by Tish Cohen
I’ve had enough. “We need to go someplace private, Joules.”
“Falling in love with me, Birchie?”
“To talk about the interview. Please, this means everything to me. I need you to know how to answer the recruiter.”
Joules checks her watch and slams the locker door shut. “Okay, I have all the time in the world now. What do you need from me? I want to be sure I help you as much as possible.”
O-ka-ay. She follows me to the big tree where I once fantasized about the two of us bonding over chocolate chip cookies at lunchtime.
“Did the recruiter call to confirm the time like he said he would?”
She nods. “Yes. Before I left your house this morning.”
“And?”
“He changed the time.”
I stop and stare at her. “To what?” She smiles sweetly. “2:30.”
“Today?”
“Yes.”
“But …” Panicked, I look up at the tower clock over the auditorium. “That was half an hour ago!”
She sashays away from me, gathering her hair in her hands and tying it into a loose bun. “Exactly. Thanks for your help with my locker. Andie.”
chapter 11
There sits Mortimer Wolf in the guidance office, exactly where I—or Joules—was supposed to meet him. I can see him through the little window in the door. Only it isn’t me he’s meeting with, it’s Jennalee Waldman, his three-o’clock, who managed to stay in her own body for the interview.
Mr. Wolf looks nothing like he sounded on the phone. I don’t know what I expected, it’s not as if I spent any time picturing him, but I guess if you’d asked me I’d have said he was somewhere in his twenties with the kind of padded shoulders an ex-football player might have. I’d have said longish hair for a guy and a lazy smile. In other words, on the phone he sounded more like an overgrown student who either never did well enough to escape university life or didn’t have the guts to try.
But he looks nothing like that. He’s this tiny corn chip of a man with a salted face, goggle glasses and bad posture. He’s wearing a short-sleeved shirt with a vest and tie, and though he’s maybe in his mid-thirties and should be plenty capable, he doesn’t look strong enough to be able to spin in Ms. Booker’s spinny chair. I don’t know why I even think of it, but right away I check his left hand for a wedding ring. All his fingers are bare, which means now I’ll have yet another thing to wonder about at four in the morning. Whether or not Mr. Wolf is sad. If he’s ever had a girl like him. And, if he hasn’t, whether his parents are upset for him. The parents being sad that their son is sad makes me equally sad. But who knows, right? He could have a really great cat or a bird who chirps “hello” when he comes home at night.
I sit on the orange chair outside the office until Jennalee walks out with the kind of satisfied smile a girl might have on her face if she just rocked the interview and is pretty certain she’s headed to Stanford next fall. It’s the smile I’ve been hoping I might have right about now. I knock on the open door.
Mr. Wolf and his bare ring finger look up. He appears confused and checks a clipboard. “Well, I can’t imagine you’re Greg Lund, my three-thirty.”
For a second I think I should fake it. Introduce myself as Andrea. But what if the school has slipped him our photos to prevent kids from sending in someone more well spoken? Or with fewer zits? Or better hair?
“No, I’m Joules Adams. Andrea Birch’s friend.”
Now he looks stern. “Ah. Miss Birch. My only no-show of the day. Of the entire month, actually.”
“Yes. It’s just that Andrea had a sort of family emergency. She wanted to call but this thing—it came up so fast, and so I volunteered to come over here and explain.”
“I don’t tend to allow students to rebook. I come to a school once and that’s that.”
“But if you could just make this one exception. Andrea wants to go to Stanford more than anything on earth. And she’s a great student—a very serious student.” I worry I’ve made myself sound dull now. “Who is a lot of fun! And gets involved in school things. I’m not kidding, Stanford should snap this girl up before Harvard does. OrYale. Don’t think they’re not interested in her, because they are.”
“I drove all the way down here from Northern California so I could see every prospective student in one swoop …”
“It’s a beautiful drive, isn’t it? The ocean, the cliffs. Lucky, lucky you.”
“ … and I’m completely booked with students at other schools.”
“But are they being wooed by Harvard? You’ve got to think about that.”
He pulls out a little date book. “I suppose I could pop by on my way down to see my parents in Chino Hills on my day off, two weeks from now. It’s their anniversary.” He squints up at me. “Tell your friend to call me and reschedule for that Thursday. I could see her around five o’clock.”
“No need to wait for her call. She gave me permission—begged me, actually—to reschedule. Five o’clock is perfect. Better than perfect. Fantastic. I mean, really, really a good time for her. For Andrea. Andrea Birch.” I nod to reinforce my words. “Really.”
He stares at me, probably relieved Joules Adams isn’t the one he has to interview. “Then we’re all set. Please tell Miss Birch that if she doesn’t show, that will be that.”
I’m grinning so hard I think my face might crack. Next Thursday. Surely I’ll be myself two weeks from now. I’m usually a girl who keeps her composure. Especially around recruiters for Ivy League schools. But I can’t. I bolt around the desk and give Mr. Wolf a big hug. “Oh, thank you! You don’t know what this means to her. And you won’t regret it, I swear.”
