trait, along with his belief that volume alone made him charming. While passing us, he called, “Hey, girls. Have a good summer? Happy senior year!”
I thought that was it, but he turned back, pointing at Tess.
“Tessa McMahon! Heard you’re gay now—congrats!” And before we could respond, he was hollering to someone else, “Whoop! Seniors.”
Tessa looked back at me, with the flat expression of someone sitting through an extended commercial break. “God, this town is predictable.”
“Do you want me to correct people?” I asked. Last we’d talked about it, Tessa preferred “queer” and said she would let us know if that changed.