Back at Selby, I swing by the mailroom. It’s a rare event when I get a letter, but I still check every day. You always do, sometimes even more than once a day, even though you know you’re much more likely to get an email or a text on the cell phone that you’re not supposed to have. Today, amazingly, I am surprised. A letter awaits, addressed to me in a scripty, grown-up hand.
When I turn it over, the return address is in New Haven, a W. H. Norwood.
Look at that. He wrote me first.
Two hours left, and I’m torn between agonizing about my tryout for Gigi and obsessively wondering about Warren Norwood. If he is my father, does he know about me? Could Hannah have told him at some point, or even this fall before dropping me off at school? If he is my father, is he allowed to tell me? Or if he doesn’t know, am I allowed to tell him? No, I think. Hannah has made such a big deal about keeping this a secret, she wouldn’t have told him. She would explain the decision by saying something about discretion, privacy, or obligation.
For the first time, I’m starting to wonder if it’s really her way to protect herself from any obligation.
The letter is brief, chatty and friendly. It has that confident, I-know-you’ll-like-me, breezy style that very charming people can pull off without seeming obnoxious. Chazzy has it too. Warren—“My friends call me ‘Norwood,’” he advises—is in New Haven until Christmas, directing a play he’s testing for off-Broadway. It opens in a few weeks, and he would be delighted if I wanted to come up during previews and check it out. Also, he will probably need to go back to New York in early November and would love to stop by Falls Village if they’ll spring me for a few hours for tea or something.
I write back right away: yes and yes. I keep it short so that I don’t agonize too much about what I say or how I say it.
By the time I get back to the music room, I’m so nervous my legs are shaking. I sit on the stool, pressing them together to hold them still. I tune up briefly, then start the opening cords. My fingers feel frozen and clumsy. There are a couple of unfortunate squeaks as I move them up and down the frets. But once I open my throat to sing, I think of Hannah’s imaginary speech, and I try not to step outside myself.
My voice sounds clear, at least to me. Of course it helps that I’ve known this song since I was a toddler.
When I finish, Gigi doesn’t say anything. She gives me an odd look, as though she’s wondering what my intentions are, and says, “Picked one from my era, huh?”
I’m not sure what she means. Maybe she was really into Glow. Or maybe she hates Glow. Damn. Chazzy would have known that kind of thing. I shrug. “I’ve always loved that song,” I say. It’s true, after all.
“Fair enough. Well, Wren, I think we can make this work. You don’t have another class that conflicts?”
“Nope.” I’m smiling so hard I can feel my jaw straining. God, I must look like a total goofball. “Thanks, Ms. Collins.”
“Call me Gigi. Nice guitar.” She gives Hummingbird another appreciative glance. “Nice open sound,” she says again.
There’s a hint of a smile on her lips as if she expects me to say something more, but I’m already halfway out the door.
Chazzy is waiting at dinner, saving me a spot—strictly against the rules, of course. I notice Gretchen has worked up the nerve to sit, not exactly at the same table as him, but at the next one, on the end of the bench, so that she would be sitting next to him if our table was about two feet longer and attached to hers.
“Great,” I pretend-huff as I plop down beside him. “There you are. Where were you when I needed you?”
“Uh, in Hale, the most obvious place to look for me.”
“Oh.” I hadn’t thought of looking in the library during the study period before my audition. Dismal.
“So?”
“So it was good. Aside from the embarrassing trembling and almost passing out.”
“That’s amazing! So you’re in?”
“Well, she told me to call her Gigi.”
Chazzy jumps up, I’m assuming to hug me. He lurches toward me a sec, then pulls back, like he’s reconsidering. He quickly sits.
“She did give me a really weird look when I finished the song, though,” I tell him.
“Why? What did you sing?”
“‘When It’s Over.’”
“Glow? Wren. Really? Are you kidding me?”
“Yes, really. Why?”
