The Accidentals

by Sarina Bowen

  “Did you like him?” He gives me a sidelong glance.

  I shrug. I’ve always liked him. “It was really hard. We were both terrified.”

  “What’s he got to be scared of? Except me.”

  “Haze,” I warn. We’d been close since I was in the second grade, when I pinched Adam Lewis on the backside so that he’d leave Haze alone. Haze has been my loyal friend ever since, though he no longer needs my protection. The Adam Lewises of the world do not want to run afoul of the nineteen-year-old edition of Haze.

  These days, I’m the one receiving all the protection. When my mother was hospitalized, Haze sat there next to me. While I held her hand, he held my other one. Together we’d watched my mother’s body slip deeper into illness, with new tubes each day, and a hissing ventilator at the end. During the three-week ordeal, he had ferried me to the hospital and back home. When I was too tired and too afraid to be alone, he had slept on my sofa and cut school.

  Haze is stuck in summer school now too, which is basically my fault.

  And then, after the end came, as I sat numbly in his car before the funeral, he pulled me into his arms and kissed me for the first time. Even now, it rests here on the grimy stoop between us, this unacknowledged thing that has shifted. Haze has always been quick to throw an arm around my shoulders or pat me on the back. But now I sense a kind of heat rising off him whenever I’m nearby.

  At this very moment I’m aware of his fingertips sliding onto my bare knee. And I really don’t know what to think about that.

  “I don’t see how Daddy thinks he can help,” Haze is saying. “The man is seventeen years too late.”

  I know! Angry Rachel privately agrees. Of course I’m mad at Frederick. Still, Haze shouldn’t make me defend my decision to meet him.

  As I watch, Haze’s fingers rub my kneecap gently. There’s love in his touch, which I sorely appreciate. But there’s also expectation. I reach for his hand, squeezing his fingers to occupy them. And then I change the subject. “Did you hear any news from Mickey Mouse?” Haze is applying for jobs at all the theme parks, hoping to start after we finally graduate.

  “Not yet. I’ve been wondering—what do you think is the worst job there?”

  “Is Mickey potty trained? What about Goofy?”

  A slow grin overtakes his face. “Did you know the custodial guys have a code for all the bad shit? ‘Code V’ is for vomit. They clean it up with ‘pixie dust,’ which is really sawdust cut with charcoal.”

  “Gross. Don’t get stationed by Space Mountain.”

  “I know, right? Rachel, your curfew is in two minutes.”

  “True.”

  “We can hang out after school tomorrow.”

  I shake my head. “Frederick is coming to see me again.” His name sounds funny on my tongue. Formal. But I can’t call him “my father” out loud when, as far as I know, he’s never called me his daughter.

  Haze’s face falls. “Why, Rae? You don’t need his bullshit. What would your mother say?”

  Haze and my mother had always gotten on beautifully together—even after Haze stopped being a cute grade-schooler, and got tattoos, and got left back a grade. “That’s just Haze,” she’d sigh, after the news of his latest mess. “He’s been through a lot.” To me, Jenny Kress was a militant taskmaster. But she had a blind spot for Haze. It was one of the enduring mysteries of my life.

  “Jenny would say that man is nothing to you,” Haze presses.

  I stare down at the cracks in the concrete walkway. The truth is that my mother said that very thing many times. Until the night that all changed.

  “It was her idea,” I say slowly.

  “What was?”

  My stomach is already cramping. I’m still too raw to think about my mother’s final week. Getting through each day requires that I forget those frantic hours, as doctors scrambled to halt her decline, and nurses—my mother’s coworkers—came and went with anxious faces.

  “It was that night you went out to buy milkshakes, because she said she would eat something.” Just the memory of her hospital room pushes me back under the surface of the deep pool of fear I’d been swimming through. “Out of nowhere, she said ‘We need to call your father.’”

  At the time, I’d tried to brush the idea aside. “Now is not the time,” I’d told her.

  But she’d said, “Now is well past the time.” And then she’d let out the saddest sigh I’d ever heard.

