They left me to try stuff on, but my thoughts snagged on Dad’s words. In a way, wasn’t my time at South Pole Station going to be its own type of grounding? I’d have restrictions on where I could go, I wouldn’t have a cell phone, internet access would be limited. I shook off that interpretation—the experiences I’d gain would more than make up for it.
I pulled out a parka and waterproof pants. There were multiple pairs of long underwear—silk and Merino wool—plus socks, gloves, gaiters, hats, mirrored sunglasses, ski goggles. But after trading my wrinkled dress pants for a pair of blue wool long johns, I didn’t move to try on the rest. I was going to Antarctica. And if the few pages of the binder I’d flipped through were any indication, life there would be simple, ordered, scheduled, logical. Meal times, laundry times, two-minute showers twice a week. No Curtis. No worries about dating or subtext in conversations. No stressing about friendships and if I was taking too much of Merri’s time. No more classes, or the adrenaline rush of quiz bowl. No pressure to do something with the podcast. No more creepy guys at the grocery store. No temptations or cupcakes or romance . . .
My stomach twisted. Probably from hunger, since I’d barely touched lunch at the Avery, but looking at Mom’s sandwich made me queasy. I put down the binder and picked up my phone, because before I did anything else, there was someone I needed to tell.
42
The phone rang once. Merri answered with “How is he?” before I had a chance to say hello.
“How is who?” I should’ve written out a script. Figured out the words I’d use to convince her my going with my parents was positive.
“You’re calling from the hospital, right? It’s been killing me not to bug you. Fielding took my phone away and has been holding it until you called. I asked him to, but still. How’s Curtis?”
I wanted to ask What?, but she wouldn’t lie about this, so I skipped to the vital question: “Why is Curtis at the hospital?”
“He—” Merri faltered. “He had an allergic reaction at the science fair reception. Weren’t you there? They had to EpiPen and rush him out. I thought you’d gone with him . . .”
The reception was hours ago. Hours. “Is he under Montgomery or Curtis? Never mind, I can ask for both. Which hospital?”
I heard her ask Fielding, but he took the phone to answer directly. “Mercy General. Want me to pick you up?”
“No, I’m fine.” It was such a bad lie and I couldn’t care. I ended the call and charged out of my room.
“So, what doesn’t fit?” Mom already had a pen poised above a notepad.
I stared blankly. “Curtis is in the hospital.”
Dad set down his mug. “Is he okay?”
“He’s allergic to peanuts.” It wasn’t an answer, but it was all I knew. “I’m going.”
“But—” Mom tapped the pad. “We don’t have time—”
Dad tossed me the car keys. “Drive safe. Call us if . . .” He shrugged. “Call us if there’s a situation where George Campbell would want his daughters to call him.”
I nodded numbly.
“Wait. Coat.” He grabbed mine from the closet and handed it over with a squeeze of my arm. “I hope he’s okay.”
I called “Me too!” over my shoulder as I tossed the coat onto the passenger seat. I was backing out of the driveway when my phone rang. “Hello?”
“Hey, it’s, uh, Lance. Merri called and told me some stuff. I owe you an apology.”
“That doesn’t matter right now, and you weren’t wrong.” I hit my blinker.
“Right, well, I’m calling because Merri said you were going to visit Curtis. He got discharged an hour ago. Go to his house, not the hospital.”
“Oh.” While I was glad he’d been sent home and for the health things that connoted, going to his house felt a lot more intimidating than an ER. “He’s probably sleeping then.”
“You should go over. He’ll want to see you.”
“Okay.” But my hand trembled as I did a three-point turn in the Karbieners’ driveway. “Thanks.”
“Tell him I’ll stop by tomorrow, and I say congrats on the science-medal thing. Oh, I heard yours was great too.”
“His was better,” I admitted.
“I’m telling him you said that. Not that he’ll believe me.”
Two minutes after I hung up with Lance, I pulled into Curtis’s driveway. That’s when I realized I was still wearing my left glove. Plus the button-down shirt I’d worn to the Avery and a pair of baby-blue long johns. For shoes, dressy loafers. Well, Curtis had said he liked me for more than my looks; here was his chance to prove it. Though I was leaving the glove in the car.
