by Anne Dayton
Eventually, we all get so bored that I decide to get started on my history assignment. As part of our final project, Mrs. Narveson wants us to write about one movement in America that changed the course of history. I think she means for us to write about Abolition, or Civil Rights, or the fight for the 19th amendment, which gave women the right to vote. But I’m going to do this my own way. I’m writing about the Jesus movement and how it changed the direction of the Christian church, and, perhaps more importantly, how it changed the direction of my parents’ lives. I don’t think she’ll mind. She’s the one who told us that to understand a person you have to understand their past. If I really want to walk the long road that brought my parents to where they are, I need to start at the beginning.
I’m scratching down an outline on a pad of paper the receptionist gave me when the nurses leave for the day. I breathe a sigh of relief when I realize it’s after five. Too late for anyone to be filing legal papers. But it’s another hour before Ashley and Dr. Anderson appear in the waiting room. Her eyes are red, and her face is puffy, and her hair is pressed up against her head in crazy angles, but she’s smiling.
Dr. Anderson turns and gives her a long hug, holding her in his arms tightly. “I’ll see you this weekend, sweetie,” he says, his voice raspy. “I love you.” He bites his lip and turns back toward his office, but not before I see that his eyes are rimmed in red too.
Ashley waits until he disappears down the hall.
“We did it,” she says. She hasn’t even finished saying the words before we’ve all thrown our arms around her.
50
I took the girls out to celebrate our victory. Well, technically Ashley took us, but I treated them. One hundred dollars may not buy a very nice dress, but it can buy a whole lot of In-N-Out and some gas too. It seems like kind of a waste—that’s more than twenty hours at El Bueno Burrito down the tubes—but for a new chapter for the Miracle Girls, well, somehow it doesn’t even seem like quite enough.
We called Ms. Moore on the way to tell her the good news, but she warned us that she had a lot of thinking to do. She’s been offered the job in Boston, and there’s no guarantee Marina Vista would take her back after everything. We decide to ignore her pessimism. We moved mountains this year with just the tiniest bit of faith. We’ll get her back.
Ashley drops us off at the school so the others couldget their cars. I hop out too. I have something else I need to do. The early evening sky is dark and obscured by clouds, and the air feels electric, like victory, or like possibility. Maybe both.
“You sure, Zoe?” Ashley glances up at the threatening thunderheads. “It’s going to start pouring any minute.”
I look up at the heavens and smile as I say a quick prayer of thanks. It does look like rain. Maybe the tension is breaking at last. Maybe things can only stay bad for so long before the sky opens up and rains down a new promise.
“Thanks, Ash.” I hold out my palm but don’t feel any drops yet. “I’m sort of hoping to get caught in the rain.”
Eventually they give up and resign themselves to the fact that I want to walk home in the downpour. Riley winks at me in a knowing way, proving that sometimes we can read each other’s minds. I wait until they have piled into their cars and disappeared out the parking lot gate before I start walking.
The streets are quiet, the sky is heavy with clouds, and there’s a devilish wind rustling the leaves on the trees. As I leave the school property behind, a huge clap of thunder peals through the air. I freeze, the hair standing up on my arms. Then I hear a patter, coming up fast behind me. I spin on my heels and see the storm coming toward me, the drops falling hard and leaving little divots in the dry, dusty earth. It sweeps over the PE fields and then drenches the J-wing. I bend my head back, shut my eyes, and stick out my tongue, and within moments the rain is pattering all around me, soaking my hair, my clothes, my bag. Tiny rivers run down my hair and onto my face. The rain tastes sweet and smells incredible, earthy and wet.
Something about the excitement of the storm, or the certainty of what I need to do, compels me forward. I begin to barrel toward his house, weaving through our town like only a local can, ducking down back alleys, taking a shortcut through the park, enjoying the first serious soaker we’ve had in almost a year, splashing and laughing.
I’m at his house in no time. I walk right up to his yard. The rest of the house is dark and still, but the light in his room is on and the window is cracked.
