“Wait, no way,” he says. “First of all, you said you were going to stop with the random speculation. Second, how do you get from Honor’s father and your mother knew each other in high school to he’s your dad? I mean, it’s definitely a weird coincidence—”
“There’s more, obviously,” I interrupt, a little indignant.
“Like, because Nick noticed you and Honor both have big blue eyes, you must be sisters?” He says this in a way that sounds not entirely friendly.
“No! Can I just finish? It clicked because Honor and I got into that whole thing where she thought I’d stolen her charm, and then it turned out we each had one, the identical anchors. Her great-grandmother had them made, designed them herself . . .” I pause.
“Uh-huh.” Chazzy is not convinced.
“And mine came from my great-grandmother too. I always assumed Hannah meant her grandmother, not my father’s.”
“That doesn’t make sense. Why would your mother have one, then?”
“I don’t know. Maybe Honor’s dad—my dad, whatever—gave her one too. But there’s another thing: right before I came here, Hannah gave me my guitar as a going-away present. She told me it was a ‘remember-who-you-are present.’ It’s a Gibson.”
Chazzy looks away, up the path, toward the music building—either processing all this, or trying to think of a way to ditch me. “I don’t know, Wren.”
“It’s the only thing that makes sense. Because of the anchor. Because of Hummingbird. Because I just know.” I sit still a moment, letting the cold seep into my thighs. “I need to talk to Hannah.”
“Or Honor’s dad.” Chazzy looks me in the eye. For a second, I almost feel like kissing him again. He’s not going to ditch me. He never would.
“Honor’s dad might not know anything about it,” I say.
“But he might.”
I think about that. He might. But if he does, he hasn’t made any attempt to get in touch with me.
“Are you going to say something to Honor?” Chazzy presses.
“I am never telling Honor,” I blurt.
“That’s one approach. No, but seriously. Listen, if you’re so convinced it’s him, why don’t you find out for sure? There is no way to talk to your mom right now. And you might have to leave school in January. There isn’t a lot of time here.”
“I can’t talk to Honor. I do want to meet him, but I can’t tell her. I don’t know,” I say. “It’s an impossible situation.”
Chazzy pulls me in for a quick hug, then stands. “We’ll figure something out. By the way, congratulations. Assuming, you know, everything.”
“On what?”
“On having a dad.”
“Oh. Right. Yeah. Thanks.” I laugh and blush.
“Kind of a famous, fairy-tale dad at that.”
“Kind of,” I say.
He gives my hand a quick squeeze. “So how was your trip, anyway? What is Stone Cove Island like?”
I take a deep breath. “It’s like a Victorian orphanage. And that’s where they’re going to send me. I’m going to have to run away, hitchhike back to California or something. You should have seen my great-aunt Helen. She wouldn’t listen to anything I said. She hates me. God, I wish there was something I could do. If I could get my passport and some money, I would go to Greenland. But you know what? If Great-Aunt Helen’s my legal guardian, she would have to sign my passport application, and she never would. She doesn’t want me to stay at Hardwick. I don’t think she even cares if I finish high school . . .”
I suddenly realize I am ranting. He’s staring at me like I’m a crazy person.
“Wren, there is something you can do,” he says finally.
“What?”
His eyes narrow; he’s incredulous. “Could talking to Honor really be worse than everything you just told me? Maybe you’re right, and maybe her dad does know something. Maybe she even knows something, and that’s why she’s so weird with you. I don’t get why you’re so intimidated by her. What could she possibly do to you?”
“I’m not intimidated,” I lie. “But I can’t talk to her without talking to my mom first.”
What could she do to me? I think about what she’s done to me so far, and I haven’t really done anything to upset her. Yet.
I know Chazzy’s wrong about this, that I should wait to talk to my mom, but once the idea of telling Honor is in my head, there’s a sense of inevitability. I’m afraid I will walk into our suite and just blurt it out. Or it will happen one morning, on the way to breakfast. Or after my riding lesson, standing around in the tack room. I know I can’t say anything, but at the same time, Ms. Taubin’s deadline of “no money, no school” looms closer and closer until I can’t think about anything else.
