by Sarah Dessen
I smiled. “Maybe.”
“Cool. Let’s go.” He got to his feet, starting over to the stairs, and I followed him. “I’m thinking fish.”
“ No.”
“Ravioli?”
“Getting warmer.”
He glanced back at me, grinning, as I reached over to turn off the overhead light. From this distance, in the dimness, the model looked surreal, made up of parts filled with buildings, bordered by long stretches of empty space. It reminded me of the way cities and towns look when you are flying at night. You can’t make out much. But the places where people have come together, and stayed, are collections of tiny lights, breaking up the darkness.
The next day, I came home from school and my dad was at home. Which was strange enough: with an hour or so until opening, he was always needed to oversee prep in the kitchen. Then, though, I realized he wasn’t just there, but sitting at the kitchen table—not on his phone, in constant motion, or on his way out the door—just waiting for me.
“Hey,” he said as I stepped inside, the side door easing shut with a click behind me. “Got a minute?”
Only one thing came to mind: AHBL. I was in big trouble or someone was dead. Maybe both.
“Sure,” I said, my mouth going dry as I pulled out the opposite chair and slid into it. “What’s going on?”
He cleared his throat, smoothing one palm across the tabletop as if checking for stray crumbs. Finally, after what felt an excruciatingly long time, he said, “So . . . I need you to fill me in on what’s going on right now between you and your mom.”
Hearing this, I felt two things simultaneously. Relief that everyone was still breathing, replaced immediately by a flare of anger so familiar it was like an old friend. “Why? What happened ? ”
“Did you have an argument recently?” he said. “Some sort of incident?”
“We always have arguments and incidents,” I replied. “That’s nothing new.”
“I thought you were seeing her the other weekend.”
“I did.” Now my voice was rising, unsteady. “What’s happening ? Did she call you or something?”
“No.” Another throat clearing. “But I did hear from her lawyer today.”
Oh, no, I thought. “Her lawyer? ” I repeated, although I already knew where this was going. “Why?”
“Well,” he said, running his palm over the table again, “apparently, she would like to revisit the custody agreement.”
“Again,” I added. He didn’t say anything. “Why? Because I finally told her the truth?”
“Ah.” He sat back, leveling his gaze at me. “So there was an incident.”
“I told her the divorce was her fault, and, therefore, so was the fact that I’m upset with her about it. That’s not exactly breaking news.”
My dad just looked at me for another moment. Finally he said, “Your mother is prepared to tell the court that we are not upholding our part of the visitation arrangement right now.”
“Meaning what?”
“Well,” he said, “you’ve only seen her twice in the last six months. And you didn’t come for the full summer last year.”
“I was there for three weeks. And I just saw her!” I shook my head, looking out the window. “This is crazy. Just because I won’t go visit her this weekend, or go on a stupid beach trip, she’s ready to drag us all back to court?”
“Mclean.”
“Don’t I have a say in this at all? She can’t force me to see her against my will. Can she?”
He sat back, rubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t think she wants to force you to do anything. In a perfect world, you’d want to do it all on your own.”
“This world isn’t perfect.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that.” He sighed. “Look, Mclean, you turn eighteen in eight months. You go off to college even before that. Maybe it’s worth just considering making a few trips—”
“No,” I said flatly. He raised his eyebrows, surprised by my tone, and I checked myself. Fast. “Sorry. Look, we just got here. I’m in school, I have friends. I don’t want to just pick up and start leaving every single weekend.”
“I understand that.” I watched him take in breath, then let it out. “But I also don’t think you want to spend your last senior semester enmeshed in a court battle.”
“Why can’t she just leave me alone?” My voice was breaking now, the tears audible if not visible yet. “Jesus. Hasn’t she gotten enough?”
“She’s your mother,” he said. “She loves you.”
“If she loved me, she’d let me stay here and live my life.” I pushed back my chair, the legs scraping hard against the linoleum. “Why don’t I get to decide what I need? How come it’s always up to Mom? Or you? Or the freaking courts?”
“Hey. Mclean.” He was quiet, just looking at me. My dad was not one for outbursts, and this kind of conversation between us, rife with emotion, was rare if not a first. “You don’t have to make a decision right this second. I’m just asking you to think about it. Okay?”
I knew this was not an unreasonable request. I forced myself to nod. “Okay,” I managed.
He stood, then came over, wrapping his arms around me. I hugged him back, all the while looking over his shoulder to the flat green of the yard beyond. Then when he let go and went down the hallway to his room, I pushed out the door and went there. I wanted to break something, or scream, but none of these was really an option in this neighborhood at four on a Wednesday. Then I looked over to the empty building behind mine.
I walked across my yard, stepping over the low brick wall so I was standing over the doors that led down to the storm cellar. They were shut, but there was no lock. I bent down, pulling up on both handles, which opened with a creak, revealing that narrow set of stairs. A flashlight sat on the top step.