I swallow. Why did I come here? What did I want to know?
I see a shadow move across the wall in his room, and I stumble back on the step. The rain continues to pour, as if this whole year it had only been holding itself back, growing and gaining strength for the day when it would burst forth. I shut my eyes and hold my face up to the sky.
I came here for answers. Who is this guy who showed up from the other side of the country, headstrong and independent? What is he really? Is he the best thing that ever happened to me? Or is he bad news, someone who will only leave me with tears and heartbreak? Is he the grieving son of a loving family and an earnest musician, or is he just another teenage rebel and part-time rock star who will never amount to anything?
The rain patters loudly in my ear, but over it I can barely make out a sweet and mournful sound, beautiful notes that feel so right for this moment. I shake my head and squint through the sheets of rain. The sound is coming from his room. I take a few steps closer, and as I near the sound swells in my ears. The saxophone.
For a while I simply listen to him play, lost to the world as I stare up at his window. I stop thinking about all my fears and all the ups and downs we’ve been through this year, and I allow myself to just enjoy Dean. I picture his face in my mind, and watch his shadow on the wall, and listen to his music. His mother was right. It’s a shame he gave it up.
The sound abruptly stops, and I lean in to make sure it’s not the roar of the rain drowning it out. There’s a shuffling in the room, and suddenly I realize that I’m standing on Dean’s lawn like some sort of madwoman, soaked to the bone. I meant to walk right up, ring the doorbell, and have a nice long chat with him.
The front door unlocks, and I take off at a dash without thinking—but then stop a few feet away. I should apologize and try to explain to his mom so they don’t think I’m crazy.
But it isn’t his mom. I think I glimpse her in the background, but it’s Dean at the door. We lock eyes. He steps out onto the porch and shuts the door.
I stay right where I am in the middle of the yard, my heart pounding. He said he was through with me. Why can’t I take a hint? How much clearer could he be?
I can’t read his face as he strides toward me. I want to turn and run away, but I can’t make myself. The weight of the water on my clothes makes me feel hundreds of pounds heavier, frozen in place.
He walks over to me, grabs my face in both of his hands, and pulls me in for a kiss so deep and long that even though I am on another planet, happier than I ever thought possible, I still have time to come back to earth and relish it.
He stops and grabs me into a tight, tangled, desperate hug. In the middle, between our faces, we create a small cave where only the occasional raindrop falls. For a very long time we just listen to each other breathe short, gasping breaths of joy and relief and wonder. It may be the greatest pleasure I have ever known.
So this is love.
51
I recognize the song from the first loud, brash notes. Some of the kids in the class roll their eyes when Mrs. Narveson starts playing the track, and it does seem a bit weird to end her lecture about the Vietnam War by playing a song used to protest against it. But I can’t help smiling. “Revolution” is Ed’s favorite Beatles song.
There are only two weeks of school left, and since next week will be taken up with testing and end-of-the-year stuff, this will be Mrs. Narveson’s last lecture. I’m kind of impressed that we made it as far as we did in the textbook. No teacher in the history of teaching history h
as made it up to the present day, but we only missed it by a few decades.
As the familiar song blasts out across the quiet classroom, I close my eyes and try to imagine what it must have been like for my parents when this song first came out: storming the streets of Berkeley, standing up against an unjust war, fighting to make their voices heard. This song is all about challenging the people in power to build a better world. Now, more than ever before, I have an inkling of what that really means, and I know that I have big shoes to fill.
“Don’t you know it’s gonna be . . . all right,” Mrs. Narveson sings, closing her eyes and grooving to the music. She repeats the words all right again and again, just like John Lennon, and then when the song ends, she waits for a minute with her eyes closed before she turns off the speakers on the iPod dock.
I peek at Christine, who has bags under her eyes and a wistful expression on her face. Her new brother, Ellis, was born late last night. Then I steal a glance at Dean, who winks at me, and I start to feel like maybe Mrs. Narveson is right. Things aren’t perfect. The world isn’t fair, or just, or kind, and there are no guarantees it’s going to get better. But somehow, I do believe it’s going to be all right.