Wink answered the door. Her hair was twisted into a messy knot on the top of her head and her tired expression sharpened. “Nice of you to stop by.”
“Wink!” She’d only opened the door a few inches, so I couldn’t see Win, but his voice carried all sorts of warnings.
“Sorry. That wasn’t as sarcastic as it sounded.” She swung the door wide and pulled me in. “You try spending four hours in the ER with Win and not have him rub off on you.”
“I think I’ll pass.”
“Curtis will be glad you’re here.” She paired this with a tentative smile. “My parents are in with him. I’ll go tell them.”
I turned to Win. He was slumped at the table, a bowl of cereal that he was stirring into soggy glop in front of him. “I’m the one who got him that plate of dessert.” His shoulders were up, like he was bracing for attack. “He was so busy being congratulated or whatever. I thought maybe if I fed him, we could move it along and leave.”
“It wasn’t marked.” I looked over to where Mr. and Mrs. Cavendish had emerged from the hallway. Win’s dad crossed the room to sit beside his son and put a hand on his back. “Allergens were supposed to be marked. You couldn’t have known.”
“Yeah, but—” Win’s chin quivered, and I turned away from the table to give him privacy.
His mom was behind me, wringing her hands and shifting her weight like she wasn’t sure which of her sons needed her more.
“May I see Curtis?” I asked. “Please.”
“Yes!” The raspy answer came from the first room off the hallway and made his mom smile.
“I was going to ask you to come back tomorrow, but he bargained hard for a short visit.” She rubbed her forehead. “Please don’t tire him out.”
“I won’t.” I held up my hand like I was making some sort of vow, then ducked past her before she could change her mind.
I’d never been in the boys’ bedroom, but I didn’t pause to take in the décor. The only thing I cared about was locating Curtis. He was propped on pillows in the twin bed by the window. Shirtless—but instead of muscles, I focused on the blotchy hives on his chest, the bandage from an IV on his arm. His lips were swollen, his eyes shadowed with fatigue.
I stopped inside the door and squeaked the word “Hi” in a small, uncertain voice.
“If you came to admire my medal, it’s on my dresser. Bring it over here and I’ll model it while you congratulate me.”
“Yeah, that’s not going to happen.” I snorted nervously. “I came to see if you were okay.”
“Ah, is this like when Gilbert gets sick with typhoid fever? Did you suddenly realize you cared ’cause I might die?”
“You know I care—but you’re not dying.” I narrowed my eyes, like I could glare away any secondary reactions or spot their symptoms before he suffered. I wondered if his parents were taking time-lapse photographs of his hives. “The hospital wouldn’t have released you if—”
He held up a hand, and it stopped my outward gruffness and inner panic. “Firebug, I’m fine.”
My eyes itched, but I nodded. He wouldn’t lie to me. He hadn’t ever lied to me.
“Anyway, since it’s my big victory and you won’t let me wear my medal, should we keep going with these post-typhoid scenes from Anne of the Island? How about when Gilbert brings up that he proposed to Anne two years ago
, and asks if her answer has changed.” Curtis pushed up on his elbows, the pillow slipping from behind his head to land at his lower back. “If I re-asked you my question from last week, would you give the same response?”
I turned to his dresser and picked up the medal. I couldn’t see it through blurry eyes but traced trembling fingers over the engravings. I couldn’t have both—Curtis and Antarctica. There wasn’t time for a “real” date before we left on Tuesday.
“That’s not my favorite book in the series. Too much talk of weddings and far too many proposals.” I set the medal down and smoothed the ribbon. “It doesn’t matter though; I’ll be writing about Frankenstein.” If I decided to do a paper; I’d be gone before Friday’s due date. But Mary Shelley’s novel didn’t bother me anymore. My parents were taking me with them, which proved I was more Anne than creature.
“Eliza, Green Gables is your story.” His voice was hoarse, and he paused to sip some water. “I just like teasing you.”
