Wider than the Sky

by Katherine Rothschild

  “Your grandmother isn’t . . .” I cringed. “Mrs. McMichaels?” I couldn’t imagine Emma being related to a topiary lover like her.

  “Yeah.” Her eyes widened at my expression. “So you’ve met her. She’s intense. But she does good work. Oops, I mean good volunteering.”

  I laughed. “So, what does this beautification society do?” And what did they want with my mom? And our crumbly mansion?

  “Everything.” Emma swung her hair out of her eyes. “Grandmamma oversees the rose garden, the street trees, the permits. She keeps this place perfect.”

  “So that’s what I need to look up. I mean, I just want to know why we’re here, and how Charlie knows my mom, but no one will give me a straight answer.”

  “I could poke around. See if they have any permits filed?” Her eyes twinkled behind her cat-eye glasses, and I feel the twist of fate that we met on that first disastrous day at Rolly.

  “Thank you.” I’d barely met her, and I’d thanked her more in a few days than I had my friends back home in a year.

  “So, do you still need to go to the library?” I tensed, not knowing what to say. After a week of close observation, I was pretty sure Kai and Emma were just friends. But I was still working up the nerve to ask about their status.

  “Yeah,” I said, wondering if I could find a way to ask him. “I just can’t stop thinking about why we’re here. I may not find anything, but . . .”

  “Kai’s your guy for library machinations.” She took my arm. “I’ll go with you.”

  “That’s okay,” I said, gently pulling my arm away. “It will be boring. I’ll meet you after.” She shrugged, and even as another pinch of guilt twisted my stomach, I waved and walked quickly through the breezeway toward the library.

  The entrance to the library was on the second floor. It had a wide landing hovering above a two-story space lined with windows overlooking the quad. I had a bird’s-eye view. The labyrinth of mahogany stacks of muted hardbacks wound into rows of deep tables where students studied, laptops and papers scattered around them. Beyond the desks were deep leather couches, and beyond them, rows of silver computer desks. I scanned the space, first for Blythe, then for Kai.

  Blythe was nowhere in sight, but I saw Kai. He was inside the stacks, a book cart at his side. Each time he shelved a book, he adjusted the nearby bindings so they lined up evenly. I watched, biting my lower lip at how careful he was.

  Before I could think about it, I swept down the stairs, through the book-theft detector, and to the end of his row. He looked up, raising his eyebrows.

  “Looking for a book?” He turned back to the stacks, sliding a finger along the row to check for evenness.

  “No.” I tried not to chew my lower lip, since his looked so shiny and pink and unchewed. “I’m actually looking for . . . someone’s history?”

  “Hmmm.” He placed another book on the shelf and threw me that crooked smile it seemed as if he saved for me. “Did you try . . . Google?”

  My cheeks flared. “Yes.” I opened my mouth to explain, to tell him that Charlie’s name belonged to a famous musician, to a man named Bird. But my thoughts suddenly seemed like nonsense, and I wondered if I’d really looked him up, or if I’d dreamed it. And while I was thinking my nonsense, Kai was staring at me with that intense blue gaze, and . . . I lifted my hand to my mouth and brushed my thumbnail over my lower lip. “The heaven we chase invites the race, the race to tears, the race to insanity—” I yanked my thumb away from my face. “Google didn’t help.”

  “Oh.” He pushed the cart out of the way and walked over to me. He opened his mouth, an inquisitive look on his face, like he was going to ask about my poeting—about my little word disorder. But he didn’t. “I’ll show you the databases. They can search paid content. Even government stuff, like births and deaths.”

  He led the way to the bank of computers and sat down. “What do you want to find out?”

  I lifted my eyes and swallowed. Was there any way this might sound normal? “Well . . . remember the Mustang?”

  “How could I forget our first break-in?” Kai logged into a portal for Rolly staff and students.

  I tried to look like my insides were not turning into a pile of spaghetti straps. “I want to find out a little bit about the guy who owns it. Charlie Parker. But there’s another Charlie Parker, and . . .” I trailed off, and Kai turned to look at me, his hands still on the keyboard.

  He searched my face for a moment, carefully, the way he’d reshelved the books. “Charlie lives with you, right? But he’s not your dad?”

