The Chosen One

by T. B. Markinson

  She whistled. “Do you update the page?”

  “Oh no. We have people.”

  “Right. People. Well, Miss Carmichael, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get to know the real you. Not the created you.”

  “Not the created me‌—‌I like that.”

  “Thoreau wrote, ‘The language of friendship is not words, but meanings.’ I’ve always liked how he put it. Sometimes I wonder whether friendships can exist in today’s meaningless world.”

  I laughed. “You have a worse opinion of society than I have.”

  “Is that good or bad?” She smirked.

  “It’s good in my book.” I stared up at her with hooded eyes.

  “Did you know Thoreau used to take children on hikes through the woods here? One day, he pointed out a cobweb to a young Louisa May Alcott and told her it wasn’t a cobweb but a handkerchief left by a fairy.”

  “Oh, that’s sweet, but…”

  “But what?” Maya’s soft eyes were alluring.

  “I’m not sure I would have believed it. Not even as a child.”

  “And I’m the cynic.” She hooted.

  “We can be cynics together.”

  A chipmunk scrounged through fallen leaves nearby, unafraid. Maya watched with a wisp of a smile. “Maybe we should move here. Get away from it all. You can escape the family dynasty, and I can…” Sadness made her shoulders sag. I wondered what she wanted to escape, but I feared asking. Quid pro quo was a bitch. “Maybe then, we’d believe in fairies.”

  “It might take years to get to that point.”

  “I’m game. Can you live in a tent?” she teased.

  I scrunched my face. “Uh, maybe.”

  Her knowing smile made it crystal clear I hadn’t been convincing about my “roughing it” abilities. I was not Teddy Roosevelt. A wicked glint appeared in her eyes. “What would Thoreau say about Susie Q?”

  Relieved that she let me off the camping hook, I snorted. “God, I think he would hate her.”

  “That settles it.” She put a palm on my thigh. “I won’t ever read anything by Susie Q.”

  “You promise?”

  “I promise, Ainsley.” She nudged my foot with hers. “I can’t stand people like Susie: the type who use others to make a name for themselves. Private lives are just that, private. Although, it’s getting harder and harder for people to maintain them, even nobodies like me.”

  “You aren’t a nobody.” I smacked her arm.

  “Hey, I want to be a nobody. I strive to be a nobody.” She put both palms in the air and smiled. “It makes me free.”

  “That may be the case, but you aren’t a nobody to me.”

  She seemed to study me quite frankly, and I thought I detected a glimmer of longing in her eyes. I wanted to lean in, but I couldn’t‌—‌Cassidy and Susie Q had ruined that for me.

  “What’s our next stop?” I hopped up.

  ***

  We wandered along the brick pathway leading to Bronson Alcott’s Concord School of Philosophy. We’d just completed the tour of Orchard House, and the school, while on the property, wasn’t officially part of the tour. The ugly, dirty-brown building surrounded by grass and trees looked out of place.

  Maya peered through the window. “Did you know Louisa helped pay for the school? Bronson was brilliant‌—‌a true idealist‌—‌but he could never channel his ideas into making money, not like his daughter.”

  I glanced over my shoulder at Orchard House. “It’s really beautiful here. So quiet.”

  Maya laughed. “Too quiet for Louisa. She loved city life. The theater. She acted some.” Maya turned back to the school. “Emerson said when Bronson sat down to write, his intellect left him.”

  “I feel like that sometimes when I have to write a paper.”

  She nudged my side. “Does that mean I’ll write the paper and you’ll do the presentation in class?”

  “Maybe. I’m good at research, though.” I leaned against the building, somewhat surprised the worn boards held my weight. “Did they get along?”

  “Bronson and Louisa?”

  I nodded.

  “Yes and no. They were a lot alike, so naturally they butted heads. There were differences, important differences. His principles ranked higher than taking care of his family.” Maya crossed her arms and rested a shoulder on the wall. “That must have rankled Louisa some. She had to work so hard to pay off the family’s debt, and her father… well, he always had his head in the clouds. The father was supposed to be the breadwinner, not the daughter. I admire that she was.”