I shook my head. “We had a deal. You won.”
He shrugged. “I picked a different book. Already turned in my project. Anne’s yours if you want it.”
I took a step toward him. “Why?”
He ducked his head. “I couldn’t think about Anne without thinking of you—and that hurt. I needed to do a different book as much as I think you need to do this one. But since the bet was off, I didn’t do Frankenstein either.”
He’d been hurting. I hated that, and hated myself for being relieved I hadn’t been the only one feeling that way. I looked around the mildly messy half of his room for the answer. “What book did you do?”
“Not telling. You’ll have to wait and find out with the rest of the class.” His smirk lacked its usual swagger—instead of making me want to pinch him, I wanted to check his pulse, tuck him in, pass him more water.
It wasn’t the right time to announce my departure, and if that meant not knowing, then maybe guessing titles was the type of puzzle that would keep me busy on sleepless hours in subfreezing temperatures.
“You should start thinking of new wagers, because I’m going to beat you again next year, and I want bigger stakes.” He shifted, this time to lie back—but that pillow wasn’t in the right spot. He winced, and I darted past Win’s bed, which clearly doubled as a laundry hamper, to kneel beside Curtis.
I hadn’t realized I’d needed an excuse to touch him until I had one and couldn’t stop. I fixed the pillow, then brushed his hair off his forehead and traced a finger around his jaw. My caresses were soft, but my words were hard. “Do you think next year you can manage to celebrate in ways that are less potentially fatal?”
“There’s my firebug.” He grinned and covered my hand with his. “Though it’s really not my fault. Who puts peanut butter in Rice Krispie Treats? That’s unnatural.”
“I don’t know, but when I find out . . .” I let the threat hang because I couldn’t think of a consequence big enough, and I didn’t want to picture what had happened—EpiPens, IVs, blood oxygen levels, steroids. He’d been suffering while I’d been trying on socks and reading about crevasse safety.
If this allergy scare happened two weeks from now, I’d find out after the fact via email. If at all. I’d be the one begging for anecdotes and data to try and reconstruct everything I’d missed. I wouldn’t know where Curtis went for runs and how the woods changed with the seasons. Or what the Lunch Bunch was up to. Merri was waiting for me to get home and call her; in a week, I couldn’t.
Curtis dropped my hand. “But seriously, where do we stand—you, me, your parents? They aren’t big fans of me or cupcakes—but I heard you stand up for me.”
“Yes, I did.” I’d also grilled my parents on what they thought after reevaluating his project. They’d begrudgingly admitted it was “impressive” and his medal was “merited.” That was still several levels below a glowing endorsement, but add in the forthcoming apology note and baked goods and it was a start.
“Don’t you see how arbitrary their rules are?” Curtis asked. “I did some research. I can send you science that says the exact opposite of what they told you—that healthy teen relationships teach valuable social skills and coping mechanisms.”
“I know.” I looked at him through lowered lashes. “And it’s seriously attractive that you looked up the science of dating.”
“Don’t play with me, Eliza.”
“I’m not.” I stroked the hair off his forehead again and fought the urge to call out an excuse: “You had a fuzz.” I could invent a whole blanket’s worth of lint to keep doing it—or simply tell him the truth. “You make me want to be irrational, illogical, emotional.”
He slid a hand up to cup my elbow, pull me closer. “Even if it’s a weakness?”
“It’s not. I was wrong; you make me stronger, better. Happier.” Merri did too. She made me more compassionate, more creative. And being in classes with my peers had taught me patience and forced me to broaden my focus and consider others’ perspectives.
No doubt there’d be so much to learn at South Pole Station—people with diverse backgrounds and expertise, but . . . they weren’t my people. My Lunch Bunch. I clutched the corner of his bed, all too aware that when I got home I wouldn’t be able to climb under my covers and hide—because my parents would be waiting and my comforter was buried beneath gear and paperwork.
