The Map from Here to There

by Emery Lord

  Tessa stared at our friends, going round and round beneath the lights. “I had my senior appointment yesterday. Davis said he’s alarmed by my lack of plans. Alarmed, Paige.”

  Normally, Tessa would scoff this off—the opinion of someone who didn’t even know her. But Laurel’s absence chiseled a line into Tessa’s tectonics, a thin crack that was shifting every other plate.

  “Lack of plans?” I repeated. “You’re applying to a few universities, you know your intended major, and you have good grades. That’s, like, exactly what I’m doing.”

  “Except you have a portfolio and experience with screen writing. For music business, I have … what? A drawer full of ticket stubs? And I haven’t clicked with any school the way you love NYU, like Morgan and Kayleigh love IU. But I should, right?” She reached for a French fry and nibbled at it. “What if I don’t, no matter where I visit? Or what if I do, but I get rejected?”

  It sounded like my own mind, worries tapped out like frantic ticker tape. Morgan skated past, Kayleigh holding on to her waist, and they both made goofy faces at us. Tessa smiled a little around the straw of her fountain soda.

  “A drawer full of ticket stubs isn’t nothing,” I reasoned. “Not if you’re pursuing a music business degree.”

  “Davis said my résumé needs at least one ‘school-affiliated activity.’ ” Tessa made air quotes with her fingers, a gesture that I hadn’t realized could be executed with such scorn.

  “QuizBowl?” I sat up, hopeful. “We need a fourth member and some alternates.”

  She held out the basket of fries to me, and I took one. “Eh, that’s more your thing.”

  “And Max’s!” I said, indignant. “And Malcolm’s.”

  “Yeah. Maybe,” she said, but she scrunched up her nose. Rudely, in my opinion.

  “You like photography,” I ventured, thinking of her photos online. The yoga studio in the morning, a ficus casting shadows like webbed hands on the floor. The stage at the Carmichael, Laurel in silhouette. Kayleigh leaning back on her car’s bumper, one lick into a soft-serve cone and looking like summer itself. “And you’re great at it. You took Kayleigh’s profile pic! And mine!”

  When she’d visited New York, Tessa had caught me looking back on a crowded street, lips parted as I began to say, Are you coming? Behind me, a blur of yellow paint and red tail lights—a taxi whooshing past. It looked how Manhattan felt to me. A little too much, a little too fast, finding stillness within it. It reminded me of my favorite photo of my grandmother in Paris.

  “True,” Tessa said, frowning.

  “Also,” I continued, “music business isn’t a traditional major. Why have a traditional application? Have the sound guy at the Carmichael write you a recommendation!”

  “Steve?” she asked, skeptical. He was an older guy, shaved head and bushy, graying beard. Sometimes he let her sit in the booth with him during shows; she stayed out of his way and listened intently when he talked acoustics or soundboards.

  “Why not?”

  “Well, I don’t know his last name, for starters. And every other word out of his mouth is censorable.”

  “He’d clean it up for a recommendation. Then you use your essay to talk about how music is this constant in your life, how you’ve heard it all over the world, how you’ve lived the hustle of business through your parents. You can even structure the essay with specific songs.”

  After a moment, she peered at me. “You’d help me with it?”

  “Obviously. And you know what? I second-guess screen writing every day.”

  “Oh, please. I once witnessed you dissecting a Mission District scene, passionately, for an hour with Maeve.”

  “Yeah, but can I hack it? And will I hate it once it’s work and not a hobby? Can I ever really make it my job?”

  “Okay.” Kayleigh slid to a stop beside us, swiping one hand across our presence before her. “What is this? Why are your faces like that?”

  Morgan was right behind her, and plopped down. “Everyone okay?”

  “Yeah,” I said as Tessa demanded, “What’s wrong with my face?”

  Kayleigh gave her a pitying look. “Your stress expressions—stresspressions? exstressions?—are going to give you wrinkles by age twenty-one.”

  I relaxed my face from its grimace, but Tessa harrumphed. “Your face would look like this, too, if you weren’t basically born a Hoosier.”

  All the Hutchins kids went to IU: TJ had graduated a few years ago, Brady was a senior, and Reid had just started sophomore year. Kayleigh knew the campus, owned the apparel, and had reeled Morgan in somewhere along the way, too.