  Maya stared at the horizon, lost in thought, and I wondered whether she was thinking of her father. Was he like Bronson? Too self-involved? Idealistic? Yet Louisa was able to overcome the obstacles and make a name for herself. Where Bronson failed, his daughter succeeded. Is that the narrative Maya wanted for herself?

  “I don’t agree with her, though. I’d love to live here.” She spread out both arms, twirling. “Away from the city.”

  “It’s so green here.” My eyes scanned all four directions. “Green, green, green, green.”

  “Exactly.” She seemed pleased I’d remembered her comment from the car. “Can you imagine living here when she did, surrounded by so many great minds, the thinkers of the time? It’s hard for me to believe she wasn’t happy here.”

  “Sometimes you don’t know what you have until it’s too late.”

  Maya nodded thoughtfully. “Too true. And sometimes we covet things we can’t have. Ever.”

  ***

  After visiting many of the sites, we popped into a tavern in downtown Lexington for a late lunch. The restaurant was new but was situated in a building that dated back centuries. Only a half-dozen tables filled the open floor plan, set up family style with old-fashioned wooden chairs. A roaring fire in the corner combated the damp air. A storm brewed outside, reflected within Maya’s eyes.

  “How come you haven’t visited Concord much?” Maya dipped a spoon into a bowl of clam chowder.

  “I think when you live here, you take a lot for granted. I remember visiting on a school trip, but my main memory consists of John Briggs pantsing Kevin Spade in the Walden Pond parking lot, shouting ‘How do you like them apples, Thoreau?’”

  Maya laughed, and the tension in her shoulder’s eased.

  “Did your school visit?” I asked, cracking pepper over my chowder.

  She looked down at her soup. “I could never afford school trips. They never cost much, but…”

  I nodded. I’d never considered that.

  “That’s why I waited two years to apply to Whitlock, and then deferred a year when I was accepted. My momma always told me paying one’s own way is the greatest gift I can give myself.”

  I quickly did the math. It meant Maya was at least twenty-one. “Have you applied for scholarships? My mother‌—‌”

  She tsked playfully. “Remember, I’m not Susie. I like you, Ainsley. Half the time I forget your last name.”

  “Only half the time?”

  “It’s hard to forget when the tour guide at the Alcott house kept saying, ‘Miss Carmichael, you might find this interesting.’”

  My face sizzled at egg-frying temperature. “That was so embarrassing,” I whispered.

  “You’re very recognizable, your face and your hair.” She smiled bashfully. “A lot of women would kill for your hair.”

  “Not you?”

  “Not sure it would suit my complexion.” She rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “Besides, it looks way better on you.”

  I smiled.

  “To answer your question, though, I did score a couple of small scholarships. Also, I’ve held so many part-time jobs I don’t think I’ve slept much since high school. Started my first business when I was nine.”

  “What business?” I dumped more crackers into my soup.

  “Dog walking.” She reached into her canvas bag and pulled out a business card.

  “You still walk dogs?”

  “Not
as much, but I have some steady clients. I house-sit as well. My goal is to line up enough house-sitting jobs next year that I don’t have to pay rent at all.”

  “Give me some cards. I know people who are always in need.” I put a palm out.

  She hesitated, but her stiffness melted. “Really? That’d be great.” She handed me three.

  I laughed. “More.”

  Maya fished out an additional five. “Let me know if you need more.”

  “I might.” I deposited the stack in my wallet. “What’s been the craziest part-time job?”

  “Craziest?” She buttered a piece of roll. “Not sure it was the craziest, but I worked at a call center that cold-called people for opinion polls. You learn a lot about human nature when you interrupt people during the dinner hour to ask what they think about the current state of the economy.” She popped the roll into her mouth.

  “I bet.”

  Maya washed the bread down with water. “One lady described miniature aliens that were climbing out of her kitchen cupboard.”

  I burst into laughter and covered my mouth. “Really?”

