The Map from Here to There

by Emery Lord

  Kayleigh smiled, smug as a cardsharp laying out the winning hand.

  “It might work,” I admitted. “If anything will.”

  From beside me, Max slow-clapped. “Bravo, Hutchins. A masterpiece.”

  Kayleigh took a few sweeping bows. “Thank you! Thank you. It was my pleasure to do this instead of homework.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Sunday nights at my dad’s apartment were the only remaining relic of our strict-custody-block days, more habit now than legal agreement. With my mom chaperoning a dance competition for Cameron’s squad, I was getting a one-on-one night for the first time in ages. And I’d saved a sushi coupon specifically for the occasion.

  “Well, this was great,” my dad said, setting his plate on the coffee table. He’d moved our order from cardboard takeout boxes to serving dishes so we could admire the scene as we ate. “Might be the first time we ever have leftovers.”

  “I know we tease Cameron about not liking seafood,” I said, and paused to swallow. “But I genuinely pity her.”

  “Well, next time you and I have a coupon, we can go to the restaurant,” he said, then gestured at the Emmys Red Carpet, muted on TV. “Tonight, priorities.”

  I’d spent many Sundays finishing homework here, in my dad’s armchair with his beloved, truly hideous Colts blanket over my lap. He often worked up column notes, but tonight, he was grading journalism assignments. So far, he’d complained three times about having to grade on his laptop instead of marking up physical copies in red ink.

  “Oh, I like that,” my dad said, nodding at Llewelyn Price and her earrings, gold orbs the size of grapes.

  While my dress opinions were filtered through what I would personally wear, my dad delighted in the most interesting sartorial choices. The comment never changed. Giant ball gown in a bold magnolia print? Oh, I like that! Any tux that wasn’t plain black? Yep—he liked that.

  His surprise at his own enjoyment really made the experience for me.

  “You’d wear that one.” He touched my arm to get my full attention. “Am I right?”

  I glanced from my laptop to Rose Odegbami, giving an interview in a lavender gown, cap sleeves with a sweetheart neckline.

  “Definitely,” I said. “I think she’ll win her category, too. She should.”

  Maeve and I had been texting back and forth about the nominees and prospective winners. We wrote to our strengths, not trends, but it helped to understand the industry as a whole, according to our professors.

  “You going to the homecoming dance?” my dad asked. “Senior year, after all.”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “Attagirl. Gotta make the most of this time.”

  The older I got, the more adults did this—made cryptic references to “this time” with far-eyed looks toward their own high school days. And yet, during a particularly bad stretch of sophomore year, my mom referenced Robert Frost to me: my only way out of high school was through it. Adults insisted things got easier someday—as you figured out who you were, as you made your own decisions. Meanwhile, they also sighed about their jobs and bills; they mused about high school with longing. Maybe it was easy to romanticize something that had already happened.

  “So, Tessie’s in Chicago, eh?”

  “Yep. Probably on her way back by now.” I’d seen snippets of her weekend online—Laurel looking out over the city from a high-rise window (Her | Chicago | Sept 5); their faces reflected in The Bean (Obligatory | Chicago | Sept 5); a crowded venue, raised arms visible in the dark (The Hideout | Chicago | Sept 6).

  “Is she applying to schools out there?”

  “Um, maybe! She’s mostly focused on Nashville, New York, and LA. You know her.” Music scenes full of up-and-comers, hole-in-the-wall restaurant gems.

  “So, uh, you and our guy Max.” My dad cleared his throat. “That a … serious thing?”

  I looked at him uneasily. Had he watched a tutorial on talking to your teenage daughter? “We don’t have to do this.”

  “Oh, so you only talk to Mom about this stuff?”

  “I certainly do not talk to Mom about this stuff,” I said, laughing.

  “You’re secretive about your dating life? Great. Just what a parent wants to hear.”

  “My dating life?” I made a grossed-out face.

  “You’re not … uh … I mean, your dream schools are still on the table, right?”

  At this, I turned. My dad, I’d always thought, understood me. My mom and I were so similar—made of the same tense fabric, held together with alone time and our many organizational tactics—that I vexed her any time I did things differently than she would. But my dad got me. “You think I’d ditch screen writing?”