It finally happens in the bathroom. We are the last ones up, brushing our teeth. I take a good, close look at Honor, trying to imagine how we could possibly share any DNA. Then, before I can stop myself, I say, “Honor, can I talk to you for a sec?”
Honor looks at me coldly, blankly.
We’re standing there together at the row of sinks alone, holding toothbrushes. Why on earth am I asking permission to talk to her?
“I guess,” she says. “Why?”
Now that I’ve gotten this far, I’m really not sure where to start. I decide to focus on the facts she’ll recognize. That seems easiest. “Well, you know my necklace? The pair of anchors we have?”
That doesn’t make sense, even to me. But she nods and looks a little defensive. “What about it?” she asks.
“Okay, well, I guess I just keep thinking about what a strange coincidence that is. The story about your great-grandmother designing it and my great-grandmother . . .”
Honor gives me a look that says, Not strange, and not interesting. She returns to brushing her teeth.
“Did you know my mom and your dad dated when they were here? At Hardwick?”
“No,” she says, not bothering to look at me. She finishes with her toothbrush and starts packing up her pail. “But I’m sure my dad had all kinds of girlfriends in high school.” She wipes a towel across her face, then stares at me like she can’t believe I have such nerve. “What do you want, Wren? Everyone is talking about how you can’t afford to stay here. Do you really think my dad is going to help you out? Because he knew your mom in high school? Don’t be ridiculous.”
I stare right back. “I don’t care about your family’s money. It’s not that.” My voice is trembling, and my fists are clenched at my sides. I’m honestly worried I’ll punch her. “That’s not what I’m asking. I’m asking if your dad ever talked about my mom.”
Honor’s jaw twitches. She looks like she’s on the verge of punching me. “This is pathetic. You’re pathetic. Don’t talk to me, Wren. Don’t talk to anyone in my family. I’m requesting a room change.”
With that, she walks out, not looking back. I feel awful. Of course I do. But it would be worse to find out that she knows—that she and Edward Gibson both know—and haven’t said anything to me. Until now, that possibility hadn’t really occurred to me.
Chapter FIFTEEN
Thanksgiving
I must admit one of Honor’s strengths is her resolve. Not only can no one tell her anything she doesn’t want to hear or make her do something she doesn’t want to do, but once she’s decided on something, it’s done. The school doesn’t have a room available to make the switch she requests, but they offer a resident counselor to meet with the four of us. This is “to explore” whether we are having “significant issues” living together. They also strongly recommended we seek guidance from Mrs. Baird.
So now we sit in Mrs. Baird’s living room, not drinking the tea she has made us, not explaining what’s going on between us.
I feel bad for Mrs. Baird. She tries various tactics to get us to speak up, ranging from encouragement to disapproval, all to no
avail. Honor is not going to say one more word about this to me or anyone else. Mrs. Baird has been pretty nice to me the last few weeks, but if Honor’s not talking, how can I?
•••
It may be coincidence on Honor’s side, but it seems to work out that when Honor gets up early for breakfast, I get up late. When I study in the library, she studies in our room. It is like we have some radar for where the other will be. I am, if I’m being honest, relieved Honor is avoiding me—I don’t really know what else to say to her at this point, and I’m embarrassed that she assumed I was trying to hit her dad up for money. I hope she hasn’t told Eloise or India, but I’m sure she has.
As the days draw closer to Thanksgiving break, I find myself in an unrelenting, news-less pattern. I go to class. I check in with Mrs. Baird. Mrs. Baird tells me that Hannah’s condition is progressing as expected. Mrs. Baird hands me a now-overdue tuition bill and contract, but tells me not to worry about it until Hannah is better. Unless that is later than December first, at which point—well, we’ll just have to see.
Hannah remains unconscious. Honor ignores me. Eloise and India act nice, pretending Honor isn’t ignoring me.
