It Started with Goodbye

by Christina June

  Hi SK,

  Glad you made it home safely. Here’s the site so far; it’s almost done. Let me know what you think and if you want any adjustments made. The one thing that’s missing is a photograph of you, if you’re cool with that. Got any you’d like to use?

  I wouldn’t use the word corny. I’d say sensitive. Maybe delicate. Touchy-feely?

  Emotionally yours,

  Tate

  Did I really just send an email to a boy with “yours” in the valediction? I put both elbows on my desk and squished my cheeks between my hands. I hoped he didn’t read too much into that and think I was overstepping the boundaries of a professional relationship. I snorted at the thought. We’d already crossed that line, right? Maybe I did hope he’d read more into it.

  Tate—love the Ireland pic! Genius. My mom will be so chuffed to see that. (Did you catch my across-the-pond language there?) You get bonus points for the brown. Clearly, you pay attention to details—I like that in a girl.

  Alas, the only “professional” photos I have are the headshots from my application to McIntosh, and they’ll never see the light of day. I’ll just leave you with one word—braces. I have some performances coming up soon, though, so I’ll try and get you some action shots. Do you think those will be okay?

  Enthusiastically Yours,

  SK

  I read with wide eyes, unbelieving. We were definitely over the line. He liked that in a girl? My pulse quickened a little as I allowed myself a moment of imagination, wondering what we might think of each other if we met in person. What if I asked him if I could come to one of these performances—you know, for research? What if he said no? That would be embarrassing. What if he said yes and we met and had a completely awkward moment where neither of us said anything, and we stood around looking at the floor? Better to just stick to words.

  SK—yes, can’t wait to see them!

  Break a leg,

  Tate

  But ten seconds later, I realized I didn’t want to wait for him to send the photographs. Wondering why I hadn’t done it earlier, I typed his full name into my browser and pressed search. The results included three years’ worth of concert programs from McIntosh, and press releases for the awards I already knew about from his résumé. Bingo. His accolades were interspersed with a handful of links to social media sites; I clicked on the one at the top, hoping to see a friendly smile that matched SK’s sense of humor, and held my breath. When his profile revealed nothing more than a very nice picture of a cello, I exhaled. Bust. The second and third sites were the same. I had to give SK credit for his skills in the area of internet privacy, but I was also a little crushed. My efforts thwarted, I reminded myself that the best things were worth waiting for. And, somehow, I knew that finally seeing SK’s face would be worth it. I could wait.

  Chapter 14

  The completed survey for Tilly’s website was sitting on my bed when I returned from the shower, wrapped in a towel. I stood over it and peered down, a droplet of water falling from my dripping hair onto the paper. No surprise, it was written in Tilly’s tiny, neat, and perfectly formed handwriting. It was so uniform, it could have been its own font. I was “babysitting” that night, so I tossed the papers in my satchel with my laptop for later.

  As I pulled out a T-shirt from the middle dresser drawer, an idea hit me. Why not take Tilly with me? If she agreed, it could be a useful evening in more ways than one. We could work on her site together, and I could make sure she didn’t have any plans to spill my secret. I smiled to myself as I rubbed the towel over my wet hair and threw on my clothes.

  Like we’d planned it, Tilly and I opened our bedroom doors and stepped into the hallway at the exact same time.

  I sprang. “So, I’m going to ask you something at breakfast.”

  “Why don’t you just ask me now?”

  “Too much to explain. But I need you to trust me. I realize you have no reason to, but I’m asking you to try. Just play along, okay?”

  Visibly confused, but too polite to argue with me, Tilly nodded, and we went downstairs.

  At the breakfast table, Blanche sat next to Tilly, both of them sipping from mugs displaying names of universities Tilly was considering. Belén stood at the counter as I took my faithful Georgetown mug from the cabinet and filled it with hot water from the kettle. Blanche patted the place mat at the seat next to her, where a peppermint tea bag lay waiting for me. I flashed her a grateful grin, and she smiled back, her expression feeling like sunlight in an otherwise arctic room. Tilly eyed me over the rim of her Swarthmore mug, looking scared. I winked at her and sat down.

