The Accidentals

by Sarina Bowen

  I look down at the sleek thing in my hands. It’s a brand new iPhone, in a jaunty orange case.

  “If you want to keep your old number, my assistant can look into that,” he says.

  I swipe the screen and it flashes to life, the apps popping into view like little jewels. It’s the phone that Mom and I never would have splurged on, not in a million years.

  A surge of irrational disgust washes over me. I find myself wondering what Frederick would do if I said it wasn’t the right color. Or if I turned and threw it into the pool.

  Would he yell at me and make a scene? His reaction might tell me something about him that I can’t learn from watching carefully edited YouTube videos.

  I rub the shiny new thing with my thumb and wonder if Frederick Richards would hightail it out of Florida if his daughter was a spoiled brat. I should have ordered lobster and champagne, just to gauge his reaction. Haze is right, I don’t have to be nice.

  But I feel my father’s gaze on me. And I know I won’t do any of those things, because I’m not that girl. I don’t throw seven-hundred-dollar objects into chlorinated water, or make demands.

  And my good manners aren’t even the reason. I want Frederick to like me.

  And I hate myself for wanting that.

  “Thank you,” I whisper. Lifting my chin, I say it again. “Thank you. For everything today.”

  He looks away, his mouth flattening into a line. “It’s nothing.”

  The food arrives, and I eat a little, but mostly push the salad around in its bowl.

  “I’ll get you home by curfew,” Frederick says, putting a french fry back down on his plate. He isn’t really hungry either. After he signs the check, I stand up, hefting my backpack. We’ve taken only one step toward the lobby when a tanned man in a golf shirt walks up, his arm on his son’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he says, smiling, “but we’re such big fans. Could we get your autograph?”

  “Uh, sure,” Frederick says, digging into his pocket for a pen.

  The boy looks to be about middle-school age, and he removes his baseball cap and hands it to Frederick. “Thanks,” he says, his voice cracking. He looks embarrassed.

  But so does Frederick. A wrinkle appears in the center of his forehead. “Who’s this?” he says, pointing at a signature on one side of the bill.

  The dad laughs. “Ryan Braun.”

  Frederick nods. “You’re Brewers fans? At least you don’t root for the Cubs.” He signs the hat quickly and hands it back with a wink. “We’re in a bit of a hurry…”

  “Thanks so much,” the dad says, stepping back. His smile is like a toothpaste ad.

  “Sorry,” Frederick mutters to me as we stride across the lobby. “I see Carlos waiting outside.”

  * * *

  “So…” Frederick says as the sedan slides to a stop outside the Parson’s Home.

  So… I grip the hem of my denim skirt, wondering what happens next. He’s about to say that he’s booked on the next flight to L.A. And a good chunk of me will be okay with that, because every minute I spend in his presence is as stressful as auditioning for a solo in choir.

  “Same time tomorrow?” he says instead.

  A knot in my chest unties, and I’m stunned by how relieved I suddenly feel. I don’t even know why. I’ve made it this far without him. He isn’t somebody that I ought to rely on. “I need to spend some extra time in the school library on my math review,” I hear myself say.

  “No problem,” he says quickly. “If I picked you up later, I could still make sure you got some dinner.”

  “They don’t starve me here, you know.” The ungrateful words just pop out. Though I’ve waited my whole life for him to invite me to dinner.

  Frederick looks past me at the building’s gray vinyl siding and dirty windows. He doesn’t bother trying to disguise his look of disapproval.

  My face gets hot, as if the scuzzy building is my own fault.

  He turns his gray-eyed gaze on me. “Have dinner with me tomorrow,” he says, “because I’m busy on Saturday.”

  I fold quicker than a broken umbrella. “Okay. Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I opened the door.

  “Text me a time,” he calls after me. “Carlos put my number and his in your phone.”

  “Okay!” I run from his car into the Parson’s Home at 7:32. The light-blue beater parked at the curb gives an angry stab at the horn as I go inside. But I’ve run out of time.