  “I’m applying other places, you know,” Kayleigh said curtly. “It’s good to keep some options open.”

  “Where else?” I asked, surprised. This was Max’s philosophy, too. At last count, he planned to apply to eight schools across Indiana, Illinois, and Ohio. But I didn’t know Kayleigh was bothering with application fees anywhere but IU.

  “Oh, here and there,” Kayleigh said, and Morgan chimed in, “Yeah, like, I’m applying to St. Mary’s, just to see. Hey, did you tell them your other news?”

  “Did you decide on a spring break locale?” Tessa asked, perking up. Kayleigh had promised us updates about a beach trip soon.

  “I’m making progress,” Kayleigh said. “But no. My dad’s officially proposing to Lisa at her birthday dinner next week.”

  I lowered the French fry I’d been about to shove in my mouth. “Wow! That’s soon.”

  Kayleigh’s mom died in a car accident over a decade ago, an indelible loss that Kayleigh would always grieve. But a stepmother wasn’t the stuff of fairy-tale villains anymore, and Lisa had been dating Mr. Hutchins for years now. The progression from occasional dates to Lisa being a part of family dinners had been so gradual that it never felt jarring to Kayleigh. Lisa had a son of her own, in middle school, and she kept pretty firm boundaries.

  “You talked to your dad, then?” Tessa asked. At our most recent pool day, Kayleigh had mentioned her dad and Lisa hoped to get engaged in the next year, but they wanted the kids to weigh in about timeline and comfort level.

  “I did,” Kayleigh said. “Reid and I decided we’d actually rather live with Lisa and Jayden for a few months next summer, when Reid is home from school too. It’s less awkward than coming home for winter break to a new, three-person family unit, none of whom are Black.”

  Lisa, whose parents were white and Puerto Rican, respectively, had long been able to connect with Kayleigh about being biracial. But she understood that their experiences differed, too. The dialogue had been pretty open from the beginning, if weighted a little heavily on the kids’ initiative.

  “Was your dad surprised you’d prefer sooner to later?” I asked.

  “A little,” she said. “But really excited. It’s a ton of changes for him—becoming a granddad, getting married, his favorite daughter leaving for school.”

  From the speakers overhead, a familiar song clapped out its peppy beat. I thought I’d left it in summertime, but no. Say freaking yes.

  “God, this song is annoying,” Tessa said. “But … I kind of have to dance to it?”

  “Come on,” Morgan said. She held her hands out, to help Tessa up, and Kayleigh and I followed. The guys had moved to the arcade area, and were crowded around as Malcolm steered a virtual car. So the four of us glided, yell-singing the dumbest, greatest song of the year.

  There at the roller rink—with its musty carpet and outdated wall decals from the 1990s—I wondered how we looked to the rest of the world. Young and silly, probably. I often had the distinct feeling that strangers watched us with annoyance, teenage girls with cotton candy lives. They could think that—that we were frothy and carefree.

  Would they ever guess how strong we were from carrying each other? Would they guess that the year Aaron Rosenthal died, these girls hefted my pain onto their own backs, shouldering as much as they could? That this summer, we stayed up half the night, scripting and practicing how
Tessa would come out to her parents? Would anyone know that Morgan and Kayleigh’s friendship was forged the year Mrs. Hutchins died? That Kayleigh drew me into her orbit the year my parents fought enough to finally separate?

  We were young and silly—sure, maybe. But we were also each other’s mothers, sisters, keepers.

  “We’re doing fine,” Tessa called over to me, breathless. Fine. That damn word again. “At least we can admit that we don’t know what we’re doing, right?”

  In improv class, I’d learned more than “say yes.” I’d learned to say yes, and. So I nodded to Tessa, faking certainty, and held up one arm in triumph. “Seniors!”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The QuizBowl informational meeting, two weeks into school, brought out half a classroom’s worth of prospective members—many more than I’d dared to hope for. And sure enough, Aditi Basu showed up, bright-eyed and interested. As Pepper started the meeting, Malcolm leaned over and whispered, “Did we … make QuizBowl cool?”

