When Emma rumbled off, I sat back and sank into the couch so deeply my feet swung into the air and my shoulder thumped Kai’s. He laughed and pushed me upright.
“Sorry,” I mumbled. “This couch should be replaced.” I yanked out my assignment. I hoped he couldn’t see the color of my cheeks. Maryann Interiors might call it persimmon.
“We could form a committee.” A little smile played over his lips. “Have a booth in the quad.” Rolly had more quad booths than the parking lot on farmers’ market day. Everyone from the Mathletes to the Yoga Club wanted you to sign something or buy something. The first day, I’d thought the booths were up because of an event, but they were always there.
I looked skyward, like I was considering it. “We’ll need a banner and some flags. Cookies in the shape of couches.”
“Brownies in the shape of couches,” he said, tapping his stomach.
“You’re a teen boy. You’re not supposed to be choosy about snacks.”
“I’m choosy about a lot of things, Sabine,” he said. I swallowed, and we both reached for our books. Our shoulders brushed and the sleeve of his T-shirt touched the fabric of my dress and there was no way I could focus on French. I glanced over at Blythe. Blythe pointed to an assignment sheet then to a note on her sleeve. Nate took her arm in his hands and pulled her halfway across the table to read it.
I opened my French book. And pretty soon I forgot how close Kai was sitting because our assignment was crazy hard. In French, the subjunctive is like a future tense, but a future tense that might, or might not, be. In English, we usually say might or maybe. The subjonctif made me think of my mother’s design boards: she called them worlds of maybe.
I pressed my lips together. “What if we made a design inspiration board? We could pitch it to the class like they were our clients and we were going to redecorate the classroom.” It was a totally girly thing to do, and I expected Kai to say that we should predict next season’s soccer matches, but he didn’t.
“Can we have a houndstooth sofa?”
“Do you even know what that is?”
“It’s pictures of dogs, right?” I didn’t correct him. We looked up words like stripes and suede. Then we found poster board in the library’s recycle bin and cut and pasted photos from home décor magazines. I wrote French all over the board, and he used neon highlighters to show the tense changes. We even printed out a “fabric” swatch with an Andy Warhol–like terrier repeat (for the couch).
A few fabric scraps from my mom’s discards and we’d be done. When Emma walked by again, Kai held up the board. “Old-school awesome, right?”
“Old-school rocks.” She swished her hair. “I can’t believe you’re almost done.”
Kai looked at me and smiled. “Miss Genius French Speaker is making this easy.” Emma nodded and walked on, but when I glanced up, she was still watching us. I schooled my thoughts.
“Will people do PowerPoint?” I asked.
“Yeah. But Monsieur Cade likes personality.”
I ran a finger over a picture of long green curtains. It was still damp from the glue. “I don’t want to mess up your perfect GPA.”
“It’s only almost perfect.” He gave me the lopsided smile I’d started to think of as mine, and I felt it everywhere. I searched for something that would extend our study session, but my head was filled with unthinkable thoughts. We sat silently for a moment, organizing our pens and papers. He put away his highlighters and slowly zipped his backpack. Then he looked over at me, tightness around his eyes. Maybe he was looking for something to say, too?
“So, what are you going to do about Charlie? Pack him in a shipping container and send him back to Mississippi?” I laughed, imagining Charlie shoved into packing peanuts.
“As Blythe has pointed out to me, the most threatening thing Charlie’s done is make hot chocolate with Cool Whip.” It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him about my mom and Charlie in the rain. But then I would be talking about . . . hugging.
“Oh, no. Real whip all the way.” His face relaxed into an easy smile. Not the smile. But still. A nice one.
“Agreed.” I laughed a little, wanting to keep talking, but not wanting to say anything with too much reality. “But I do have a partner in the battle of number six Magnolia. Emma’s keeping an eye on the permit stuff.”
“Emma’s a reliable girl.” He nodded, keeping his eyes on mine.
I pressed my lips together. “No. A reliable girl is a Labrador. Emma is a design queen. Emma’s a fashionista.”
He laughed, shaking his head. “An artiste?”