“Uh, because she was in Glow? Because Elsbeth Collins is her sister? Because they started the band together, and now they don’t speak? Do you not listen to any campus gossip? Even the really big, obvious stuff that, like, every other single person here knows?”
I can feel the blood draining from my face. I’d been hungry a second ago; now my appetite has vanished. I shove the tray away from me. “Oh, God. Do you think she thinks I did it on purpose? I had no idea. Really. Jesus, Chazzy! I would never have picked that song.”
“Relax,” he soothes. “I mean, she must think you’re pretty good if she still let you in. Or pretty ballsy.”
Ballsy? I am seriously mortified. I know I’m going to be up all night thinking about this. How am I going to face Gigi in class?
Chazzy starts humming the song.
“I really hate you,” I tell him.
“Not true,” he says.
“Absolutely true. Wait, there’s something else. Before the Gigi tryout. I almost forgot, I was so traumatized. So you know about my dad, right?”
“That you have no idea who he is,” he says, digging into his mashed potatoes. “That your mom has some drama about it all.”
“Right. But I think I have a lead. This guy Warren Norwood, who went to school with Hannah. He invited me to come visit him—”
“I think it’s cute that you call your mom by her first name,” Chazzy interrupts. “My mom would slap me if I tried as much.”
“Whatever.” I roll my eyes. “Just listen. I must have been so nervous about school the night Hannah told me, I wasn’t even thinking about why she was telling me. Usually I’m pretty alert for any clue. But it makes sense, right? It’s someone from her past. They’re from different worlds. He’s in the theater world. She was in New York a few times for work in the year before I was born. And the name?”
“Norwood?”
“No, Warren.”
“Warren?”
“Warren. Wren. Get it?”
“I thought you were named after some great-aunt.”
“Well, that’s what she always said. But what if that was just a cover?”
“Seems thin, but I don’t know your mother. Why don’t you just ask her about him?”
“Because she always ducks the question. My entire life, I was always guessing about old boyfriends, or guys from the newspaper or even people from stories she’d worked on around the time I was born. She said it really didn’t matter and that I should become my own person. I guess she doesn’t think her own parents contributed much to making her who she is. That always struck me as a super 1970s kind of idea.”
Chazzy has stopped eating. “You can’t seriously imagine that every man she mentions might be your father.”
I just stare at him. Whose side is he on?
“Okay, you can imagine, apparently.” He looks back at his tray. “Maybe this time she was giving you a clue. I don’t know, Wren. I guess I don’t understand the whole shroud of mystery around it. Like, she should either just tell you, or you should accept that she’s never going to. In my family, we’d probably just never talk about it. Not that I’m saying that’s the right thing to do. I’m not. In fact, I don’t really think it’s fair of her to keep it from you—or him, for that matter—but since she’s decided that’s what she wants to do, I don’t see that you have any real options. What are you going to do? Go undercover? Ask him for a DNA test? Pull a hair out of his head?”
> “Of course not. I’ll ask him some questions. Plus I’ll just know when I see him.”
“I’m not sure I would know. Or want to know,” he says darkly.
“Come on, Chazzy. That’s not true. Your dad can’t be that bad. Is he?”
Chazzy shrugs. “He’s not actively bad. He’s more of a ghostly presence in our lives. Like he’s haunting our house instead of living in it.”
“Why? Does he jump out from under the stairs and try to scare you?”
“Are you kidding? That would involve way too much interaction.” He laughs as he says it, but for a moment I do wonder whether it might be better to have no father rather than a father who’s not really there. But maybe that’s just California talking.
Right after dinner, I dial up the lab on Skype. It’s late, but I am hoping Hannah will be back from her trip and be up. I get lucky.
When I tell her Norwood wrote me, she looks happy. As much as a chapped face with purple lips can look happy. She looks older, somehow, or maybe just weathered.
“Is that what you call him? Norwood?” I ask.