  “No.” My thumb twitched, but I held my hands together tightly. “My dad died a few weeks ago.” I hadn’t meant to say that. I really hadn’t.

  “Oh.” Kai sat back, his face slack. “I’m so sorry.”

  Tears stung my eyes. I wished I hadn’t told him. As if my poeting weren’t weird enough for one lunch hour. Now everyone at this school would know I was weird and dad-less. “Thanks,” I said, because that’s what you say. You have to thank people for feeling sorry for you. I waited for him to ask how it happened. Or if my dad had been sick long. Or if it was unexpected. Why does everyone ask those questions? It’s not my job to reassure them about the relative safety of their lifestyle.

  But Kai didn’t ask any of those questions. “I meant I’m sorry I was so nosy.” He shifted closer to me. “Are you okay?”

  I didn’t trust words, so I nodded.

  He pressed his lips together and leaned toward the screen. “Okay. You know search basics.” He typed in Kai Thompson, putting quotes around his name. A dozen articles popped up. Future Physician of America, volunteer for Doctors Without Borders, center-half for Rolly’s winning soccer team. I took the cursor from him to pause on one: “as the only Rolls Edward High School junior to make the all-star team, Kai Thompson is a front-runner for a scholarship to UCLA, known for—” He put his hand over mine and shifted the mouse away.

  I kept my hand perfectly still beneath his. For a moment, I couldn’t concentrate on why we were even sitting there because: he was touching me.

  “Now let’s try Charles Parker.” He moved his hand away to type, and I took a deep breath. I didn’t know if I was more nervous finding out more about Charlie, or being so close to Kai. But even using quotes, even using location, the databases knew what Google did: the other Charles Parker. Kai sat back in his seat, his cheeks a little pink. “We need a narrowing term. Like his profession. Or a family member’s name?”

  I hesitated then typed in Maryann Braxton + Charles Parker. The first hit was a real estate listing for our house—number 6 Magnolia. Sold: 2009. Owners: Mick Braxton and Charles Parker.

  “What?” I stared at the names. Charlie owned the house with my dad? In 2009? Why would they buy a house together? My dad was a mediator, not the contractor star of House Flippers. I clicked further. Beneath was a mess of encrypted gibberish from Thornewood city records.

  “Is that him?” Kai scanned the screen.

  “Yeah.” I hesitated, thinking about what I knew. They’d been friends. Maybe my dad helped him with money or something? A loan? “Keep scrolling.”

  Kai scrolled, finding repetitive listings. Then he stopped. Intent to Modify Zoning. The city document read: Business Permit Application, and a stamp on it said denied. It was dated just last year. I pressed my fingers into the desktop until it hurt. “Mover-librarians don’t know anything about city permits, do they?”

  “This one does.” Kai glanced at me, a hint of his lopsided smile playing over his lips. He pointed to a zoning square on the document. “Zone C is for commercial properties. Like my dad’s warehouse. They want to change the house from residential to commercial.” All I knew was that Charlie had a “plan” for the house—one that we were unwilling accomplices to. Maybe it included turning the house into a commercial property? Or maybe it included marrying my mom.

&nb
sp; I printed the documents—the title with Charlie’s name and the Zone C application. With this, I could finally talk to Blythe about Charlie. I realized as I held the paper, warm from the printer, that I’d been hesitating to tell her about the house documents because I was afraid that with nothing to show her, she wouldn’t believe me. Or she’d think I’d read them wrong. Blythe was an evidence-based-beliefs type of human.

  Kai looked over my shoulder at the pages. “Are you going to ask him about this?”

  I pressed my lips together. “I’m going to consult with Blythe. Then, yes.”

  “Must be nice to be part of a permanent team,” he said as the first warning bell rang. I’d spent the entire time here, and had eaten nothing. I glanced over at him. He was wearing that real smile again. Worth the hunger pains. “Walk you to class?” he asked.

  I smiled and followed him to the circulation desk, where he grabbed his backpack. We started up the steps together, the air between us a little empty without a project.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I wouldn’t have found all that without you.” I wondered what I could say that would keep his attention. But all I had was the truth. “And I’m sorry if that was too much reality.”