And Chazzy. At some point I am going to have to talk to Chazzy about that kiss. But I can’t. Because if I lose Chazzy right now, I will really, really be alone.
Riding is the only thing that distracts me, if only because when I’m concentrating on staying on the horse, there is no room in my head for any other thoughts.
Mr. Kelley decides I’m together enough to learn the next level of sophistication on the flat—that is, beyond turn, stop and go. I’m riding Stormy again. Mr. Kelley explains how the engine of the horse comes from the hindquarters. The idea is to build up a contained energy, bundled and ready to go. What I have to do is keep the power bottled up by compressing the horse between my legs (which makes her go) and holding with my hands (which keeps her from going).
When he explains it, it seems contradictory and like what it might do is just piss her off, but after forty minutes or so of practicing this at the walk and trot, she rewards me with a couple of strides where I actually get it. I feel her back round up underneath me, like she’s coiling her haunches under like a spring. Her neck arches, her nose dips and her jaw softens. I suddenly feel this amazing, fluid, elastic energy, and her trot goes kind of floaty. It feels unbelievable, kind of like riding a Slinky.
“That’s it! That’s it!” booms Mr. Kelley from the center of the ring. And as he says it, Stormy pins her ears, sets her jaw, tugs me forward in the saddle and goes back to being her regular, crabby self. But she can’t take it away from me. I got it. I should remember this feeling, I tell myself, next time I think I can’t do something.
My legs are like wrung-out sponges. I probably won’t be able to walk tomorrow.
“You see?” asks Mr. Kelley. “You understand what we’re trying for here?”
“Yes,” I say, walking to the middle of the ring. “It felt amazing. But it’s so hard.”
“The goal is to have the horse in that frame, listening like that the whole ride.”
“Oh my God, I’ll never be able to do that.”
“First rule of riding, Wren,” says Kelley. His voice has an edge of disapproval. “Never say ‘I can’t.’”
“Okay,” I say, feeling chastened. “Am I allowed to think it?”
“No. Now back on the rail, and let’s see your canter.”
As I head for breakfast the Monday before Thanksgiving, Mrs. Baird stops me in the hall. “Mr. Gibson, Honor’s father, would like you to call him. I have his telephone number if you would like to come back this afternoon and call from here.”
She gives me the studied neutral look that I have gotten to know so well. I can’t figure out if she understands my suspicions or is wondering what the hell could be going on. At this point it must seem like every time her phone rings, it’s another call for me, each crazier than the last.
“Okay,” I say. I smile politely, covering my shock. I feel bad that my life is taking up so much of her time these days. But she’s my housemother. Somehow she never looks like she minds. “I can come after music.”
Mr. Gibson wants to talk to me. Wants. To. Talk. To. Me.
The rest of my day inches on, hour by hour. To get through it, I make a list and check off the classes I have to survive to get to the phone call:
Chapel: Why does he want me to call him? Maybe there’s a simple explanation, like he is planning a surprise party for Honor and thinks we’re friends? Why? Does he know? Also, Nick is sitting with Lauren Benaceraf. Rumor is, she likes him. Look at her. Obviously she likes him. I don’t see Chazzy.
American history: What if my mom never wakes up? Have to copy Eloise’s notes when I realize I have missed the last fifteen minutes lost in my own thoughts.
Classical lit: She has to wake up. She’s going to wake up. I can’t wait until this class is over. Why does he want me to call him? Nick and Honor, sitting together.
Biology: Should have studied. Pop quiz. Seriously, should have studied! Run into Gretchen on the way to music. She asks me if Chazzy and I are “together.” I turn red, mumble something about needing to go get my guitar and basically flee.
Finally the interminable afternoon is over. Music is usually the class I don’t want to end, but today I book out the second I can, barely saying bye to Chazzy. I probably look like a freak sprinting across the quad to Selby, but I can’t help that.
The harsh, winter air feels good in my lungs, but I’m boiling after two minutes of running. When I arrive at Mrs. Baird’s, I hesitate before dialing the number she hands me. My hands are shaking, and not from the cold.