  “So, Tilly, are we still on for tonight? You’ll be home in time, right?”

  I noticed the grip on her mug got tighter. Belén looked up, brows furrowed and mouth in a frown. I’m sure if I were her, I would have done the same, hearing that Tilly and I had plans for the first time in, well, ever.

  “What’s going on tonight?”

  I casually sipped my tea. “Tilly is coming to the Schmidts’ with me so we can work on a project together.” When Belén wasn’t looking at me, I mouthed trust me at Tilly, and her deer-in-headlights expression softened slightly.

  Belén crossed and stood at the head of the table, towering over the three of us. “What kind of project, Matilda?”

  Tilly sank in her seat a little bit and took a deep breath. “Tatum, why don’t you tell her?”

  I smiled beatifically at my stepmother. “Well, Tilly was interested in making an online portfolio for college, and she asked me to help her. It seems to be something admissions panels might like, especially if it shows videos of her dancing.”

  Tilly nodded her head furiously, catching on. “That’s right, Mama. The colleges we’ve been considering all require an art supplement in addition to an audition, so I thought this would be a creative way to do it. It would make me unique from the other applicants.” Nicely played, stepsister.

  It was like watching the numbers on a slot machine line up. Belén’s face went from confused, to contemplative, and finally to accepting in a matter of seconds. She nodded slowly, like she was letting the idea of Tilly and me working together for a cause she actually supported marinate, sink down in the recesses of her mind until it popped back up on the surface. “That sounds very productive.”

  Huh. I’d expected at least a little protest, especially since it was me doing the helping, but even Belén couldn’t deny that I had at least the basic skills. When I got rejected from MacIntosh, she’d acted like the outcome reflected poorly on her personally for some reason. She was weird like that. And then a lightning bolt rammed itself into my brain. What if she remembered my portfolio positively, and her annoyance at the rejection wasn’t directed at me, but the admissions peeps? Had I been looking at her behavior from the wrong angle this whole time? The idea that Belén was putting me first, in her own sometimes misguided way, was blowing my mind a little.

  “Yes, it should be. We’ll get started once the girls go to bed,” I said, and smiled again, a real one this time.

  Blanche looked from me to Tilly, to Belén, and then back to me. “What a wonderful sisterly endeavor, Tatum. You both are so busy, it’s no surprise you never get any quality time together.” Like that was the reason. Blanche turned her eyes to her daughter and grinned, full and wide, like she was trying to convince her. “Isn’t it wonderful, mi hija? Both of these talented young women working as a team.”

  Belén nodded again and turned to Tilly, a slight smile playing on her lips. “You will show this to me before we send any applications.” Like they were applying as a team. Would it be Team Tatum when I applied to college too?

  “Of course, Mama.”

  Tilly and Belén finished their tea, then disappeared into the garage on their way out for the day—Belén to work and Tilly to rehearsal. I stayed at the table, pleased with my handiwork, slowly sipping my drink and thinking about making something with a higher caloric content for breakfast when Blanche poked me in the shoul
der.

  “What are you up to?”

  I widened my eyes with feigned innocence. “What do you mean?”

  “That’s the first conversation I’ve seen you and Matilda have since I’ve been here.”

  “I’m not allowed to talk to my stepsister?” I winked at her and took my empty tea cup to the sink.

  “Of course you are. But I don’t believe for a second that you and Matilda made a plan ahead of time.”

  I took two waffles from the freezer and popped them into the toaster. “That’s because we didn’t. But you aren’t the one who needed to believe it.”

  “Is there really a website?”

  “Yep. Well, there will be after I build it.”

  “And is Matilda planning to use it in her applications?”

  “She sure is.”

  The toaster ejected my waffles and I put them on a plate. I turned back to Blanche, whose eyes were narrowed, but she was smiling as if to say that my explanation was good enough for her. I smiled angelically and took my waffles upstairs.

