“Okay, I get it.”
I opened my eyes. She wasn’t angry. “Thank you.”
“So what role does your family have planned for you?” She pushed her chair back and crossed her legs.
“President.”
“Student body president?” She scrunched up her face, hiding her beguiling gray eyes from me.
“President of the United States of America,” I stated, for the first time to someone outside of the family. The absurdity hit me with the force of an Amtrak train.
“You’re joking.” She swatted the thought away.
I shook my head. “They’ve purchased the domain names of all the possible ways to say Ainsley Carmichael for Prez. My fave is the ABCs of the next US president.”
“ABCs?”
“My initials: Ainsley Blaire Carmichael.”
“Blaire?”
“It’s my mother’s maiden name.”
“Wow, that’s heavy. I thought they were grooming you to be senator, which is a big deal. Never thought…” She whistled. “Do you want to be president?” She placed both arms on the table.
“I did when I was a kid.”
“But now?” She lowered her head to stare into my eyes.
I chewed on my lower lip. “Now I just want to be Ainsley.”
“Tell them that.”
“I wish it were that easy. I’ve been bred for power. Failure is not an option.”
Maya nodded, absorbing the information. “Are they okay with you being gay?”
“At first they freaked out, but they ran some focus-group testing and realized it might play to my advantage in thirty years. The fact that I’m girly tested well with straight males.”
Maya blinked as if I’d been speaking in tongues. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”
“They even tested whether I should stay in the closet and never marry, stay in the closet and marry a man, or just come out now. Like I said, everything in our family is orchestrated; everything is plotted.”
“But that’s insane. Completely insane. It’s your life, not theirs.”
“I’m starting to learn that.” I squeezed her hand. “For years I didn’t realize the insanity of being a Carmichael.”
“Is that why they call you the Chosen One?” Maya’s other hand rested on my thigh under the table.
I nodded. “Craig was supposed to be president. When he died, Ham became the heir apparent—until the accident that damaged his eye. One eye is completely useless and an eyesore to look at.”
Maya flinched.
“So they had me.”
“Had you? Just for that?”
I sucked my bottom lip into my mouth.
Maya didn’t blink or move for several seconds. She started to talk, but then she lowered her eyes and focused on the pen in her hand instead. “I’m sorry. No child should ever feel that way.”
“It wasn’t all bad. My family is very determined. That’s all.”
“You can always run away.”
“To Walden Pond?” I joked.
“Too many tourists. We’d have to find someplace no one wants to visit.”
“We?” I leaned over to kiss her cheek. “I like the sound of that.”
“Careful. We aren’t alone.” She motioned to a guy two tables away, clutching a cell phone in his hand.
“I don’t care, Maya. I only care about this.” I intertwined my fingers with hers.
***
Maya picked me up in her mom’s car, not wanting me to drive to her hood in the Focus Electric.
“Trust me; that wouldn’t be wise,” she’d insisted. Not that my little car screamed fancy, because the likes of Susie Q would pitch a fit on their blogs in that case, but it still had the shine of newness.
Personally, I didn’t care about the car, but I didn’t want to have to call Mother to tell her it had been stolen in Mattapan either, not that everyone there was a thief, of course.
Before getting out of the car, Maya placed her hand on my thigh. “I didn’t tell Mom you’re a senator’s daughter. She won’t ask too many personal questions, though, so I don’t think…” She squeezed my thigh again, to get her point across, which was to tell the truth but not the whole truth. Luckily, I had been doing that my whole life, and even more so lately.
“But she knows about us?” It seemed foolish I hadn’t thought to ask that question earlier.
Maya quirked a sarcastic eyebrow. I was beginning to understand all of her forms of non-verbal communication. This one meant “Don’t be stupid; of course she knows. Why else would we be here?”
“Right. Silly question.” I opened the car door and balanced the plant so I wouldn’t harm it as I got out. It had taken me an entire day to find the right shade of African violet to match Maya’s eyes as closely as possible. Eight shops. All of them sold the plant, but I wouldn’t settle for the wrong shade, albeit the plant was more blue than gray.
