Home.
Mom is talking but I’ve missed most of the beginning of what she is saying, and now she’s handing me a folder. “What’s this?”
“It’s the packet from AYS. You don’t even have to reapply. You’re in.” She looks so happy for me. I stare down at the yellow folder. AYS stands for America’s Young Scientists, a six-week summer program I took last year after a grueling application process. “Very elite,” my counselor said. “It’ll look great on your college applications.”
“Actually, Mom. I don’t think I’m going to do AYS this summer.” I set the packet at my feet.
She bites her lip, frowning, but waves it off as she changes lanes. “You don’t have to decide that now. Oh! — and I made you an appointment with a woman named Ashley Callahan. She specializes in college advising with students who have unique circumstances like yours. You can talk with her about it.”
I turn back to the window, hiding a smile. It strikes me as funny that someone has a job specializing in kids like me, ones with unique circumstances. Aren’t circumstances, by definition, unique? I would love to see her list of clients. A bunch of privileged kids whose parents think not being able to get into a first-tier school qualifies as a crisis. I can just picture our first meeting. Hi, Mara. Your life won’t be as perfect and award-winning as you initially thought, she’ll say, adjusting her six-hundred-dollar glasses, but we’ll find you something else. That will be two hundred dollars per hour, please. I tip the air-conditioning toward me; it’s probably fifty degrees outside but it feels hot. Something else. I smile into the flow of air. Something else will be just fine.
Mom looks sideways at me. “Are you hungry? Do you want to stop for a salad somewhere?” I shake my head, staring out at the passing traffic, my senses recalibrating to San Diego zipping by outside. “It feels good to have you home,” she tries again.
“Thanks, Mom.” Before I left, I heard Trick on the phone with her, letting her know he’d told me about the accident. Staring out at the passing cars, I wonder if she’ll ever talk to me about it, or if, like so many things with people, it will be left unsaid. Maybe the knowing is enough.
I take a deep breath. San Diego is a beautiful place. Busy and fast and full of the vibrant things that make up cities everywhere.
But right now, it’s not my favorite beautiful place.
It’s not San Diego’s fault. This is Josie’s place — she seems made to be here, made of sand and salt water and sea air. Not me, though. Turns out, I belong tucked into a mountain range somewhere. Some people feed off the busy, but I have the opposite reaction. I need the stillness, the smallness, to remind me to settle, to breathe. But the gift of Tahoe is that I know this now. I know that no matter what happens here, I will always have a place I can return to when I need it. My geographic insurance policy.
My body feels light, like snowfall, and studying Mom’s profile, her blond hair newly trimmed and highlighted, her linen suit stylish, her French pedicure perfect in her sandals, I realize this is her place. Where she feels the most like herself. Maybe San Diego saved her when she was at her lowest point the way Tahoe saved me when I was at mine. I fill with a silly kind of childhood love for her — all her Google calendars and spreadsheets and checklists.
Because sometimes love looks like a spreadsheet.
“Actually, I would love some Mexican food.” I smile sideways at her. “Tahoe just didn’t have the Mexican food I’m used to.”
A stripe of late afternoon sun brightens her face as she moves back into the slow lane. “Absolutely. I know the best place,” she says, turning on her blinker and taking the next exit.
A lit-up sailboat moves across the dark waters of the ocean. Josie points it out before pulling a Ranfield Ravens sweatshirt over her head. We sit on the cool sand of the beach at La Jolla Shores, where we came to eat sandwiches and watch the water grow black. A breeze blows the salty ocean air through my hair. The windows of the houses to the south begin to twinkle in the dark, the pier is drenched in shadow, and the crumbly waves move against the shore. A shaggy-haired man in a faded sweatshirt and jeans walks barefoot down the beach, and it strikes me that people come here to disappear, too. Tahoe has ski bums. We have beach bums. Maybe everywhere has its own version of people who duck under the radar.
“You can feel free to add to that.” I motion at the present I’ve just given Josie. “It’s a work in progress.”
