For Trixie, my editor in chief
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
1
My best friend went to Barbados and all I got was this crappy T-shirt.
I mean, just kidding. Gabby has vials of scotch bonnet pepper sauce for Leah and me too. Which will taste great on scrambled eggs. But honestly? It’s not quite the same as jetting off to some fabulous Caribbean island with a Jamaican sailing-pro dad and bohemian-artist mom. All I did over Christmas break was sit at home with my grandparents, picking my ass. Not literally. Leah’s family stayed in Santa Fe too, so we not-literally picked our asses together. But still.
“Don’t you look refreshed,” I say, shoving irritation and hot sauce into my school bag. “How was Barbados?”
“Yes, how was Barbados?” Leah glares meaningfully at Gabby, then shoots me an eye roll. “She wouldn’t say a word after she picked me up, insisting we get to your house first. And now, I am dying. I’m telling you, I might literally explode.”
“Gabby,” I gasp. “Leah’s life is at stake here—come on already! Did you cure cancer? Surf? Hook up?”
“No, yes, and yes.” A mysterious grin lingers on Gabby’s glossed lips. Her skin has deepened to an even richer dark brown, and she looks all kinds of tropically euphoric. I, on the other hand, could pass for Elsa of Arendelle.
We pile into her jeep, and Gabby tosses me her phone, all cued up to a montage of highlights from her trip. Leah and I ooh and aah, commenting on the sexy surfer guy from New Year’s Eve; the crystal-clear beaches where she snorkeled and swam with tortoises. The fish balls, the starfish, the starry nights.
Eye roll.
Okay, loving eye roll.
“What about the T-shirts?” she asks, hard braking at a red light. “Cute, right?”
Buttery-yellow cotton, geometric-trident pattern. Leah squeals and I nod, because it is going to be cute, once I run a cheese grater over it for that distressed look and cut the bottom hem.
The light turns green, and I punch Gabby’s arm.
“Ow—someone’s in a hurry to get to school.” She snorts a laugh and turns right on Peralta. “So, tell me everything. What did I miss over break?”
“Nothing,” Leah mumbles, unscrewing her hot sauce. She brings it up to her nose, and her whole face sours. “Less than nothing.”
“Don’t forget about Grandpa,” I remind her. “He finally stopped using his cane after the hip replacement surgery. So, I mean, that was pretty big.”
“Jo, that is huge. Why didn’t you lead with that hot gossip, and why aren’t there videos of your gramps on all my feeds, dancing the Pachanga?”
I laugh. “Nobody puts Grandpa in the corner.”
Even though she’s crammed in the back seat, Leah manages a half-decent Dirty Dancing move. She’s been perfecting it since seventh grade, when her mom insisted the movie was a rite of passage. The hip gyrations have Gabby and me doubled over laughing, joking about Grandpa’s newly minted hip and the idea of Gran getting frisky with her ol’ man (okay, ew).
Making fun of them is a kind of therapy for me, though. That sounds bad. What I mean is, most adopted kids live with like, regular-aged adoptive parents. Not me, though. My dead mom’s parents are raising me. And, I mean, they’re sweet and all. It just makes me feel like a foreign exchange student sometimes.
We reach the school parking lot, and our laughter withers into a dull hum. Because—hooray—the first day of second semester. For a minute, we fall into our usual before-school routine. Gabby with her NARS Blush, Leah on lips. I smudge some eyeliner around my upper and lower lids, slipping chunky rings over my fingers, a crisscrossed cuff around my upper ear, blond hair twisted into Minnie Mouse knots. I make sure my ancient Sex Pistols sweatshirt falls casually off one shoulder, and then I’m ready.
One day, in a galaxy far, far away, I am going to have a colorful peacock-feather tattoo coming up my back and curving over the top of my shoulder. But, yeah—no. Not now. My grandmother would go ballistic if I did anything to defile the body our Lord ’n’ Savior bestowed upon me. Hence the mounds of jewelry in my backpack and a temporary tattoo addiction.