I’d seen enough gritty films about certain Boston neighborhoods to know what type Maya came from. Without being obvious, I scanned her block. The houses were huddled together, some of the porches leaning precariously right or left, making me wonder how they stayed erect. Brown lawns were trampled, bikes strewn about. Some of the yards were littered with trash.
But Maya’s house was almost immaculate: a fresh coat of paint and not a scrap of litter. The grass, while not lush, was tidy, and some hedged bushes were planted near the porch. It stood out, but not too much—just like Maya. That made me smile.
Before either one of us stepped onto the porch, the front door swung open.
“There’s my baby!” A mammoth of a woman burst through the door, her arms wide open. “Come here!” she instructed, and Maya disappeared into her mother’s arms.
“Mom, I’d like you to meet Ainsley.” Maya stepped back from her mom’s embrace and gestured to me. “Ains, this is my mom, Agnes.”
“Ainsley!” She motioned with her arms that it was my turn for a hug, so I handed Maya the plant, fearful it wouldn’t survive the crushing embrace. When Maya’s mom pulled me into her arms, it was like I was being sucked into a vortex.
“It’s so nice to meet you.” She tightened her hug. Even Pat didn’t give hugs like this, and I had considered him the supreme hugger.
With an arm around my waist, Maya’s mom ushered me into her home. The carpet and furniture in the front room weren’t new, but everything was spick-and-span with a lived-in feel, not at all like my home. Our home was spotless, and as welcoming as a museum. My dorm room was tidy, but it reflected my personality only as much as was permissible.
A rich scent wafted through the house, and I sniffed.
Her mother smiled. “I’m making Maya’s favorite—chicken and dumplings.” Mrs. Chandler pinched her daughter’s cheek.
Maya reddened, but didn’t admonish her mom at all. “Ainsley insisted on bringing you a gift.” She sheepishly handed the plant to her mom.
“Oh, it’s beautiful. And the color—just like my baby’s eyes.” She gave me another crushing mom-hug. If she wasn’t careful, I might start craving them.
I laughed. “That’s why I picked this one. I loved the color.” I didn’t say because of Maya’s eyes, but the look on her mom’s face said she understood. I quickly surmised Maya and her mom communicated without actually speaking on a regular basis.
Agnes whisked us into the kitchen, which seemed to be the only other space on the main level. I guessed the bedrooms were upstairs. She carefully placed the gift on the counter, like it was a baby, cooing over it. I squinted to see whether the plant detected her love, too. I couldn’t imagine any living thing not feeling loved in this woman’s presence.
“Maya, would you be a dear and pour the drinks?” Agnes asked.
Maya opened the fridge and grabbed a pitcher of what I assumed was freshly squeezed lemonade with lemon wedges floating on top. It was late October, but the house was as toasty as a summer afternoon, and lemonade sounded like the perfect drink. I had
a feeling it was Maya’s favorite beverage, probably since childhood.
I sipped mine. “That’s good.” I took another swig.
Maya beamed. “Mama’s specialty.”
Maya’s mother buzzed around the kitchen, humming as she put the finishing touches on the meal. It was nice not to have to sit in a sterile room, making polite chitchat before eating. It was less like a cocktail party and more like dinner with family.
“It smells delicious…” I paused. Should I call her Agnes or Mrs. Chandler? I went the safe route and said “Mrs. Chandler” in a deferential voice.
She flipped around and laughed. “Honey, no one calls me that. Please call me Agnes, or I won’t know who you’re addressing.” Her smile and tone were pleasant. It was like I was under some weird mom spell, and nothing could hurt or upset me.
Maya slipped on an apron, and I offered to help only to be shushed by both of them. I was prompted to sit at the table in the corner. A window above the sink overlooked a small yard and the back of another house.
When it was time to eat, I was more than ready. The delicious-smelling steam from my plate promised I was about to taste the best meal of my life. I almost didn’t want to dig in, fearing it would be over too soon, but my stomach won. I dipped my fork into the chicken and dumplings, unleashing another wave of fragrant goodness that made my mouth water.