  After Tilly got home from dance and showered—thank goodness, because dancing hard equals sweating buckets—I hustled her into the car.

  “Have fun, girls,” Belén called after us. I almost tripped on her enthusiasm and pleasant tone.

  “We will,” I called back. It was odd to exchange these little nicey-nice words with her. But I couldn’t say I didn’t like it, and that was odd too.

  “She’s in a good mood,” I said to Tilly as we took off down the street, realizing that Belén had failed, for the first time, to check the mileage on my car. Blanche’s voice whispered in my ear about being more pleasant to Belén. Maybe there was something to that.

  Tilly didn’t respond, but I noticed the corners of her mouth lift slightly. I took that as a good sign. When I opened the door to the Schmidt house, Tilly looked around, clearly puzzled by the emptiness.

  “Where is everyone? Aren’t you supposed to be watching Maya and Kate?”

  At the sound of her voice, Gus darted out of the kitchen toward us and wound himself around my ankles.

  I started up the stairs, a confused Tilly following me cautiously, Gus prancing right behind her. “Yeah, about that. Maya and Kate are actually on an extended vacation with their parents.” I didn’t turn around to check, but I knew she must be shocked. I could feel it radiating off of her.

  “And when you say extended vacation, does that mean this week? The last two weeks?”

  At the top of the stairs, I turned and faced her with a smirk. “The whole summer, actually.”

  Tilly’s expression floored me. Not only was she not judging me, she looked daunted and in awe. “You’ve been lying the whole time?”

  I stood directly in front of her, hip cocked, hand on the wall. “I told you I could keep a secret.”

  “But why?”

  “What would you have done if you were me? In one fell swoop, I lost my dad, I lost my friend, and I lost what shaky trust I had from your mom and probably you too.” Her face colored. “I’ve been confined to my room and to manual labor for weeks now. And to top it off, it feels like there’s no one on my side.”

  She looked away, embarrassed, and I sighed.

  “I didn’t really expect you to come to my rescue, Tilly, so stop feeling guilty. But can you see why I would keep this for myself? And, technically, I didn’t completely lie.” I led Tilly into Kate’s room, where Mr. Blue swam lazily toward us from the confines of his little glass bowl.

  She let out a very unladylike and thus un-Tilly-like snort. “You’ve been fish sitting?”

  I sprinkled some flakes on top of the water. “And cat and hamster sitting too. Princess Sweetheart is very unpredictable. She might rob a bank if no one is looking. Or commit grand larceny.” I raised an eyebrow at her, and she looked away again.

  We moved to Maya’s room. I busied myself with changing the hamster’s water and food while Tilly sat primly on the bed and stared at the wall. I wondered how she wasn’t sore all over from holding her back so straight and mashing her knees together, bent at perfect right angles.

  Upstairs pets taken care of, I headed toward the door to feed Gus and set up shop downstairs. “Come on,” I called to Tilly, who plodded behind me like I was leading her to the guillotine. She hovered nearby while I scooped the cat food into Gus’s silver bowl.

  “You could pretend to be happy about spending time with me.” Job done, I led her into the living room, sat on my favorite couch, and pulled my laptop from my bag. “Sit down, you won’t regret it.”

  Tilly perched gingerly on the edge and the cushions gave way to her slight weight, sending her sprawling backward, legs full-on in the air. Laughter erupted from me, spilling over the both of us, so engulfing that Tilly started giggling too. When we’d both calmed down enough to speak, I was overwhelmed with a sudden sadness.

  “I can’t remember the last time I heard you laugh,” I said quietly.

  Tilly’s mouth formed a horizontal line. “Me either.”

  I smiled. “Maybe you need to come over and sit on this couch with me more often.”

  “Maybe so.” She smiled back. “All right, about this portfolio. We’re clear that it needs to be contemporary, right? I felt like you were siding with my mom this morning, and were going to make one for classical ballet to be mean.”

  “No way. That was just A, to buy us time to work on it here and, B, so you can prepare yourself to tell her you don’t want to wear tutus anymore.”

