by Sarina Bowen
When the sandwich is brown on both sides, I flip it onto a plate and turn around, only to experience heart failure at the sight of someone standing in the doorway. “Geez, Ernie! I didn’t hear you come in.”
He’s staring at me. “I didn’t know you could sing.”
“Eh…” Crap. “I only sing in the shower.”
“Bullshit.” He crosses his arms. “Does Freddy know?”
Damn. I yank open the fridge, looking for a can of Pepsi. “If you were me, would you want to sing in front of Frederick?”
“If I had pipes like that, I’d want everyone to hear it.”
I give him the side-eye. “Maybe you would, and maybe you wouldn’t.”
Ernie chews his lip. “I really don’t get it. You’d pretty much have to be a killer musician with your genes. But fine. We never had this discussion.”
“Thank you.”
“And you never hit those high notes like you were born to it, or improvised a riff on the bridge.”
“You can stop now.”
He shrugs. “It sounded great, though.”
“You would say that. You co-wrote the song.”
“Just the bass line.” He squints at me, as if trying to figure something out.
Unnerved, I carry my sandwich past him and up to my room.
* * *
Later that week, Henry stays for dinner with us—meatball sandwiches ordered from a deli. Every shop in Manhattan Beach delivers. No wonder my father never lights his oven.
Ever since I spoofed my father’s Instagram account, I’ve been waiting for Henry to chew me out over it. Good girls don’t pull pranks. We just feel too anxious afterwards.
But Henry doesn’t bring it up. There’s something else he wants to talk about, instead. “I had a call from publicist Becky,” he says.
“Who’s publicist Becky?” I ask.
“When your publicist rings,” Frederick explains, “there’s a small chance you’ve won an award, and a bigger chance you’ve fucked up somehow. What did she say, Henry?”
“There’s a picture of you and Rachel out there. A blog called to ask if we’d like to provide a name.”
Frederick laughs. “No kidding? Another slow news day in Los Angeles.”
“Mighty slow.”
“Who has it?”
“Like a Hawk. It’s nobody worth sucking up to,” Henry says.
“What are you talking about?” I ask. “What picture?”
“There’s a gossip blogger who has a photo of you and me, probably from your birthday,” Frederick says. “And they want to post it. But they don’t know who you are, so they called my publicist to ask.” He takes a swig of his soda. “Henry, tell Becky thanks for the call. But Freddy declines to identify the young woman in the photo.”
Henry shrugs. “Fair enough. But you’re not going to freak out if they make something up, right? That’s the only reason Becky’s asking. You know what they do: ‘Freddy Ricks hits the town with young model half his age…’”
“That’ll be wrong. She’s less than half my age. Tell Becky I won’t freak out, and feel free to photoshop out my gray hairs.”
* * *
Later, when Henry is gone, the whole conversation is still replaying in my brain. “Why wouldn’t you just tell the blogger my name?” I blurt out.
My father looks up from his reading and shrugs. “We could do that. But then some punky blog gets to break a story about—” He makes his hands into quotation marks. “—Freddy Ricks’ secret daughter. Why should your life be the thing that boosts their clicks, or page views, or whatever gives them their jollies?”
His eyes go back to the article he’s reading on his tablet. But I’m not quite finished. “Is it an embarrassment for you if they put it out?”
His face lifts again, a look of pure surprise on it. “No way, kid. Tell whoever you want. That’s not the issue.” He offers me his tablet. “Here. Add your name to my wikipedia entry if you want to. Just don’t let some asshole make a profit off your tragedy.”
I take a step back. “Never mind, I get it.”
“Rachel?” he says as I reach the stairs.
“Yeah?”
“Nice job with that Instagram thing. Henry was flapping like a chicken, trying to figure out who did it.”
I freeze, my hand on the banister. “It was me.”
“No kidding. But Henry doesn’t know because Ernie took the fall for you.”
“He did? Why?”
Frederick just shrugs, a smile on his face. “Got sick of Henry’s bitching, probably. We all thought it was hilarious.” He goes back to his article, but I head upstairs, my stomach quivering.
I flop onto my bed, wondering what the blogger’s photo of him and me looks like. I have no pictures with him. Not a single one.
OPERA
OPERA: A drama in which the words are sung instead of spoken. Themes may be tragic and / or comic.
Chapter Thirteen
When the big day arrives, Carlos drives Frederick and I to the airport. When we pull up to Departures, he gets out of the driver’s seat and runs around to open my door. I step out, and he tips his head sideways to smile at me. “Adios, señorita.”
I surprise him with a quick kiss on the cheek. “Adios, Carlos.”
Frederick smacks him on the back. “See you in a couple weeks.”
On the flight to Boston, Frederick falls asleep in the first-class seat next to mine, but I can’t relax. Even a movie can’t distract me. I play games on Frederick’s tablet for a while, then tuck it back into the seat pocket in front of him. He’s sleeping with his mouth open. I study the lines in his face, and his long hands on the airplane blanket.
“I’m almost used to you now,” I whisper.
He does not reply.