I loaded up a fork and tasted pure heaven, immediately letting out a moan of satisfaction. Both mother and daughter smiled as they tucked into their own meals. For several minutes, no one spoke. When food was this good, conversation was unnecessary.
Halfway through dinner, Agnes could no longer contain herself, and mother and daughter fell easily into conversation. Agnes filled Maya in on all the goings-on in the neighborhood—who had been arrested, who was pregnant, who had found a job, and who had been fired. It reminded me of conversations Fee and I had about our scandal-ridden family.
“Can you believe Mrs. Robinson’s boy, Ray, will be in jail for Thanksgiving?” Agnes shook her head. I wasn’t sure what she found more upsetting: that Ray was in jail or that his momma would be alone for the holiday? I nearly smiled, but controlled myself, knowing it would come across wrong.
“Oh, that reminds me I have to work Thanksgiving morning.” Maya scooped in another mouthful.
“Thanksgiving morning!” Agnes’s fork clattered onto her empty plate.
“I know.” Maya put her hands up in mock surrender. “But it was either that or Christmas morning. Which would you prefer?”
Agnes leveled her eyes on Maya and a torrent of Spanish flew out of her mouth at machine-gun speed. The only word I caught was Carisa, and I was fairly certain that was a name.
Maya’s body slumped, and her attention flicked briefly to me before settling on her plate.
The fury washed off Agnes’s face just as quickly. “What are your plans, Ainsley?”
“For Thanksgiving?”
She nodded.
“Oh, the usual. A quiet meal with my family,” I lied.
Maya set her fork down. “Momma always makes sure everyone has a place to spend the holidays. Each year, our home is packed with people I’ve never met. If there’s a person within a thirty-mile radius who’ll be alone on a holiday, Momma will hunt them down and drag them here, even if they prefer being alone.” Maya’s tone was pleasant, but it seemed somewhat forced, considering she was still in the doghouse.
Agnes tutted. “No one should be alone on the holidays. I’ve finally convinced Florence to join us.”
Maya perked up. “Really?”
“Yes. So make fun all you want, Miss Future Community Organizer.” Agnes smirked.
“Ainsley volunteers quite a bit.”
Agnes turned to me, smiling. “On Thanksgiving?”
I nodded. “Our family volunteers at the shelter each Thanksgiving.” I neglected to say our motivation was positive press, a rarity these days for anyone in the family, and that, aside from Fee and me, everyone grumbled about it. Ham used to enjoy it, but he was now glued to his phone, awaiting White House e-mails. My sister had once tried faking the stomach flu to get out of it when we were kids. Then she realized she wouldn’t be able to eat all day, and she’d backtracked. “I volunteer regularly,” I added.
“Ainsley is helping put together a program to encourage senior citizens to interact more.” Maya placed a hand on my thigh under the table and left it there.
“How so?” Agnes rested her elbows on the table.
“We organize outings for those who are able to leave their homes. We’re also offering Internet courses, so people can connect online.”
“She got Flo a laptop,” Maya crowed.
“The program paid for it,” I demurred.
“Do you want to be a community organizer like Maya?”
“Oh, I don’t know what I want to be yet.” I spoke to my lap, avoiding Maya’s gaze.
“Don’t you worry about that. You’re still so young.” Agnes hopped up out of her seat, light as a bird, and I marveled how such a large woman moved so nimbly. “Now, I hope you girls saved some room for dessert. I made Maya’s favorite.”
My stomach was beyond capacity, but saying no wasn’t an option; that would be rude.
Before I had a chance to will my stomach to make room, Agnes had three slices of pecan pie sitting on the table. “I hope you don’t mind, Ainsley. There’s a little bit of bourbon in the pie—not enough to hurt you. Just a smidge for flavor.” She smiled a motherly smile.
I remembered Maya forgoing a glass of wine at Fiona’s. Alcohol must be taboo in this house or something.
