by Ohlin, Nancy
“Right away, sir.”
I take advantage of the distraction and discreetly rebutton the top of my blouse. Mrs. De Villiers narrows her eyes at me and clears her throat.
“Lucia. You haven’t touched your drink,” Mr. De Villiers says.
“I don’t care for this kind of vermouth,” Mrs. De Villiers replies testily.
“Well, this nice young man will get you another one, then. With a different vermouth.” He turns to me. “So, Tess! Max tells us you’re new to Thorn Abbey.”
“Yes, sir. I just started in September.”
“Tess is a fantastic writer,” Franklin pipes up. “Mr. Bagley asked her to read an excerpt from her French Lieutenant’s Woman paper to the class on Wednesday. It blew the rest of our papers out of the water.”
“Yeah, well, speak for yourself. I got an A-minus on mine,” Max boasts.
“Yes, well, I got an A,” Franklin banters back. “Tess is the only one who got an A-plus, though. She could teach us both a thing or two about modern literature.”
“I was never a big fan of Mr. Fowles, myself,” Mr. De Villiers says. “Now, Charles Dickens, he could spin a tale. I don’t suppose you kids read him in any of your classes? ‘It is a far, far better thing I do, than I have ever done . . .’ ”
“It is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known,’ ” I finish.
Mr. De Villiers beams at me. “A fellow Dickens aficionado. Wonderful!”
The waiter comes by with more drinks. Mrs. De Villiers takes a sip of her martini and says, “Better. So, Tess. Max tells us your parents weren’t able to make it this weekend. Do they live very far away?”
Oh, God. The interrogation has begun. “Yes. I mean, no. My mom had to work tonight.”
“Oh? And how about your father?”
“My dad? He doesn’t live with us.”
Max raises his eyebrows at me.
“So they’re divorced?” Mrs. De Villiers persists.
I twist my napkin in my lap. “Not exactly.”
Now everyone is staring at me. I must sound like an idiot. Mr. De Villiers leans over to his wife. “It’s really not any of our business,” he says softly.
“No, it’s okay. The thing is, I don’t know very much about him because they’re not married. They were never married. He was my mom’s high school boyfriend, and after I was born, we never really saw him again.”
More silence. So awkward. I rush on, trying to fill it.
“He moves around a lot. I think he’s living in New Mexico now. Like in Albuquerque or Santa Fe. His parents, they’re my grandparents I guess, live in Albany, and my mom runs into them once in a while. They said he’s working at a gas station or a garage or somewhere having to do with cars. And he’s in a band, too. The Tequila Shooters, I think . . . .”
I hear myself babbling on and on, and I can’t stop, although I wish I could. I watch Max and Franklin and the De Villierses watching me, pitying me, being freaked out by me, or maybe just trying to mentally erase me from their lives. I don’t know why I picked this moment to blurt out my entire pathetic family history. I’m sure Max doesn’t know, either. He looks more uncomfortable than I’ve ever seen him. Which is saying a lot.
And then somehow, Franklin saves the day. “Yeah, my cousin Phoebe was raised by a single mom, too. Yours sounds awesome from everything you’ve told me, Tess.” He turns to Mr. De Villiers. “And speaking of cars, sir, Max told me you just got a new Ferrari. Well, a new old Ferrari. 1956?”
“1957,” Mr. De Villiers says proudly. “A 250 GT California Spyder LWB. I’ve been dreaming about this particular model since I was barely older than you boys. Previous owner lives just outside Boston. In fact, Lucia and I are going to make a little detour and pick it up on our way home on Sunday.”
“Must we?” Mrs. De Villiers asks, scrunching up her face. “I promised the Kennistons we’d attend their dinner party. It’s at seven.”
“Fine, you can drive back to the city without me. I’ll take the train into Boston. Max, you want to come with me and see the car? You’re welcome to join us too, Franklin,” Mr. De Villiers says.
“I’ll have to check my calendar. Coach might be adding an extra practice to prep for our match next week with Emerson,” Max says.
“Same here, sir. But thank you for the invitation,” Franklin adds.