* * *
In Boston, another driver picks us up for the ninety-minute trip to Claiborne. The nerves are gaining on me again. After the tenth time I squirm around on the seat next to him, my father speaks from behind his newspaper. “Hang in there. All you have to do is find some good people. How many kids are in your class?”
“Three hundred.”
“No problem, then. There have to be a few good ones, right?”
I’m not so sure.
The car pulls up in front of the Claiborne Inn, where Frederick has booked himself a room. I stand there, blinking on the sidewalk, looking up at the white clapboard building that shouts: “Welcome to New England!” It has a long front porch and rocking chairs.
I wait outside while he checks in and drops his luggage. So this is Claiborne. There are families walking together everywhere, some with boxes or rolling students’ luggage. When I dreamt of coming here, I did it because I wanted to see the town where I was born.
But I don’t feel any connection. It’s just a super-cute town teeming with strangers. And I just want to rewind my life a year and go home.
“All set!” Frederick says, appearing beside me. “You still have a couple of hours until you can pick up your key, right? Let’s take a walk and find something to eat.”
“Okay.” Although eating anything sounds impossible.
He points across the grassy town square. “The prep school is mostly on that side of the green, while the college is that way, up the hill.” He points in the opposite direction.
Having studied the map, I already know this. “Does it look the same to you here?” We start down Main Street, which divides the town in two.
“Yes and no. Everyone looks so young.” He laughs. “The town wasn’t really my stomping grounds. I only cared about the bars and the little clubs between here and Boston.”
“Did you ever come to your college reunions?”
“Nope,” he says quickly. “Never found the time.”
I examine the storefronts on Main Street, with their window boxes bursting with petunias. There are several restaurants, and shops selling spirit wear for both the prep school and the college. You can buy sweatshirts, hats, shorts, or flip flops wi
th either of the schools’ insignia. There are two bakeries and a coffee shop, too.
Eventually the town thins, with houses replacing the businesses. We cross the street for our walk back. “This is a very walkable town,” I point out.
“You know it. This part, anyway. Stop here a second.” Frederick halts in front of the window of a real estate office. There are a dozen listings hanging in the window. “I’ll be coming here tomorrow,” he says.
“I thought you’d make Henry do that.”
Frederick whirls on me with laughing eyes. “I would if he were here. But getting away from him is sort of the point, so I guess I’ll have to do one or two things for myself.”
On the next block we reach a pub called Wheelock’s, and Frederick hoots his approval. “At least this place is still in business. I think I spent all my money here the year I was twenty-one.” He pushes open the door with a grin. The interior is all dark wood. There are framed photos on the walls of various sports teams lined up for the camera.
“They’re working the college vibe pretty hard,” I point out as we take a seat near the window.
“Yeah,” Frederick agrees. “Don’t look for my mug in any of those football team pictures.”
Our waitress has a cow the second she identifies her famous customer. “Oh my God,” she gasps at Frederick. “I’m such a big fan. Will you sign my order book?” She thrusts a pad and pen at him.
“Sure thing, Darcy,” he says, reading her name tag. “It would be my pleasure.” He signs with a flourish and a smile. When she skips away, he smiles at me too. “This town likes me.”
Wonderful. But will it like me too?
I’m jittery. And somehow we order the same meal that we did the first time I ever had dinner with Frederick. I pick at the Cobb salad, just like in Orlando. But Frederick devours his burger and enjoys a beer. “They have excellent fries here,” he says. “Try one.”
I shake my head.
The waitress comes back to our table for the fourth time in half an hour. “Anyone need anything?”
“We’re good,” I say wearily. All I want right now is to go home to my old, familiar school in Florida.
Why did this ever seem like a good idea?
* * *
An hour later, a smiling guidance counselor wearing an ASK ME ANYTHING sticker hands me a key card that I accept with a shaky hand. “Welcome, Rachel!” she says. Then we walk through an old iron gate into a pretty courtyard.
Habernacker is a big, U-shaped brick building with dozens of sets of green shutters.
“Fancy,” Frederick says, turning around to take it in.
I’ve been told to go into entryway number two, and now I understand why. The hallways of the old building are vertical. As we climb the stone stairs, we pass just two rooms per floor, with a bathroom on the landing between them.
When we find room thirty-one on the third floor, the door is ajar. It opens with a squeak. A pretty girl with curly black hair stands up from where she’s bent over a trunk. “Oh!” She clasps her hands together. “You are Rachel?” She rolls the ‘R’ in Rachel a bit. Her accent is adorable. “I’m Aurora! I’ve been waiting to meet you!” She runs over to hug me. “And you are Rachel’s papa?” As I watch, Aurora hugs him too.
My father turns on the charm and asks Aurora the questions that I’m still too nervous to stammer out. “Are you a senior as well?”
“Sí!” Then she laughs. “It will take me a couple of days to get used to speaking English again. I am transferring from my Spanish school for senior year. My father wants me to get into Harvard.”
“Ah,” Frederick says. “Like me.”
“Really?” Aurora squeals.
“Joking!” He beams. “I went to Claiborne up the road, where I majored in music and parental disappointment. But I think you and Rachel are on a different track.”