I placed the smallest morsel in my mouth out of politeness. Agnes eyed me like a hawk. My grin and a second, much-larger bite satisfied the momma chef.
Maya had gobbled half of hers by the time I took my third bite. She licked a crumb off her bottom lip, and it made me crave her tongue on me. Immediately, my cheeks burned. How could I think about that in front of her sweet mother?
“Here, let me get you some more lemonade,” Agnes said, obviously noticing my flushed cheeks. Before I could respond, she was already at the fridge, pouring a second massive portion.
Maya’s crinkled brow let me know she realized something was up. I giggled nervously. For some reason, I tended to giggle when having impure thoughts, which I had confessed to Maya the night before, in a moment of weakness. She winked at me. How odd, having someone completely in tune with my thoughts without me having to spill the beans. Before, I would have found it unsettling, but with Maya, it was reassuring.
Before I wanted the night to end, it was time for Maya to whisk me back to reality. Agnes packed up all the leftovers, including the pie, and shipped us both off with another one of her hugs, which I hoped would last months.
Sitting in a car filled with the aroma of authentic home cooking, my face warmed. “That was fun. Your mom can cook. I’ve never had such a scrumptious meal in my life.”
She tsked skeptically.
I slapped her leg. “I mean it. I can’t remember a time when my mother cooked.”
“But aren’t you used to fancier meals?” Maya asked. “Like lobster?”
“Trust me, if anyone in my family ate that meal, they would be pleading for your mom to cook for them every day.” Shit! Had I really just implied my family would want to hire Maya’s mom as their cook? What the eff, Ainsley? The reporter in my head blared, “Ainsley Carmichael can’t keep her foot out of her mouth.”
Maya didn’t seem insulted. “I guess we’ll never know.”
“We can try an experiment.”
She tilted her head, waiting for me to continue.
“We’ll give some to Fiona and Pat, and see what they say.”
***
When Fiona turned her head, Pat dipped his fork into her dumplings. Spying the treacherous act out of the corner of her eye, Fee attempted to swipe his hand away. “Hands off my dumplings, buster!”
“You see.” I turned to Maya. “This
is the best meal ever.”
Pat nodded enthusiastically, unable to speak with his mouth overloaded.
“Did your mom cook for you like this every night?” Fiona asked in a dreamy voice.
Maya laughed. “Not every night. On Sundays she makes a special meal.”
Pat forced down a large bite by whacking his chest. “I’m free next Sunday and every Sunday in case you gals ever want company.” He flashed his award-winning smile.
“Hey, Irish. I met Maya first. I should get the first invite.” Fiona’s tone bordered on pleading, which brought a smile to Maya’s lips.
“My mom loves to cook for people. It won’t be a problem if y’all want to come,” she said in a natural Texas drawl—too natural.
Fiona and I momentarily locked eyes.
“You have Sunday dinner every Sunday? Still?” Fiona gulped lemonade. “That must be…” She looked away, leaving the rest unsaid.
Maya studied her profile and then nodded thoughtfully. I sensed she was seeing further into the Carmichael rabbit hole, and it didn’t scare me entirely to show her more of my life.
“Yep. We’ve done it since I can remember.” She stood and fished her keys out of her jeans. “I better get the car back to my mom.”
I walked her to the car. She started to wave good-bye, but I swatted her hand away, threw my arms around her neck, and kissed her on the lips. “Thanks. This has been a wonderful night.”
“Tossing the Carmichael shackles off?” she joked.
“Maybe.”
“How does it feel?”
“Normal. This”—I fisted the hair on the back of her head—“is what I want out of life.”
Maya rested her forehead against mine. “It’s all I want, too.”
“Will I see you later?”
She nodded. Her eyes told me I’d be seeing a lot of her later.
“Good. Drive safe.” I waited for the car to disappear out of sight before returning inside.
Back in the kitchen, I announced, “I need Chuck.”
Fiona stopped mid-bite, her fork hanging an inch from her mouth. “What happened?”
“Who’s Chuck?” Pat asked, concern etched into his brow.
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