***
By five minutes to eight, I was sitting in the classroom, massaging my scar and so lost in thought I didn’t notice Maya sit down next to me.
“How was your weekend?” she asked.
At first, I didn’t answer, because I didn’t think the question was directed to me. The only person I knew in class, aside from Susie, was Maya, and she hardly spoke. Eventually, it finally registered she was talking to me, and she was waiting for a response.
“Joyous family time.” I smiled from ear to ear, not meaning a word of it.
She smirked, catching my sarcastic tone.
“You?”
“Joyous work time.”
“Trade you.”
Shit! Why did I say that? I pictured a newscaster saying, “Well, Phil, it seems Ainsley Carmichael can’t stop herself from putting her foot in it. Just take a look at this…”
Maya laughed. “I don’t think the owners could afford the insurance policy for you. Accident-prone people don’t last long.” She winked. Maya actually winked. At me. And she made a joke. A wink and a joke. Sinatra’s song “Fly Me to the Moon” played in my head.
“I’m not accident-prone.” I jutted out my bottom lip.
“And the Pope isn’t Catholic. How’s your hand?”
“Oh, it wasn’t bad at all. In a few days all proof of the coffee incident will be gone. You okay?”
“Yep.”
Dr. Gingas walked in, immediately bursting into lecture. I wondered whether she actually started the lecture the moment she stepped out of her office, and it was up to us to catch up.
Fifty minutes later, Dr. Gingas goose-stepped out of the classroom without any indication that she’d finished. The woman was insane.
Maya continued taking notes. Curious about her incessant scribbling, I leaned over and peeked, but I couldn’t decipher her scrawl. Was she writing in code? Shorthand? Did shorthand still exist? Knowing Maya, it was her own code that only she could understand. She smelled like gardenias, and before I could stop myself, I inhaled her heady, potent, and lustful scent.
“Can I help you?” She threw me a confounding Maya smile, the corners of her mouth tugging upward, forcing two faint dimples to appear on her left cheek.
“I love your perfume,” I said in a foolish, lovesick voice.
“I’ll get you a bottle for your birthday.” She continued writing, but I detected a hint of a smile.
Feeling bold, or drunk on her scent, I responded, “I prefer it on you.”
The scratch of the pen’s tip came to a screeching halt. I froze.
We were the only two left in the room. Within moments, students in the next class would trickle in. Again the internal newscaster said, “This just in. Ainsley Carmichael has crashed and burned in the love department.”
“What am I going to do with you?” She tapped thoughtful fingers on the table.
“What do you want to do to me?” I braced for the worst.
She laughed. “Can I buy you breakfast?”
I stared at her, unable to speak, feeling as if my mouth was full of marshmallows.
Maya finished writing and packed her bag with the efficiency I had come to admire in her. Nothing was done in a rush, yet somehow she gave the impression she was miles ahead of everyone, even if she was the last to finish.
***
Sitting at a table outside a café on a quaint side street near the university, I nibbled on a cinnamon roll as I waited for Maya. She had opted for a breakfast burrito, even though the wait was much longer. It was a gorgeous sunny day, and we were in the midst of a stunning Indian summer. The trees along the Charles River were beginning to burst with gold, crimson, and orange leaves, contrasting with a deep-azure horizon. Soon, it would be so cold no one would want to be outside unless absolutely necessary.
She appeared victoriously holding a foil-wrapped burrito above her head. God, she was adorable. Maya the Gray was finally letting down her walls, brick by brick, and with each fallen piece I was falling further and further into Maya’s rabbit hole.
“You got it!” I checked the time on my cell phone. “And in plenty of time.” I still had an hour before my next class. Sighing, I added, “Such a shame we can’t sit here all day to soak it in.” Stretching my arms above my head, I leaned back in the plastic chair, letting the sun’s rays warm my freckled skin.
The chair wobbled, and Maya was quick to put a steadying hand out to prevent me from crashing head over teakettle.
I laughed bashfully. “Thanks.”