Curtis was beaming up at me. I narrowed my eyes. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
He laughed. “Can I at least have a mutant pea plant? Please.” He made prayer hands and puppy dog eyes. “I want a glow-in-the-dark plant—you know how I feel about bioluminescence, Firebug.”
I rolled my eyes when he waggled his eyebrows. “That can be arranged.”
He fist-pumped. “Yes! But why did you change projects? When do I get to be a guest on your podcast? And . . . what are you wearing? That’s quite the outfit.”
He gestured for me to spin around, and I smacked his arm. “Long story.”
But a more important one bubbled up beneath my skin. It was about a girl with no parents—hers had been scared they’d mess up, so they’d run away. And now she was facing the boy she liked most in the world, and he was asking her for the thing she feared most: to be vulnerable. She was thinking of running scared too.
But what if I didn’t? What if I stayed? What if I tested that boy’s theory that sometimes it’s okay to make mistakes, sometimes it’s okay to be uncomfortable? It means you’re trying and learning.
I leaned down and kissed him. Really just a grazing of my lips against his—an exchange of breath and tingle. I didn’t know if it was a goodbye or a new beginning. But it was a promise either way.
The knock against the doorframe was brusque, and Win’s voice chased it. “Remember other people have to sleep in here, so don’t get gross. Also, Mom said to tell you, ‘Time’s up.’”
The words felt too real, too true. So before I stood and obeyed, I leaned down to kiss him again. “Rest up, Cupcake.”
Win walked in as I slipped out, his eyes red and penitent. “Hey.”
“Hey,” Curtis echoed, then grinned mischievously. “My medal’s on my dresser. If you bring it over, I’ll model it for you.”
I grinned as I glanced over my shoulder. Unsurprisingly Win had skipped the medal.
He’d gone straight for a fierce hug instead.
43
Mom and Dad were waiting in the kitchen. She looked up from her laptop, and he set down a half-finished apple. “How is he?”
“He’ll be okay.” I hung up my coat and joined them at the table.
“I’m glad,” Mom said. “I realize Curtis is important to you, and—”
“Before I left, you told me I didn’t ‘have time’ for this.” The comment still burned.
“I shouldn’t have said that.” Mom looked at the blank screen of her laptop. “I tend to hyper-focus and don’t always have facileness when switching mental gears.”
I didn’t either. Especially when it was to acknowledg
e something or someone who got in the way of my goals. Adults—my parents, teachers—had always praised me for my ability to ignore distractions, but they were wrong. I’d been wrong. The evidence of that was how everyone—from Lance to each member of Curtis’s family—had praised me for showing up. Because they hadn’t expected me to. Because by being there, I’d made them feel better.
That changed tonight. I wanted people to have different expectations for me. The type that made me a good person, not just a smart one. I lifted my chin. “I will always have time for the people I care about.” Like the Campbells had for me last night. Their names hadn’t been listed beside mine on my Avery abstract, but they might as well have been. It was a team effort—I couldn’t have done it alone.
“That’s a kind goal but maybe not a practical one,” Dad said gently. “Antarctica’s going to make that tricky.”
Mom pressed her lips together. “It’s a nice sentiment, and tonight I was wrong, but there will be times I tell you no and mean it.”
“I know. But I’m not always going to listen.” Before they could look at each other or call Mr. Campbell and ask if this was a “typical teenage rebellion,” I clarified. “I can’t be what you want me to be a hundred percent of the time. Anne wasn’t who Matthew and Marilla wanted her to be either. At least not at first. But she refused to change her identity for them—and they learned to love her for who she was. And no offense to Gregor Mendel, but I’m podcast, not pea plants.”
“Who’s Anne?” asked Dad, while Mom said, “I don’t know any of these people—well, besides Mendel, obviously—and I’m not sure how they’re relevant.”
“Anne of Green Gables. It’s a book. Read it later if you want, but I need you to hear me now. I don’t want to be your project. I want to be your daughter. I want autonomy to make my own choices and learn from my mistakes. Stay up too late and yawn through class, eat too much junk food and get a stomachache. Watch ridiculous TV shows and scoff at the things they get wrong.”
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