  “I think she was seeing ants, but I didn’t say anything. It’s sad really.” She smiled, letting me off the hook for laughing.

  “The saddest calls were with the elderly. One woman who’d just lost her husband of fifty-three years would keep me on the phone just to chat. The first time we spoke, I accidentally entered the wrong data into the system. On my next shift, I had to call back to clarify. After that, I made a habit of messing up her calls. My supervisor caught on, and I actually got fired.” She grinned. “But I still call Florence occasionally, just to check in.”

  “Is she in Boston?”

  “Yes.” The look she gave me suggested she was questioning my motive.

  “I volunteer at the community center. It has a program for seniors who want to make friends. They go on bi-monthly outings, and we’re starting a computer class so they can connect online with friends and family members who are out of state.”

  “Really? Flo would love the outings. Not sure she has a computer, though.” Maya scratched the side of her forehead.

  “No worries. I’ll get her one.” I clamped down on my bottom lip.

  “You’d do that?” Maya’s eyes narrowed.

  “Not me. It’s part of the program, but I’ll help her fill out all the forms and speak with the director of the group. It’s a new program, and we want it to succeed.”

  “So not everyone in the program gets a computer?” The twinkle in her eyes dimmed.

  “Unfortunately, the budget is too small.” I made the universal what can you do? gesture, palms in the air. “But we’re hoping to grow it. We need enthusiastic seniors like Flo to help us spread the word.”

  Maya leaned back. “Oh, she’s enthusiastic, all right. I’ll give her a ring. Do you volunteer a lot?”

  “Yep, since middle school. That’s my favorite part‌—‌” I cut myself off, before I could say it was my favorite part of the Carmichael presidential quest. That tidbit was never mentioned outside of Carmichael circles.

  “About being rich,” she ribbed me. To soften the blow, she placed a hand on my thigh and gave it a squeeze.

  “No! It’s my favorite part of planning my career in politics.”

  “You want to be a senator, like your mom?” There wasn’t a trace of condescension on her face.

  “Not sure about senator. I like helping people. I want to help as many people as possible.” I didn’t add by being President of the United States.

  “That’s my dream‌—‌to be a community organizer. I know what it’s like to feel all alone in this big, bad, scary world.” Her grin didn’t reach her eyes.

  “Me too.” I stirred my soup with a spoon.

  I expected Maya to jeer, but her soft intake of breath conveyed how well she understood. “It’s strange. There are millions of people on this planet, but most of us feel like no one understands or cares. It doesn’t take much to change that. Imagine if everyone you saw simply said hello. You might feel less like an outsider.”

  Outsider.

  With one word, she’d described my life to a T. If I succeeded and became president, would I be even lonelier than I was now? Would I ever be able to meet another Maya?

  “Of course, now people only write hello‌—‌they don’t say it.” Maya stopped and studied my face to see if I understood.

  I planted a smile. “You mean they hashtag hello.”

  ***

  A mist enveloped the grounds of Sleepy Hollow Cemetery moments after we arrived, as if the ghosts of Emerson, Hawthorne, Thoreau, and Alcott were making their presence known. We’d spent the past forty-five minutes stumbling along muddy paths, locating the graves of the most famous residents. Their final resting place was park-like with slight hills and trees. The effect was beautiful and peaceful: no doubt the designer’s intent.

  We left Louisa May Alcott’s grave for last. Rain flecked our faces, prompting me to pop open an umbrella to protect us. Maya hadn’t noticed. Her eyes were glued to Alcott’s grave, and her body was motionless. Was she in a trance or tapping into some unknown reservoir of knowledge? It was a privilege to witness the connection. A frisson of attraction between us had been building all day. During lunch, Maya had rested a hand on my thigh and left it there for three and a half minutes, according to the clock on the wall behind the bar. It was the best 210 seconds of my life‌—‌so far.

  The pitter-patter of raindrops increased, pulling Maya out of her daze. She peered into my eyes and smiled, like she was letting me in on a secret. My lips puckered and the umbrella slipped in my hand, exposing us to the elements. A huge drop of rain splashed on my nose, startling me. Her grin widened as she brushed off the droplet, and then she rested her hand on my cheek. I closed my eyes, nuzzling into her touch.

