The Secrets of Attraction

by Robin Constantine

  “Make a wish, Mads.”

  The candlelight made the shadows dance around the room.

  The other part about birthdays I hated was the wishing. It’s like my mind would go on overload, ever since I was little—what did I want? What did I really, really want?

  I could never think of anything specific and I was afraid of asking for the wrong thing—like a genie story gone bad, where if you hadn’t worded your wish correctly it would come out in some different way and burn you.

  Wax dripped onto the perfect white buttercream frosting, while different wishes vied for approval.

  A perfect weekend with Jesse.

  An exciting summer going to Pratt.

  Me, Wren, and Jazz becoming yearbook editors.

  There was one wish—a whisper, really—that I wanted more than anything. It came on suddenly and surprised me in the sheer fact that it was corny as hell, a made-for-TV movie of a wish.

  For that reason, I was sure it was doomed to fail.

  But when I closed my eyes to make my wish, it’s all that came to mind.

  I whispered those words in my thoughts as I blew out seventeen candles.

  Let it always be like this night.

  SIXTEEN

  JESSE

  THE LAST TIME I’D WOKEN UP WICKED EARLY ON A Saturday was my first year in soccer. I can still remember my parents stumbling across the field with their cups of coffee, cheering me on as I tried my hardest to stay away from the ball. While there was more to my demise in sports than getting up early, it never meant anything good. This was different, though.

  It was the Saturday to end all Saturdays.

  The Saturday I’d spend with Madison Pryce.

  After a quick pit stop at Mugshot to get provisions for our ride, I drove to Madison’s. All a part of my grand non-birthday plan that I’d come up with the night after we played at Whiskey Business. I had wanted to surprise her, like really surprise her, but not in the I-hate-to-be-the-center-of-attention way again. It had to be unexpected. Impressive enough to make her eyes light up the way they did when she spoke about art or going to design camp. That’s when I thought of Fallingwater, how stoked she’d been about the Frank Lloyd Wright project she was working on the day she showed me the band logo.

  Perfect except for the endless-drive thing that made it next to impossible for a day trip. Enter Aunt Julia, more persuading than I’d done in Debate 101, and finally a birthday overnighter that I knew (or at least hoped) would rock her world.

  Madison was sitting on her front porch, duffel bag at her feet. The moment I saw her, my mind went into panic mode—what if this was an idiotic idea? What if we had nothing to talk about for the five-hour drive? There was no turning back, and I kind of dug it. We were in this together. I put the car in park, grabbed her drink, and climbed up the steps to meet her.

  “I only get up this early for Frank Lloyd Wright.” She stood and swatted the back of her pants.

  “Am I allowed to say happy birthday?” I handed her a hot chocolate I’d picked up at Mugshot and hoisted her bag over my shoulder.

  She brought the cup up to her face, peeking into the spout.

  “Okay I lied, getting up early for your hot chocolate works too.” She closed her eyes and took a sip. “Mmmm.”

  Ms. Pryce stepped out onto the porch, opening her arms wide to Madison. “Give me a hug, birthday girl.”

  Madison opened her arms awkwardly, holding up the cup and raising her chin over her mom’s shoulder, laughing. When they parted, Ms. Pryce looked at me.

  “You don’t text and drive, do you?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Speeding?”

  “Mom, come on.”

  “Nope, the VW sort of sputters when it hits sixty-five, so no worries.”

  Madison laughed.

  “You have cash on you? Your phone is charged?”

  “Yes and yes, Mom. And we’ll make pit stops and eat when we’re hungry. No worries. Thanks for letting me go. I don’t know any yoga slang, but, um, bliss out today at training.” Madison hugged her again.

  “At least text me at some point today, okay? Or leave a voice mail, let me know you got there in one piece.”

  “Will do.” Madison gave her a kiss on the cheek, then grabbed my arm.

  “Let’s go before she changes her mind,” she whispered.