The three of them continue talking about soccer games and vintage cars while Mrs. De Villiers quietly sips her drink. At one point, Franklin turns and smiles at me. I never told him a thing about my mom. But he just knew.
I mouth: Thank you.
Franklin mouths: You’re welcome.
I take a deep breath, feeling calmer than I’ve felt all night.
Until I notice Max glaring at the two of us.
23.
THERE IS A BRIGHT FULL MOON IN THE SKY AS MAX WALKS ME to Kerrith Hall. Which is good, since it gives me something to focus on while I fight back tears and wait for him to dump me.
He hasn’t said a word since we left the restaurant. His parents went back to their hotel, and Franklin went back to Chapin Hall. Mr. De Villiers gave me a hearty handshake and wished me “all the best.” Mrs. De Villiers said “nice to have met you” in a past-tense way that implied there would be no future dinners. And Franklin patted my arm and told me not to forget about Marilyn and Tony on Monday. It took me a minute to realize he was talking about the upcoming movie, Some Like It Hot.
But from Max? Nothing. We just walked toward Kerrith like we did after the Corn Roast and our date at the dancing duck restaurant, except not speaking at all.
We pass the stone fountain, the library, Lanyon. The quad is more crowded than usual, with students and parents wandering around like tourists. Max stuffs his hands into his pockets and gazes out at the distance. I fill the uncomfortable silence with my own inner chatter, replaying the evening like an awful, but mesmerizing, car accident: the do-over, the do-over of the do-over, hobbling into the restaurant in Yoonie’s Cinderella shoes, practically falling on my butt at the De Villierses’ table, Mrs. De Villiers’s tidal wave of scorn and rejection, my failed Oprah moment as I spilled my broken-home sob story.
Mr. and Mrs. De Villiers are probably having their own postmortem recap session right this second: What is Max thinking, dating a girl like that? Surely there’s someone more appropriate for him at Thorn Abbey. More like Becca Winters . . .
“Did I ever show you ‘The Eternal Spirit’?”
“I’m sorry. The what?” I’m so startled by Max’s out-of-the-blue question that my voice comes out in a squeak.
“Come on.”
Max takes my elbow and guides me off the main path, away from the busy quad. Pretty soon, we are alone on a narrow dirt trail that snakes behind Lanyon. We proceed single file. I don’t remember this from Devon’s unofficial tour.
The trail winds through a grove of hemlock trees. It’s dark back here except for the thin gauze of moonlight that filters through the branches. Something stirs in the underbrush and skitters away into the night. I jump back and give a little yelp. Max doesn’t seem to notice and plunges ahead, hands in his pockets, deep in thought.
And then, suddenly, we are in a small, mossy clearing. With two old-fashioned gravestones. And a marble statue of a young woman.
I gasp. Becca is buried here?
But why are there two gravestones?
“Um, Max? W-what is this place?” I stammer nervously. I don’t know why he would bring me here.
“This is where the Thorns are buried.”
“The Thorns?”
“You know. Augustus Thorn and his wife, Aurora. Thorn Abbey used to be their private estate ages ago, before it was a school.”
“Oh.” Relief courses through me. Max didn’t want to show me Becca’s burial ground after all. That would have been beyond horrible and creepy.
Max points to the statue. “That’s ‘The Eternal Spirit.’ It’s supposed to be Aurora. I guess she died when she was pretty young.
He had it made in her honor by some famous sculptor.”
I take a few tentative steps toward the statue. Aurora Thorn is beautiful, with wavy hair cascading down to her waist and an angelic face. She’s wearing a long, lovely dress with a romantic, ruffly skirt and a rose tucked behind one ear. There is a ring of white rosebushes—real ones—planted around her feet.
The gravestone beside her is inscribed:
AURORA ELIZA THORN
1830–1858
Beloved wife
Flowers bloom and die
And bloom and die again.
Time may have taken you from me,
But our love is everlasting.
The gravestone next to hers is inscribed, simply:
AUGUSTUS FREDERICK THORN
1820–1879
I read the inscription on Aurora’s grave again. My heart plummets. Max is obviously trying to tell me something—about everlasting love, about Becca.
“I know why you brought me here,” I whisper.