  That had been the exact moment when I’d really understood how bad things were. Somehow I’d managed to stay positive until right then, even though I’d never seen her so sick. Even though she slept nearly all the time, and her skin felt like hot paper. Even though Hannah the social worker had begun to make regular appearances in my mother’s hospital room.

  Until that moment, I was able to pretend. And then she burst that bubble. We have to call your father. It was the single scariest thing she ever said to me.

  “We’re not calling him,” I’d argued again, feeling like I might throw up.

  “Calling who?” Hannah had asked from the doorway.

  And that was that.

  “Well, shit,” Haze says, his voice full of surprise. He clasps one of my wrists and pulls me gently to my feet. “That doesn’t mean it was a good idea. What, uh, happened between them, anyway?”

  “I have no idea. Except for the obvious thing.” My neck heats at the implication of sex.

  But Haze just smiles. “That much I figured out. Do you think it was a hookup? Or were they a couple?”

  All I can do is shake my head. “Whenever I asked questions, she always said she didn’t know him well. That he was a stranger.” Although I never quite bought it. Mom seemed angry at him in a way that a stranger might not deserve. Or was that wishful thinking?

  I hated the idea that I was the product of a one-night stand. An accidental child.

  That awful night my mother told Hannah to summon him had probably been a window—a rare chance to ask questions. But I hadn’t done it. I was afraid to break the seal, as if, by acknowledging my worst nightmare, it would come true.

  And then it had. My mother’s last words were, “It’s okay, Rachel.”

  Haze lifts a hand to rub my back in a way that puts me on high alert. “Rae, you don’t have to see that guy again if you’re not feeling it.”

  “I know.”

  “We were going to drop by your house tomorrow to pick up the things you need.”

  That’s something else I’m afraid to do. “It will wait.”

  “Okay,” he whispers, his eyes going soft. So I know what’s coming. He cups my face in his hands, and I stop breathing. Slowly, Haze dips his chin toward mine, bringing our lips together. I become overly aware of his palms on my cheeks, his breath on my face and the quiet snick of his kiss.

  I pull away as soon as I can without being impolite.

  “I’ll see you in the morning,” he says. Then he turns and jogs toward his car.

  Chapter Two

  The first minute of the day is always the hardest.

  When I open my eyes, the cracked plaster ceiling overhead usually provides the first clue. And if that doesn’t jolt me with the realization that it wasn’t all just a nightmare, the gray light filtering through the ratty curtains does the trick. Or the sound of Sister Mary Ruth’s warbling voice in the hallway.

  My mother is gone, and she’s not coming back.

  The sick feeling in the pit of my stomach begins then, and it doesn’t let up, even if I manage to find the shower unoccupied. Even if Evie doesn’t shove anyone in the hallway. Even if nobody steals my piece of toast before it pops, the ache is there.

  Before my ordeal began, I didn’t know such a place existed. Even summer school was a fuzzy idea, since I’ve never known anyone to take summer classes except for driver’s education.

  It’s like a hellish, alternate universe was created on the day my mother died, and I’m trapped inside. So, with a pounding heart, I wash and dress as fast as possib
le.

  “Good morning, dear,” the nun on duty says as I hustle into the kitchen. She hands me a tiny glass of orange juice, which she dispenses as if it were liquid gold.

  “Thank you,” I whisper, gulping it down. Then I pick up my backpack and run outside, where an old blue car sits idling at the curb.

  It’s sweet relief to sink into Haze’s passenger seat. He doesn’t waste time with small talk. He doesn’t say “good morning” or ask how I slept. He just slides over, wrapping his arms around me. I put my chin on his shoulder and let out a long, shaky breath.

  “One month from today,” he whispers, naming the length of time until my birthday. I sniff back the tears that threaten to spill. A month is forever. I’ve only made it eight days so far. “What would happen if you just didn’t go back there?” He pulls back, studying me with those dark eyes of his.

  “The social worker would come looking for me. And they’d just find me at school, anyway.”