“No problem. I’m getting used to it.”
I crossed my arms. “What does that mean?”
“I can’t take my eyes off you or who knows what will happen? You”—she pointed her burrito at me—“are the most accident-prone person I’ve ever known.”
“Is that the only reason you can’t take your eyes off me?”
She was about to take a bite, but her eyes locked on mine, and I sat there, transfixed by her gaze, unable to determine the meaning. Finally, she sank her teeth into the potato burrito and chewed with purpose. After washing it down with some water, she said, “That’s for me to know and for you to find out.”
It was a hopeful answer—playful, even.
Chapter Twelve
The bugle alarm on my phone blared at five the following morning. The night before, Fiona had texted, ordering me to meet her at the boathouse at five thirty to row on the Charles.
That wasn’t what pulled me out of bed, however. I enjoyed it, the process of more doing and less thinking. Bend the knees, reach back with the oars, dip the oars, push the legs, pull with the arms, propel yourself farther along the water. I loved the rhythm. Bend, reach, dip, push, and pull. It wasn’t often that I could escape thinking about what I said or did in public. In today’s world, the threat of appearing on Twitter, YouTube, Facebook, Instagram, Reddit, Snapchat, or any new type of social media was a constant threat. Living under a microscope was exhausting.
I met Fiona outside the boathouse. She was bent over, stretching her arms behind her back. “How goes it with Maya the Gray?” she asked.
I adopted the same stretching position and replied, “Progress has been made.”
Fiona bent further. “Good progress?”
“Excellent progress.” I stretched my right arm across my chest, and then my left. “What about you and Pat?”
“Confusion,” she said. Standing, she avoided my eyes and headed for the water. That was all she would say about Pat. Fiona had to work things out in her head before she would ever explain it to anyone, including me. I liked to talk things over. She preferred mulling things over in private. I was surprised she had even admitted she was confused; that was a minor breakthrough, or it showed her desperation.
On the river, it was just us, each in our own boat, our own sheer exertion propelling us downriver. We never raced each other; that would ruin it. It wasn’t about Fiona versus Ainsley. It was about us as individuals.
We had started sculling in high school and competed nationally for our club. The Olympics weren’t in our sights, but we’d hoped to race in the Head of the Charles the following year. Fiona had been a lackluster rower until she learned that the club our family had belonged to since its founding in the 1850s didn’t allow women to compete until a measly twenty years ago. She had found a new passion: compete in the Head of the Charles or die.
We started, and I focused on my form: bend, reach, dip, push, and pull.
It was a glorious day on the river. The sun inched over the horizon, and I marveled over the pink streaks painting the murky water as I skimmed along the surface. There wasn’t much noise, only some birds chattering, the dip of the oars, and the sloshing of the water. The morning air this autumn was fresh, with just enough bite to make me feel alive and free.
These were the moments I cherished, the times when I was simply Ainsley, not Ainsley Carmichael, the daughter of Senator Lillian Carmichael and the future President of the United States.
Fi
ona picked up her pace. I didn’t give chase, preferring to maintain a relaxed tempo. Fee would wait for me, and she would understand, just as I understood her need to go on her own.
Afterward, we sat outside the boathouse, steaming cups of coffee clasped between our hands. “We still on for tonight?” Fee asked.
“Yep, Maya hasn’t backed out yet.”
“Will she, do you think?” Fiona watched a man on the river. From the way he was pushing himself, it was obvious he was training, and neither of us could tear our eyes away from his scull slicing through the water as if it were flying.
“I don’t think so. At least I hope not.”
She slowly turned to look at me, and a smile appeared, softening her eyes. “It’s good to see you like this.”
I put my arm around her shoulder, and she rested her head on mine. Another rower came into view, but his amateur efforts didn’t hold our interest.
“All right, then. See you tonight.” She strode to her car, her manic energy returned. Without looking back, she lifted a hand in the air and waved good-bye over her shoulder. I remained for a few moments before making my way back to the dorm to get dressed for my internship.
