“Good to see you, Erin,” he says, and turns away from us.
Good to see you, too, Uncle Bill.
Auburn, Pennsylvania
October 5
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Chapter Twenty-One
LIAM CALLS ON SUNDAY, JUST LIKE he said he would.
He invites me to his house, and even though Mom covers the phone before she hands it to me and mouths It’s a boy, she doesn’t say no when I ask her if she’ll drive me over. As I get ready in the bathroom, Juniper lifts herself up and sits on the bathroom counter. She watches in silence while I draw on eyeliner. When I reach for my gloss, she purses her lips, and I gloss her up, too. She smacks her lips together, checks her reflection, and wipes the back of her hand across her mouth.
“What is even the point if it’s not flavored something yummy,” she says. But she lingers in the bathroom, pouting a bit into the mirror.
“Something bothering you, Juniper?” I ask, my mouth forming an involuntary O while I put on mascara.
“Who is Liam?”
“A friend from school,” I tell her. I blink too soon, and mascara stripes line the top of my cheek. Juniper licks her finger and wipes at the marks, smearing spit and makeup.
“Ew, Junie.” I pull away from her, laughing.
“A boy friend,” she says. I can tell boy and friend are separate words the way she says it. Like Campbell’s bike friends.
“He’s helping me with art class. It’s homework.”
“Hmm,” she murmurs. It’s a heavy hmm. I drop the mascara on the counter and give her my undivided attention.
“Yesssss, June Bug?”
“Nothing. Just that maybe ‘art homework’ is code for something else.”
“Juniper! What would it be code for?”
“How should I know? It’s something Campbell said, and I never know what she’s talking about.”
Ugh, Cammy, stop growing up so fast.
“Talking about me?” Campbell asks from the door.
“‘Homework’ is code for something? She’s nine, Cam.”
“I’m not a baby,” Juniper says.
“You are such a baby,” Campbell says. “And a tattle.”
“Am not!” Juniper shrieks.
“Enough,” I say. “Campbell, stop antagonizing her. Junie, please tell Mom I’ll be ready to go in two minutes.”
Juniper hops off the sink, slamming her shoulder into Campbell as she passes by.
Campbell drops the toilet lid and sits down. She pulls her legs up and crosses them.
“He’s really just a friend?” she asks, then makes a kissing face at me.
“Campbell.”
“Is he nice?” And there it is. That’s what she wanted to ask. She tries to be subtle, or to trick Juniper into asking me things, but we can never pull that off with each other. Her forced casualness is so familiar to me.
“He’s very nice. And if he’s ever not nice, I will stop hanging out with him.” She holds my gaze for a moment, then shifts, nods her head. The tension eases from her shoulders.
It’s visible to me, even if others can’t see it. The things Campbell carries. The worry.
“You like him?”
Campbell deserves honesty if I’m leaving her all evening to hang out with him.
“Yeah, I do.”
“Okay,” she says. She leans forward and holds out her hooked little finger.
“Swear you’ll be careful.”
I reach to link my pinkie finger with hers and tug down. “Pinkie promise.”
We should go. Mom and Juniper are probably ready to leave. I grab my backpack, but I pause at the door.
“Hey, Cammy, we’re gonna find a way to get you another bike, okay? I don’t know how yet, but we will.”
“It’s my own fault anyway.”
“For leaving it out front?”
“No, for being mean to Juniper that day.”
I drop my backpack and shut the door, moving right over to Campbell and crouching in front of her. People think she looks like Mom, but it’s just the red hair. She has the hard set of Dad’s jaw, and his eyes. “Hey. That’s not how any of this works, Cam.”
“No? It felt pretty karmic to me,” she says. She stands up and moves to the vanity, lifting a tube of toothpaste and starting to squeeze it all toward the opening, lid tight in place.
“You think it’s a punishment? You do something mean, so you get something bad back? I don’t think there’s anyone keeping a tally, Campbell.”
“I guess not. I’ve just always wondered . . .”
“Wondered what?”