Leah and I ditch Gabby at her favorite class—political science—and go find a couple of seats next to each other in US history. The classroom has a dull, stale-cheese smell from being unoccupied for the past week and a half, and if it weren’t thirty degrees out, I’d be begging Mr. Garner to crack a window.
“Look what the vampire bat dragged in.”
I glance up from my backpack, lips souring at the sight of symmetrically blessed Tim Ellison in his hunter-green polo and pressed jeans. “And look what the janitor forgot to throw out,” I purr.
His glare narrows. “Nice eyeliner, freak.”
“Thanks. Your dad lent it to me.”
“Freak,” he mutters again, bangs flopping over his eyes as he stomps confidently to the front row where he can more effectively brownnose.
Poor Tim. Since seventh grade, he’s thought calling me a freak is a put-down, when merely interacting with his stuck-up, asinine self has already lowered my day from a ten to a six. I turn to Leah and say, loud enough for Tim to hear me, “Maybe I should get a lip ring—what do you think?”
Leah’s eyebrows hike up, followed by an unsavory nostril flare.
“What? I said I’m thinking about it.”
The eyebrow remains hesitant. “How about this. You get a lip ring and I’ll get a crucifix tramp stamp.”
I chuckle, picturing the reaction of her rabbi dad. “I’m talking about someday. Like when I’m living in SoHo, running my own boutique. I could cover it up with one of those sick-people masks when I go home for Christmas.”
“Well,” she says. “In that case.”
The whole room goes quiet as our slightly Hagrid-looking AP history teacher stands from his desk and immediately starts rattling names off his roll-call ledger. Nice to see you too, Mr. Garner. I do my little Johanna Carlson finger-twiddle when he gets to my name, then basically zone out until the door swings open around the V names and cold air tickles my cheeks. All eighteen of us look up. I mean, you are not supposed to be late to any class ever at our magnificent institution for academic excellence, because God forbid Yale wait-lists you for getting one tardy. Anyway, everybody’s eager t
o see which lazy dumbass is going to get written up, but then—RED ALERT. A boy appears. A new boy. Even with the door wide open, with the wind rustling our papers and goose bumping our arms, heat blasts my cheeks. I swear to God, my heart wobbles.
“Yes?” Mr. Garner snaps. But then his face brightens, palms smacking together as he squeezes around the side of his desk. “You must be our new transfer student!”
“Yeah. Hey.” He shakes Mr. Garner’s hand. “Milo Schmidt.”
That voice. Deep, smooth. Joy Division wrapped in chocolate. Mr. Beautiful shifts his hips as he takes a brand-new textbook from Garner and tucks it under his arm. Brown hair pokes out from under a gray knit cap. An Adam’s apple bobs under olive skin as he swallows. I swallow too.
“Take a seat, uh, let’s see …” Garner pauses to scan the room. “There’s one. Beside Johanna.”
Leah squawks and kicks my boot. I kick her back and sit up a little straighter, then quickly slouch. Milo Schmidt. Broad shoulders tucked into a wool coat. Milo Schmidt, looking cautious but confident. He walks closer, and I take in the sharp cut of his jaw, a callus on his right thumb. Eyes, stormy blue and wide. He flashes me an amiable grin as he sits, but my stupid lips only twitch in response.
“Well, class. Say hello to Milo Schmidt. Hailing from Las Vegas, right? Milo, meet some of your fellow juniors at Archibald Chavez Academy.”
The guys nod ’sup, but in a tense way—new competition. And rightly so, judging by the way most girls wave and bat their lashes. Not me, though. I stare hard at my pen.
“We need to get started. Unless you’d like to say a few words?” Nobody new ever comes to our three-hundred-head-count private prep school, so even Garner knows this is newsworthy. “A brief introduction, perhaps?”
“Nah, I’m good,” Milo says casually. “Take the mic, Mr. Garner.”