  I tossed her bag into the trunk, and opened the passenger-side door. I remembered what she had said about Gray having a shitty ride and braced myself for her assessment of the Bug. It wasn’t much, I knew that, but it got me from point A to point B without any trouble. I slid into the driver’s seat and made sure I had the right address in the GPS.

  “Omigod, you have an eight-ball stick shift? Cool.”

  Whew.

  “So I made us a playlist, easy listening’s your jam, right?” I said.

  She wrinkled her nose. “What?”

  I started the car as Green Day exploded through the speakers.

  “Just messing with you.”

  Her smile fueled me.

  Two and a half hours into the ride we had exhausted every hokey car game. Twenty Questions. I Spy. And a version of the license-plate game that hadn’t started out as raunchy but quickly debased into third-grade humor. Madison had declared me the winner for Astonishing Ass Wombat-3675 for using an unexpected adjective with a mammal native to Australia. We were already into Pennsylvania but still had about three hours to go. We were both about to tear the roof off.

  “I bet we aren’t even going to Fallingwater. You’re kidnapping me, aren’t you?”

  “You’re right. We’re heading to California.”

  “Northern or Southern?”

  “Um, Northern.”

  “San Francisco,” she said, as if it were a real decision we were making. “What would we do there?”

  “Ride a cable car?”

  “Oh god, no.”

  “Ohhkay . . . then, what?”

  She put her feet up on the dash, hugging her knees into her chest. “Is this okay? That my feet are up here?”

  “You really have to ask?”

  “Okay, then this is what we’d do—we’d get roasted peanuts and watch the hang-gliders on the bluffs, then we’d Rollerblade in Golden Gate Park.”

  “Rollerblade?”

  “Yes, ’cause it’s perfect and hilly and gorgeous, then we’d window-shop in Haight-Ashbury and get a headache from the incense in the head shop.”

  I laughed and glanced over at her. “A headache from a head shop?”

  “Yeah.” She grinned and looked out the window. “And then we’d get lost and take in all the insane colors of the old Victorians, and listen to the street performers and walk and walk until our legs felt like they were going to fall off.”

  “Wait, when does this get fun?”

  “Then we’d find this little Italian restaurant that serves the best linguine and clam sauce you’ve ever had in your life. And we’d drink red wine since the waiter doesn’t care how old we are because even babies drink wine with dinner in Italy. And when we come out, it’ll be nighttime and the full moon along the skyline will make you feel like you’re in another world. And it will be the best day ever.”

  She spoke with such detail and conviction, it sounded more like a memory.

  “You’ve done this, haven’t you?”

  “There are perks to having a family friend who is a pilot. Paul took us when I was thirteen. Around spring break. We went for a long weekend. It’s one of those places that just stays with you.”

  “Cool. Have you gone anywhere else?”

  “We went to St. Louis once. You know you can go up in that arch? Total nightmare. And Houston . . . but nowhere worldly like Europe or anything.”

  “Well, the worldliest place I’ve been to is, like, the France pavilion in Epcot Center. We had to wait thirty minutes so my sister could get her picture taken with Beast. Go me!” I said, fist pumping.

  She took her feet down from the dash and
shifted in her seat so she was partially facing me. A good ten minutes passed with the sputtering of the Bug the only noise between us. We’d even exhausted my road trip playlist at that point. I concentrated on the road, but all I wanted to do was look at her.

  “Everything okay?”

  “That guy Paul, the one you met when I dyed your hair—he’s my father.”

  “You call him Paul?”

  “Yes, I call him Paul because up until about a month ago I didn’t even know he was my father. He didn’t know either. My mother told us because, well, she’s ‘living her truth’ in yoga, but that’s a different story. He’s here kind of figuring out some stuff, and I guess she thought why not throw this into the mix too.”

  I should have been able to come up with something that would make it all better, or to show that I understood, but all I could come up with was, “Madison . . . whoa . . . shit.”

