The Art of Falling in Love

  Except when I look up, it isn’t Carolina.

  Livvy is hovering over the seat, crouching into it but not really sitting. She’s positioned in a way that makes it easy to escape. Her big eyes are swimming with tears that she’s trying to silently choke back.

  I stare at her. “What are you doing here?” Livvy’s always finding some new way to corner me.

  “It’s my fault,” she says. It sounds like she's choking as she spills out the words. “I called CPS about Foster. I heard you talking to Mom. I was mad. At you for leaving me out of everything with Opa. And at Mom and Dad for smothering me until I snapped. Just mad at everyone, okay? But I’m really sorry. I know that doesn't make a difference now, but I'm so sorry.”

  “You? You called them?” The words are so soft I’m sure only I can hear them. I should be screaming at her. Where’s all that rage from yesterday when I thought Dad was the one who turned Foster in?

  She sniffles. "It was weeks ago, before I even really knew him."

  Somewhere behind us the restaurant's phone rings. The family in the booth next to us laughs as their baby blows spit bubbles and widens her own eyes in surprise.

  I look anywhere and everywhere but at Livvy. I’m numb. I can’t even tell if it’s because I’m that angry or if I don’t care anymore.

  She slips a sticky note from her pocket and slides it across the table. It’s a seashell sticky note from Opa’s desk. He used to leave them around the beach house all summer with notes like, “Going out for a morning walk. Be back after sunrise.” or “Headed to the grocery store. Call me if you need ingredients.” He’d stick them in the most bizarre places, like on the lid of the guest toilet seat or on a spoon in the silverware drawer to make sure we saw them before eating, or peeing.

  “I don’t have time for this. I have an interview to get ready for.” I stand and walk toward the door, Livvy’s note clutched in one hand. Blood pounds in my ears. I’ll have to text Carolina and cancel because I can’t meet her like this. Don’t look back at Livvy, I tell myself. She just wants attention, but she doesn’t deserve it.

  My eyes focus on my sister anyway. Livvy watches me with wide, wet eyes. She hunches over the table like she’s trying to recover from a nasty hit. She shouldn’t look so devastated. I’m the one she hurt. Still, the image of my little sister sobbing alone in my favorite restaurant blinks across my brain until it's stamped there in permanent ink.

  I don’t unfold the sticky note until I reach my car. I expect some type of apology, but there’s none. Scribbled in purple glitter pen in wide precise letters is a street name and number. Under that is Foster’s name. I watch Livvy leave Guava Guava and walk alone down the street toward home, head down. I drive past her to the beach house, my vision blurring.

  Thirty-Three

  I smooth my sweaty hands over the hem of my black skirt for the tenth time in just under five minutes. I sit alone in an oversized office lobby in tight, unforgiving clothes. Last night, Mom told me she would help me pick something to wear for my interview, but her help consisted of her pointing to a pencil skirt and a gauzy blouse with an and-this-is-final look. There was a receptionist sitting at the desk when I first walked into the room, but he disappeared just a minute after I took my seat. I slip my phone from my bag, where I have it hidden and silenced, to check the time. It’s two minutes past the official slot for my interview, but I feel like I’ve been waiting hours.

  “Claire?” The receptionist reappears from literally nowhere. Apparently, he shares a skill set with my sister. He stands behind me and points to a door near the back.

  Great. They’ve filled all the spots, and they’ve decided to do us all a favor and kick me out right away. I stand and trudge toward the door, avoiding the receptionist’s gaze and wide smile. It’s annoying to be smiled at so much. Everything is getting on my nerves all of a sudden; it’s difficult to hold a smile of my own when I’m on the verge of a defining moment like this one.

  “They had to switch interview rooms because the air conditioning went out on this side of the building,” he says as he speed-walks ahead of me, arms pumping wildly by his sides.