  That was when it happened. Her lips were soft, like cashmere, and I instinctively opened my mouth to prompt her tongue to enter. The umbrella tumbled completely from my hand as I wrapped one arm around her waist and cupped the back of Maya’s head with the other, pulling her closer, my desire to become one intensifying. I fisted her hair, and she responded by deepening the kiss.

  I don’t think I’d understood the power of locking mouths until that moment. The sensuality. The longing. What had I been missing?

  Maya’s hand slipped under my shirt, and its iciness against my bare skin made me shiver. She pulled her hand and lips away. “I’m sorry. You’re freezing.” Resting her forehead against mine, she gazed intently into my eyes.

  “I don’t care,” I whispered.

  She smiled, and our lips joined again.

  We continued kissing for what seemed like forever, blowing the 210-second record out of the water. Her hand slipped back under my cream Ralph Lauren tunic top, her fingertips trailing up and down my back.

  When her hand cupped my bra, my eyes snapped open.

  Was I going to pop my cherry in the Sleepy Hollow Cemetery? I couldn’t decide whether it was creepy or cool, given the setting.

  As if in tune with my thought, she put the brakes on.

  But she still gazed at me with a terrifying intensity as she trailed a finger down the side of my face. “Ainsley, I’m sorry.” Her voice brimmed with uncharacteristic emotion. “This… this isn’t a good idea.”

  “What isn’t? This?” I motioned to the grounds and almost offered to check us into a hotel.

  She clasped her rain-soaked hands around mine. “I want to be with you. I really do, but…” She stared up at the sky, at a loss for words. “You don’t know me, really.”

  I let out a nervous chuckle. “But I want to. I want to know everything about you, Maya Chandler.”

  “About Maya Chandler, right? That’s impossible for you, of all people.”

  “Why?”

  “Ains, we come from two different worlds.”

  That was the point where she decided to give me a nickname, just as she was pulling the rug out from underneath
me.

  “But we don’t have to live by two different rules.” Does that sound as lame to her as it does to me?

  She sighed, dropped my hands, and turned her back on me, with an air of finality.

  “I’m not good at letting people in, giving them a chance,” she said over her shoulder. For a brief moment, she paused, and I thought she might turn around and rush back toward me. She didn’t.

  I wanted to scream at her to come back. My mouth opened, but no words came out. I stood unprotected in the rain, miserable, alone.

  Seconds that seemed like a lifetime passed before I came to my senses. I plucked the umbrella off the muddy path, shook loose the leaves and dirt, and followed Maya’s tracks to my car. I unlocked the doors and we both slid inside, not speaking. Her teeth chattered, and I kicked up the heat to dry us off.

  Maya sat motionless in her seat. I didn’t put the car into gear. Instead, I waited for her to elaborate, to say anything.

  Only silence filled the car. The most unbearable silence pervaded my ears.

  Chapter Seven

  My fist pounded on Fiona’s door.

  “Hold your horses, will ya?” Fee shouted.

  When she opened the door, I fell into her arms, sobbing, “We kissed.”

  Fiona’s arms encircled me. “What’d you do? Bite her tongue off or something?”

  “No,” I wailed. “But I might as well have. She ran away.”

  “Right,” was all Fiona said as she shoved me inside. “Sit. I’m going to get you a change of clothes and make some tea. Did you walk all the way back in the rain?”

  After I’d dropped Maya off, I’d parked my car near my dorm and walked the two miles to Fiona’s apartment across the Charles. I had hoped the rain would wash away the pain and bring clarity. Neither had happened.

  ***

  “Tell me again. Her words exactly,” Fiona said.

  “She said she wanted to be with me, but it wasn’t a good idea,” I responded, holding back a sob. Our first kiss had been better than perfect, but the feeling didn’t last. “And when I said I wanted to get to know her, she said that wasn’t possible for me.”