Everyone laughs, even Mr. Garner. Even me, even though my heart is pounding a gazillion beats per second. Garner heads back to his desk, and I keep my eyes glued to my ridiculously interesting pen. Like maybe if I’m lucky, it will levitate.
But who am I kidding? Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Milo wiggle off his coat, put a cracked iPhone on vibrate, and shove it into his messenger bag. At the front of the room, Mr. Garner turns toward the board, and Milo glances my way, jolting me so bad that I actually drop my magical levitating pen.
Smooth.
Before I can blink, he’s reaching for it. I hold my breath, spellbound by his shoulder blades, the way his tan fades below the neckline of his T-shirt. He bobs back up with the pen and a ta-da flourish.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
“Sure.” He smiles, then furrows his brow. “Page number?”
I swallow hard. Heat creeps up my cheeks and swirls around my earlobes as I glance at my textbook. “Um, one-nineteen.”
“Thanks, Johanna.”
I gulp. Because … he remembered my name.
• • •
“I mean, he did, right?” I ask, kicking shut my bedroom door after school.
Leah nods and flops onto my bed.
“Well, he checked you out in the quad before sixth period,” says Gabby. “I’m positive.”
“Ew, don’t make him sound like a perv.”
“No, it was sweet. Very PG.”
“Jo and Milo sitting in a tree!”
“Shut up, Leah.”
“K-I-S-S—”
“Shut up!”
“—I-N-G!” she spits out with a laugh.
I huff as I nestle into my usual seat behind the sewing machine, pressing my foot on the pedal, picking up where I left off yesterday. Silky blue material slides between my fingers as I guide it gently under the presser foot. Polyester satin, a slippery challenge but worth every cent of my Christmas money. The machine rattles at a frantically familiar pace, the perfect soundtrack while Gabby sifts through my closet and Leah checks her phone. I pause to take out the last few pins and then press the foot gently along to finish the hem. When it’s done, I release the fabric, warmed by a simple twinge of pride as I cut the extra threads and then take off my Sex Pistols sweatshirt, slipping the new creation down over my bra.
“Look at you!” Gabby cheers.
“Wow.” Leah grins and jumps up to stand beside me, a foot shorter but twice as busty as we survey my reflection in the floor-length mirror. The shirt hangs perfectly, a one-shoulder strap sloping down across my chest, material hugging my torso and falling at my hips. She puts her hands on my waist, spinning me as if I’m a wind-up doll. “What’s the inspiration?”
“Debbie Harry.”
“Obviously.”
“Obviously.” I laugh. “Circa 1978. A one-shoulder, sequined top she wore for a photo shoot. Mine’s a bit shorter—hers was more of a minidress. But it works, right? I wanted to channel her disco days.”
Not that I look like Debbie Harry, except in my dreams. My cheekbones are sad little slopes compared to her glaciers, but we have the same wiry hair, the same bored stare—a look Gabby says I perfected during my “Rapture” phase in ninth grade. That’s “Rapture” as in the song off Blondie’s Autoamerican, not the Bible-thumping end of times.
“It’s killer,” Gabby says, still holding a handmade mod dress on its hanger. “Kind of on the sexy side, though. What if Gran says you look like a hoochie?”
“I would give anything to hear my grandmother use the word hoochie.”
She grins. “True. But she’s never going to let you out of the house in that. I mean, what would God say? Plus, I can even tell you’ve got boobs under there. Do your grandparents know you have boobs?”
“Boobs!” Leah squeals. “Oh man, you are stacked!”
I swallow a grin. “You guys, stop. They’ll hear you.”
“Will they, Jo? Will they?”
“I bet they don’t even know you got your period,” Leah mutters.
“Four years ago,” adds Gabby.
“Look—” I clear my throat extra-pointedly and walk over to my style-indexed closet, toward the basic section. “Exhibit A. My compromise.”
Gabby’s eyebrows crinkle. “That Mother Teresa–looking cardigan?”
