“It was love at first sight,” he says.
At this point my heart is racing—but at the same time, something feels off, like he’s telling this story to an outsider, not to someone who is a part of the plot. My hands are sweating. Under the table, I wipe them on my skirt.
Anton smiles a little indulgently. “Well, love at first sight?”
“You know what I mean,” Norwood tells Anton. “Anton’s so jealous.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, unsure, trying to understand.
“Your mother introduced me to my first serious boyfriend. Anton still hates to hear about it. Even though it was a hundred years ago.”
Oh. My brain finally goes click. Right.
But at the same time, I don’t want to believe I’m at a dead end quite yet. I jump to other possibilities. Maybe before the first boyfriend? No, that would make me twenty-three. A drunken night seven years later? I watch Norwood and Anton talking like old married people. No way.
“Your mother is wonderful,” says Anton. “I don’t want to give you the wrong impression. It is just fun for me, teasing Warren. We love to see her; we just wish we could more often. It’s great to meet you in person at last.”
I sink back into my seat, relieved and embarrassed and unsettled all at once. Hannah really did just want us to meet because she thought we’d get along.
“Thank you so much for inviting me,” I tell them. “The play is amazing. What’s going to happen if it does well here?”
Norwood provides what must be a ten-minute answer. I don’t hear any of it.
It’s not until I’m sitting on the bus again—same seat, as it happens—on the way back that the disappointment sinks fully into my bones. I was so sure I had it figured out. I’m too tired to read, and too tired to make up stories for myself about the few passengers nearby, so I stare out the window. Finally I close my eyes, bunch up my blazer into a pillow against the seat and try to sleep.
My face pressed against the window makes me think of Hannah’s picture in the library under glass, when she was two years older than I am now. I think about Honor’s father, two years older in that same picture than Honor is now. And Hannah’s father under glass with who? Eloise’s grandfather? Will my children years in the future be sitting next to Honor’s children? And hating one another? The thought makes the world seem depressingly small.
My necklace is scratching my chest under my shirt, and my blazer is lumpy. But I’m determined to sleep. To sleep and stop thinking about all this.
I come to with my cheek half-frozen and my neck stiff. There are only a few people getting off in Falls Village, and the bus is almost empty. Mrs. Baird is there to pick me up herself, which is nice of her, because it’s really late. She has an overcoat on over a bathrobe, as though she went to bed earlier and then got up again to come get me.
“How was the play? Was it good?” she asks with enthusiasm.
“It was good,” I say, but I can hear how deflated my voice sounds.
Mrs. Baird looks disappointed. “Not good?”
“No, good,” I say. “It was really good. Thank you for organizing it and for picking me up too.”
“My pleasure,” she says, and we drive the rest of the way in silence.
Because it’s so late, way past check-in, my roommates are asleep. I pause in the living room to send Chazzy a quick update email about the Norwood fiasco, typing by the light of the screen. In my bedroom, I undress and climb into bed in my T-shirt, careful not to wake India up. I don’t even brush my teeth.
I lie there, feeling flattened and kind of dumb for convincing myself that Norwood was the one. Chazzy is right. I can’t think every man my mother knows or happens to mention is going to turn out to be my father. But I don’t understand what makes Hannah so protective of her privacy, what makes her someone who keeps secrets from her own daughter, the only person she’s ever really shared her life with. It hurts to think about that, so I push it away.
Hannah would tell me I’m being silly, that it has nothing to do with me. That it’s about her. But that’s not true.
Chapter Eleven
Night-Swimming
The next morning, I call Hannah two or three times when I get up, but there’s no one at the lab. They must be on some remote overnight trip or something. Usually they don’t leave their base for more than a day or two because the weather is so extreme that it’s an ordeal to pack and prepare for any longer than that.
I want to tell her about my evening with Norwood, and this time, I resolve to confront her. I’m going to make her tell me who my father really is. Enough with the Nancy Drew crap. I’m sixteen, I’m not even living at home, and I have a right to know.
Eventually I’m forced to give up and go down to the barn for my lesson.
Mr. Kelley helps me tack up Stormy. He assures me that getting dumped last time was a fluke. “She’s a good girl, Stormy is,” he insists, patting her neck.
She tosses her head, looking imperious, if a horse can look imperious.
“Okay,” I say uncertainly.
He’s right. The lesson is uneventful. Stormy is obedient, though there’s always this edge to her where you feel like the slightest breeze might send her right out of her thin skin. We don’t jump, but I manage to canter a few pretty decent circles and stay on the right lead in each direction. It’s fun, actually, riding a horse that’s so light and quick and sensitive to subtle commands. A little scary, but exhilarating.
When we’re done, Mr. Kelley looks quite proud of me and of himself. That’s when you know you’ve really ridden well, when he starts taking credit. I’m happy, and for an hour I’ve almost forgotten about what’s bothering me.
The light is fading, though it’s only four o’clock.
Back in my room, I open my laptop and see I’ve missed two video chats from Hannah. As I’m typing an email to her, another comes through, and I hit answer. She’s calling from outside. It’s dark where she is, and there are other people sitting behind her, in front of a tent.