A scuffle came from Blythe’s table, drawing our attention. Blythe was frowning, and Nate’s cheeks were like two blooming poppies. Blythe was pointing to one page while Nate tried to flip to another page. As they struggled, her elbow caught him in the solar plexus, his hands flew into the air, and they knocked the book to the table with a glorious thump.
Kai leaned close to me. “My money’s on your sister.”
I grinned. “No bet.”
With a frustrated growl, Blythe grabbed the book and packed up. “Well, this was a huge waste of time.” Blythe’s voice was way too loud for the library.
“Maybe if you’d allow my intimate knowledge of biology—”
“Being human doesn’t give you knowledge of human biology.” Blythe gave me a we need to go already look, and while she was turned away, Nate made a strangling motion. She swiveled back as if she could feel the insult, and he quickly clasped his hands together in prayer. She glared at him then turned to me. “Get up. We’re leaving.” Blythe tapped her arm as if she wore a watch.
“Don’t you all want a ride?” Nate’s eyes were on his textbook.
“No.” Blythe glanced outside. The fog was in, and a cool mist hung in the air outside the great library windows. “Maybe.”
Kai gave me a conspiratorial look. “Take the ride.” I smiled and told Nate thank you. As we headed out, Nate offered Emma a ride, too.
“I’ll stay and finish the return cart.” When Kai gave her a thank-you hug, she closed her eyes and melted into him. I watched, digging my thumbs into my backpack straps to stop from poeting. At the top of the stairs, I could see Emma pushing the book cart below. I wondered if the hug was worth it.
Outside, Nate pointed to a blue Volvo sedan from the age of swooping bell-bottoms. Blythe took the front, so I hopped in back with Kai. As Nate drove, he and Blythe took up all the space in the car arguing over how hot they could allow their sea monkeys to get before they would die. Nate wanted to increase by one-tenth of a degree. Blythe was arguing for a large degree increase to weed out the “loser sea monkeys.” By the time Nate pulled up in front of our shame shack, idling the heatless, shaking Volvo, they’d compromised on a half degree daily.
“Compromising is throwing caution to the wind,” Blythe said as she got out of the car. “Thanks for the ride.”
As Blythe slammed the door, I started to grab the poster board to get out, too, but Kai stopped me, his hand on mine. “Thanks for making this project fun.” A little shiver went through me at his touch, and to cover it, I pulled my hand away and rubbed my palms together.
“Cold?” Kai asked, and in a moment that would top the most beautiful moments of all time, he wrapped my hands in his, dropped his head to our hands, and exhaled warm breath between them.
A single shock of pleasure shot up my spine as his lips brushed the tips of my fingers. I pulled away, my heart hammering. Kai’s mouth looked soft and just a little surprised. “I’ll finish this tonight,” I said, then grabbed our project and leapt out of the car before I could poet. I was like a fountain that had been tamped down with dirt and moss for too long—if I wasn’t careful, Kai would clear me of debris, and words would splash all over us both.
As the Volvo roared off, I turned to find Blythe waiting on the wall, kicking mortar from between the bric
ks. “I heard a rumor,” she said. “About Emma and Kai? How they’re going to get married someday or something?”
I tightened my grip on our project, still thinking of Kai’s lips. “Don’t worry. Emma gave me the message loud and clear.” A tremble of discomfort went through me. If it was obvious to Blythe how I felt about Kai, it was probably obvious to Emma, too. Even if there was no such thing as calling guy dibs, I had more important things to do than nurse an unattainable crush—like expose Charlie for being a liar and a fraud. “I need to show you something,” I said, and sent Blythe the photo of the permit application. She read it as we walked to the house.
“Wait, what’s the Mission Project again?” Blythe gave me a look like she thought it might be the name of a cult.
“That’s where Charlie works, remember? It was in a letter.”
“I wish we still had those,” she said.
I nodded. “There’s definitely something in there he doesn’t want us to see.” We stopped on the porch.
Blythe bit her lip. “They’ve obviously been relocated to the garage apartment.”