  A different room? Is that all? At least I have an excuse for my melty appearance, even though I’m still not sure my sweat is from anything other than awful nerves. I scamper behind him and practice taking breaths like a normal human being. In and out, or something like that. It’s hard to think clearly about anything when I’m so aware of the fact that the next fifteen to twenty minutes will define the rest of my life. Please don’t epically fail, Claire.

  The receptionist points to a door at the end of the hall, and I pause outside of it. He disappears back down the hall and leaves me standing alone, one hand hovering over the door knob. Deep breaths, shoulders back. Don’t mess this up.

  I turn the knob and sail into a room so small it’s almost ridiculous. Three judges, two women and one man, sit at a long table along the back wall. In front of them is one lone chair. I tell myself to stop stalling and walk to the chair.

  The judge in the middle, the youngest woman of the group, calls my name. “Claire? How are you?” She nods toward the chair, and I sit.

  “I’m doing well, thank you.” The words sound too stuffy in my mouth. Even as I say them, I wonder if I’m saying them wrong. Words are hard when they’re worth everything.

  The man speaks next. “Please start by telling us about yourself.”

  I smile automatically. In my brain, I’m chanting the memorized responses I’ve practiced all summer long. I’m an artist who enjoys working with all mediums. I love spending time with my family. This is my dream school, and I would consider it a great honor to attend classes here. But when I open my mouth, none of those words come out.

  “My family and I come to the beach every summer.” I focus on the youngest woman, who winks at me encouragingly. I take a deep breath. “This summer I entered the sand art contest because of my grandfather, even though I didn’t want to at first.” I pause to deliver a wry smile. Each of the judges smiles back. The older woman raises her eyebrows, in disapproval or interest, I can’t tell. “And, I didn’t expect to, but I fell in love with sand as a medium. I realized I love art in almost every medium. And then I fell in love with a boy who also loves art and who helped me see the world in a new way. Challenging myself by learning something new was the best decision I’ve made. If I’m admitted to the art program, I look forward to challenging myself more and working with more new mediums. I want to be an artist in every sense possible.” I clasp my hands in my lap and await more questions. None come.

  All three judges ignore me and scribble on their notepads. Then the young one nods and claps her hands. “I’m satisfied,” she says. “What about the rest of us?” She turns to look at her friends, who both shrug.

  The man chuckles slightly. “Well, what about the boy? The artist who showed you more of the world?”

  I blink at them and feel flustered again. The ladies nod and look to me for an answer. “Um, ha. Well, this isn’t part of the interview, right?”

  The young interviewer smiles kindly. “Just a personal question, if you don’t mind.”

  I nod. It’s actually very personal, but I don’t want to upset these powerful adults. “It didn’t work out. Um, romantically speaking, it didn’t work out. But we still keep in touch. It’s, um, kind of complicated.”

  Wow. Where did the girl who just delivered that amazing interview answer run off to? Way to make an awkward question even worse by butchering it.

  “That’s too bad,” says the older woman. The younger nods sympathetically. The man, who seemed so interested moments ago, shrugs and says nothing. They stand one by one, and I do the same.

  The man taps my resume and cover letter and nods. “Good stuff right here. You’ll be hearing from us soon, I think.” The two women glance at him and then roll their eyes at each other before smiling at me.

  “It’s been a pleasure,” the youngest says.

  I bob my head up
and down until I feel dizzy from the effort. “Yes, thank you. Thank you all very much.” I walk out of the room exhausted. A seed of hope wriggles its way into existence.

  But as I exit the building and find my car, the man’s voice rings in my ears. What about the boy?

  Thirty-Four

  The family gift shop is only open until noon on Fridays, but I stop by at 12:30 anyway. I know there’s a good chance my parents will still be there, taking inventory or helping a last-minute customer. I ignore the “We’re Closed” sign, push open the door, and walk to the back. Mom and Dad are sitting back-to-back in a pile of inventory sheets and receipts scrawled over in the world’s tiniest handwriting.

  “Is this Opa’s stuff?” The only explanation for why they would deal with this level of chaos is that it must be inherited.