I’m busy inspecting our room, which has wood floors and funky old windows.
“Look!” Aurora grasps my wrist. “This eez a very nice room. They put the desks out here in the common room…” She darts through a doorway. “and the beds in here.”
I follow Aurora into another little room, where there are two narrow metal beds set in an “L” shape.
“I did not make up a bed yet. I thought you could choose.”
“Oh, that’s nice of you,” I stammer, tongue-tied. Over Aurora’s head, my father is smiling. His face says: See? This is going to be okay.
“What do you think?”
“Either one,” I say.
* * *
After verifying that my boxes have arrived from California, Frederick leaves. “Walk me out for a second,” he says, ducking into the stairwell.
I follow him down the stairs and into the courtyard, where dusk is deepening the sky.
“It’s still okay with you if I look at houses?” he asks.
“Yeah.” He’s picked the right time to ask, because at this moment it’s all I can do to keep from clinging to him like a life preserver.
“I want to get out of L.A. and this place is really out of the way. Hard to say whether I’ll find a decent house, but I’ll look.”
“Okay. Sure?”
“I’ll poke around and see what I find. Now, you and the roomie have some fun before the homework starts up.”
“Right.”
“Text me tomorrow for proof of life.” He winks and turns away.
“Wait.” I surprise myself. I’m just not ready to see him go.
He turns back.
“What are you going to do this week?”
“Look at real estate listings,” he says. “Watch the first football game of the season. YouTube. Beer. Chips.” He gives me a searching look. “Everything okay?”
“Yup.” I swallow. “G’night.”
Frederick laughs, but I don’t know why. Then he takes three steps forward and puts his hands on my shoulders. He dips his chin and gives me a quick kiss on the forehead. “Go have fun,” he says quietly. “I’ll see you before I have to go back to Cali.” He gives my shoulders a squeeze and then backs away, a patient smile on his face.
I turn around and march back up the stairs.
* * *
Aurora and I spend the next couple of hours arranging our belongings. We put our desks next to one another, leaving one wall of our living room empty.
We also have a generous window seat above an old radiator. “It would be nice to find a cushion to put here,” I muse, running my hand along the dark wooden seat.
“Si! Also, we need a rug,” Aurora says. “And some beanbag chairs. From Ceramic Barn, maybe?”
“Pottery Barn?” I guess.
“Yes! We will order tomorrow.” She claps her hands. “And now we’ll go out to meet people. There’s a list of activities…”
She grabs a sheet of paper off her desk and scans it. But I’m perfectly happy staying here where it’s safe. Meeting one new person feels like a good first-day quota.
“Ice cream social at nine,” she says. “That’s perfect. What shall we do before?” She hands over the list.
“Touch-football is not happening,” I grumble, reading the first item. There’s a tour of the school’s arts facilities starting in ten minutes. That sounds low-key enough.
But then I spot something even more promising.
“I wouldn’t mind going to this,” I say, pointing at one of the last items on the list. “It’s just starting.”
Aurora peers over my shoulder. “Telescope Talk? Really?”
“Doesn’t that sound nice?” The description reads: Public viewing hours at the Claiborne telescope. Student astronomers show you the stars.
“Do you love the science?” Aurora asks. She makes a face. “It will take me a few days to remember English.”
“Your English is fine. Science isn’t really my thing, but my Claiborne summer pen pal likes it.”
My new roommate studies me with smiling eyes. “Is this astronomer a boy, perhaps?”
“Well, sure.�
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Her grin breaks free.
“But it’s not like that,” I say quickly.
“Ah.” She hooks an arm in mine. “Let’s go find this pen pal. He is hot?”
“No idea,” I admit. “But he sure is nice.”
* * *
The school telescope is located on top of a brick, castle-like monument on a hill behind the dorms. We walk the last hundred yards in near darkness.
“You are sure this is the right place?” Aurora puffs as we climb a second set of stone stairs.
“Think so.” Though my confidence is faltering by the second. If I were going to film a horror movie on the Claiborne campus, this would make a great setting.
When we reach the top, a boy’s voice can be heard. “Who’s seen the movie The Martian?”
We round the corner to spot a black telescope, shiny in the dim light, and a boy with a blond buzz cut gesturing to a small crowd of students and parents.
“Yeah?” he asks the show of hands. “Who’s seen it way more than once?” He raises his own hand, and the adults chuckle politely.
“Wow,” Aurora breathes beside me. “Is this your friend? So cute.”
He really is. Although I’m not sure it’s Jake. The voice seems right. But my pen pal described himself as a super nerd. This boy is sportier looking than that. Even in the dim light it’s possible to ogle the muscles bulging in his arms.
He’s wearing glasses. And my gaze snags on one detail. His T-shirt reads, Talk Nerdy to Me.
“If you’re just joining us,” the boy says, glancing from me to Aurora, “we’re about to look at Mars, which is that red body visible just above the horizon. Mars is visible in the early evenings…” He keeps up his sermon while pulling his phone from his pocket and tapping the screen without looking. “…thirty-four million miles away…”
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