I took another look around me. Just another afternoon, the traffic picking up as rush hour approached. Nearby, a dog was barking. My partying neighbors had the TV on too loud. And somewhere, four hours north, my mom was reaching out for me, extending her grasp further, further, to pull me to her. I’d run and dodged, zigged and zagged, and none of it had worked. I knew this wasn’t a real solution either. But for the moment, all I could think to do was pick up that flashlight, turning it on. Then I pointed the beam at the stairs and followed it down, into the dark.
I probably should have been creeped out, sitting in a cellar beneath an empty house, alone. But after a moment or two to adjust my eyes and my nerves, I realized Dave was on to something. Sitting on the bottom step, the flashlight in my lap, I got the same sense I had that first night, when he’d pulled me down there with him. Like I’d literally ducked below the world, out of harm’s way, at least for a little while.
What a mess, I thought, looking up at the sky, now darkening above me. And all because I’d done the one thing I hadn’t been able to for all this time: speak the truth. If my mother loved me enough to fight for me, even against my will, why couldn’t she accept that I was angry at her?
Up above, I heard a whirring noise, followed by an engine starting, running briefly, and then cutting off again. I pushed myself to my feet, then climbed the stairs to see what was going on. I was just about to poke my head out when Dave stuck his in.
“Holy crap,” he said, jumping back, one hand to his chest. “You scared the bejesus out of me!”
I was equally startled, and for a moment we both stayed where we were, catching our collective breath. Then I said, “Bejesus? ”
He gave me a flat look. “You startled me.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to. I just needed to escape for a little while.” I stood up, stepping out onto the snowy ground, and waved my hand at the stairs. “It’s all yours.”
He nodded at the flashlight, still in my hand. “I actually just came for that. We’re about to bond and need some illumination.”
“What?”
Before he could answer, I heard a scraping noise from the garage behind him. The Volvo was parke
d outside, and looking in, I saw Mr. Wade, moving some metal bookshelves that lined one wall.
“Garage cleanup,” he explained as his dad picked up a cardboard box. “It’s a chore and a father-son activity, all rolled into one.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“Oh, it is. You have no idea.”
“Dave?” Mr. Wade said, peering out at us. “How’s that light coming?”
“Got it. Be right there,” he replied. His dad nodded, waving at me, and I waved back, watching as he carried the box out of the garage, placing it beneath the basketball goal, then doubled back. Dave said, “To my dad, heaven is a big mess and an endless supply of Rubbermaid bins.”
I smiled, then looked up at the building in front of us. “Hey, did you ever go in here? You know, beyond the cellar?”
“A couple of times, when I was a kid,” he replied. “Before they boarded up the windows.”
“Is it a house?”
“If it was, it was a big one. It’s huge inside. Why?”
I shrugged. “Just wondered. It seems so out of place here, with everything else grown up around it.”
“Yeah? ” He looked back at the building. “Never really thought about it like that. It’s been here for as long as I can remember, though. I guess I’m just used to it.”
We started walking across the yard, toward our driveways, where Mr. Wade had piled a few more boxes under the basketball goal, along with several Rubbermaid plastic bins. “See?” Dave said. “Welcome to paradise.”
I scanned the boxes. Some were open, some taped shut, and hardly any were labeled. “What is all this stuff anyway?”
“You name it.” He clicked the flashlight on, moving it across them. “Old chemistry-set parts, rat cages—”
“Rat cages?”
“My mother is allergic to all dander,” he explained. “Except rat.”
“Ah.”
“And then, of course, my model trains.” He leaned over, lifting the flaps on a box and pulling out something. When he held it out to me, I saw it was a toy soldier, small and green, holding a gun. Bang.
“Wow,” I said. “How much of this stuff do you have?”
“More than you would believe. If you and your dad are minimalists, then we’re . . . maximumalists. Or something.” I looked at the soldier again. “We don’t throw much away. You never know what you might need.”
“That’s what stores are for.”
“Says the girl with no thyme,” he replied. There was a loud scraping noise from the garage, and we both looked over to see Mr. Wade, red-faced, his skinny arms straining as he tried to push the shelves out from the wall. “I think I’m being paged.”
“Right,” I said. “Have fun.”
“You know it,” he said, then walked over to the garage, sliding the flashlight into his back pocket, taking his place on the other side of the shelves.
As they started pushing again, I walked over to the boxes, peering into the one Dave had taken the soldier from. Inside, there were more figures, as well as horses and wagons. The box beside it, identical in size and shape, held yet another collection, this time of weapons: miniature cannons, rifles, muskets, plus more modern things—revolvers, machine guns—clearly from other soldier sets. As I dropped my single soldier back in, I looked at Dave and his dad again and thought of all of those battles he must have created, each detail perfect and accurate. The most controlled kind of conflict, all within your doing, the outcome and every consequence carefully manipulated. Maybe it was geeky, or even embarrassing. But now, especially, I understood the appeal.
The next morning, I got up early, slipping out the front door before it was even fully light. My dad had gotten home later than usual the night before, which I knew because I was up, and remained so, listening to his familiar late-night noises: the radio on low as he had a beer in the kitchen, his routine after-work shower, and finally the sound of him snoring about two seconds after he turned off his light.