  For debt, anxiety, homesickness, and self-doubt—sure. But for a boy?

  “Hey,” my dad said, shrugging, “first love is powerful stuff.”

  Over the summer, I’d felt secretly embarrassed by how often Max occupied my thoughts. I prided myself on academic excellence—on my busy, interested mind. And there I was, staring out a library window, daydreaming of a boy? I used my mooniness as fuel for a rom-com outline that Maeve criticized as saccharine but not without potential. From her, high praise. “Well, they’re not mutually exclusive.”

  My dad nodded, satisfied. The problem was, I had increasingly come to believe that Max and screen writing were mutually exclusive. Maybe not at first. But how long, realistically, could we go without seeing each other? I couldn’t think about it too much or my stomach gurgled, acidic.

  Part of me wanted to muse about all my worries. To open my mind like a stuffed-full cabinet, let everything fall onto the floor so my dad could help me sort through the mess. But I didn’t want to undermine his confidence in me or his bursting pride.

  “Oh, hey,” he said, sitting up. “I grabbed something for you from campus. I know you’re pretty booked up but …”

  He dug around in his briefcase for a single sheet of paper. On it, an advertisement for yearly theater auditions. A few shows were listed, and my dad had circled one called 2BD, 1BA, showing in late March. Beside it, he’d scratched the name Cris Fuentes and an e-mail address.

  “Two beds, one bath?” I guessed. Surely he knew I’d never audition. “You want to see it together?”

  “No. Well, sure. But I met the director on campus. She’s an adjunct at the college, and her day job is at that theater your grandma used to take you to.”

  “Mythos?” An impossibly cool contemporary theater downtown, lots of fringe plays and experimental work. I sat up a little.

  “Yeah. She takes an intern or two each season. Wouldn’t that look good on a résumé? I said you’d shoot her an e-mail.” He looked briefly guilty, perhaps realizing he’d committed me to something without asking. “The show’s so cool, kid. A modern take on The Odd Couple, and it’s their under-twenty-one show, so all people around your age. And a young playwright, too—a local.”

  He didn’t have to sell me so hard; I was interested the second he said “Mythos.” But I enjoyed watching him try. “You have a copy of the play in your bag, don’t you?”

  “No,” he said, indignant. “It’s in my e-mail.”

  “Forward it to me,” I said. “Thanks, Dad. I don’t know if I can make it work with Cin 12, but I’ll send the e-mail.”

  I returned to my screenplay software, hovering over a character description that Maeve had noted as generic. But I could feel my dad still looking at me. When I glanced over, he was smiling angelically. “Can I read one of your pieces? Just one?”

  “No way,” I said, turning my screen away even more. “Would you let me read an unfinished draft of your column?”

  Touché. He didn’t say it, but I could see him thinking it. “At least tell me what it’s about?”

  “Well …,” I said, pausing for effect, “it’s about a girl … with a really annoying dad.”

  He reached over to swat at my feet.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “I think the problem is that I c
an’t tell who has the ball,” Kayleigh mused, leaning forward as if several inches would make the football field easier to read.

  “Or the problem is that you’re still wearing your sunglasses. It’s been dark for a good fifteen minutes.” Morgan flicked the side of Kayleigh’s red frames.

  “Stop!” Kayleigh said, dodging away. “They’re cute. It’s a look.”

  “They are cute,” Morgan conceded.

  “Are we cutting out after halftime?” Kayleigh asked.

  “Be supportive,” I whispered, though no one wanted to cut out more than I did. We’d decided on the Oakhurst vs. Linwood game since it was the rowdiest, the full senior experience. This was, I hoped, my last football game.

  “Yeah. Support me,” Tessa said from behind a giant black camera. She’d agreed to do “supplemental photography” for the yearbook as her school activity. The lens extended twice as far as the camera itself, and Tessa steadied it with one hand.

  Tessa had come home from Chicago bubbling over, giddy. I hadn’t expected her to charge home doubly in love—not just with Laurel but with Tate College, an arts school she toured while there. I’d heard of it because I’d heard of every school with a film program in the Midwest, but Tessa finally knew what it was like to see herself somewhere. Her parents immediately agreed to a Nashville trip to see if Belmont resonated as strongly with Tessa.