Mrs. Narveson takes a few steps over to the window and spends a long moment staring out at the courtyard. I can hear the industrial wall clock’s second hand tick in the silence.
“Every year I leave my students with one parting thought.” She looks out at us, really looks at us, studying each and every student one by one. “There is so much I hope you learned this year, and it’s not facts or battles or some long list of president names.” She walks back to her podium and shakes her head, almost sadly. “I hope you’ve seen the human struggle played out on the stage of your minds. I hope you’ve felt connected to many cultures across time. I hope, in some small way, you’ve learned what it means to be American and what it means to be a citizen of the world.” She points at the door and bites her lip. “Because this is your world, and when you walk out that door, you get to start making decisions about what kind of place it’s going to be. You carry with you the stories of your past, of all of our pasts, but it’s up to you what you do with this knowledge.”
She locks eyes with me and smiles. I could swear she’s tearing up. “Go out and make history. And make me proud.”
52
The Miracle Girls are supposed to be here in fifteen minutes, but my hair won’t lie down and be nice and straight like it’s supposed to. It doesn’t matter how many times I press it with my straightening iron, the curls still insist on poking out in weird ways.
I sort of assumed we would all get ready together, preferably at a house where people own things like eye shadow and hair spray, but Dreamy really wanted to see me all dolled up and for some reason Ana couldn’t come get me any earlier, so here I am, struggling against the elements on my own. Dreamy keeps running around handing me things like witch hazel and cold cream, and I don’t even have the slightest idea what to do with them.
I’m giving my hair one last attempt. If it decides not to cooperate this time I will succumb to the inevitable. I wrap a front section around the base of the straightening iron and study my reflection in the mirror. The dress is gorgeous, and it skims my hips before falling in a straight line to my feet. I can’t stop looking at it.
Ed pokes his head around the wall and snaps a picture. He’s been doing this all evening. Normally it would be driving me crazy, but I still can’t help but marvel at his very presence around here. Every silly thing he does makes me want to sweep him into a big hug.
I let the section go and it’s straight, sort of, so I give up. I unplug the stupid thing and flip off the bathroom light, then the doorbell rings. I hold the hem of my dress and run down the stairs as fast as my feet can move. “Ana!” I pull the front door open.
But it’s not Ana.
“I was wondering if you’d do me the honor.” Dean is standing on my front porch, wearing a classic tuxedo with a black vest and shiny black shoes. He holds out an elegant white wrist corsage, and I just stand there with my mouth gaping open.
“Where’s Ana?”
Dean smiles and pops open the plastic container. He holds the white orchid up to my dress and smiles. “I wanted to surprise you, so it was hard to choose the right one.”
Ed pops his head out of the house and adjusts the lens on the camera. Dean gives him a thumbs-up and a cheesy smile, and Ed snaps a picture.
“Oh!” Ed pops his head back in. “Dreamy? Where’s the video camera?” He disappears back inside.
“Ed…” I whine, my head is still spinning. Dean hates the prom. I never thought he’d want to come. How will I explain this to the girls? I don’t want to hurt him or them.
“You know, it’s really weird how you call your parents by their first names.” Dean slips the corsage on my wrist, and my stomach warms when his hand lingers on mine. “Has anyone ever told you that?”
I shake my head, trying to make sense of what’s going on. Okay, Zoe, use your mouth. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m taking you to the prom.” Dean rolls his eyes and gestures at his monkey suit. “You think I dress like this all the time?”
“I’m going with the Miracle Girls.” I cross my arms over my chest even while I’m trying to figure out exactly how much trouble I’d be in if I ditched them now. A lot, I decide.
“We’ll see about that.” Dean leans in and plants a kiss on my cheek, and despite myself, I feel my stomach flip. This is so like him to waltz in at the last minute and sweep me off my feet. And yet, as romantic as it is, it’s a tad inconvenient.