Josie uses her phone as a light to read it. “This is cool, Mara — thanks.” She studies the Be a Better Friend to Josie List I made. I’d even decorated it with some sparkly ocean stickers and slipped it into a clear plastic sleeve.
Go with you to parties even when I don’t want to.
Talk about boys when you want to talk about boys.
Talk about everything else, too.
Spend Friday nights not studying.
Watch boring ocean documentaries.
Tell you how I’m feeling (most of the time).
She tucks it into her bag along with her phone, and the sand turns shadowy around her again. “First day back tomorrow,” she says. “It’ll be great — you’ll see.” She returns to watching the boat’s slow progress. “Don’t be nervous.”
I run sand through my fingers. I am nervous. There is no way I won’t be nervous. It’s my nature in the same way I can’t help but have blue eyes or the freckles that pop up when I get too much sun.
Tomorrow, I will walk into calculus with the tall windows and the desks set in rows and my stomach will twist into a thousand knots and I’ll feel like I might faint.
But I will survive it.
I will go through the steps: walk through that door, sit down, take notes, write down the assignment, listen to the lecture. And then it will be over. And I’ll have done something that two months ago I was pretty sure I’d never be able to do again.
“You’re nervous, I can tell.” Josie tugs the end of her glossy ponytail, her dark eyes concerned.
“I can’t not be nervous, Jo. Mostly because I don’t know how to feel anything other than how I already do. But I’ll be okay.” I wiggle my toes in the sand. “One of the hardest parts is that I still don’t know who posted the video. I’ll walk into class not knowing and that person will just be sitting there. I’ll see all those faces and think, Was it you? Was it you? Or you?”
“I know.” Josie follows my gaze across the waves, the light of the moon wriggling across them. “But you’re forgetting the most important part.”
“Which is what?”
She threads her fingers through mine. “You know who it wasn’t.”
And so I do it. I walk into calculus, my chest in a clench, my palms slick with sweat. Students sit at their desks or on top of them, chatting with each other. A couple of kids seem to be hurriedly finishing last night’s assignment. Mr. Henly writes out tonight’s homework, his black dry-erase squeaking across the stretch of whiteboard. This morning, before school, I brought him a paper shredder from Costco with a shiny red bow. He’d looked up from where he sat grading papers at his desk and said, “Good girl.”
Eyes swivel in my direction and, for a moment, nothing — and then some murmurs, some whispers, and the hair on my neck stands on end. I’m about to ask Mr. Henly where I should sit, navigating the silence like a dark alley, when Jaydon Barris, a senior boy who spends most of his time trying to get everyone to come see his improv group perform at a random café somewhere, pops up from a desk. “Mr. Henly, I can’t find my phone! I need the pass — it has all of my new sketches on it.” He darts down the aisle, nearly knocking me over. “Oh, hey, Mara — wait, did you have mono or something?”
“What?” I barely manage. “No.”
“Oh.” Jayden grabs the oversize protractor, which Mr. Henly uses as a pass, from its hook by the door and bolts from the room. Not just car keys, Oli, I think — sometimes also phones.
Mr. Henly catches my eye. He wears one of the plaid shirts he always wears, tucked into a pair of navy blue trousers.
“Mara, same seat,” he offers, with a wave of his hand toward the row where I’d ripped up all the tests, where everything had gone blurry, where someone had filmed it and posted it for hundreds of thousands to see. He motions again, giving me a faint math-teachery smile.
I sit down, opening my binder to a blank piece of paper. The board reads Differentiation Formulas in Mr. Henly’s crisp, boxy handwriting. Just as the bell rings, Chris Locke slides into the seat next to me. “Hey,” he says, flipping open his green binder. “Welcome back.”
In the last week of May, we sit on our patio, the dregs of Saturday dinner in front of us. The twins play paddleball on the lawn, or their version of it, which is mostly trying to bean each other in the head with the rubber ball. Mom gets up to refill my iced tea. Will holds up his iPad from across the table. “Look, Mara. Dog shaming.” He shows me a picture of a cream-colored French bulldog, his muzzle stained green, with a sign hanging around his neck reading I ATE ALL THE JELL-O. “Look how many views he got.” Over a million.