  “Shouldn’t Max and Ryan be here by now?” Morgan asked me.

  “They’re on their way.”

  “That reminds me,” Kayleigh said, pulling out her phone. “Ryan owes me food.”

  We stood in the lowest corner of the bleachers, behind several rows of our unruly classmates. Every game I’d attended as a kid, the student section overflowed, pressed against the railings—seniors with capital letters painted across white tank tops, zany wigs sprouting from their heads. Others went for Warrior apparel—gold plastic chest plates or replica Roman helmets, topped by scrub brushes. I didn’t recognize the girl wearing full battle leathers, but I liked her.

  I could do crowds like this—there was anonymity in the sea of red and gold, too many faces to take in. And while I was willfully unclear on the rules of football, I did appreciate that our school colors suggested we were here to cheer on a Quidditch team.

  So it was apt when my boyfriend showed up in a Gryffindor shirt, slightly too tight on his skinny frame. I blinked at the fading House crest. “What is this … lie?”

  “Eh?” Max looked down at himself.

  “You’re, like … fundamentally a Ravenclaw. You’re Ravenclaw’s undisputed Head Boy.”

  Ryan Chase, Hufflepuff unto his very soul, barked out a laugh beside us. He was holding a few foil-wrapped hot dogs from the snack line, per some deal with Kayleigh. I wasn’t clear on the details of what happened in their chem class.

  “Well, yeah,” Max said patiently. “But you know, when you’re a kid, you just assume you’re a Gryffindor like Harry. It’s all I had clean in the right colors. And hello to you, too.”

  “Hello,” I said sweetly.

  “Gryffindor pride,” Kayleigh said, reaching over us to grab a hot dog. “Ry, did you remember my—”

  “Coke? Yes. Hoodie pocket.”

  Tessa put down the camera long enough to scarf some food. Afterward, she flipped through the past few shots, frowning.

  “She’s taking this pretty seriously,” Max said close to my ear, and I nodded.

  “Okay,” Tessa said, sighing as she changed out another camera lens. The sticker on the side said PROPERTY OF OAKHURST A/V, but she owned a similarly fancy one for travel photos. “I’m going to interact with human subjects. Someone come with me.”

  “I’ll go,” Kayleigh said. She turned to us, pointing at herself. “Supportive.”

  “Grab me a hot chocolate on your way back, will you?” Morgan brushed a crumb off her blouse. For the past few months, she’d really leaned into a vintage style. It started with a high-waisted bikini and tortoiseshell cat’s-eye sunglasses this summer. Tonight, she wore a marigold top with a Peter Pan collar, tucked into a maroon corduroy skirt. It was nice to see, in our senior year, Morgan evolving into her most confident, Morgan-y self.

  “I’ll try to get a good shot of Cameron,” Tessa called back to me.

  It was my sister’s first big performance in front of a hometown crowd. Dance Team performed at some games, but also inter-dance-team competitions on weekends. I didn’t totally understand, but it took up a lot of her time.

  On the field, the marching band’s straight lines became wide circles. The form undulated out to various other shapes, until they eventually spelled Warriors in script—the crowd favorite.

  I tilted my chin up to Max, eyes still on the field. “I kind of have a soft spot for the band.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  The blare of the brass, the shine of the tubas in stadium lights. “Yeah. I only ever hear horns and brass like that at parades and games. It’s so specifically hometown and …”

  “Celebratory,” Max finished.

  I smiled up at him. Yes. Exactly that. He shifted a little closer, maybe resisting the urge to kiss me. My parents were in the bleachers somewhere, too. Instead, he brushed my bangs out of my eyes, which somehow made me feel kissed all the same. I’d let my hair grow out a little after seeing a Brigitte Bardot film this summer. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever achieve the tousled look, but I was sure I liked Max fixing my hair.

  “You guys are revolting.” This was from Ryan. But he said it happily, like our revoltingness was a personal joy for him.

  Next came the dance team, and I let out an uncharacteristic Woo! Ryan wolf-whistled, nodding at me to signal it was done on my behalf.