I sigh, a little forlorn as the dull, merino wool swallows up my latest masterpiece. “Now how do I look? Mo’ Tizzy or what?”
“Do you think people called her that?” Leah muses. “Like, her friends?”
“Who, Mother Teresa? Definitely,” Gabby says, shaking her head no.
“Mo’ Tizzy was probably her DJ name,” I offer. “Spinning beats at the hottest clubs in—”
“Knock, knock?”
Our heads whip toward the door, and I tighten the sweater around my chest before opening it. Gran’s standing there in a long white parka and wool beanie, cold air still radiating off her. She notices the sweater, pausing to admire her knitmanship.
“Hello, girls. Y’all have a good first day back? Lots of homework?”
“Tons,” I say.
Leah waves. “What about you, Gran? You good?”
“Am I well,” Gran corrects. “And no, Leah, I am not. Neck’s still bothering me. Grandpa says I ought to see Dr. Ortega, but I think the windows need replacing. Muscle spasm from a draft—that’s what I say. I’m starting to think he wants to get out of more housework. Lord knows I don’t need another child to take care of.”
The girls smile at Gran’s accent, the honey lilt of it, but my heart snags on her throwaway words. Another child to take care of. Because that’s what I feel like so much of the time. A burden. Taking in a motherless three-year-old probably wasn’t on their bucket list.
“Sorry, Gran. I’ll talk to Grandpa about the windows.”
“Aw, thanks, sweetheart. He listens to you.” She’s halfway through a troubled sigh when her eyes pop wide. “I almost forgot! They were having a sale on crabmeat at the store—I thought I’d make gumbo for dinner. It’s been ages since I made my mamma’s gumbo recipe.”
“I’ll come help in a little bit.”
Gran t
urns to leave, but then Leah frantically lunges for a stack of mail on the bed. “Wait!” she says. “Don’t ask me why I feel the need to check your mailbox every time I’m here.” She flicks through, handing over all but one white envelope to my grandmother. “Sorry.”
Gran accepts the jumble of bills and catalogs, chuckling at Leah as she heads toward the kitchen. I let the door click shut. “You’re weird, Leah.”
“What?” She shrugs. “Mail brings me joy. And there’s something for you, Jo.”
“For me?”
I catch the envelope as she tosses it. How dumb to be excited about a letter, but nobody ever writes me. Not except the youth newsletter from church and rare credit card applications. This envelope has my name neatly printed and a smudged postmark from Houston, Texas. It almost looks personal. The girls stare expectantly, so I make a big show of tearing the seal and unfolding the page, handwritten in blue ink. I clear my throat and put on this ridiculous British accent that always cracks them up.
“Dear Johanna. Hello and happy new year—ooh, now there’s a scintillating intro, huh, guys?—I don’t know how to say this, so I’m just going to come right out and say it.”
Fake British dies on my tongue as I slowly sink into my desk chair. I read the rest under my breath.
My name is Robert Newton. If that name sounds familiar to you, it’s because I’m your dad. Yes, really. I don’t know if Kate and Jimmy ever told you much about me. If they did, it probably wasn’t exactly glowing—we had a complicated past. The way I see it, too much time has gone by without me reaching out to you, and I’m sorry for that.
“Jo? Are you okay?”
“What does it say?”
Any chance you’d like to meet me? I’m living down in Houston these days, but my new job means I can work remotely. If you give me the go-ahead, I can drive to Santa Fe. It’s a lot to take in, I know. But I miss you, Johanna. Is that what you go by? Johanna? I called you Joey as a baby because you had this little stuffed kangaroo that you refused to put down. Do you remember that? Probably not. Anyway, here’s my number. Call, text, send a carrier pigeon. Whatever works. I’m here.
—Robert
“Jo, you look like you ate lead paint.”
“What did it say?”
“Um …” Words gum up in my mouth and make the scarlet walls swim laps around my galloping heart.
Accidental Page 1