Hannah’s breath fogs the screen as she hunches over her computer. “Hi,” she says. “I don’t know if this will work out here. The signal’s lousy, and it’s really cold. The computer’s battery is probably going to drain in a sec.”
“Well, thanks for getting back to me.” I don’t know why I waste time being sarcastic.
“I saw you called a few times. I was worried. Is everything okay?”
Is everything okay? I don’t know how to explain it to her, that nothing’s wrong, but everything’s wrong; that there are so many questions here that I need her help with; that I can’t go on not really knowing who I am.
“It’s just been really hard—” I start to say. I can hear my voice shake. I stop when I realize I’m also telling ten other people who are shivering in the subzero weather, waiting for Hannah to be done with her needy daughter. “It’s nothing,” I continue. “Everything’s fine. I met Norwood finally. I saw his play. I just wanted to tell you about it.”
Hannah smiles, and her face seems to warm. “Norwood,” she says. “I’m so glad—”
And the screen goes black. I call back about seventeen times. Nothing. I sit there, staring at the computer, willing the connection to return, tears of frustration running down my face that I barely feel, even as I wipe them away.
Coward, I tell myself. Coward, coward, coward.
Later that night, Chazzy and I stand outside Selby. The wind whisks dead leaves off the ground. The hairs inside my nostrils tickle with frost each time I breathe in. Not an unpleasant feeling, exactly, but weirdly unfamiliar.
Chazzy looks up at the night sky. The clouds are low and blowing, heavy gray streaks through ink. If this were one of those vampire stories, the setting would be perfect. He sniffs the air. “I wish it would snow already. I hate all this waiting.”
“Me too.” Mostly for the novel
ty. Snow’s not something I’ve experienced many times in my life. I’m still thinking about Hannah, out on that arctic ice sheet, snow as far as she can see in every direction.
Chazzy turns and grabs my arm. “Wait, you know what I found out? You know how Gigi was in such a bad mood at practice this week?”
“I didn’t think she was in a bad mood,” I say, defending her automatically and for no reason. I did notice that she was in a bad mood.
“Wren, come on. She ended early. She barely said anything about the song we did.”
“Maybe she thought it sucked. I kind of thought it sucked.”
“Oh, stop it. Anyway, I read something online about how Elsbeth Collins is starting Glow again—with someone else. Touring and putting out a record this winter.”
“Oh, wow,” I say, imagining myself in Gigi’s skin for a moment. “That must feel just awful.”
“I know. I wonder what she’ll do.”
“Do? What can she do?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “Fight back. Or get out there and play on her own. Something.”
I try to imagine what I would do. Sit on the sidelines, mope, lick my wounds. But then, Gigi is much tougher than I am, as well as much cooler. Maybe she will fight back somehow.
“Wren, you should play that song you’re working on in class.”
Chazzy’s talking about what he heard me fiddling with in the common room before we met to practice. As usual, he convinced me to play it for him, or as much as there is of it. I’m having trouble with the ending. It’s not like Birdbrain is a real band or anything, but it does give me a sense of purpose. We have almost three-quarters of a set together now. A short set, but nonetheless, a set.
“It’s good, you know, and it might help you finish it to have a deadline,” he adds.
“It’s not ready,” I say. I think about my non-call with Hannah. I feel too raw and messy to get up and do something like that in front of Gigi and the whole class.
Chazzy won’t let it go. “Most of the songs people bring in aren’t finished. You mean, you’re not ready.”
“Okay, fine. I’m not ready.”
“So what are you going to do when we play the Bantam next month?”
Chazzy and I have this joke that we’re going to play a show at the Bantam Theatre, this big, run-down local place where the old folks go in the summer to see revivals of Broadway shows performed by Falls Village residents. Chazzy calls the old folks the Blue Hairs; he wants to work on an encore of show tunes for the imaginary occasion. For a moment I flash to Honor, Eloise and India asking me whether Chazzy is gay.
“I’m not exactly writing the next Oklahoma, my friend.” I counter.
“You never know,” he says, grinning.
He’s not gay, I think. I wonder about past girlfriends. Are there any? Esme Ritter? That story he told me about taking the boat out with her? For a second I think, I could just kiss him and find out. Crazy idea. I immediately shake it off.
A second later, Mrs. Baird pokes her head out the door. “Wren,” she calls, “sign-in is in ten minutes. You must be freezing out there.”
“Good evening, Mrs. Baird,” says Chazzy, the Southern gentleman again.
“Okay, check you later.” I give him a quick hug and hurry up the steps to the dorm. When I get to our room, everyone is already dressed for bed. India’s propped on pillows on the floor doing the history reading she didn’t finish over the weekend. Eloise is painting her toenails. Honor is lying in bed, talking quietly on her cell phone. I can tell by the tone of her voice she’s talking to a boy, and I strain a moment to hear if it’s Nick on the other end.
We all say hi, except Honor who doesn’t bother to look up. I get my toothbrush and bath pail.
“Jesus, Eloise,” India complains, “that stuff reeks. Do you know how toxic nail polish is? Those chemicals are going to seep into your toes.”