The entire evening I’d been avoiding thinking about my mother as I made myself dinner, checked e-mail, folded laundry, and ran the dishwasher. I focused on normal things, routines, as if by doing so I could keep the strangeness that was this whole custody issue at bay. Once I was in bed, though, I could think of nothing else.
Now, out in the semidarkness, my jacket wrapped tight around me, I started walking toward downtown, my breath puffing out in front of me. No one was out, save for a few bundled-up runners and some policemen, driving slowly, the entire roads to themselves. I walked down block after block, retracing my steps to that bright neon OPEN sign.
“Welcome to Frazier Bakery!”
I nodded, walking over to the counter, where this time an older guy with curly hair and glasses was standing behind the register. “Hi,” he said. He looked kind of sleepy. “What can I get you to make you feel at home today?”
“Procrastinator’s Special,” I said.
He didn’t even blink. “Coming right up.”
Five minutes later, I was back in that same squishy leather chair, facing the fake fireplace. The only other people in the entire place were a group of senior citizens, having a spirited conversation about tics at a round table by the front door. I thought of my dad, asleep back at the house, not even knowing where I was or what I was about to do.
Once I’d calmed down the night before—and it took a while—I could understand why he’d said what he did about just giving in to my mom’s demands. We’d been fighting for so long, and now, with only half a year left that any of this mattered, I didn’t know if I wanted to be the one to put us through it all again. What was six months, in the scheme of things, when I knew I’d be leaving here by the end of the summer anyway?
But really, it wasn’t about six months, or a summer. It wasn’t about the divorce, or all these moves, and all the girls I’d chosen to be. This time, more than any before, it was about me. About a life I’d built in not much more than a month, a town where I felt finally somewhat at home, and the friends I’d made there. It was just my luck that at the precise moment I most needed to be able to cut and run, I’d finally found a place—and maybe even some people—worth holding on to.
“Welcome to Frazier Bakery!” the guy behind the counter yelled. He sounded more awake: I wondered if he’d had a few shots of coffee himself.
“Good morning!” a woman’s voice, cheerful, called back. I glanced over, and there was Lindsay Baker, wearing yoga pants and a fleece jacket, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. When she saw me, she smiled and came right over. “Mclean! Hello! I didn’t know you liked this place!”
“I don’t,” I said. She looked taken aback, so I added, “I mean, I’ve only been here a couple of times. Just found it the other day.”
“Oh, I love the Frazier Bakery,” she said, plopping down in the chair beside mine and crossing one leg over the other. “I come in every morning. I could not get through the seven thirty Spin Extreme without my skim caramel espresso.”
“Oh,” I said. “Right.”
“I mean, how can you not love this place?” she asked, sitting back. “It’s so cozy, and it just feels good when you walk in, with the fireplace and the little sayings on the walls. And the best thing is when I travel, there’s always one on some corner. So it’s like having a bit of home with me no matter where I go.”
I looked around the room again, thinking of my dad. If there was one thing he hated in a restaurant, it was fakeness. He always said that eating food as an experience should be real, unique and messy, and to pretend otherwise was cheating yourself. “Well,” I said. “That is convenient, I guess.”
“And the food is great, too,” she said, pulling off her gloves. “I eat just about every meal here, to be honest. It’s halfway between my condo and my office. See what I mean? Perfect!”
I nodded. “I’ll have to try that skim caramel thing.”
“Do it. You won’t regret it.” She glanced at her watch. “Oops, gotta go. If I’m late I might not get a bike and that
is not a good thing. Hey, it was great bumping into you! Your dad says you’re really liking it here.”
“He said that?”
“Oh, yeah. I think he likes it, too, especially lately. Just a hunch.” She smiled, flashing those white teeth. I raised my eyebrows, but she was already turning around, flipping me a popular-rl wave over one shoulder. “See you soon, Mclean!”
Oh, God, I thought as I watched her stride up to the counter, although I had to admit I felt a little relieved. My dad could never really be with a woman who loved this place, even in the short term. We cut and runners might be sketchy, but we had our standards.
I waited until she’d gotten her drink and left, the bell sounding cheerily behind her, before I pulled out my phone and glanced at the clock. It was 7:00 a.m. sharp as I dialed, then listened to one, two, then three rings. Finally, she picked up.
“Mom? ”
“Mclean? Is that you?”
I cleared my throat, looking into that fire in front of me. The logs were perfectly shaped, the fake flames flickering. Pretty yes, but no real warmth there. Just an illusion, but you didn’t realize that until you were up close and still felt cold.
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s me. We need to talk.”
“Hey! Think fast!”
I just looked at Dave as he chucked the basketball at me with possibly the worst overhand throw I’d ever seen. It landed far to my right, then bounced past me, banging against my dad’s truck.
“Do you have a vision problem or something? ” I asked him.
“Just keeping you on your toes,” he replied, cheerful as ever as he ran over, picking it up again. He bounced it, then said, “Up for a game?”
I shook my head. “Too early for me.”
“It’s eight thirty, Mclean. Get with the program.”
“I’ve been up since five.”
“Really?” He bounced the ball again. “Doing what?”
“Compromising.” I yawned, then turned toward my house. “I’ll explain later.”