“What we did to deserve . . .” Emotion makes her voice crack, and she stops talking. She’s rolling the toothpaste now, so it’s all condensed at the end. Pressure built. Ready to burst when opened.
“Nothing, Campbell.” I take the tube from her hand and set it on the counter. “That’s why it isn’t real. There is no magical ledger of good and bad.”
“Maybe it’s too bad there isn’t, though.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because that means no one will ever punish him.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
BY THE TIME WE ARE CROSSING town to where Liam lives, the sun has started to set. Auburn has a lot of flaws, but it does sunsets right.
As the sun sinks, the colors change, and remind me of the time Juniper got into my desk and used highlighters to color in my copy of The Bell Jar. I remember trying to read it after and being unable to—the colors were so bright against the chaos of Plath’s words. The contrast kept pulling me from the pages. Neon pink and lemon yellow in layers, just like the sky looks now. Dark words covered in highlighter. A stifling town blanketed by pretty sunsets.
Just before the sun disappears, it glows red like a fireball over Auburn. Like it could make everything its light touches burn.
Liam’s family lives up against the mountains, and every house we pass is a looming, but pristine, Victorian. Wrap-around porches and dog houses in the yards. No weathered gray siding or neglected flower beds on this side of Auburn.
“So, you’re really sticking with the tutoring story?” Mom asks as we pull into the driveway. The girls came with us even though Dad is home. Or maybe because he is.
“What do you mean?” I ask as I haul my heavy backpack into my lap. I probably could have left some books at home.
“I mean, you’ve never needed a tutor before.” Mom smiles at me. “Sounds made-up.”
I laugh. “Here, I have proof.”
I dive into my bag and pull out my art portfolio. I produce for her inspection my latest project: a still life re-creation of a photograph. The picture is paper-clipped to the corner—a bowl of pears that should have been simple, or so I thought. Turns out pears are an impossible shape to draw. In the photo, they look full and juicy and appetizing. Mine look like they are from an online quiz called “What Kind of Fruit Is Your Body Shape?”
Mom is quiet for so long that I look up and realize her struggle. She isn’t sure how to agree that I probably do need help with art class without offending me.
“It’s okay, Mom. I know they suck. That’s why I’m here.”
She laughs. An honest-to-goodness laugh, and it’s like gold.
Juniper snickers from the backseat, delighted. I catch a glimpse of Campbell in the rearview mirror, and even she’s smiling.
“They don’t suck. They . . . could use some direction, that’s all.” She’s teasing me, but she ends with a smile, and I already feel the beat of the inside joke. The word pear gets tucked inside my stone heart for safekeeping.
I pause with my hand on the door handle, then turn back and kiss her cheek goodbye. Hi, Mom. I see you in there. I get out of the car, and wave to Campbell and Juniper as they pull away. There are a bunch of autumn decorations on the porch. Pumpkins and signs, and even a full-size, grinning scarecrow. He’s probably useful to have around this year.
Liam’s sister, Fiona, answers
the door. She is a sophomore, so probably fifteen, but she’s tall like her brother. She’s dressed in a leotard and slim-fitting athletic pants, and I remember that she danced in the talent show last year.
“Leighton! Hi, come on in.” She is smiling wide as she ushers me in. “I’m so glad you are here. Liam is bored, and when he’s bored, he torments me.”
“That sounds about right,” I say. “Maybe he needs more hobbies.”
“Oh, he has them. He says they aren’t as fun.”
“Well, if it makes you feel better, you aren’t his only target; he teases me, too.” Fiona laughs and rolls her eyes dramatically, and I like her so much already. It would have been easy for her to make me feel out of place in her home, but she’s warm and friendly, and it’s impossible to feel weird.
“LIAM, YOUR DATE IS HERE!” Fiona bellows up the stairs, and I startle beside her.
Well, now I feel awkward.
“Oh, we aren’t—I’m not—” I sigh. I don’t know what this is, but it isn’t a date. “I’m just here for art.”