  “She borrow that outfit from you?” Ryan joked. The team uniform included high-waisted leggings and a top that showed a slice of skin.

  “Ha,” I said humorlessly, through a bite of hot dog. “Team Cardigans forever.”

  Max laughed, like this was both an understatement and an endearing sensibility. I started to say You’re one to talk, Fandom T-Shirt Boy, but I was distracted by a familiar Warriors windbreaker and hat, red worn near-pink after years of use. My dad, hurrying down the bleacher steps. He stopped at the railing, as close as he could get to the field, and held his phone up. “Go, Cammy!”

  “Oh my God.” I looked back at the higher-up seats until I spotted my mom, who gave me an I couldn’t stop him shrug. She had the fondest smile on her face.

  As Dan Hancock filmed or took pictures or whatever he was doing, he swayed his hips in time with the music. Dear Lord.

  “Well, this is adorable,” Max said, and I scolded myself for my reaction. Having a dad so present in my life that it was occasionally embarrassing? Not something to complain about, especially in front of Max.

  When the routine ended, we all cheered. Cameron’s bright smile, which had been pasted over her nervousness, now seemed relieved. Proud.

  On his way back up, my dad stopped by, clapping Max on the arm. “Hey, bud! Or should I say buongiorno?”

  “Buongiorno! Good to see you, Mr. H.”

  “We’ve gotta have you over for an Italiano dinner some night!”

  “Sounds great,” Max said.

  He looked to our other friends. “Hey, kids. Happy senior year! Better see you over for game night at some point.”

  Morgan watched him jog up the steps to where my mom was waiting. “Still going well?”

  “I guess. I try not to think about it.”

  My phone went off, then again, a buzz from the purse resting on my hip. It was just Hunter, texting from somewhere in the stands across from us—our navy-clad rivals. I scrolled through several lines of all caps and emojis.

  “Everything okay?” Max asked.

  “Yeah. Just Hunter with a lot of big talk about Linwood. Why would he think I care who’s winning?” I showed Max my text as I sent the words: AREN’T THEY ALL FIELD GOALS? THEY ALL HAPPEN ON THE FIELD.

  “Hunter from work?” Morgan asked, nosing
in.

  Ryan scratched the back of his head, thinking. “You know, I saw him pitch against Lachlan last year. Unstoppable.”

  “Hey.” I tagged Ryan’s arm. “I’ve been meaning to tell you. He’s committed to IU next year, same as you.”

  “For real?” Ryan said. “Is he cool? Give him my number—maybe we could carpool home and stuff.”

  “Kayleigh and I will join that carpool,” Morgan said, beaming and obvious. “What? He’s so cute!”

  When she looked to me for confirmation, my eyes darted away. Of course Hunter was cute—his impish, high-watt grin and all that. But why would I ever say that in front of Max?

  “He certainly thinks so,” I managed, trying to sound bored and put-upon.

  “Is he single?” Morgan asked.

  I snorted. “And always mingling.”

  The crowd surged around us, people jumping to their feet to better see something on the field. I stood, too, if only out of instinct.

  “Go!” Ryan hollered, fists clenched. “Gooooo!”

  “Run the ball!” I yelled, and Max looked down at me, perplexed. “What? I’m ninety-five-percent sure that’s relevant to the situation.”

  After the game, we walked out with the school-spirited droves, angling toward the parking lot.

  “Remind me why this has to be No Boys Allowed?” Max asked, fingers laced through mine.

  “So we can talk about you!” Morgan yelled from up ahead, climbing into her car with Tessa and Kayleigh.

  “Because it’s a sleepover.” I lifted to my tiptoes. Even in a graceless parking lot full of amped-up football fans, kissing Max felt like a two-person oasis. I often visualized life like a day planner—my next day, next week, next year. But standing still with Max was like planting a You are here pin in my life. At least, until the honking started. When we looked over, Kayleigh was leaning across Morgan, pressing on the horn.

  Max’s hand left my waist, and I pulled away to see him giving them the finger, smiling. I laughed on my way to the car.

  “Thanks for joining us,” Morgan said primly. “Another minute, and I was going to start reciting my junior research paper.”