  Mom groans and pushes herself to her feet. “Yes. Your grandfather was never a packrat, but apparently he was an overzealous bookkeeper.”

  Dad nods and stretches his hands behind his back before grabbing another stack of papers. “We’ve been sifting through everything all summer. The worst part is it’s almost impossible to tell what’s actually important and what’s just random notes and lists.”

  They exchange a look and shake their heads. The sight of the hundreds—maybe thousands—of documents makes me grateful I decided against working here this summer. I’d have been stuck behind the counter, reading grocery lists instead of honing my art skills.

  “This is crazy,” I say. It’s insufficient, but they agree with me.

  “So, what are you doing here? I thought you were spending all your time at the beach, getting ready for your big contest.” Dad tilts his head, anticipating the worst, I’m sure.

  I nod. That’s exactly where I should be, but I’ve got something else on my mind. Something I’m pretty sure my parents will not be excited about.

  “I need to see Foster.”

  Dad leans against a shelf and looks at Mom. They do that thing where they somehow silently communicate without either of them moving a muscle. It never fails to impress and mystify me. This time I hope it also works in my favor.

  Mom exhales and turns back to me. “You can’t go alone,” she says.

  I swallow my excitement and agree. “Yeah, totally, but what if I take Carolina and we make it a road trip?” The phrase “road trip” does nothing for my case, and I bite my lip as soon as the words leave my mouth. Mom and Dad both narrow their eyes at me. I shake my head. “A speed-limit-driving, singular-purpose, there-and-back kind of trip.” And magically, they agree, as long as Carolina can come with me.

  “Please, please, please.” I hate begging, but if it gets Carolina to agree to come with me, it’s worth it. She rolls her eyes so hard I almost get dizzy.

  “Fine. But I’m picking the music, and I’m not sticking around to watch you stick your tongue down Foster’s throat, okay?”

  I wrinkle my nose. “That won’t happen,” I say. “This is not that kind of trip, I promise.”

  Carolina pulls her hair over one shoulder, running it through her hands. She levels a hard look at me, lips pinched. “He’s lied to you a lot, you know. Are you sure you even want to get back together with him? If you say he’s nice, I believe you. But I worry he’s going to hurt you again.”

  I blow out a breath. “He has legit reasons for keeping secrets, but if he wants to get back together in the future, I’m not going to make it easy on him. Right now, I just need to see him. Nothing else is going to happen.”

  She rolls her eyes again, but this time she smiles. “Whatever. Fine. I’ll come.”

  We leave early the next morning. The sun isn’t even up yet, and the air has a rare chill to it. After kissing my parents goodbye and swearing on my nonexistent art career that I’ll be careful, I pad out to the car in my grey Flagler sweatshirt, the one Opa bought me a few years ago. As I’m programming my phone GPS with the address Livvy gave me, my sister appears at the passenger door. She waves through the window, her eyes still red from last night and her hair an uncharacteristically frizzy disaster. Did she even sleep?

  I don’t wave back. She pulls the handle and opens the door just a few inches. Her voice is raspy. “Mind if I come too? Dad says it’s up to you.”

  I stare back at her through the crack in the car door, blank-faced and thin-lipped. “You can’t come.”

  Her face falls. She bows her head and looks away like she’s going to leave. Then, softer than before: “Please?”

  She’s crying again, but her hands are covering her eyes. They’re red and wet, just visible between her fingers. I’m never going to speak to her again. She blinks at me through the window. Like I’m supposed to take pity on her. Like she even deserves it. Even Dad knows this is one thing Liv won’t be able to talk her way out of. Last night when I finally told my parents why I’ve been refusing to be in the same room as her, Dad didn’t even try to convince me to be nice to her. Because it’s obvious to everyone who isn’t Livvy that she’s really messed up this time. You can’t just come back from this kind of betrayal.

  “Claire, please. Let me come with you. I want to make it up to you.”