“What?”
“You don’t want to see me anymore. You’re breaking up with me. And it’s okay. We can go back to being friends. I mean, that is, if you want to. Or we can just pretend we don’t even know each other.”
Max frowns. “What in the hell are you talking about?”
“Look, I get it. You still have feelings for—” I suck in a deep breath and clasp my hands to keep them from shaking. “Besides, I don’t fit into your world. I got that loud and clear tonight. Your mom hated me. Your dad probably hated me, too. I’m never, ever going to be the kind of girl they want you to be with. The kind of girl you want to be with.”
Max narrows his eyes at me. “Oh? What kind of girl do I want to be with?”
“The kind of girl who knows what to wear. Who knows how to act in fancy restaurants. Who doesn’t make a complete fool of herself when she meets your parents for the first time.”
“Are you insane?”
He grabs my wrist and pulls me toward him. We’re standing so close that I can feel his breath on my face.
“Max, I—”
“Be quiet.”
The next thing I know, his lips are on mine, pressing, probing. A million shooting stars are fizzing and popping in my brain. My legs feel as though they’re going to buckle out from under me. I’ve never been kissed like this. I will never be kissed like this again.
When we finally pull apart, we’re both breathing hard.
“Okay?” he asks.
“Okay what?” I gasp.
“I brought you here because I wanted to be alone with you.”
“Oh.”
“Seriously, I don’t know where you come up with these ideas about ‘my world.’ I like you because you don’t know what to wear. Or how to act in fancy restaurants. And my parents make everyone nervous. Especially my mom. My dad’s okay, but only after he’s had a couple of drinks.”
I’m still so dizzy from the kiss that I can barely process what he’s saying. “But you looked so miserable tonight. Like you were mad at me,” I manage.
“I wasn’t mad at you. Being with my parents stresses me out, that’s all. Plus you kind of caught me off guard with that outfit. It’s not like you.”
I run my hand across Priscilla’s black skirt, feeling the bumps where the safety pins are. “Devon and the girls thought I should dress up. You know, since I was meeting your parents,” I confess.
“Devon! I should have known.” Max’s face darkens. “If I wanted to be with someone like her or her friends, I would. But I want to be with you. Do you understand?”
I stare at him in wonder. He wants to be with me. Me.
“For a really smart girl, you can be really dense,” he says.
I grin. My heart is bursting with happiness. “Yeah, I know.”
He cradles my face in his hand and kisses me again—this time, more tenderly. A cold breeze comes up, and I nestle closer to him. He wraps his arms around me tightly. We stay like this for a long time, not moving.
Behind him, the statue of Aurora Thorn shimmers in the moonlight. And I finally relax. Max likes me for me. The dead are exactly that: dead. I don’t have anything to be afraid of anymore.
24.
THE REST OF PARENTS’ WEEKEND IS A WHIRLWIND OF TEAS, lectures, art shows, and concerts. It’s late Sunday morning, and I’m in the Kerrith parlors at the farewell brunch. Everyone’s parents seem to be there except for mine: Priscilla’s mom and dad, who arrived Friday on their private jet; Elinor’s, who drove up in a cream-colored Rolls-Royce with their three hyperactive whippets; and Yoonie’s mom, who flew in from LA while her dad stayed at home with their four-year-old twins.
Even Devon’s dad showed up unexpectedly yesterday. Except that she is beyond furious because he brought along his new girlfriend.
“They’re not even effing divorced yet,” Devon snipes under her breath.
She, Priscilla, Elinor, Yoonie, and I are standing at the buffet table. She picks up a blueberry scone and stuffs it into her mouth, crumbs flying everywhere. “And look at her. God, what is she, like twenty?”
We all turn. Devon’s dad and his girlfriend are wandering around the room, sipping coffee, whispering to each other. The girlfriend is rail thin with enormous boobs and a short blond pixie cut. She’s wearing rhinestone-studded jeans, a formfitting pink top, and stiletto heels.
“Nah, she’s old. At least thirty. She’s just had a lot of work done,” Yoonie observes.