Mr. Gibson’s assistant puts me on hold.
Mrs. Baird tries to look busy so I won’t feel like she’s listening. There’s nowhere for her to go; I’m using her phone, but it’s better than the common room phone, especially at this time of day, with everyone coming back from class to change for sports.
Finally I hear a click and then a voice. “Wren? It’s Edward Gibson.”
His voice is smooth and confident, like his picture behind the glass. Deep, professional. There’s too long a silence before I realize I need to answer, or he’s going to think I hung up.
“Oh. Yes. Hello.” Sir? I don’t know what to call him.
“I realize you may be surprised to hear from me.”
“A little,” I admit.
He chuckles. “I hope you don’t mind my getting in touch like this. Honor told me what’s been going on—”
“Excuse me?” I can’t stop myself from cutting him off. Honor told him what? Why would Honor tell him anything?
“She told me about Hannah’s accident.”
“Oh,” I say quietly.
“Wren, this is such distressing news. I can only imagine what you are going through. Your mother and I were very close when we were younger, and . . . I’m concerned about Hannah, and I’m concerned about you.” He is obviously used to being direct, but his voice sounds sympathetic.
“Thanks. They say she’s going to be okay. It’s just hard waiting.” I try to say this like I’m sure it’s true, that she’ll be okay.
“That’s good. But what about you? Do you need anything? Is there anything Honor and I can do? Do you have somewhere to go for Thanksgiving?”
“No, I do. Mrs. Baird . . .” It feels funny to explain this with Mrs. Baird right in the room. “Mrs. Baird invited me to her house.”
There’s a silence as though he’s deciding what to say next. “Why don’t you come to New York with Honor?” he asks.
“Excuse me?” I say again.
“For Thanksgiving,” he clarifies, as if it requires clarification. “It will give us a chance to meet. Honor can show you around New York, and if Hannah needs anything . . .”
“Thank you,” I say, accepting before I
even consider whether I want to. “Are you sure you don’t mind? Honor won’t mind? I really don’t want to intrude—”
“Why would Honor mind? You’re roommates.” He says “roommates” like he means “friends,” but there’s an edge of impatience in his voice. I don’t know if it’s meant for my question or Honor’s objections. “It will be fun to have a big group. Eloise will be there.”
Of course I know already that Eloise is invited to the Gibsons’. Maybe she and Ned could provide something of a buffer. But now that I’ve said yes, I’m worried. I’m ninety percent sure I’m right about Edward Gibson, but I’ve been wrong before.
“Thank you,” I say again nervously before we both hang up.
If Mrs. Baird is curious about all this, she doesn’t show it. “Everything okay?” she asks.
“He invited me to New York for Thanksgiving. But Mrs. Baird, it was really nice of you to ask me too.” I don’t want her to think I don’t appreciate her offer, but I have to admit, at least to myself, that I’ve been dreading the idea of gray afternoons drinking tea with the Madames Baird. I’ve already done a lot of that with my great-aunt Helen on Stone Cove Island. I almost laugh; this is the way my mother must have felt visiting there.
“You’ll have more fun,” Mrs. Baird says as if reading my mind. “Go on.” She walks to the door with me. “It’s too quiet at our place. No kids around. And I must say, I am relieved that you and Honor have patched things up. That’s good news. If I hear anything about your mother, I’ll let you know, but I’ve already made sure they have your email address.”
“Thanks,” I say again, for what feels like the hundredth time in ten minutes.
I’m not so sure that it will be fun, exactly, but I do want to go. I want to meet him. I have to meet him. I don’t have a choice, even if I’m just imagining the history between Edward and my mother.
The week creeps by. Honor is still cold, still ignoring me. Now that I know she’s talked to her father, I can’t help feeling like it would be better to just have it out, whatever “it” is. All I get out of her is, “My dad said we had to invite you for Thanksgiving, so you’re invited. We’re done.”
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