  It’s against the rules to use a phone after curfew, and Evie would happily rat me out. But later, under the covers, my hair smelling like a salon, I fiddle with my new toy. I log into Instagram, and the photos are crisp and bright on the shiny screen.

  And this is weird—Freddy Ricks posted a photo of the Pacific Ocean a couple hours ago, just as we were having an awkward meal under a hotel umbrella, more than two thousand miles from the Pacific. Nice day for a run on the beach, my father supposedly wrote. The hashtags are #oceanlover and #californiadreaming.

  I feel a weird prickly sensation creep across my skull. I’ve been following his Instagram account forever. And it’s not even him?

  From memory, I tap Haze’s number into my new phone and text him: Sorry about tonight. Ran out of time. I have to sign it R.K. because Haze won’t recognize the new number.

  His reply is instant. I waited for U. Everything OK?

  I’m fine. It’s a terse answer, so I add a heart emoticon. But that’s all I write, since I’m too tired to go another round on the subject of spending time with my father.

  My phone buzzes a minute later. I miss U.

  I close the texting app and spend a couple of minutes adding my email account to my fancy new phone. It populates with a startling number of messages, many of them condolences from teachers I’ve had over the years. I can’t read those right now. If they say anything nice about my mom, I’ll end up crying myself to sleep.

  Only one message is cheerful. It’s from Jake, the boy from Claiborne.

  Hey Rachel!

  It’s not that weird at all that you’re showing up just for senior year. A lot of people come for junior or senior year, because CPrep looks good on college applications. And CPrep students have an easier time getting into Claiborne College up the road. Both my parents are professors there, so if I get rejected it’s going to be awwwwkward.

  My parents are spending the year in Glasgow, so I’ll be living in the dorm for the first time. I’m a little nervous about the roommate thing, too. But seniors’ rooms are pretty big, which helps.

  Music groups—I wouldn’t know a glee club from a choir to save my soul. But I do know the a cappella groups have auditions. They treat it like a sorority. You don’t “try out” you “rush” them. The only reason I know this is from their overly cute little flyers on the dining hall tables. You’ll see.

  I hope you’re having a nice summer. I’m on Cape Cod with my parents this month and working lots of hours at a clam shack. The pay is good but I smell like fried fish all the time. I keep rewashing the uniform T-shirt, trying to get the smell out. But it’s fried onto the cotton. Sexy.

  The other bummer is that Cape Cod isn’t as dark as New Hampshire. I’m an astronomy nut. (Nerd powers, activate!) I brought my telescope all the way here, but there’s more light pollution here than I expected. I can’t always see the fainter stars, even during a new moon.

  I know. First world problems.

  Keep the questions coming,

  Best,

  Jake

  It feels like another lifetime since I’d read his first letter. But it has only been a few hours. I tap out a reply with my fingertip.

  Dear Jake,

  It’s nice of you to answer my questions. I still need to know what I should bring with me. Do they send out a packing list?

  Astronomy, huh? I don’t know any other astronomy buffs. Of course I’ve been to Cape Canaveral on school trips, and I’ve seen rocket launches (you can see them from 100 miles away.) But that isn’t really the same thing.


  Looking through a telescope sounds peaceful. Isn’t it true that everything we see in the night sky is really a million years old, or something? That’s a comforting thought, actually. Lately my life is happening at warp speed, when I wish it wouldn’t.

  Bye for now,

  Rachel

  That’s as much truth as I can put into a note to a stranger. After hitting send, I tuck the new phone under my pillow and try to sleep.

  Chapter Four

  The next afternoon, I work math problems in the library until the five thirty closing time. The only distraction is Haze, who sits beside me, sulking.

  All my exams will be finished in a week or so. And my library job is almost over too. The rest of my summer is about to become a gaping void, with my eighteenth birthday in the middle of it.

  My first birthday without Mom. I can’t even think about that right now.

  I get a new email from Jake, which helps.

