by Jessi Kirby
Trevor glances over at me, his expression soft in the glow from the dash. “You can go to sleep if you want. I’m fine driving.”
“Thanks. But I don’t think I could sleep right now.”
He nods and is quiet a moment, but surprises me with what he asks next. “So, would it have been worth it if you’d found her?”
I don’t answer right away. I want to tell him the whole thing, every last detail about Julianna and what she said, and how it’s all even more sad than we knew before we came.
“Maybe not,” I say. “Maybe the whole idea of finding her was better than the reality of it would’ve been anyway.” I pause. Think about all the things we hope for and dream about, and how often they turn out to be different from what we thought. Like that kiss, and what I did.
“I don’t know about that,” Trevor says, his eyes on the road. “I think a lot of things get even better the closer you get to them.” He smiles but doesn’t look over at me. “And at least you tried, you know? That should count for something.”
“It should,” I say. “It should count for something.”
32.
“I have come by the highway home,
And lo, it has ended.”
—“RELUCTANCE,” 1915
After miles and miles of darkness we crest the grade just below town, and the mountain skyline I’ve known as home all my life rises up in front of us, towering jagged and dark against a pink sunrise sky. In the past the sight of it has always been welcoming, but today it’s a sad reminder that I’m back where I began. Just before town we pass the billboard, where a single light still shines down on the smiling pictures of Shane and Julianna, and the sight of it is ironic in the worst possible way. My eyes fill up and I close them, wanting to push away the secret that sits heavy inside me along with the realization that this is it. The end of the road.
My house is the first stop, since it’s at the south end of town, and after seeing how many missed calls I had from my mom when Trevor gave me my phone back, I know I need to get home because she knows. Almost as soon as Trevor pulls into my driveway, the front door opens, and my mom steps out, looking haggard in her robe, and I know she didn’t sleep. Guilt and fear swirl around in my stomach.
“Good luck,” Trevor says, eyeing her nervously.
“Thanks.” I watch as she wraps her arms around herself tightly and starts down the steps. “I’ll need it.” I put my hand on the door handle and take a deep breath. “Thank you . . . for everything,” I say, and I wish I could say more, but my mom is making a beeline for my door. “And . . .”
Trevor glances over my shoulder, then back at me. “Sure,” he says.
The door opens behind me, and my mom’s voice is as cold as the air it rushes in on. “Get out of the car, Parker. Now.”
Kat sits up in the backseat at this. “Please, wait. You should know that this was all my idea, the whole thing. I made her take the trip. Please don’t blame Parker.”
My mom glances at Kat and then Trevor, who’s gone silent, but she doesn’t respond. She brings her eyes to mine, and in a low, controlled voice says, “Get out of the car now. We will talk about this inside.”
I do as I’m told, and as I follow her up my front steps I turn just in time to see Trevor backing out of my driveway. Kat’s in the front seat now, making a hand signal for me to call her, and he’s looking over his shoulder. I don’t even get a last look. My mom closes the door behind me before I get the chance.
Once we’re inside she stands there a moment without saying anything, letting me anticipate the weight of what’s about to come down on me. I brace myself.
“The school called yesterday afternoon,” she says, her voice taut. “Said you were part of the group of seniors who decided to ditch school. So I came home from work early. Waited for you to get home. And I called you, left a message. And I waited. And then I called you again. Then I thought maybe you’d gone to Kat’s, so I called there, and guess what? Her mom hadn’t seen the two of you either. But you already know that.”
Her words are sharp and well aimed, and I know better than to interrupt, so I just keep my mouth shut and my head down and let her get it out.
“So I called you again. And again. And still, no answer. I didn’t get angry, Parker, I got worried. So then do you know who I called? Your uncle, who got the rest of the department together, and they went out searching for you only to find your car in the high school parking lot. That’s right. You and Kat and that boy had the Summit Lakes Police Department out looking for you while you were off somewhere—” She doesn’t finish, but heaves a sigh of anger and frustration.
My stomach turns. I hadn’t counted on having a search party sent out after us. This makes things exponentially worse. I keep my head down, eyes on the floor. “I’m so sorry.”
My mom holds up a hand for me not to say anything more. She’s not finished. “So now what you’re going to do is call your uncle and tell him that you’re home, and safe, and that you’re very sorry for taking up the department’s valuable time by making a foolish choice to run off on some joy ride.”
“It wasn’t—”
“What were you thinking? Right before the scholarship dinner? How could you put that at risk? You know how fast word travels, and don’t you think for a second that the entire town, including the scholarship board, doesn’t know you were missing for a day.”
She stops for a breath. “It’s going to require an explanation. People are going to ask.”
I wince. This gets worse every second.
“So right now, what you’re going to do is go into your room and practice your speech until it’s flawless. Until you can deliver it well enough to make them forget about this whole fiasco. And later, when you can look me in the eye, you’re going to tell me what the hell you were doing.”
“Mom—”
She puts a hand up again. “Not right now. Go. I didn’t give you a choice.”