“Well, that’s fine, too,” says a voice behind us, and I turn to see Mrs. McNamara.
I’m surprised to realize I’m now at eye level with her. Liam is a lot taller than his mom, but otherwise he takes after her. Warm, kind eyes that look exactly like his. Her eyebrows are impeccably arched, but when she narrows her eyes at Fiona, there’s the same expression on her face that I’ve seen on Liam’s.
“Fiona Marie, must you yell?” she asks.
“He always has his headphones on,” Fiona says.
“Then go upstairs and let him know his friend is here.”
Fiona dashes up the stairs, and Mrs. McNamara smiles at me. “Leighton Barnes. It’s been years. Last time I saw you—” She holds her hand up to our shoulder height. “Anyway. You’ve grown up. I can’t believe you kids are graduating soon.” She leads me to the kitchen. “Coffee? Tea? Maybe some hot cocoa?”
“Whatever is easiest,” I say.
“It’s all easy, dear.”
“Tea sounds good.”
“Mmm, I agree. I think I’ll join you.” She gestures toward a stool that is pushed up to the kitchen island, and I climb up. There’s a yard sign leaning against the island, and I accidentally knock it over. It’s one of those equality signs, with block letters in bright colors on a black background. We believe in science. No human is illegal. Women’s rights are human rights. Love is love. Black Lives Matter.
I hop down and prop the sign back up. “I like your sign,” I say.
“Thank you, Leighton. It’s hard to be a blue dot in a red county, isn’t it?”
“Definitely leads to some tense conversations.” I think of Liam proudly declaring himself a feminist in lit class, and smile. “I can’t wait to go to college, and hopefully live in a more progressive place for a while. Do you miss living in Philly?”
“Oh, every day. It’s tough to move to a town that has, what, fewer than five percent people of color living here? But it means I can really shape the discourse in the middle school. Add some inclusive school programs, get more diverse books in the library. Those are good changes for a little town like this. And it was hard to teach in the city, too. Most schools are underfunded and overpoliced. That’s a tough environment to educate in.”
“That sounds like a hard job to have.”
“It was. So is this.” Mrs. McNamara nods her head toward the windows, gesturing at all of Auburn, it seems. “And speaking of hard career choices, Liam tells me you want to study journalism.”
“Very much so.”
“That’s an important job. Now more than ever.”
“I’ll probably end up covering Liam’s senate race one day,” I say, only half kidding.
Mrs. McNamara laughs outright. “That may be. He’s got enough charm for it. Liam’s dad would love if he went for law, but between you and me, I hope Liam pursues the thing he really loves: art.”
I smile. “Liam could probably excel at both.”
“Well, he’s stubborn enough to try it. That’s for sure.”
The electric kettle has finished heating up, and Mrs. McNamara pours steaming water into a mug. She passes me a basket of teas to choose from.
“Thank you, Mrs. McNamara,” I say.
“You are very welcome.” She leans against the other side of the kitchen island, blowing on her own tea. “Liam should be down soon. He had football practice all afternoon, so he had to shower and primp a little.”
I laugh at the word primp being used for Liam.
“You doubt it? He’s worse than his sister some days!”
“This tea is so good,” I say, taking another sip and smiling at this new insight into Liam.
“How are your parents these days, Leighton?”
I take a huge gulp of tea, scalding my tongue.
“Um, the same as ever.” A lie. “My dad still has the construction business.” For now. “My mom is still at the diner.”
“Oh, bless her. I waitressed for years, and I swear it was the hardest job I ever had.”
“She says that, too. But she says everyone should do it.”
“I agree. I’d love to see them again sometime, your parents.”
I’m saved from responding because Liam steps into the sunset-warmed kitchen. He’s wearing a white T-shirt and athletic shorts, and the scent of his shower wash arrives with him, fresh and earthy, with a hint of mint. Mouthwash, probably.
The sight of him makes me wish this were a real date.
“Hey, Leighton,” he says. He smiles like my presence there is the greatest thing, and I wonder if he could turn off the flirting if he wanted to, or if it’s part of his actual genetic code.