  Last year, the team had practiced only very casually, so we had to throw together a more structured practice in less than a week. Max e-mailed a packet of topics and ran a practice match with total levity, making everyone feel at ease. Aditi excelled—cranking out answers about Nella Larsen, rococo painting, and time signatures. There were other standouts, too, including a sophomore named Sofia with quick confidence.

  I needed to stay sharp to make sure my own seat was earned. So, true to his word, Hunter helped me sneak in some studying on a slow Sunday shift at the ticket counter. “As the fifth vice president of the United States, this Massachusetts-born—”

  “Elbridge Gerry,” I said dully.

  “I have … literally never heard the name Elbridge,” Hunter said. “Can we do something else? Anything else?”

  “You can keep a lookout while I sneak in some reading?” I asked, hopeful.

  Hunter slid my hidden book out from under the counter, a bright pink paperback with a tiara on the cover. “This clearly isn’t even for school. Or almost-adults.”

  I snatched it back from him, protective. “Excuse me. This book is a perfect cup of tea.”

  “Oh, it’s your cup of tea, is it?” Hunter affected a haughty British accent.

  “No, I mean … some books, the reading experience is like a cup of tea.” I patted the book, a cherished favorite since my middle school days. “Comforting and, like, healing. It may seem simple, but there’s a real art, and important ingredients, too.”

  He gave me a look I couldn’t quite place—mocking? pitying? “Are you explaining tea? To a Chinese guy?”

  I laughed at myself, cheeks flushing. “Fine. What would you like to do?”

  Make meaningless little bets on everything, as it turned out: Next ticket purchase? Would the next person comment on how hot it was outside? Next person through the door: hat or no hat?

  I pulled a little piece of paper from beneath the counter, scribbled down BET MOVIE?, and shoved it into my tux pocket. I would have preferred to type this into my existing idea list, but Donna had a one-strike phone rule. According to Cin 12 legend, she once fired someone in the first hour of his first day for texting.

  “What would a Bet Movie be?” Hunter was nosy in a childlike way, totally unselfconscious about being in my business.

  “Probably nothing. But maybe two characters start making arbitrary little bets until it escalates into bigger stakes: betting houses, cars. Screwball comedy.” I’d sift through the ideas later and decide if any had enough potential to share with Maeve.

  “I like it. How are your writing portfolios coming?”

  “Better than the other application materials, anyway.” I worked on both in the late hours of school nights, when my mother thought I was asleep. “Do you still have to write an essay for your application? Even with the scholarship offer?”

  “’Course, Hancock.”

  “What did you write about for the Biggest Challenge topic?”

  He leaned over on the counter, arms crossed. “I, um, wrote about depression.”

  I hesitated, unsure if he was somehow messing with me. “Oh. Cool.”

  “Yeah, I mean, not just that. Like, as it relates to getting treatment—model minority bullshit and stuff. I didn’t say ‘bullshit’ in my essay, obviously. But it is.” He grinned, wolfish. “Oh my God, your face! You thought I was going to say I wrote about sports as a way to learn cooperation and discipline.”

  “Kind of,” I admitted. The truth was, I was shocked that Hunter Chen dealt with depression in the first place. He came off as utterly lighthearted, unburdened. A big assumption, on my part, that felt foolish now, and unfair to him.

  “I’ll have you know,” he said, pointing a finger, “that I wanted to. But my adviser said no.”

  I shook my head, smiling. “Well, I’m impressed.”

  “I contain multitudes.” Before I could agree, he added, “That’s Whitman. Oh my God, are you in love with me now? Quoting poetry?”

  How could one person be so interesting and so annoying inside of thirty seconds? Honestly, it was a feat.

  “What are you writing about for that essay?” he asked, eager.

  “I still don’t know,” I said. “That’s why I asked.”

  “Holding out on me after I ponied up? Cold.” He nodded toward the parking lot. “Bet you. Next person: your exact type. Ten out of ten physical attraction.”

  We went a few minutes without a customer, but when someone finally strode up—well, I’d have known him anywhere, yards away. Sometimes I thought that even in a Where’s Waldo? crowd, my eyes would always land on Max Watson.

  “What are the chances?” Hunter crowed. I’d temporarily forgotten his little bet. “It’s too good!”