“I know how that dog feels,” I quip, pleased that I can actually joke about the YouTube video now. I return to the novel I’m reading. It’s not for school. It has mermaids and aliens in it. Mom saw it at Costco and bought it for me, which is her way of trying to ease her own foot off the gas pedal.
Will laughs, scrolling through more pictures. “Lots of shameful dogs in this world.” He shows me another one. Amused, I study my stepdad, my heart swelling as I remember the Shells of Wisdom he had waiting when I got home from Tahoe.
MISSED YOU
Mom slips back into her chair with a glass of white wine. “What finals do you have on Tuesday?” She tries to sound offhand, like she’s just remembered I have finals next week and hasn’t secretly been planning a study schedule for me in her head.
She’s gotten better, but she’s still Mom.
“French and English.” She starts to say something, but Will flashes her a warning look. “I’m studying with Josie tomorrow at her house,” I tell her. Closing my book, I add, “But just so there are no surprises, I’m getting a B in calculus and probably one in AP US history. Maybe an A-minus.”
Her mouth, whether she likes it or not, makes a thin line. “Okay, well, I’m sure that will be fine.” Fine is a sour taste in Mom’s mouth. Like I said, she’s trying.
My cell rings. Looking down, I see the caller ID: Trick.
He’s called off and on since I’ve been back from Tahoe. Predictably, the conversations are mostly short. He tells me about the store and stuff I already know about Isabel and Logan since I talk to both of them more than I do to him. Isabel continues to inch closer to qualifying for the US Ski Team. Not yet, though. Not this season. In April, I sent a congratulations card for a great season. I might be more impressed that she keeps trying than if she had actually made the team. Trick never talks about Beck and I don’t ask. And Logan. Well, my Things That Make Logan Amazing List just keeps getting longer.
Now I hold up the phone. Mom doesn’t like us to answer phone calls during dinner, and technically, even though I’m reading, we’re still all sitting here. “Do you mind if I take this?” I ask, and she motions for me to answer it.
“Hi, Trick.”
“Oh, hey — didn’t know if you’d answer. Any big Saturday night plans?”
I look around the yard. “Yeah, huge.”
“I won’t keep you,” he says hurriedly.
“I’m sitting in the yard. Not really breaking any party records tonight.”
“Oh, okay. Anyway, I was talking to Matt Never today and he’s looking for someone to work at the Tahoe City shop this summer part-time, and, well, I thought of you.”
I sit up. Mom and Will exchange a look. I repeat his offer. “I’m putting you on speaker with Mom and Will.”
Mom leans toward the phone. “Hi, Trick. That’s a really nice offer, but Mara’s busy this summer. She has a six-week science program she’s enrolled in.” I shake my head at her. “No,” I mouth, but she waves me off, which lights a flame of annoyance in me.
Silence on the other end, until, finally, “Okay, right. You already have plans. I didn’t think about that. When I was a kid, summer was just, you know, summer.”
“It’s not like that anymore,” Mom says, gripping her wine glass.
It might be like that, though, for some kids.
He clears his throat. “Okay, well, I just wanted to throw it out there. Think on it.”
“Thanks, anyway,” Mom calls out, standing, collecting plates, glasses, forks.
I hang up and help her carry some dishes into the kitchen. “Mom, I’m not doing AYS this summer. I told you that.”
She yanks open the dishwasher. “We hadn’t really made a final decision about that.”
“Yes, I did.”
She puts the lasagna pan in the sink to soak. “Tahoe’s not an option.”
“Why not?” Tahoe for the summer. I’m itching to text Logan and Isabel.
She scrapes lasagna off a plate into the garbage disposal with a little more force than necessary. Liam’s plate. He always picks out all the mushrooms. “Because you have commitments here. You need to start your college applications.”
“I can start my college applications in Tahoe. Squaw Valley has Wi-Fi.” What she really means is I need to be with you while you start your college applications.