“You’ve never given me a choice.” I match her volume and force with the words, and it shocks us both. The few times I’ve actually been in trouble for something, I’ve never answered back like that. I’ve never argued, or tried to defend myself, or justify it, or stand up for a wrong choice I may have made. Ever since I was little, I’ve said sorry when she told me she was angry, hung my head if she was disappointed, and nodded like I deserved it when she doled out my consequences.
My mom laughs a humorless laugh. “And this situation right here is exactly why. Look where making your own choice has gotten you today, Parker.” She sighs and shakes her head. “I’ve spent your life trying to teach you about choices. To teach you how to make the right ones instead of romanticizing all of the wrong ones like your father. And right now I’m not so sure I’ve done a good job. You’ve been making bad decisions for the last few weeks, right when all your hard work is about to finally pay off.”
She pauses to step closer, her voice softening by the tiniest degree. “You are too young to see it, but every choice you make matters. Every choice has the power to affect your life later on in ways you can’t go back and change.”
Hurt over her words, and anger and disappointment over Julianna all rush at me, springing hot to my face, and I can’t contain it any longer.
“You’re right, Mom.” I spit the words at her. “I’m too young to see anything like that. I can’t see that you’re not happy with the choices you’ve made. Or that maybe Dad finally is. I can’t see that sometimes the people who deserve choices don’t get them, or that sometimes people who get them throw them away. I can’t see any of that. Because I’m too young.”
I keep my eyes on my mom’s, and when she looks away first I know I’ve wounded her. It’s silent. What’s left of the air in the room goes icy. “Go up to your room,” she says flatly. “We will deal with this after tomorrow.” Her voice has lost its bluster, but I haven’t.
“Fine. I will. I’ll go up to my room and do exactly what I’m supposed to do because that’s who I am. I don�
��t get a choice. Instead I have a plan that doesn’t even feel like mine anymore. Who needs a choice when someone else is willing to make it for you?”
I don’t wait for her to answer. I turn and plow up the stairs to my room, because tears are coming now, and I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of seeing me cry. She’d think I was crying about my speech, or how much trouble I’m in, but my tears have nothing to do with that. At all.
33.
“Lines Written in Dejection on the Eve of Great Success”
—1959
I slam my bedroom door so hard my windows shudder, and I throw myself on the bed, still fighting back tears. Like a reflex, my eyes go straight to the collage above me, and I almost laugh at how ridiculous it seems now, with its sparkles, and quotes, and images of something that doesn’t exist.
I get up. Balance on my mattress and rip it off the ceiling in one swift motion. I tear it in pieces, sending glitter and magazine clippings to the floor all around me. And then I sit down right where I’m standing, put my face in my hands, and cry. I cry over so many things—Julianna and Shane, and Orion and their sad, sad story. Kat and me, and the way things are already shifting and changing between us. Trevor, and that kiss that could have been so perfect.
I cry over how lost and powerless I feel, and how terrible I know my words have surely made my mom feel. But most of all I cry over how foolish I was to think I could actually change anything. Sitting here in my room, nothing has changed. I almost brought Julianna back to Orion, almost had a chance at something real with Trevor, was almost brave enough to tell my mom that her plan for me had stopped fitting. But almost moments don’t count, and it all comes down to the choices I could’ve made but didn’t.
And now I’m faced with a situation I don’t have a choice in. I will have to go to that scholarship dinner tomorrow night, and I will have to stand up in front of all those people and give a speech I have yet to write. The irony of the fact that the pieced-together, Googled speech won my mom’s approval is not lost on me. Of course she would applaud the stolen words of famous overachievers. It almost makes me want to deliver it just to make a point.
But I can’t get up there and speak someone else’s words, even if I don’t have any of my own.
The ride to the restaurant where the reception will be held is silent, like the last day and a half have been. I haven’t talked to Kat or heard from Trevor. Shortly after our fight my mom came into my room, took my phone and computer, and left without saying a thing. We’ve moved around each other since, with me only leaving my room when I could hear she was in hers, and her avoiding me completely. I’ve never gone this long without talking to another person, and she’s never gone this long without speaking to me. It’s clear, here in the car, that she doesn’t plan on breaking the streak.
The click clack of the turn signal, the sound of the car accelerating then shifting as we drive up Main Street, all these things are exaggerated and loud in the silence between us. I fidget with my dress—a “smart” black one she picked out for me when we went to tour colleges. I’d hated it then just as much as I do now, but I didn’t dare come downstairs in anything else.
A wave of sadness washes over me as we approach the corner where Kismet sits. It’s evening now, and with the lights shining warm inside, it looks like a happy, inspired place. I don’t see anyone behind the counter, but I picture Orion in the back room somewhere, burying himself in work, his path solitary without Julianna. And hers is the same. That’s what seems the most sad to me—that neither of them even think there’s a possibility they can be together.
We drive one more block and pull into the parking lot, get out, and walk up the stairs to the restaurant without speaking. A man in a black suit greets us and sends us to our table, where there are two older couples, presumably members of the scholarship board and their spouses, already seated. I look around the room at the few other tables. Each is a mix of kids I know from school, their parents, and the requisite board members, most of whom are already engaged in friendly-looking conversations with the other finalists. Nervousness rolls through my stomach hard, and I want to turn and walk out right then, but my mom clears her throat and gives me a nudge, and I put on my best smile and address the man seated closest to the place with my name on it.