  My eye twitches at her whispered pleading, so reminiscent of our childhood. When we were littler, she would beg to be invited to play with me and my friends from the neighborhood. We would stick our tongues out at her as we clutched our Barbie dolls close and ran away, faster than her small feet could carry her. She’s always been tough, and she didn’t usually let it bother her. But sometimes the sting of being the baby sister was too much and she’d burst into tears. One time, she’d been so upset by our teasing that she had collapsed into a tear-filled puddle on the sidewalk. I’d shushed my friends with my best withering look, inherited from Mom. After they scampered away, I let Liv hold my mermaid Barbie she’d been eyeing all year and we sat in the backyard together eating cookies from the package. After that I tried to include her more often, and my friends stopped teasing her as much.

  But that closeness all stopped as soon as Liv decided she was cooler than me. Now here she is, falling apart again because I’m not including her. I don’t owe her anything, not after what she did, but whatever genetic force prompted me to share my dolls years ago nudges me now.

  “Fine. You can come, but you have to ride in the back. Carolina already has dibs on the front seat.” I point my thumb to the backseat. Livvy stops sniffling and nods eagerly. She opens the door and climbs in. Our eyes meet when I glance in the rearview mirror, and she flashes me a hesitant grin. I give her a half-grimace, half-smile. I can’t pretend I’m happy with her, but I am strangely not mad she’s coming along.

  After we pick up Carolina, I almost run over a group of surfers walking to the beach with their surfboards held up high over their heads. Surfing obviously reminds me of Foster, and I wonder how he’s holding up in Alabama with no beaches and no waves.

  Carolina keeps her promise to be our deejay and starts blasting a mix from her phone the minute I pick her up. I’m more of a Taylor Swift kind of girl, and Carolina’s taste is so eclectic it doesn’t make sense, but the beat fills the morning silence well and pumps us up for the long drive ahead. Mom insisted on packing snacks, so we have a full cooler in the back and we won’t need to stop for food if we don’t want to. I’m surprised it’s all coming together so well, but I’m nervous about seeing Foster again. Above all else, I’m terrified he’ll be angry at me for going all this way to see him. When he walked away from me that morning, he kind of made it clear he wasn’t interested in anything else happening between us.

  Carolina turns the volume down to a whisper and eyes me. “Can we talk about the real reason we’re driving six hours down the interstate?”

  Livvy says nothing, and I don’t look at either of them. I face forward and keep my gaze on the road in front of me. My heartbeat echoes in my ears. If I inhale too deeply, my car smells like Foster: coconut shampoo mixed with just the right amount of sweat so it's not gross.

  “I just
need to see him.”

  And that’s it. There’s no driving reason for me to drop everything and see Foster immediately. Except for the fact that I still think he made a huge mistake leaving Florida—leaving me. And my interview with the admission board from Flagler reminded me of how important art is not only to me, but to Foster as well. Maybe I’m not his girlfriend, but I feel a sense of responsibility for him. He doesn’t have anyone else to propel him forward, so it has to be me.

  Carolina clicks her tongue but says nothing else. She doesn’t have to because her judgment fills the silence.

  Livvy’s gazing out the window. I have to lean back and hold my breath to even hear her when she starts speaking. “I broke up with Evan."

  Carolina raises her eyebrows and nods. I chew on the inside of my cheek. I had no idea. But I’ve spent most of the summer avoiding my sister, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.

  She’s watching me now, waiting for a reaction.

  “Sorry it didn’t work out, Liv.”

  We both know I’m not really sorry, but I’ve been through enough this summer to know it’s what she needs to hear. We drive without conversation, just the incredibly loud dubstep now blaring from Carolina’s phone. I don't know what Foster will say when I appear at his new house or how I’ll convince him to come back to Florida where he belongs. But if he doesn't listen to me, if he stays with Johnny...

  Livvy's moved on from her summer fling, maybe I'm supposed to do the same.

  The landmarks on either side of the road blur into one another. I’ve never been able to focus on the individual signs and billboards for long without getting a headache. But all the sudden something familiar catches my eye.