“Whatever. The only reason he brought her is because he knows I’ll tell Mommy, and she’ll totally lose it, and they’ll scream at each other on the phone about this for the next two weeks,” Devon says. “I swear, they only exist to make each other miserable. I wish they’d just kill each other and get it over with.”
“Oh, honey. You want one of my Klonies?” Elinor suggests gently.
“God, yes!”
Elinor reaches into her purse and hands Devon a little yellow pill. “Swallow that down with your vodka and cranberry. You’ll feel better right away.”
“Thanks, El.” Devon pops the pill into her mouth and takes a big sip. I glance at my plastic cup, alarmed. I thought it was just juice.
“Shit! Now they’re making out!” Devon whines.
We all turn again. Devon’s dad and the girlfriend are indeed making out, next to the “local authors” bookshelf and the cracked bust of the poet Edna St. Vincent Millay. Nearby, Mrs. Frith glares at them over the top of her tiny wire-rimmed glasses, and a bunch of freshman girls stifle giggles.
Priscilla hooks her arm through Devon’s. “I’m so sorry, sweetie. Why don’t the five of us get out of here and get some fresh air?”
The five of us. Cool, I’m included.
“Yeah, okay.” Devon sighs.
We forge a path through the crowded room and make our way out to the quad. It’s a picture-perfect fall day: brilliant blue sky, glorious foliage, and crisp air that smells faintly of apples. In the distance, I can see the parking lot, cars, a few students hugging their parents good-bye.
For a moment, I think about my mom. I wish she could have been here.
I instinctively look around for Max, but he’s nowhere in sight. I haven’t seen him since Friday night. He texted me that he was busy keeping his mom and dad entertained, plus he has soccer practice this afternoon. We have a tentative date later tonight, though. We might go into town or just go for a walk. I can’t wait.
Max. My heart beats a little faster at the thought of him. I still can’t believe we’re really together.
“Hey, you guys want to head down to the beach and get high?” Yoonie suggests.
“That is the best idea I’ve heard all weekend,” Devon says.
“I just need to say bye to the parental unit. It’ll take two seconds,” Yoonie says.
“Ditto,” Priscilla says.
Elinor nods. “Me too.”
“Actually, um, I need to go to the library. I have a ton of homework to do,” I say quickly.
Devon
crosses her arms over her chest. “You’ve never gotten high before, have you?”
I think about the time Kayleigh and I smoked a joint. Well, she smoked it, and I watched her. When she passed it to me, I had a crazy coughing fit before I even put the joint in my mouth. That was the extent of it. “Of course I have,” I fib. “I really do have a lot of homework, though. There’s a big quiz in algebra, and I have like thirty pages to read for American history, and—”
“You are such a terrible liar. Are you and Max meeting up?” Devon asks.
I blush. “No! I mean, not right this second. He’s got soccer.”
“Ohmigod, Tess! You never told us. How was your big dinner with Mr. and Mrs. D.?” Priscilla asks me.
“She’s kind of a bitch, right? But he’s pretty chill,” Yoonie says.
“I caught him checking out my ass once,” Elinor says.
“What ass?” Devon points out. “In any case, our Tess isn’t talking. I tried to beat the details out of her yesterday, but no success. But maybe the pot will loosen her tongue.”
“Seriously, I can’t,” I plead. “I’ll see you guys later, okay?”
I give a little wave and take off in the direction of the library. Behind me, I hear Elinor say, “What’s wrong with her today?” and Devon’s reply: “You mean, what’s wrong with her, period. That girl is hopeless.”
Whatever. I have Max now. I don’t need Devon’s approval—or the other girls’, either.
Although Devon is right: I don’t actually need to go to the library. But I really, really don’t want to smoke pot with them. I also don’t feel like going down to the beach. I’ve been avoiding it since that day I found Max on the cliff. Too many bad memories—for him, for me. I still get the chills, remembering how I came across him that morning on the ledge.
I figure I’ll kill some time reading. Then I can double back to Kerrith and enjoy some peace and quiet.
As I pass the stone fountain, I notice Gita from Kerrith sitting on the bench with her parents. “This is Becca’s fountain,” I hear Gita say.
I stop in my tracks. Becca’s fountain?