“Or Warren. Either one. He wasn’t Norwood until after Hardwick.”
“How come you’ve never mentioned him before?”
“I don’t know. He’s an old friend. I think about him a lot. But it’s not like I see much of him. We live on opposite sides of the country. We’ve met up in New York a few times. He doesn’t get out to California much.”
“What does he look like?”
“He looks like . . . Why do you want to know what he looks like?”
“So I’ll recognize him when I meet him.”
“I don’t think it will be that hard to figure out. He’ll probably spot you first.”
“Well, I’m excited to meet him,” I say with maybe too much enthusiasm.
“Okay. Good. I’m glad,” she replies uncertainly. Maybe she’s not ready for me to find out, I think. She thinks she’s given away too much.
“So I’ll let you know how it goes. Bye.” I practically hang up on her. It could be more subtle, my undercover investigation. On the other hand, Hannah was the one who started it. Too late, I remember I meant to tell her the thing about Honor having the same anchor charm. Damn. I’ll have to mention that next time.
Chapter Nine
No Answer
A few days later, in the afternoon, I’m sitting on the floor of the hallway outside our room when Chazzy comes by. During the daytime, boys and girls are free to visit one another’s rooms, as long as they adhere to a roster of restrictive, scandal-avoiding rules. The visitor must check in with the dorm parent. The door must remain open. There must be three feet on the floor at all times. (Although to me that one seems designed to inspire Twister-esque makeout sessions. But whatever.)
At home in Ventura, if I ever had a boy in my room—which, granted, was not all that often—I didn’t think much about it. At Hardwick, I feel guilty and like I’m about to get busted, even though I’m not doing anything.
“What are you doing out here?” he asks.
“It’s Honor. We’re locked out for her weekly shrink session. Via cell.”
“You can’t even use your own room? Let’s go down to the common room.”
“I left my guitar inside. She locked the door before I had a chance to get it.”
“Damn. So we can’t practice. What does someone like Honor need therapy for, anyway? Her life is perfect, isn’t it?” He flops down on the floor next to me.
“I guess she has her reasons.”
“Or therapy just comes with being high maintenance. Like massages, pedicures . . .” Chazzy shakes his head.
I’m not used to hearing anything besides awe in connection with Honor. It’s a nice change.
“But would that be fun for her? Like something she’d want to do every week?”
“Talk about herself for an hour?” His voice is getting loud now.
“Shh. It’s fifty minutes.”
He frowns. “Now you’re defending her? She almost got you kicked out for something you didn’t even do.”
“I know. And I don’t like her. But I hate that she doesn’t like me. It’s hard to explain. I want to be the one to decide we’re not friends, not her. I just want to know why she wrote me off without ever giving me a chance. I’d rather do the rejecting.”
Now Chazzy’s looking at me, really looking, and his regular smile fades. “I’ll have to remember that, Birdie.”
Birdie. Did he hear Nick call me that? Probably it’s just a coincidence.
“Come on,” he says. “If there’s no guitar, then there’s nothing to do but language lab.”
“Zut alors.” I grab his hand, and he pulls me to my feet.
“Exactly.”
As I stand up, my necklace flops outside my shirt. Chazzy reaches out and holds it between his fingers, taking a closer look at the tiny anchor. “This is cool. This is what caused the kerfuffle with Honor?”
“Oh, yeah. From my mom,” I tell him. “It was my great-grandmother’s. You actually use the word kerfuffle in conversation?”
He laughs. “Only with you. It’s spooky, that thing. I like it.”
“Me too. Although Hannah never did. She’s not into family relics. I dug it out of a box in some drawer a few years ago, and she told me I could have it.”
With a shrug, he drops it and turns down the hall. “You’re lucky you have such a cool mom.”
“Yeah.” I have to keep reminding myself of this. Pretty often, it seems lately. The thought makes me feel disloyal.