  “God forbid you blow that off,” Haze says, putting the car into gear.

  I don’t bother to explain, because Haze should already know. I need my good grades or I can’t switch to Claiborne Preparatory Academy in September. And boarding school is the only thing in my life that didn’t implode the day my mother went into the hospital.

  Besides Haze. Thank God for Haze.

  He lets the subject drop, turning on the radio instead. Sam Smith begins to croon from the speakers, filling up the car with the sounds of someone else’s heartache.

  * * *

  Later that morning, I’m studying in the media center at school when an unfamiliar email arrives in my inbox. The sender’s name is completely unfamiliar. But the subject line is “Welcome to Claiborne.”

  Dear Rachel,

  Hi. I’ll bet the last thing you need is a letter from a stranger, reminding you that school will start up again in seven weeks. But you’re going to get four of them.

  Sorry. I’m just following orders.

  I’m Jake, and I’ve just finished my junior year at Claiborne Prep. Congratulations on your acceptance and all that. Claiborne is awesome, and I’m not just saying that because you already paid your deposit. It is a pretty great place. I’ve drunk the Kool-Aid, obviously, which is probably why they asked me to write this letter.

  Every incoming student receives four letters from a “peer liaison,” and so they passed me your name. My email address is talknerdytome@ClaibornePrep.edu but you’ll be assigned a normal one with your name, like Rachel.Kress@ClaibornePrep.edu. It’s pretty easy to make aliases on the server if you’re a geek like me and that kind of thing makes you giddy.

  So, yeah. Fun times at boarding school! Do I know how to party, or what? :) When I sat down to write this letter, I wondered if I could pass myself off as a cool guy. Four paragraphs in and I’m pasting that L on my forehead already.

  Anyhow.

  All they told me about you is: your name, your home address, your former school and your class year. Orlando Florida, huh? Is it weird to live near Disney World? Do you still like going there, or by now would you rather have it firebombed? I’ve been there a couple of times with my family, like every other kid in America. And I was that kid who threw up after a ride on the tea cups.

  True story. In my defense, it was really humid because we went in August to save money. I’m blaming the heat, and the sugary lemonade. My family is never letting me live it down, either. Ten years later I’m still hearing: “Remember the time Jake threw up at Disney World?”

  So if you’re from Florida, you’re going to need to buy some winter clothes. And boots. Don’t forget those. It’s not all just fluffy snow and rainbows. New Hampshire weather brings plenty of slush and ice. And spring takes forever to arrive. March and April are all about muddy paths and bare trees and the last couple of snow piles that refuse to melt.

  I’m really selling it now, right? Claiborne Prep: Land of Bleh Weather and Unnaturally Long Twin Beds. For fifty grand a year, all this can be yours. Join us.

  Please feel free to ask me any questions about what to bring or how to sign up for classes. Pro tip: they’re not kidding about those extra-long sheets. Regular twin size will pop off the corners all the time. So it’s worth ordering them from a catalog. And if you pick a weird color or pattern, you’ll never get confused if someone takes your stuff out of a dryer in the laundry room. Mine have snowmen on them. (Thanks mom.)

  Feel free to email me at any point.

  Jake Willis

  Reading Jake’s letter is like stepping out of my own reality for a few minutes. I actually laugh out loud when I get to the part about puking on the teacups.

  The fact that I’m headed to Claiborne Prep in the fall seems completely surreal.

  It was sophomore year when I started begging my mother to send me there. Gazing at their website, I’d fallen in love with the bell tower and the ivy-covered bricks on their website. It looked like something out of a movie. I wanted to kick through piles of real autumn leaves (we don’t have those in Florida) and rub elbows with the kind of serious students I imagine go to boarding school.

  My mother was unmoved. “We can’t afford that,” she said the first ten times I mentioned it. “It’s a snooty place.”

  “But what if I win a scholarship?” I’d pressed. That’s how my mom had afforded her year there. Or what if you asked my father for the money? Even if I didn’t voice this request aloud, it always hung there in the air between us.