  “I hate tutus with a passion, Tatum. You have no idea.”

  I shook my head, amazed. The things Tilly had kept to herself.

  “Oh, I think I definitely do.” We both laughed again, which felt unbelievably good and like something between us shifted into place.

  Being the overachieving planner that she was, Tilly had given me access to her online storage drive packed full of photographs and videos of her dancing this summer. She played a few of her favorites for me, and it took me back to watching the girl on TV who had captivated me so much. But my stepsister was surprisingly more talented at it. The clip I liked the best showed Tilly dancing erratically to an old Nirvana song, of all things, and the angst on her face was terrifying. I totally related.

  “This is unbelievable. Your mom will die when she sees this.”

  She raised one eyebrow. “Maybe just a small stroke.”

  “Was that a joke you made, Matilda? About your sainted mother, no less?”

  She giggled. “Possibly.”

  I pulled up a template I’d created for the basis for SK’s site, and quickly added Tilly’s photos and uploaded her résumé, now complete with contemporary experience. We could make it pretty later. “Don’t you want to add in some ballet stuff too? That’s the bulk of your experience.”

  “I guess you’re right.” She picked out the most beautiful shots, showcasing her technique and strength, and a video of her dancing the role of the Sugar Plum Fairy last Christmas.

  Bolstered by our tentative joking and perhaps my willingness to help her pull one over on her mom, Tilly became bolder as we neared the end of our evening together.

  “Do you miss her?” she asked as we worked.

  “Who?”

  She sank deep into the couch, dwarfed by the pillows. “Ashlyn.”

  Oh. She wanted to go there. “Actually, yes, I do miss her.”

  She sighed, the sound muffled by all the canvas and fluff. “I was always jealous of you guys.”

  “What? Did I hear that right? You jealous of me?” I stuck a finger to my ear and pretended to clean out imaginary wax. There was no way she just said that.

  “Yes, you heard me correctly. You guys were two peas in a pod. I’ve never had a friend like that. Do you remember Ashlyn’s dad’s party that one Christmas?”

  “The one where your mom blew everything out of proportion?

  “She thought you were drinking. Do you blame her?”

  I raised a finger into the air. “But there was
no actual drinking. None at all. And she still went ballistic.”

  Mr. Zanotti had thrown a ginormous holiday party for his friends and clients the December we started high school. Ash had brought four champagne flutes filled with ginger ale into her bedroom, where she and I had been hiding out. She downed her two drinks in minutes, while I nursed one as we turned Ash’s music up loud and sang even louder. Halfway through my amazing rendition of “I Will Survive,” while using my half-filled glass as a microphone, Belén walked in. She startled me so much, I jumped and spilled the contents of my glass down my front. All Belén saw were three empty glasses, the “champagne” staining my new dress, and the fourth glass sitting bubbling on Ash’s dresser. She grabbed my elbow, marched me right out the front door, and gave me a lecture about making responsible choices.

  “Your mom was really mad. Even though I told her up and down that there was no booze anywhere near me, and told her I knew better, she said even pretending was dangerous. She took my phone away for a month. Told me I was going to activate the alcoholic gene or something.” Belén rarely ignored an opportunity to remind me of my mother’s indiscretions. I was glad I could laugh about it months and months later. I’d been offended at the time, though.

  Tilly looked down at her hands in her lap. “She was so upset. I overheard her crying about it to your dad after we got home. She was really afraid for you, I think.”

  My heart stopped, and my mouth went completely dry. Belén had cried about me? It certainly fit with all the facts I’d been gathering about her this summer, about her desire for me to be safe and responsible, but hearing Tilly acknowledge that her mother felt genuine affection for me was hard to process. I had obviously been the one who hadn’t been paying attention.

  Tilly saved me from needing to form a coherent response and continued. “I was glad she was mad at you, because I was mad too.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you and Ash didn’t invite me to join you.” Oh. Definitely hadn’t been paying attention. At all. “You always seem to have so much fun, and I don’t really have time for friends. I would have gladly taken any consequence my mom laid out to be part of that.”