  Kai hummed a few bars of a song I thought I recognized. I watched him, waiting for an explanation. He gave me a new smile, a small, shy smile like a piece of string cut too short. “That’s ‘The Reasons Why,’ by the Cure.” He shrugged. “According to them, reality is likely a highly interpretative state.”

  I tried to keep a straight face. “The Cure has all the answers.”

  “They’re my favorite band.” Kai pulled his Hacky Sack out and dropped it to balance on his foot. “They wrote some amazing poetry.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, and gave him the side-eye, “but song lyrics aren’t poetry.”

  He froze, the ball balanced on his shoe. “I beg to differ. Evidence piece number one: poems were often sung in ancient times.”

  “Is that true?” I tilted my head, wanting to grab my phone to look it up.

  “Yes.” He tossed the ball in the air and caught it. “Evidence piece number two: poetry’s been used through the ages to court women. And I just used a song lyric to flirt with you.”

  “But poetry and song lyrics are completely different. They’re related, but poetry conforms to a . . .” Wait. Flirt? My eyes caught on his smile.

  “Standard?”

  “A meter . . .” Everything around me was buzzing. “Did you just say flirt?”

  “I didn’t say I was good at it.”

  He was flirting with me. Oh. Oh, oh. He was so not dating Emma. Energy coursed around us, and my hope bird shook out its feathers.

  “Well, you’re not bad at it,” I said, and Kai laughed and flicked his Hacky Sack into a high arc. I caught it and tossed the ball back to him, unable to contain a smile. “But maybe you should try real poetry next time.”

  “Maybe you should start listening to the Cure.” He tossed the ball to me.

  “I could try.” I tossed it back. “But can they beat Dickinson for lines that make your heart shudder?”

  “They can beat anybody. Even old-fashioned poetry.” He tossed the ball to me.

  “Nobody beats Emily.”

  “So, Emily Dickinson is that one you’re always quoting?” Our eyes met and the ball fell to the floor.

  “Sorry.” I picked it up, hiding my frown. I told myself to look up, to meet his eyes, but I couldn’t quite manage the confidence I’d had just a moment before when I was catching and throwing a ball. I bit my lip, chewing to keep from poeting. I took a deep breath, ready to see scorn or disgust, and handed the ball back to Kai. He was smiling, that sweet lopsided smile that was like a half-written sentence that ended in the word forever. He pushed open the quad door and held it for me.

  The rush of students and noise blew in, scattering the shy sparkly energy between us. I took a step toward my next class. But I couldn’t help looking back at him.

  “Thanks again, I—” Someone bumped me from behind, and I stumbled.

  “Sorry,” Nate said, his hair flopping in front of his face. He ducked around me and grabbed a fistful of Kai’s backpack. “We can’t be late for calc. My perfect record will not be marred.”

  Kai leaned toward me and touched my elbow. “Let me know what happens, okay? With Charlie?” Charlie. I’d almost forgotten about Charlie. And my mom.

  Nate’s long fingers yanked Kai into the sea of students. As I watched him go, my eyes skipped over someone watching me. I blinked back, ready to tell Blythe about Charlie. I had to talk to her—finally talk to her. She’d know what to do. But it wasn’t Blythe. It was Emma. I lifted my hand to wave, but she turned her head as if she hadn’t seen me at all, and kept on walking.

  7

  IMPERCEPTIBLY, AS SUMMER GRIEF

  “But why would Dad want to start a business in Thornewood?” Blythe had finally put her phone down on the new white bedspread when I’d handed her the printouts from the library. We were sequestered in our pink room, me on the chaise I’d fallen in love with despite grievous attempts not to, and her on the bed. The afternoon light slanted through the bank of windows, turning the room to rose gold. Blythe tapped the printouts with two fingers, as if she could reveal their secrets. I was worried she’d be angry I hadn’t told her sooner, but the news of the city documents and the denied permit were a puzzle to her, like math. Or global warming.

  I shook my head in answer. “The permit was commercial. Maybe they wanted to start a mediation firm?” Or a mold-and-spore cultivation center.