  Rachel,

  It’s nice of you to say that astronomy sounds “peaceful” because plenty of other people would say “boring.” To me it’s exciting, but then again I’m weird. I like that astronomy is both accessible to everyone (Walk outside, look up at the sky) and utterly remote at the same time.

  In the way of a true nerd boy, though, allow me to correct your understanding of how old the stuff in the sky is. Like you said, some of the things we can see are really old news. There’s a red supergiant called Betelgeuse (not to be confused with the weird Winona Ryder movie) that’s about 640 lightyears away. So tonight’s view of it is from 640 years ago.

  That star is probably already dead. I’m actually hoping it finally exploded, say, 639 years ago so I’ll soon get to see it happen with my own eyes.

  On the other hand, Sirius (not to be confused with Harry Potter’s godfather) is just 8.6 lightyears away. So our view of that star is from a time when the Nintendo wii was still cutting edge.

  When you look up at the stars, you’re getting a mixed view of the ancient and new all mashed together. Like someone photoshopped the sky.

  Your last message made it sound like your summer isn’t going so well. Hope things get better.

  You will get a packing list during August. Some people also bring a coffee pot or a popcorn machine, even though it’s against the rules. Lots of Claiborne rules aren’t followed or enforced.

  It’s time for me to go sell fried clams to drunk people.

  Cheerio!

  J.

  “Who’s that guy?” Haze asks from right over my shoulder, where he’s obviously been reading my email.

  “He’s…” I try to remember how Jake put it in his first letter. “A peer liaison. Or something. From the prep school. To answer my questions.”

  Even as I stutter out my explanation, Haze’s expression goes sour. “Awfully friendly, isn’t he?”

  “Shouldn’t he be?” I challenge. “Would it be better if the people at my new school were assholes?”

  “No.” Haze grins because he thinks it’s funny when I curse. “I guess not. Bunch of preppies, though. They can’t be very much fun. Astronomy?” He makes a face.

  I close my laptop, feeling irritable. Somewhere there’s a boy named Jake standing on a beach in Massachusetts and waiting for a star to explode. I have a picture of him in my mind, staring up at the sky, his hands jammed in his pockets.

  My subconscious has made him cute, in a harmless kind of way. With sandy hair and blue eyes. I could probably find a social media account with pictures of him. But I don’t think I will. It’s more fun not knowing.

  Haze closes the book he’s supposedly reading and stands up. It’s five thirty—time to meet Frederick for dinner.

  We walk out of the building, and I’m feeling nervous again.

  “You know,” Haze says. “You could blow him off today. If you just didn’t show up, what could he really say? ‘Hey, Rachel! You stood me up! Oh, I’m sorry, Dad. If I do it a thousand days in a row, we’ll be even.’”

  Six thousand days, I correct. Or sixty-five hundred. “I don’t think I can make you understand.”

  “You’re right, you can’t.”

  “He’s here now, and he wants to help.” It sounds better than the truth, which was a more complicated heap of burning curiosity and a decade and a half of waiting to be seen.

  “Rachel, I help you.”

  “That is the truth,” I admit. “And we will hang out on Saturday, after your shift at the garage.”

  He walks with me until Frederick comes into view, waiting by the car again. Then Haze stalks away, staring.

  “A friend of yours?” Frederick asks when I make my way over to him.

  “Yes. Since forever.”

  “He looks disgruntled.”

  I slide into the car, smiling at the understatement. “You’re right. He’s not…gruntled.”

  In the front seat, Carlos laughs.

  “Isn’t that weird?” I hear myself begin to ramble. “Some negative words sound like they’re the opposite of a positive one, but they’re not.”

  Frederick scratches his chin. “You mean like…nonplussed?”

  “Exactly. Not every negative has a positive.”

  He grunts. “Sure they do. It’s just not the positive that you’re expecting.” He takes his beat-up little notebook out of his pocket, flips it open and begins to scrawl on the page. “But that is a fun idea. I love idiosyncrasies.”