“And maybe hidden,” I said, though it was hard to imagine what could be in the letters that was so damning they’d had to be burned or something. Except one thing. “Did you ever wonder why Charlie was there the day Dad died?”
Blythe’s face paled as she met my eyes. Her right eye had a tiny black dot in the iris, one of our only physical differences. I focused on that dot as she spoke. “Do you think he had something to do with Dad’s death?”
“I don’t know. But maybe the letters do?” My throat tightened.
Blythe squinted up at the garage apartment. “I guess we’re breaking and entering.”
9
THE DAILY OWN OF ANY LOVE
“It’s not like we’re robbing a bank,” I said as we left number six Magnolia through the side porch. Blythe handed me the key she’d taken off our mom’s key chain. It was Saturday, and sunny, and everyone was finally gone, even the construction workers. I took a deep breath. Today was the day. “If we’re caught, we tell him what we know and let him hang, okay?”
Blythe nodded. “Got it.”
That was something my dad used to say. Just let them hang. It’s a mediation tactic that means never give more information than you have to. When people ask questions, you ask them why they ask, then stare them down. Hang them. The thought gave me confidence in our plan. Which was: Get inside. Get the letters. Look for any info about the Mission Project. Take photos. Get out. If we found something incriminating, maybe it would be enough to get Charlie to sell number six, the money pit.
At the top of the driveway, the garage apartment rose like a mini-Magnolia. But a nice one, with new paint, new windows, and big brushed-glass windows where the garage doors once were. It was as big as our old house. On the wood-shingled second story, a sensor light flickered on. I glanced around for a camera but didn’t see one.
Hurrying now, I fit the key in the lock. It slid in, but the knob wouldn’t turn. I tugged at the doorknob, turning it right then left. I shook out my hands and tried again: shimmy, jimmy, shake. It didn’t budge. Blythe pushed me out of the way. She tried everything I had, but either Mom had the wrong key, or it was a bad copy. Blood rushed in my ears as I took the key from her again. Blythe was making plans to come another day, but this was the day. I could feel it. I pinched the key between my fingers and pushed down the poetry that threatened to burst out of me.
Think, Sabine. The garage was on a hill, so the apartment backed up to ground that was higher in the back than in the front. “Come on,” I said, and we walked around the side of the apartment. Sure enough, I could almost reach the base of the second-story windows. I jumped, and a slice of modern kitchen came into view.
“We’ll climb.” Blythe placed her foot on a lower window sash. She definitely could not climb up. And unfortunately, neither could I.
“Stop. You’ll break something.” But the workers had stored a bunch of construction supplies here in the overgrown grass. I threw back a tarp and found planks of wood leftover from the new floors, bags of cement mix, and yards of iron rebar. I grabbed a couple of two-by-fours and dragged them below the kitchen window. Blythe grabbed another, and a few minutes later, we had a short set of wobbly stairs.
I climbed our makeshift staircase and pushed the base of the sash, testing it. It slid open so easily I almost fell over. This window was definitely new. I heaved myself through. For a moment I hung half in and half out before I pitched to the floor. I rolled and slammed my shoulder, glad it was me and not Blythe who’d gone first. I pulled myself up and leaned out. “I’ll let you in the front.” I closed the window.
But when I turned to the kitchen, I froze. It was the kind of swank my dad loved: all stainless steel appliances, oversized butcher-block kitchen island, and Plexiglas bar stools. It was soothing compared to piles of construction shrapnel. At the door, I told Blythe: “We’d better take off our shoes.” She grumbled, but we left our shoes at the foot of the stairs.
In the living room, the views went all the way to the Bay. Number six was huge, but it was at street level and surrounded by street trees—the view of the bridges was there, but it was obscured. But up here, at the top of the property, you could see past the Bay Bridge to the mound of Alcatraz and beyond, to the Golden Gate. This apartment had been completely remodeled—and not inexpensively. “Maybe this remodel is what their loans were for,” I said.
Blythe sunk her toes in the fluffy white rug, wide-eyed. “I expected it to be like something out of Southern Living,” she said.