***
I’d insisted that I pick Maya up at her dorm room. I wasn’t trying to invade her privacy; it was a matter of principle. Once, in high school, a friend had honked her horn outside my house to alert me of her presence. Grandmother had been over for dinner that night, and she wouldn’t let me leave until my friend, just a friend, walked to the front door and rang the bell.
“Respect. Always respect those in your life. And demand it from those in your life,” Grandmother had said that night.
I wanted Maya to know I respected her. Her background, her mother—none of it mattered to me.
And I wanted to know how to reach her since she still hadn’t given me her cell number, not that I’d ever seen her with one. Surprisingly, she didn’t argue when I’d asked for her address. I took that as a positive sign.
Before I knocked on the door, I let out a rush of air, shook my arms, rolled my neck from side to side, and then lightly rapped on the door.
There was a whoosh of jeans and the shuffle of feet. Maya answered the door, jacket in hand. Had she been sitting on her bed, waiting for me so we could make a fast escape? Was that how they did things in Mattapan? No pleasantries, no how-do-you-dos, just dash?
Not wanting to push her boundaries, I didn’t insist on entering her domain. I knew where she lived, and that was enough for the moment.
“You ready?” I asked, needlessly.
“Yup.” Her succinct answer was followed by a nervous dip of the head. Was she scared of me or of Fiona?
I motioned for her to walk ahead, but she waited and walked right by my side—another positive sign.
In preparation for the car ride—which would last approximately sixteen minutes, according to my dry run the previous night—I had made a playlist for my iPhone and synced it with my car. It started with Melissa Ferrick’s “Will You Be the One.” I worried that was beyond obvious, but as Ham liked to say, “Go big or go home.”
Maya started tapping her fingers on her leg. She kept her steely grays glued to the side window, taking in everything as the car turned right, veering toward Boston University Bridge. When Melissa’s gravelly voice reached down deep to express the ferocity of her emotions, Maya’s finger tapping intensified, and she passionately bobbed her head.
So far, everything was going to plan.
To avoid being too blatant, next up was Ani DiFranco’s “Untouchable Face.” Maya’s fingers halted, but she nodded along to the beat as she continued watching the river draw closer.
Leonard Cohen’s “I’m Your Man” started. She paused, and for a second I was worried I’d lost her. I’d known when I selected the song that it was a calculated risk. But as his seductive voice pleaded with her, Maya turned and smiled at me. I expected her to immediately look out the side window again, but she didn’t. Maya actually leaned her head against the seat and closed her eyes, listening to the soulful words.
“I think my mom used to play this when I was a kid,” she said, opening her eyes again.
“I can’t remember the first time I heard it. Probably with Fiona.”
“You two spend a lot of time together.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Always. My family jokes we were Siamese twins in another life.”
“Is she always…?” Maya motioned for me to fill in the blank.
“Highly strung. Mostly. Fiona comes across as a tour de force, but she’s a sweetheart once you learn she only has two speeds: stop and go. She can sit, stare, not talk for hours, and have a marvelous time, enjoying quiet companionship and contemplation. Or she’ll chatter nonstop like a chipmunk on crack.”
I didn’t add that my cousin also excelled at listening and observing others without being noticed. I wondered whether that was her mission this evening: study Maya in the hope of cracking the secret of who and what Maya was.
“Mad World” started and Maya closed her eyes again. I didn’t know why I’d included the song, but its sadness and sense of not fitting in made me think of Maya, and of me, truthfully. It wasn’t a romantic song, but I wanted her to know I understood. Well, maybe not understood, but I was willing to listen if she would let me into her world. That was all I wanted: a chance.
We were three minutes from Fiona’s when Maya’s eyes popped open. “Is this U2?” She listened intently. “Which song?”
“‘Dancing Barefoot.’”
“Never heard this one.” She turned her left ear to the speaker. “I like it.”
She liked it! Score!
As the song ended, I parked outside of Fee’s building.