  “What do you do with those notes?” As I say this, I realized it’s the first question I’ve asked him about himself. The question I really want to ask is, How did you get my mother pregnant?

  But I’m afraid he won’t like me asking. And I’m afraid I won’t like the answer.

  “A whole lot of nothing, usually,” he says, scribbling in the little book. “But once in a while, I get a song out of it.”

  And then his phone rings, and I listen to another one-sided call with Henry. “Isn’t that what we pay Publicist Becky for, to think up this crap?” my father asks him. “You two just pick something, and I don’t care what it is. A stomach bug. A drug problem. Tell them I was abducted by aliens. I’m hanging up now.”

  He ends the call, but his fists are clenched in his lap all the way to the restaurant.

  * * *

  Thai food tonight. I sit at another outdoor restaurant table, trying not to fidget. Frederick is across from me, and I still wonder if he’s a mirage. This is my third time in his presence. This could go two ways—someday it might seem normal to walk into a room and see Frederick there. Or, more probably, he’ll disappear again.

  Ten years from now when someone asks me about my father, I might say, “I met him three times when I was seventeen. We had pad thai at a table facing a golf course, and I didn’t have the courage to ask him how I was conceived.”

  Frederick has come prepared with a more neutral topic of conversation. “What classes do you want to take at Claiborne Prep?”

  “Well…” I haven’t thought about that in weeks. “The English classes looked cool. There’s one for Russian literature. I guess I’ll keep taking Spanish for the language requirement.” And music. But I’m not ready to share that.

  Which is funny, because I always imagined that when I met my father, we would talk of nothing but music. In my fantasy, he would be touched to discover we had so much in common. And he’d be devastated that he’d wasted so much time.

  But now? Music is the last thing I wanted to share about myself. If I tell him I arranged one of his favorites—the Stones’ “You Can’t Always Get What You Want”—for my junior choir project, in four-part harmony with counterpoint, he’ll know exactly how deeply my hero worship runs.

  How utterly humiliating.

  “I wasn’t the student you are,” my father is saying. “I almost flunked out my first year of college.”

  “Did you?” But I know this already, having read it in an interview in Spin.

  “The required classes almost killed me. But I was able to hang on long enough until they�
��d let me take all music courses. I scraped by.”

  I know so much about him already—that he likes old movies and fresh-squeezed orange juice. I’d read that he’d once played for an Obama campaign rally, and that he’s allergic to cilantro. I know that his stage name—Freddy Ricks—came about because his friend Ernie thought it sounded “less constipated” than Frederick Richards.

  “I wish I’d known there was no need to be so impatient,” he says. “I wish I had it to do over again. That and a whole lot of other things.”

  Like what else? I wait for him to elaborate.

  “How’s the chicken?” he asks instead.

  Angry Rachel lets out a silent scream.

  * * *

  “Two things,” Frederick says after they clear our plates away. “I’m going to New Orleans tonight.”

  My stomach drops. “Okay.”

  “Christ,” he says. “I’m coming back.” He lifts his chin and looks at the sky. “Not that you’d have any reason to believe me.”

  My face feels hot. I take another sip of my soda.

  “Look,” Frederick says, picking up his beer. “I canceled a bunch of gigs already. But this one would piss off too many important people. But I think they’re done with me by Sunday night.”

  A concert? I wonder. Headlining a music festival? Later I can look this up on his website the way I used to. Hell, I can even use the fancy new phone he gave me.

  In a burst of courage, I ask a question. “Why did you cancel some things?”

  He takes a swig. “So I could be here in Orlando for a couple of weeks.”

  “Yes, but why?” The question finally flies out of Angry Rachel’s mouth. I clamp my jaws together again to prevent five more questions from following it. Do you really care what happens to me? Did you know my mother at all before you had a one-night stand? Why didn’t you call us for almost eighteen years?

  Frederick studies his beer bottle as if the answer is written there. “Last week, Hannah gave you a swab…”