  A wrinkle formed between her brows. “That doesn’t make sense. Dad had a perfectly good firm where we lived, in perfectly good Dana Point.” Her brow furrowed further. I wondered if she felt the way I did—like she was floating above her life, looking down through a bank of fog. Our dad had had property he’d never mentioned. He had had business plans we’d never known. He had had friends we’d never met. What else would shift and change if we looked hard enough?

  “Well. It’s a nonissue. The permit was denied.” Blythe threw the printouts on her desk, where a snack tray held bologna and cheese squares. Charlie knew his audience. I picked up his note: Girls. Your mother will be late today. I’m at the store for dinner fixings. C. “He’s ‘C’ now?” I crumpled the paper.

  “Snackmaster C.” Blythe nibbled a bologna square.

  I paced the floor so as not to give in and eat the tempting snacks. “What if he’s a con artist out to marry Mom and steal her . . . dilapidated mansion?” When I looked over, Blythe gave me a slow blink. “I’m serious. That letter from the city was addressed to Mom and Charlie like they were a couple.”

  Blythe wrapped her bologna around a cracker. “Did it say Mr. and Mrs.?”

  “No. But aren’t you suspicious? Dad dies suddenly, with no explanation, and then here’s Charlie to take over his whole—”

  Blythe held up her hands. “All we know is Charlie is part owner. It makes sense. Mom got half the house from Dad, and Charlie kept his half.” She was quiet for a moment. “We just don’t know why Dad and Charlie owned the house together in the first place.”

  “And Mom and Charlie aren’t telling us.”

  Blythe licked her fingers of crumbs and picked up her homework, then stopped. “Do you still have those letters?” The letters. How had I forgotten the letters? But I knew how, and he worked for Big Family Movers. I shot up and pulled the box from under the bed. The next letter we read together.

  July 23, 2009

  Dear Mr. Parker,

  I’m so glad the firm has settled adequately over the incident of the mismanagement of your termination. I have contacted the Mission Project on your behalf to let them know that an excellent attorney is in need of a position. They’re awaiting your call. This letter concludes our official engagement.

  Good luck,


  Mick Braxton, J.D.

  We glanced at the third letter—advice on how to handle a case at this Mission Project place. Guess Charlie got the job. The next letter was an update on the same case. Blythe flipped through a few more. “I don’t know what I expected—a red letter titled: ‘Read me’?”

  “That would be good.” I skipped to some of the last letters in the pile—the most recent ones. When I went to open it, Blythe stopped me.

  “The address.”

  I turned the envelope back over. Charlie Parker, Number 6 Magnolia, Thornewood, California. Blythe tilted her head. “How long has he lived here?” The room shifted from rose gold to pale gray as outside, rain began to fall. Above the patter, the Momobile roared up the driveway. We went to the window in time to see Charlie’s Mustang roar up behind. They both got out, neither wearing jackets or carrying umbrellas. Mom held up a piece of paper, and they looked at each other for a long moment. Then they both smiled, and he lifted her in his arms.

  “Seriously?” Blythe said, her face smashed against the window. I pressed my shoulder to hers, her body warm against me, the window cold against my nose. They were crushing each other. I almost looked away, expecting their next move to be a full-on lip-lock. But it wasn’t. They just hugged—for an unnecessarily long time. As if they were being graded. I squinted into the rain. Was it just the blur of the water on the glass, or was Mom crying?

  “I can’t believe she’s letting her hair get wet,” I said.

  Blythe rubbed her fist against the window, as if she could erase now. “What is she holding? It’s not a . . . marriage license, is it?” I rarely heard Blythe’s voice waver. I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to keep my pieces together. But just standing felt impossible, like holding water. I pulled away from the window and curled up on the chaise and let it happen: I thought of my dad.

  I thought of the way he would whistle the 1812 Overture and say the “booms” when he cooked dinner. How every Saturday morning he wore his feet don’t fail me now T-shirt to garden, even after the cotton started coming apart at the seams. How somber and clear his eyes were the day he went to the hospital. And how he’d been so still as it happened, as the air emptied around us as his life left his body. I felt salt water splashing over me, drowning me, filling the cavity of my chest. I felt tears rush through my veins like a river. I waited for my heart to burst with it. But my heart kept beating.