“Now, if you’d asked me like a normal person would, maybe I’d have considered it.”
“Zoe, up until a few nights ago, I thought you hated my guts.” Dean scratches his chin and lets a slow smile spread across his face.
I smile at the mention of that night in the rain. “Right.” I guess I was mad at him. Well, I did give him that impression at least. “Maybe I still hate your guts.” I raise an eyebrow.
Instead of answering, Dean leans in and wraps his arms around me. “I don’t believe you,” he whispers into my ear, sending chills down my spine. I let myself lean in against him and forget what we were even talking about. I run my hands down his arms and then pull him in tighter. I hear a noise behind Dean, but he’s pulling my face toward him, and I can’t be bothered to pull away to see what it is. A horn blasts right behind us.
“Woo-woo!” I turn in time to see Ana yelling out the open window of the RealMobile. Riley is sticking her head out the driver’s side window making kissing noises. “Zoe and Dean, sittin’ in a tree.”
Riley sings out the driver’s side window. “K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”
I feel my cheeks burn. Oh my gosh.
“I thought you guys were coming in Ana’s car.” It’s lame, but it’s the only thing I can make mouth say. Dean laughs and takes my hand in his in a comfortable way, like we’ve been together for ages.
“Not enough seats,” Ana calls. “And they wouldn’t go for a limo, so here we are, arriving in style.”
“Um . . .” I can’t exactly not go with Dean after all that, but I can’t ditch the girls either. Why does he do this to me?
“Come on, lovebirds.” Ana jerks her thumb toward the back door of the van. “Get in.”
Dean pulls my arm gently and leads me off the porch.
“Dean,” I pull back. “We don’t . . . do you want to go with them?”
“Yeah, how awesome is this ride?” He motions at the side of the RealMobile.
I throw back my head and laugh. Someone—Christine, I’m sure—has replaced Riley’s mom’s real estate ads with new magnets. They say:
Prom.
Woo.
Dreamy and Ed come running out of the house with our ancient video camera and begin to film everything. Dean is a great sport, hugging me, mugging for the camera, joking around with the Miracle Girls.
But I stand back and absorb the perf
ection of the moment. My parents acting like they love each other. Dean bonding with the most important people in my life and doing something for me, just because it will make me happy. And all my best friends in one place, looking like a million bucks.
“Ready?” Dean puts out a hand, and I take it. We smile for the video camera one last time.
“You guys get the middle row,” Riley says, pressing the button to open the back door. The door slides open, and I gasp.
“Hey, Tyler.”
“Yo.” He waves from the backseat, where he and Christine are squished together, holding hands. His shaggy blond hair is sun-kissed and styled with the slightest hint of gel.
“Do you guys have anyone else stashed away in here?”
“That’s it,” Ana laughs. She looks stunning in a lemon-colored silk gown that sets off her caramel-colored skin beautifully.
“So I guess you changed your mind?” I cock my eyebrow at Christine, who shrugs.
“He’s pushy.” Christine is wearing a gorgeous silk kimono-style dress in a pale, minty green. Tyler keeps pulling at the collar of his dress shirt. “Besides, once we knew you were bringing a date, we decided it would be okay to let one other guy come along with us tonight.”
“Why didn’t anyone bother to tell me I was bringing a date?” I climb into the middle row of the minivan as gracefully as possible while trying not to let go of Dean’s hand.
“Where’s the fun in that?” Riley pushes the button to close the door. She’s got her hair piled on top of her head, and her simple black dress is elegant without being showy. She puts the car in drive and makes a U-turn, pointing the car back down the driveway, and Dreamy and Ed fade into the distance.
“Party-mix time,” Ana says and pushes a button on the dashboard. “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” comes blaring out of the speakers. She and Riley start bouncing around in the front seats.
“Oh boy.” Dean lifts his eyebrows and lets out an exaggerated sigh. He turns back to face Tyler, who rolls his eyes and leans forward and asks Dean about amps.