  She laughed. “Yeah, that was pretty much my reaction.”

  “I mean, he seems cool.”

  “He is cool, and I think he’s having the same problem as I am—how are we supposed to think differently about each other? But we’re trying. I didn’t want to put a downer on the day, Jess. It’s a good thing, really. I just, well, I wanted you to know. It felt like I was keeping a secret from you and I don’t want to do that. Friends know about each other’s lives.”

  “Are they together?”

  She shook her head. “No. They’ve been friends, like, forever, but I always wondered why they never got together. I guess they sort of did, at least for one night. Which is kind of weird to think about.”

  “Wow.”

  “Now you have to tell me something about your family.”

  I changed lanes to let a pickup truck speed by us. “We’re not that interesting.”

  “It’s all new, everything’s interesting.” She reached around to the backseat and rustled through the Mugshot bag, pulling out a small container of fruit and cheese. “Want some?”

  I shook my head.

  “C’mon, just a grape,” she said, holding one out to me.

  “Toss it.”

  “You’re driving.”

  “You look like you have good aim.” I opened my mouth as she tossed the grape. It grazed my ear. We swerved a bit. “Okay, maybe not a good idea.”

  “Here.” She leaned over and popped the grape into my mouth. “Now give me something.”

  “Information for a grape?”

  “Something like that.”

  I thought a minute while I chewed. “Those were my parents you met the other night. My dad’s an ex–bass player turned adjunct professor wannabe author. My mom’s an accountant. I still walk in on them groping each other—it’s gross.”

  “Or adorable.”

  “No—it’s gross, period. I have a little brother, Ty, who doesn’t speak much yet, so he’s okay, and a ten-year-old sister whose main mission in life is to make mine miserable.”

  “I think you’re being mean. No grapes if you’re mean.” She smiled.

  “They’re okay, even Daisy when she wants to be. Better?”

  “Yes.” She fed me another grape. “Why don’t you wear your infinity bracelet anymore?”

  I practically did a double-take. “You noticed that?”

  She flustered slightly. “Oh, um—you used to wear it in Mugshot. I always thought—well, I thought it was cool, and now I see you don’t have it on.”

  “That story might cost you a cheese cube.”

  “Ha, here,” she said, honoring my request.

  “It was from my ex, Hannah. We had matching wristbands. She’s with the old drummer from Yellow Number Five.”

  “Wait—is that—Was he in the band that played at the Sadie Hawkins Dance?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  Her brow raised, she chewed her lip and nodded, as if she’d just figured something out.

  “What?”

  “Nothing, how much longer do we have?” She clasped the top of the takeout container and put it back into the Mugshot bag.

  “Our ETA is about two and a half more hours.”

  She yawned. “Mind if I catch some Z’s?”

  “Wait, so that’s it? I don’t get to ask you anything else?”

  She reclined the seat, curling her legs up beneath her. “I’m so tired.”

  “I think you’re just avoiding it.”

  “See, you know me already.” She snuggled into the seat, closing her eyes. “And I may snore, so don’t like me any less.”

  “Impossible,” I whispered.

  “Hey.” I nudged Madison.

  I’d managed to make it through the gates, and even paid the parking fee without waking her up. Her face was scrunched against the seat, mouth slightly open. She had snored a bit, but I decided to keep that to myself. She snorted awake on the third nudge, rubbing her nose and squinting as she scanned the wooded area we were parked in.

  “Omigosh, we’re here!”

  Madison was out of the car before I wrestled the key from the ignition. She reached for the sky, staring up at the canopy of trees, then shivered, crossing her arms.

  I shrugged off my jacket to her protests.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You look like you need this. I’ve got a hoodie in the trunk, consider it a birth—”

  “Lalalalalalala,” she said, plugging her ears. “We’re not using that B word, okay?”

  “Take it.” I held it out for her until she put her arms into the sleeves.