“All that time, and he comes down in a plain old white tee,” his mom says, shaking her head. “There are cookies, chips, whatever you want in the pantry. You can have the basement if you don’t mind Fiona dancing and need more space. But she’s switching from ballet to hip-hop soon, so the music might be a bit much.”
“Thanks, Ma,” he says.
“What’ll it be,” he asks me, pulling the cabinet open. “Salty or sweet?” He is holding up Twizzlers in one hand and white cheddar popcorn in the other.
“Um, sweet. We’ll need clean hands.”
Liam chuckles, and my face and neck turn warm as I realize the implication of my words. “For the pencils . . . for the . . .” I falter. There’s no recovering. I turn around, but thankfully Liam’s mom has gone into another room.
“If you say so, Barnes,” Liam says. “Are you okay with working in my room? Fiona is a perfectionist. She’ll do the same piece twenty times in a row until I’m ready to, like, fill my ears with superglue rather than listen to that same song one more time.”
“Your room is fine.”
We gather snacks and books and head up. Liam’s room is huge and midnight blue. His walls are covered in posters—a bunch of X-Men posters with Wolverine on them. A few of the latest Marvel movies. There are framed shadow boxes displaying Black Panther comics that look pristine. A basketball net hangs over his laundry basket, and he has a giant bookcase next to his bed. When I step closer I realize that it’s almost entirely filled with graphic novels.
On his bed there is a large, very well-loved stuffed bear, wearing a purple vest. Liam must realize why I’m smiling, because he goes to his bed and lifts the brown bear, bringing him to me. “Leighton, I’d like to introduce Mr. Jelly.”
“You named him Mr. Jelly?” I ask, laughing.
“The Third,” Liam says.
“Was there a Mr. Jelly the First or Second?”
“No, there was not. But I am the third William McNamara, so when I was five I thought that’s just how names worked. Also, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches were the only thing I’d eat for, like, three straight years.”
“Ergo, Mr. Jelly the Third.”
“Ergo.”
I return the bear to the bed and move to Liam’s desk, where, sure enough, there is a sketch pad
open to a drawing of a town. The town is on the moon, surrounded by barren craters, against a backdrop of darkness and far-off stars. Liam follows me over, and his fingers start to tap out a beat on his stack of textbooks.
“Wow.” I run my fingertip over the edge of the page. “Liam, this is beautiful.”
“Thanks,” he says.
“Lonely place to live,” I say.
His fingers stop drumming. “Yeah, it would be.”
There are a few pamphlets on the corner of Liam’s desk, and I recognize the crests and perfectly landscaped paths. College pamphlets. And not just any colleges.
“Harvard, Yale, Stanford . . .” I read the three names that are exposed, then realize how invasive that was. I step away from his desk. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s cool. I would have put them away if I cared. They’re my future; might as well embrace it.”
“You make it sound so ominous.”
“Nah, not ominous. They’re the best.”
“They are the best. So what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Liam says, but there’s this hint of apprehension in his voice. “Just competitive as hell, ya know? I want to get in.”
“To which one?”
“All of them,” he says, and he isn’t joking. He’s determined, the sheer want shining in his eyes. I see the moment he realizes that I’m studying him a bit more closely than I usually do.
He laughs.
“Isn’t that the dream? Get in everywhere? Have half a dozen golden paths laid out, ours for the choosing.”
The golden path comment reminds me of what his mom said to me in middle school, to encourage me to get my grades back up. I wonder how many times he heard that talk at home.
I smile. “I’m good with one golden path, actually.”
“Okay, honestly, I just don’t want to take any chances of being stuck here next year. I’m really over this town.”
“I get that.” But for once I’m not thinking of what’s going on in my home. I’m thinking about my conversation with Liam’s mom, and living on a little colony on a lifeless moon. I’ve been so caught up in my own stuff for years, head down, eyes on the floor, selfishly assuming I was the only one in Auburn dealing with anything.
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