“Your mom sounds fun,” I add. “I love all your stories about her, like driving the wrong way up the street because the turn signal was broken and she thought it would be too dangerous to turn left without signaling? Or the chickens in the garage? When she made cabbage ice cream on that cabbage diet? Or painting her shoes for that party?”
Chazzy fiddles with the zipper on his jacket. “Yeah. She’s fun. It’s more like having a child than a mother. You can’t exactly count on her. But that’s what siblings are for, right?” he says, sounding disheartened.
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Poor you, only lonely. Let’s go.”
This is one thing I’ve learned about Chazzy: He is always recounting the adventures of his family, but he hates to actually talk about them. He’s figured out how to turn them into hilarious characters, even his remote father. But it’s clear they’re not all that funny to him in real life.
After my riding lesson that afternoon, I spot Nick coming up the path from the boathouse. His hair is damp, and his cheeks are flushed from practice. I’m sure mine are too, plus I have matted hair and smell like a horse, but I try to push those thoughts from my head.
“Hey, Birdie,” he says, joining me up the hill.
“Hey. How was practice?”
“Brutal,” he says, smiling like that’s a good thing. “You look happy.”
“I jumped,” I tell him, too excited to feel shy. “First time.”
“Great. But Chaz tells me you’re not really a horsey girl after all.”
“Oh.” I’m not sure if that’s supposed to be good or bad. Or why Nick would be talking to Chazzy about me.
“More of a songbird. Which makes sense, with your name and all. You’re in the Gigi club.”
“Yeah, I just started that class.”
“Awesome. So sing me something. Entertain me on the walk back?”
Now I’m blushing. “I can’t,” I mumble. “I mean, I don’t really sing for people. I just do it on my own.”
“What’s the point of that?” he asks. “Anyway, you’ve sung for Chaz. Don’t keep it to yourself. You know Tolan, Alder and Hale play, right? Why don’t you come over to Meade sometime and jam with them? It’d be fun. We’ll hang out.”
“Okay.” It so
unds terrifying, but it also almost sounds like a date, so how can I say no?
He takes my hand, opening my palm and pressing his flat against it. I just stare at our two hands, his covering mine. “Promise?” he says.
“Yeah.”
“Cool.” He gives me a grin, drops my hand and jogs ahead. “Come on! I’m starving.”
I arrive back in our room horsey and dusty and high from the back-to-back thrills of my first jump and Nick’s invitation. Open-ended and vague, I know, quite likely never to be mentioned again, but I don’t care. It’s something. Some hint of yes, something might happen in the future.
Eloise, India and Honor are lounging in our living room: India on the floor, her feet on the window seat, and the other two on the cushions, looking out. They’re dressed for dinner, ready to go. The windows are open, and the last warmth of the afternoon breeze blows in.
“Hey. Your boyfriend,” says Honor, turning to me. I look out the window. For an insane moment I expect to see Nick, but instead Chazzy gives me a quick salute as he crosses the quad on his way back to Meade House. I wave back at him.
Eloise gives me a significant look. “Right?” she asks.
“He’s my friend, not my boyfriend.” I tell them. All three are looking at me expectantly.
“We were just wondering. Maybe you could settle the debate,” says Honor. “Eloise says straight. India and I say no way.”
“Not that we care,” clarifies India. “I mean, it’s cool whichever way. You know?”
“We’ve just always been curious,” Eloise chimes in.
“We thought you might have, um, insight,” Honor says with a half-smile. It’s the closest thing to an actual smile she’s ever given me. It’s also the longest conversation we’ve ever had that didn’t involve an accusation.
“Why do you think he’s gay?” I ask. The truth is, I have no idea. Chazzy doesn’t talk about girls, at least not to me. He doesn’t seem all that interested in boys, either. Chazzy is just Chazzy. When I’m with him, I’m not aware of, “Oh, he’s a boy.” He just is. We just are. But I don’t know how to explain that to my roommates. “I don’t know. Honestly.”
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