She answered the door with a cigarette dangling from her bottom lip and a wine bottle and corkscrew in her hands. She thrust both into my arms and said, “Pat’s completely useless, and you know I always snap that damn thing in half.”
Pat popped into view, wiggling his fingers. “I have to preserve these babies for surgery.”
“Yet you can rip a beer top off with your teeth.” Fiona wasn’t teasing. It was one of Pat’s skills, and it had come in handy on more than one occasion until Fiona feared he would lose one of his pearly whites and had purchased bottle openers for everyone’s key chains.
He noticed Maya. “Hiya! I’m Pat.”
Maya put her hand out. The six-four, 200-pound man from Southie swiped it away and wrapped Maya up into a crushing bear hug, briefly hoisting her off the hardwood floor.
Maya paled but handled it much better than I thought she would. I half-expected her to coldcock him.
Pat’s eyes were slightly glazed, testimony he’d been dipping into his flask well before we arrived. He was never without it. The reporter in my head announced, “Right in the middle of surgery, Dr. Pat asked his nurse for his flask.” The reporter faded out as I pictured the interview with the nurse.
I snapped back to reality, setting my Givenchy tote down so I could open the wine. “It smells delicious in here, Fee.”
Maya plucked the bottle from my hand. “Let’s start the night off right. No injuries.” She proceeded to uncork the bottle.
Pat chuckled. “Boy, does she have your number.”
Fiona biffed the back of Pat’s head, not to defend my honor, but because she seized every opportunity to take a swipe at him.
Maya expertly uncorked the wine, handing it to Fiona.
“Well, look at that.” Fiona held up the cork. “It’s in one piece. What’s your trick?”
Maya smiled. “Trade secret. If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you.”
Fiona let out a bark of laughter. “I like you.”
Pat motioned for us to take a seat on the couch. I made sure to sit close enough to Maya that our legs touched. “What restaurant did you work at?” Pat asked.
Fee and I exchanged a nervous glance over Pat’s assumption, and I didn’t take a breath u
ntil Maya rattled off a few names of high-end places, including Nadine’s, a family favorite. Fiona’s eyes found mine again. How had I not noticed Maya on previous visits to the restaurant?
Pat nodded. “I worked at Nadine’s—for a day. I accidentally dumped a platter of raw oysters into the mayor’s lap. He laughed and asked whether I was Republican. I told him I was an Independent, and the mayor rebutted with, ‘A fence-sitting opportunist. How can I get your vote this year?’ I told him whiskey, much to his delight. The manager didn’t see the humor, though.” Pat rubbed his scruffy chin. “He even kept my tips for the day.”
“The manager can be a prick. I’ve been on the receiving end of a few brutal dressing-downs. Haven’t been fired yet, though.” Maya gave Pat a chin-up smile.
“Is that where you learned to uncork a… cork?” I asked.
Fee snorted, quickly covering her mouth, and Pat shook his head, his eyes wide.
Maya laughed and placed a hand on my knee. “My mom taught me. She’s been a waitress all her life.”
“What else can you uncork?” Fee asked.
Maya squeezed my knee, but she remained mute.
Pat perched on the armrest of the chair and jabbed Fiona in the ribs. “My mom worked in my uncle’s diner, off and on, depending whether she was pregnant or nursing. For years I was a short-order cook. I make the best eggs and hash browns, but opening a bottle of wine is not in my DNA.” He lifted his meaty hands.
The conversation seemed to put Maya at ease. Maybe knowing she wasn’t the only one in the room who knew what it was like to hold down a hospitality job soothed her nerves. Pat had that way with people.
“Pat’s poor mother had five boys, all just as ugly and stupid as Irish here.” Fiona touched his cheek tenderly, before flicking it.
“How ’bout you, Maya? You got any brothers or sisters?” Pat’s expression was all innocence, probably because Fiona had already sworn up and down that she wouldn’t divulge any information about Maya to anyone. Not that we had any information. He draped an arm over Fee’s shoulders.
“Nope. It’s just me and my mom.”
The Chosen One Page 11