“Hello,” I say tentatively. “I’m Parker Frost, and this is my mother, Diana.”
The elderly gentleman stands. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Frost.” We shake hands. “I’m Sid McCoy, foundation president, and this is my wife, Betty.” The woman seated next to him nods and smiles politely.
“Pleased to meet you both,” I say. And then I have a silent panic attack. Of course I would be seated with the foundation president.
“Thank you so much for having us,” my mom adds. “It truly is an honor.”
Mr. McCoy nods. “Please, sit,” he says with a warm smile. We do, and he settles back into his own seat too. Before I have a chance to worry about what to talk about, he says, “Frost. Like the poet. Do you know his work?”
“I do,” I say, and I thank God that I do, and that he asked me about that instead of my having gone missing, like my mom was so sure everyone would. I’m so relieved I continue. “Actually, my father is a huge fan, and he passed that on to me early. ‘Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening’ was the first poem I learned by heart.” I smile and keep my attention on Mr. McCoy. I don’t have to look at my mom to know her smile has probably tightened at the mention of my dad, but I had to answer the man’s question.
“Ah,” he smiles. “One of my all-time favorites, after ‘The Road Not Taken,’ of course. One traveler, two roads, and an inevitable choice.”
“One that he won’t know was right or wrong until he’s lived with it,” I say, and again I thank God for my dad and his love of Frost. I am much better prepared for a discussion on the ambiguities of this poem with the foundation president than I am to give a speech.
Mr. McCoy raises an eyebrow. “Precisely,” he says. “Your father taught you well.” My eyes jump to my mom at this, and I can see the hurt flash quick over her face. “It doesn’t surprise me,” he continues, “considering the depth of his own talent.”
This does surprise me. “You know my father’s work?”
Mr. McCoy nods. “I do. He has that same ability as the original Frost, to take a simple moment and transform it into something more with his words.” He smiles. “I’m guessing that since you’re here, you’ve probably got a bit of that magic yourself.”
Before I can respond, a woman I don’t recognize hurries over, all nervous excitement. She gives me a kindly glance, then turns to Mr. McCoy. “I am so sorry to interrupt, but it’s time we get started.”
My stomach drops, and Mr. McCoy nods and pushes his chair back, then looks at me. “I suppose we’ll have to continue this discussion over dessert.”
I nod weakly. My mom squeezes my knee under the table, and I put my hand over hers. An apology of sorts. Mr. McCoy strides to the podium at the front of the restaurant and taps the mic. Discussions hush, and forks still. I think I might be sick.
“Good evening,” he says, “My name is Sid McCoy, and I would like to welcome you all to the annual Cruz-Farnetti Scholarship dinner. This year marks a decade that we’ve come together to honor and remember Shane Cruz and Julianna Farnetti, two of our own, whose lights were extinguished before they had a chance to reach their full potential.” He pauses and turns to their pictures behind him, and the audience nods in acknowledgment before he goes on. I look around at the other finalist tables, taking in the competition, wondering what they’re going to say. There are four of them—all honors students, all earning inflated GPAs, all with potential to spare.
I swallow hard as Mr. McCoy continues. “We are not here tonight to dwell on that loss, but rather to celebrate the lives they led for the short time they were here. Lives that were lived to the fullest while they had the chance. We, the board of the Cruz Foundation, would like to give that same chance t
o a deserving individual here tonight by awarding a complete, four-year scholarship to the winner’s chosen university.”
I glance again at the other finalist’s faces. Look for some indication that they’re as panicked as I feel right now. Mr. McCoy continues.
“The process of choosing this individual is a rigorous one. In addition to reviewing the academic records of the nominees, we take into consideration teacher recommendations, extracurricular activities, and involvement in community service. All of those factors tell us about the strengths and talents of these individuals. But the reason we are gathered here tonight is more important than the sum total of all of those things. Tonight, we are here to listen to each candidate speak, and within their words, to learn more about the spirit of each of them. Every year we look for an individual who, like Shane Cruz and Julianna Farnetti, possesses something special. Something beyond what we can see on paper. I welcome you to listen to each of these students with that in mind. We will begin in alphabetical order by last name.”
He pauses just long enough for me to realize that means I’m first, which is also long enough to wish I were anywhere but here at this moment.
“So, without further ado, I would like to introduce to you our first nominee, whom I had the pleasure of meeting already, Miss Parker Frost.”
My heart leaps into my throat and I slide my chair back, taking the napkin from my lap. My mom puts a hand on my shoulder as I reach into my purse and pull out a black-and-white composition book. “You’ve got this, Parker,” she says.
I nod, unconvinced, then on shaky legs weave my way through the tables of people who watch me expectantly. I’m supposed to be the shoo-in. I’ve worked to be the shoo-in. But with each step I take, I feel more unsure of myself. I hadn’t expected to have to live up to my dad’s words on top of everything else. The room is silent when I reach the podium, and the microphone picks up the rustling as I set my composition book in front of me. I look up with a smile I have to force, and sweep my eyes over the audience. It’s now or never.