  My face burned. “Ha-ha.”

  Max, reaching us, smiled hesitantly. “Hey. Sorry to drop by unannounced.”

  “It’s okay,” Hunter said, tapping his temple. “We saw you coming.”

  I clenched my teeth, praying that he would not elaborate. “Max, this is Hunter. I welcome you to ignore him.”

  “Yeah, hey. We met a few weeks ago,” Max said.… Oh God. That’s right—he’d stopped here looking for me after his first day home. What had Hunter said to him?

  “And I’ve heard sooo much about you,” Hunter added.

  “All good stuff,” I insisted. Shielded by the counter, I knocked my knee with Hunter’s, willing him to shut up. “Isn’t it time for you to go on your break?”

  “Might as well. Give you lovers some privacy.” He slid off the stool, saluting Max. “Nice to see you.”

  “Anyway,” I said, smiling up at Max. “Hi.”

  “Hi. I tried to text you, but—”

  “The no-phone policy. Ugh, I know. Sorry.”

  “I think our date is getting crashed tonight,” he said, and I cocked my head. “Ryan asked what I was doing, and I said staying in to watch a movie with you. Next thing I know, he’s saying ‘Sounds good’ and Tessa’s texting me about snacks.”

  “They fully knew you did not mean to include them.”

  “Oh, I know,” he said. “When I said ‘THIS IS DATE NIGHT,’ Morgan said, and I quote, ‘lol, okay, Dad.’ ”

  I jerked back, face scrunched up. In what bizarre joke scenario had our friends become our children?

  “Don’t ask me,” Max said, hands brushing away the thought.

  “Well, that’s what you get for telling the truth. Next time, secret date night. We go off the grid.”

  His eyes lit up, and I held up one finger, sensing the direction his mind had taken. “We’re not dressing up like superheroes or spies.”

  “No fun.” He grinned, leaning close to air-kiss me goodbye.

  After work, I changed into jeans and trooped to Max’s house. Everyone was talking over one another in the basement, laughing through the movie that was the excuse to hang out, and I climbed onto the big couch next to Max. I didn’t even realize I was nodding off until Kayleigh said my name, asking if I was paying att
ention.

  I made a grumpy noise, my cheek against Max’s shoulder.

  “Let her be,” Max said. I liked the rumble of his voice from this close. I liked that he was protecting my rest, the one thing I couldn’t multitask.

  “I’m doing my big reveal!” Kayleigh said, and I peeked one eye open. Sure enough, she’d plugged her laptop into the TV, and the first slide said SENIOR TRIP: SPRING BREAK. I hauled myself up.

  “I have officially finished planning,” Kayleigh said. “We need to finalize and send deposits before it gets snagged by someone else. Okay. It’s affordable, it’s drivable, it’s beautiful. Drumroll, please …”

  The first panel burst open, a beach scene that read: PANAMA BEACH, FLORIDA! in a vintage postcard font. Kayleigh clicked past it quickly, to a cheerful little beach house, blue with a yellow door. She’d captioned it HERE WE COME!

  Her audience buzzed with questions. All but me. Even as Kayleigh toured us through her slides, I knew: my mom would go straight to mayhem, unsupervised teens on the beach, hours away. One of those teenagers being my boyfriend.

  Tessa was watching my face. “Any chance your mom gives this the go-ahead?”

  Before I could reply, Kayleigh scoffed, “Oh, please. I’ve already considered Kate Hancock in this. And I have good news. As you know, my dad is getting married in early April. He and Lisa are leaving for their honeymoon right after, since it’s her spring break, too.”

  Lisa taught fourth grade at a nearby school district. That, I knew. I had … no idea what that had to do with our Florida trip.

  “The good news is about your dad’s … honeymoon?” Josiah asked unsteadily.

  Kayleigh ignored him. “I chose Panama Beach because they’re going to the Florida Panhandle, too, twenty minutes away. Meaning … they can drive down with us and be nearby in case of emergency.”

  “And they don’t mind?” This from a horrified Tessa.

  Kayleigh shrugged. “We won’t even see them except during the drive, I’m sure.”

  My face relaxed as it dawned on me. “Wait. So, I can tell my mom there will be parental chaperones?”