“Giving me, what, toe cancer? Wren, what do you think? Too dark?” Eloise is applying a preppy fuchsia color barely a shade darker than the innocent bubblegum pink she usually uses.
“I don’t think so. It looks nice.”
“For winter, right? I think it’s okay.” Eloise nods, convincing herself. “How was last weekend, anyway? Pretty chill with no one here?”
“Yeah, a little too chill. How about you guys?” I ask.
“Can you open a window or something, Eloise?” asks India.
“It’s freezing out. Look at Wren’s cheeks. What were you doing out there anyway, Wren?”
“A little reconnaissance?” asks India, suddenly interested. “What happened?”
“Or maybe someone else walked you home?” Eloise gives me a cryptic look. Then her gaze darts to Honor, still on the phone.
“Who’s she talking to?” I can’t resist asking, now that I have an opening.
“Nick.” Eloise says it in a flat, final way. I’m not sure if it means “I can see right through you” or “hands off” or “good luck.” Maybe all three.
And I feel very uncomfortable all of a sudden. “’Kay, so, I’m going to brush my teeth and go to bed, I guess.”
“Me too,” says India. “I’m so done.” She slaps her book closed.
“Same,” says Eloise, hobbling with her painted toes splayed out.
India is right. That stuff is toxic.
I’m the last one out of the suite and the last one to the table at breakfast the next day. They always make pancakes on Mondays to try to get us psyched for the week. After chapel, all four of us head for art history. I sit in the dark and look at paintings of those wan, beautiful ladies with long necks and rich, jewel-toned robes. Mannerism again. Those ladies with the necks.
Mr. Winchester tells us the term describes a late period of Renaissance painting that stressed an intellectual, aloof and exaggerated approach to its subject. I can’t help glancing at Honor as he says this. She pretends not to notice.
Right before dinner, I grab my towel and bath pail from my room. I’m horsey and sweaty from my lesson, but really, the shower is a good place to think. There are so few places at Hardwick where you can be alone.
I am furious with Hannah, who has not called or emailed me since we got cut off on Skype. I get that she has no problem moving three thousand miles away from her parents and grandparents and barely talking to them, but I can’t believe she’s ducking me. It feels like she’s punishing me, but for what?
I suppose it’s possible that there is some technical problem—my computer, the Greenland Internet, her computer at the lab—that is keeping her from getting in touch.
With wet hair, in jeans and a sweatshirt, I head down the stairs that lead to Baird’s room. Mrs. Baird opens the door, her expression friendly but professional. “Wren? What can I do for you?”
I can hear what smells like chicken soup bubbling on the tiny stove in her kitchen. I’m interrupting her.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I know we’re only supposed to use the phone in an emergency, but I haven’t been able to reach my mom for a while, and I was just worried maybe it was my computer? Or has she been trying to reach me here?”
Mrs. Baird gestures me inside and shows me where the phone is. “Do you have the country code? Do you need help dialing?”
“No, it’s okay.” I hold up my hand to show her that I have the number written in pen across my palm. She gives me a look that says, Every year I am amazed at how consistently idiotic teenagers can be—but it’s not without sympathy.
“Go ahead,” she says, and turns back to the kitchen.
I dial the long sequence of numbers, wondering how much per second this call will cost, and then stand listening to the foreign ring, which is really more a repetitive cat purr/smothered alarm clock buzz than a ring. There’s no answer.
Finally I give up.
“Thanks,” I tell Mrs. Baird. My voice qu
avers. “I don’t think she’s there.”
I wonder why I feel like crying. It’s something that happens to me sometimes in front of teachers, even when there’s nothing wrong, so I shove it aside.
After dinner I go back to my room, finish the rest of my homework and change for bed early, still seething at my mother, wondering if I’ve studied enough for my American history test tomorrow. I am just climbing under the covers when I hear the dull plonk against the window of our shared living room.
A stone covered in a gym sock catches on the iron handle of the window. India’s up first, always game for adventure. I follow, opening the casement window, retrieving the sock and squinting down into the quad. Nick, Bennett Hale and Van Rowen Alder are grinning up at us. Honor and Eloise come to the window.
“What’s up?” asks Honor, not all that quietly.
“Excursion,” whispers Nick. “You’ll need bathing suits. Or not. Your call.”
“But it’s freezing,” I whisper back.
“We have an American history test in the morning,” says Eloise.
Five minutes later, of course, we’re all in the quad, bathing suits under our nightgowns and snow boots on our feet—having snuck down the service stairs to the fire exit. Shivering, we follow the boys to the back of the pump and mechanical building behind the athletic center. Bennett feels his way in the dark, running his hands along the top of some pipes that run across the back wall. I hear a little clink, clink as he withdraws a very old, rusted key.
“Wow,” gasps India. “There really is a key.”
Apparently this is Hardwick lore, but I still have no idea where we are going.
“Yeah. If you donate a library, they tell you where it’s hidden,” jokes Van.
Bennett manages to look proud and sheepish at the same time. He opens the back door in a confident, practiced way, then replaces the key. We follow him into a corridor with metal steps leading down, and Nick pulls out a flashlight.
I am never doing something like this again, I remember telling myself very recently. Too late now.
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