  We walked through woods, to a gazebo, and picked up our tour tickets. Madison wandered around the pavilion, as if she’d been a captive on a desert island and hadn’t seen anything quite like this. She ran her hands across the railings, looked up at the rafters, out to the forest. Her lips moving every so often, she laughed to herself.

  I waved her over and she took my arm again as we walked with the other tourists, down to a mossy path that followed along a stream. The sound of rushing water echoed through the dense, bare trees as we squished our way along the soft earth toward the house. It was overcast, and slightly misty, but suddenly the house was there, across a wide ravine, in our sight. Madison slowed down while the other people in our tour group flowed around us.

  She pulled me over to the side, so we were directly across from the front of the house, or maybe it was the back—I wasn’t sure. It looked exactly like the picture online—all lines, windows, and rushing water, with a staircase that led to the water below—but smaller somehow. To be honest, I didn’t understand what was so impressive about it. The colors were sort of oatmeal and that burnt umber crayon that’s always broken and no one uses. Madison was captivated as she took in everything.

  “You know, I really don’t get—” She put her fingers over my mouth, still staring straight ahead, eyes darting over the lines and angles, until a small smile crossed her lips.

  “It’s real,” she whispered, finally looking at me. She laughed. “It’s real.”

  “One-thirty tour,” a voice called.

  “That’s us!” She tugged on my hoodie, leading us over to the group. Madison dragged us front-and-center while the tour guide, a woman about my mom’s age wearing plaid rain boots, gave her a head-to-toe once-over.

  “You’ve got the coolest job,” Madison said, instantly winning the woman over. By the end of the tour, she knew Madison’s name. In fact, by then, everyone knew Madison’s name. From the moment she set foot in the house, she was like me at thirteen on Christmas morning, the year I opened up the cherry-red Fender I’d begged for for three months. She flitted through the house, taking in the furniture, the artwork, stopping and staring and holding herself back from touching the flat stones that made up the walls.

  “Look at this, isn’t this just genius?”

  It was the staircase to the water.

  “Convenient for swimming,” I said.

  She laughed. “Weren’t you listening? The water regulates the temperature when it’s warm out: a built-in cooling system.
And it’s so pretty, isn’t it? Bringing the outdoors in, and the indoors out? I love that. Can you imagine chilling here, reading a book or watching the world go by, probably drinking something like a Rob Roy?”

  “I see trees,” I said. “And what’s a Rob Roy?”

  She pinched me.

  Madison’s favorite words on the tour were Can you imagine?

  Can you imagine waking up to this view?

  Can you imagine Albert Einstein stayed here? We’re walking where he walked.

  Can you imagine . . . it’s a freaking Pablo Picasso, right there in front of us, as art on your wall?

  And all the while I looked at her. Experienced her. On the master terrace—sort of the nerve center of the house that went out over the water—she took my hand.

  “Close your eyes, Jess, listen. Hear that?”

  “Yep,” I said, listening but not sure if the rushing sound was the water below or the blood through my brain as I felt her hand in mine. It was small and cold, but strong and soft at the same time.

  “It wasn’t enough for Frank Lloyd Wright that his client had a view of the waterfall, he made them the waterfall. They were in it.”

  She turned us around to face the house. “Open your eyes. See? See the lines now? How it just—”

  “Makes sense. Feels like a part of the forest.”

  She squeezed my hand, then let go. “Yes!”

  “You still can’t walk naked through the rooms.”

  “Because that’s what I look for in a house.” She walked back into the house to join the tour again.

  Her enthusiasm was contagious. She tossed out words like cantilever and organic architecture and when we reached a small room one of the occupants had used as an office, where a half circle had been cut out of a desk to accommodate the opening of a window so the room would have no corners, she whispered, “Brilliant.” The tour ended up by the guesthouse, a place we reached by climbing a wide, winding stairway covered by a curved cement canopy that connected it to the main house. Whoever stayed here must have been in decent shape.