  We had this argument a million times. Both of us pretended that money was the big obstacle. There was a lot more to it, though. When she was my age, my mother also did a year at Claiborne Prep. She grew up in Claiborne, New Hampshire.

  And that’s where she got pregnant with me.

  My mom never said much about her time in Claiborne. And she certainly never spoke of my father. But I knew she hated the idea of her baby girl going so far away. She also didn’t want my teenage years to end the way hers did. With too much freedom and then a baby.

  I didn’t give up, though. I kept working on her. A year at prep school would look good on my college applications, and Mom cared a lot about those.

  Finally, she’d said yes. One day she’d left a check on my desk for the application fee, made out to Claiborne Prep. Without asking why she’d changed her mind, I’d sat down and begun my online application.

  A week after my application was complete, Mom told me her cancer was back.

  Now my fingers hover over the keyboard as I imagine what an honest reply to this friendly note would sound like. Hi Jake. Right after I applied to your school, my life became a dumpster fire. My mother never wanted me to go to Claiborne, and I think she relented only because she thought she was dying.

  You just can’t put that in an email to a stranger.

  Dear Jake,

  Thank you for your letter. It’s hard to imagine myself there next winter, walking between snow banks. I haven’t seen snow since I was three. As for Disney World, I still like the place. Tourist traffic can be a real bummer, but there are perks. My friend Haze and I are good at sneaking into hotels to use the swimming pool. We keep a stash of abandoned key cards to flash when we need to look like we belong.

  And you’re not the only one who ever puked on the teacups. My intel suggests it happens all the time.

  My questions about Claiborne number in the millions. My entire experience with boarding school is reading Harry Potter books. What if the sorting hat puts me in Slytherin? Are the elves friendly? Is potions class as hard as it looks?

  Seriously though—is it crazy that I’m showing up only for senior year? Maybe it was a dumb decision for someone who’s kind of an introvert. Will I have a roommate? That’s a little terrifying.

  What else? I have a lot of questions about the various music groups. I see a glee club and a choir. Aren’t those the same thing? The a cappella singing groups are really interesting to me as well. But I’ll probably have to audition, right? Yikes.

  My Claiborne email ad
dress should be: shegetsstagefright@ClaibornePrep.edu.

  Thanks for writing to me. At least I’ll know one person at Claiborne.

  Best—

  Rachel Kress

  After I hit “send,” I go back to stressing out about seeing my father after school. The last hour of my day is spent staring at a single page of my U.S. Government textbook. By the time the bell rings, my palms are clammy.

  In the girls’ bathroom, I run a brush through my hair. When I was eight, I spent a month dreaming that Frederick would turn up at the Father-Daughter Banquet at school. Even two months ago, I’d imagined him standing in the back of the auditorium during my solo in the Choir Springtime Showcase.

  Each time I pictured meeting my father, I always framed the scene in a flattering light. But now there’s only this version of me—the puffy-eyed, rumpled one in clothes that aren’t quite clean enough. I shove my brush in my purse and leave the bathroom, if only to escape my reflection in the mirror.

  “Hey.” Haze is waiting right outside the door. We fall into step together as we head for the wide front doors. “Are you sure about this?”

  “Yeah.” No.

  All the tension I’d felt yesterday in Hannah’s office redoubles as Haze opens the door for me. And I don’t know whether I’m more afraid that my father won’t show up, or that he will.

  But there he stands, leaning against a car in the pick-up line wearing sunglasses and a baseball hat. He looks every inch the incognito celebrity. But how else would he look? He can hardly show up wearing a concert tee and his guitar.

  I feel lightheaded walking toward him.

  Haze puts a hand on my arm, stopping me. “You don’t have to see him, you know. You don’t have to be civil. He never was.”

  Haze is right, of course. And yet I’m going to be pleasant anyway. Good girls always are. “I need to do this, okay?”

  Haze regards me from beneath a lock of shiny black hair. He has a face built for tragedy, with shaded eyelids and coal-black lashes. “Aren’t you angry?”