“You can’t just hang out at Neverland all summer.” The way she says it sounds like I might be considering starting my own meth lab.
I move the rest of the lasagna into a Tupperware. “Why?” I really want this to be my summer.
She stacks our plates and glasses and silverware into the dishwasher in her ordered way. “You know, Mara, there’s a reason Wendy leaves Neverland. She realizes she has to live her real life.”
I’m surprised she hasn’t brought that up before. Taking a moment to choose my words, I try to explain an idea that’s been stirring in my mind for the last few weeks. “You know what? I think Neverland has nothing to do with geography. I think maybe it’s a state of mind, an attitude, and not a place at all. Anyone, anywhere, can choose to check out, to not grow up, to be selfish or live only in dreams or shirk responsibility. Anyone can choose that. No matter where they live.” To appease her, I even add, “I think I might write my college essay about it.”
She blinks, seeming momentarily impressed that I’ve put some thought into my essay already. Drying her hands on a striped kitchen towel, she starts the dishwasher. “I know you’re going to think I’m being condescending, but I need to say something to you. I think you will regret not taking the opportunities you have right now if you throw them away to go hang out by a lake. You can only do AYS for one more summer. And it will look great for college.”
I listen to the whoosh of the dishwasher for a moment. “AYS isn’t my only opportunity. I think going to Tahoe is its own kind of opportunity, Mom. To know Trick better, to live in the mountains, a place where I feel like I belong.” She shakes her head, turning away from me to scrub the lasagna pan under hot water. “Besides,” I add, “isn’t growing up about making choices and then dealing with whatever happens because of them? I’d be doing that. Clearly with a great deal of warning from you.” Her shoulders sag, but in their release I can feel her yielding. The possibility of Tahoe hits me.
Will appears in the doorway, clearing his throat. “Hey, just checking on you two.” He smiles gently at me and I am awash with gratitude for my stepfather. For his steadiness and sense of humor. “So, Tahoe could be cool. I’ve always wanted to rent a house there for a week. Maybe mid-July?”
Her eyes downcast, she gives the lasagna pan a final rinse. “Okay.” She hands me the pan. “Dry this.”
Smiling, I dry the pan, letting the towel do an extra victory lap for me.
Tahoe City looks different in June. The lake sparkles in the warm sun, but the far mountains are still topped with snow. People boat, paddleboard, and kayak on the blue water. Trick pulls the truck into an empty spot in
front of Neverland’s Tahoe City store.
“I didn’t tell him you’re coming.” He grins, leaning on the steering wheel. “Just like you asked.”
I try to catch a quick glimpse of my reflection in the truck’s side mirror. I chopped my hair to my chin last week, hoping for a cute, boxy look, but I’m afraid it might be more fussy news anchor than I’d hoped for. “It looks great on you,” Trick assures me. I open the door and step onto the sidewalk, swinging the door shut behind me. Before Trick can pull away, I rest a hand on the open window.
He sees me and turns the music down. “What’s up?”
I lean in. “Thanks for having me here this summer.”
He lifts his trucker hat and runs a hand through his hair before pulling it back on. He drums his thumbs on the steering wheel, which I’m learning means he’s thinking about something. “Mara, I know as far as dads go, well, I’ve been pretty much junk.” He stares straight ahead, his thumbs still drumming. “But all those years … I was always your dad, even if it looked like, well, like I wasn’t. I just figured being out of your life was the best thing I could do for you, but it turns out —” He shakes his head, looking pained. “I guess I’d just like to not keep screwing up with you if I can manage it.” His voice breaks off, and he takes his hat off and on again.
“Trick?”
“Yeah?”
“I know. All we can do is go from now with the cards we’ve got, right?” I hand him a slip of paper, a grocery list I’d written on the plane. “Speaking of now, here’s a food list. Can you pick this stuff up before tonight? I know what your kitchen looks like when I’m not here and I don’t want to starve.” Looking relieved, he takes it, and I wave as he drives off.
The Possibility of Now Page 24