“Gingham check?”
“Matching plaid? Maybe some antlers.”
“You know who this reminds me of?”
We looked at each other and both said: “Dad.” We stared for a second too long, as if looking deeply into each other’s eyes could answer the questions we both had. Blythe looked away first.
“I’ll try to find something about the project. Maybe steam open his mail.” She slipped down the short hall to the kitchen.
The living room was all birch floors and crisp white leather–and-steel furniture and flokati rugs. Each wall was adorned with a huge, red-framed black-and-white photograph—all of people in cityscapes. And the place was immaculate. It was a stark contrast to the dust, toolboxes, and plastic sheeting shrouding our house. I stood there enjoying how finished this place was.
I walked over to his bookshelf and scanned the titles. I didn’t recognize very many, but a bright orange book caught my eye: The History of HIV/AIDS. I blinked and looked at it more closely. The spine was lined with creases. I skimmed the rest of the shelf—noticing that he didn’t organize his books by color (like my mom did) or by author’s last name (like my dad had) but by theme. He had a huge row on photography. Another row was law books. And the bottom row was . . . Safe Space: Gay Neighborhood Histories, The Castro: Then and Now, The UCSF LGBTQ Hospital Survival Guide. The Gay Man’s Kama Sutra. There was a rainbow spine I recognized from a class I took last summer on the art of protest—The Stonewall Riots. I blinked, wondering if these books were for Charlie’s job? None of it gave me a clue to what he had planned for number six, my mom, or us.
I took a deep breath and looked over the rest of the room. It was white walls and clean air. No letters. Nothing to see. Except—the bedroom door was ajar. I pushed the door open with my foot and peered into darkness. Then I flipped on the overhead light.
It was sparse. The gray comforter was neatly folded to reveal crisp white sheets. A single yellow throw pillow was the only bright spot in the room. I sighed. There was nothing here.
I was about to leave when I saw it: a single photo on the nightstand. I swallowed the impulse to turn off the light and leave. Instead, I took a step forward. And another. And then another, because even though I could see the picture clearly, I didn’t quite believe it. The photo was of my dad. With Charlie.<
br />
Charlie was looking at my dad, smiling. My dad was looking at the camera with his arm around Charlie and his mouth open, like he’d been laughing. He held a Bloody Mary. It was dusk and warm, because they were both wearing short sleeves, and behind them were umbrellas and the tall masts of boats. They were at a marina or harbor café. A sign in the background said sam’s. I picked the frame up. Good friends had pictures of their friends. Sure. I could believe that. But on their nightstands?
I thought of the day Charlie listed everything he knew about my dad. The day he cried. Then I thought of how Charlie had appeared at the hospital the night my dad died, and how my mom wasn’t surprised to see him. How, when we asked if she and Charlie were together, she’d laughed. I thought of the books I’d just seen—all those books about queer culture. Maybe it wasn’t my mom Charlie was in love with. Maybe it had been my dad. My dad? Charlie? My dad. Charlie. My dad. Charlie. Dadlie? Charad? Charade.
My knees buckled, and I sat down on the bed. I had the urge to throw the photo across the room, but instead I held it so tightly I thought I’d crack the glass. A giggle burbled up in me. A panic laugh. My dad and Charlie couldn’t have been a couple. You don’t live with a parent for sixteen years and not know him. Not know who he is. Not know he’s gay? Because—who was in the closet anymore? But people were. Celebrities. Politicians. People were in the closet. Was my dad? I swept my thumbnail over my lower lip again and again, rubbing furiously. “The daily own of love, the daily own—owe, owned, owe, owned—” I caught my hand against my mouth to keep the words in. But the poem was crushing my tongue to get out. I swept my thumbnail again, the words like my own breath. “Owe, own, owed, owned. Owned. Owe.” The words tumbled into the absorbent flokati.
I squeezed the photo. My dad looked so happy. Charlie looked so happy—like my dad was his whole world. Like love. They were together. My thumbnail brushed my lower lip again. “The daily own, own, owed, owe—”
Wider than the Sky Page 7