Once he adjusts his glasses, which were knocked askew in the excitement, he reaches for his clipboard and holds it to his vest as if to ward off any further unexpected, unasked-for gushes of emotion. “Well,” he says, his cheeks crimson, “if that’s everything, Miss Adams, I believe I have a Mr. Lund to see next.”
I walk across campus, which is emptying out of kids, vaguely aware that something has changed. I’m too stoked by my triumph with Mr. Wolf right away to think what is different, but then I hear a quiet, distant rumble overhead.
Thunder.
The sky has clouded over. Gone is the endless expanse of blue bleached to white by the sun. Now the sky is bloated and swollen, all mushy-looking and dark gray. It’s about to rain, and if I’d been living at home, I’d have known it. Dad would have detected the low-pressure system moving in and he’d have tracked the air masses and calculated the amount of precipitation we’re about to receive. Just like he did last night, only this one Dad will be awake for.
Wait a minute. Last night.
It was raining last night.
Maybe that’s the key to undoing the wish—I need a good, solid, soak-you-to-the-skin type of rainstorm.
That’s it!
It isn’t hard to find Joules. She’s standing at the edge of the student parking lot smoking with some of the stoners who hang out behind Leighton Auditorium. Which might have bothered me before I saw the sky. I march over to her and take her by the elbow, pulling her toward an archway where we can talk in private.
She yanks her arm from me and snaps, “We’re done, Birch Tree. Until you get Will back for me, I’m not speaking to you. You’ve messed up my entire life.”
“Look at the sky, Joules!”
She glances up. “Yeah? So?”
“It’s going to rain. I heard thunder, it might even storm.”
“Thrilling,” she says, tossing her smoke onto the path and grinding it out with her heel. My heel. Then she blows smoke in my face. “I see the whole weatherman thing runs in the family. What’s with your dad, anyway? I thought he was a banker. And that Brayden—do you know he actually mooned me this morning? Like I needed to see that before 10 a.m.!”
“No, you don’t get it. It was pouring the night I made the wish. That was the difference. That’s what we need to switch back again.”
“Am I sure? I was soaked to the skin.” I pause to think for a moment. “Wait. That’s it. We should both be soaked by the rain! No umbrellas. Maybe the water acted as some kind of conductor.”
“There’s no way I’m going to run around in the freaking rain.”
I grab her shoulder, which feels so familiar I could cry. My shoulder. I want to be inside that shoulder again so bad I can barely stay upright. “You have to, Joules. If you want your life back you’ll run around in the freaking rain like a freaking lunatic.”
“I hate you for what you’ve done to me, Andie. You know that, don’t you?”
“You’ll love me after tonight.”
A horn honks from the student drop-off loop. There, not twenty feet from us, is a green Volvo station wagon. In the back are two baby car seats. I can’t see faces from this angle, but I do see chubby pink feet, one of which is missing a sock, kicking in the air.
Kaylee.
Kaia.
Between them is a yellow dress. Grasshopper legs with bandaged knees.
Michaela.
Behind the wheel is Mom, with her blondish-gray hair flopping over one eye. Of course all the windows are open, Mom rarely turns on air conditioning. Always saving the planet.
She looks tired. Frustrated. Like she could use some help. I’d give anything to get into that car right now. Tell Mom to go lie down while I prepare the Ks’ afternoon bottles. Tears prick my eyes. This is all my fault. Every bit of it.
Another beep of the horn.
“Andrea, let’s get a move on,” Mom says, waving her arm.
Joules looks at me. “I can’t take much more of this. And what’s with that Michaela kid? You ask her if she wants juice and she just stares at you. Is she mute or just slow?”
I can feel my fingernails digging into my palms.
“Your mother keeps shaking her head at me when Michaela doesn’t speak. Like I have a clue what to do!”
“Michaela’s had a rough time. Give her a break.”
“Whatever. This switching thing better work.”
“It will. As soon as it starts to rain, really pour, meet me at the bridge.”
“Andrea!” Mom sings. “I don’t have all day.”
Joules starts toward the car, dragging her feet. “I miss my life.”
“I know. I’m sorry, Joules.”
“You should be.”
I watch her open the passenger door.
“As soon as it starts to rain, head over there.”
Joules climbs in, sulking.
“And remember,” I call. “No umbrellas!”
~ It’s nearly five-thirty by the time I get back to Joules’s place, and not a drop of rain has fallen. After the first rumble, I haven’t heard so much as a groan of thunder. The clouds are still hovering, but way over to the west, toward the horizon, there’s a crack in their armor. A single splotch of blue is peeking through the angry gray fluff. This storm cannot just vanish, not when it’s the only way to get my life back.
As hard as I can, I will the blue patch to disappear, but it doesn’t budge, just peers down from someplace over the ocean and mocks me.
There’s an old-fashioned car in the driveway when I arrive. All shiny and black and out of a silent movie. Nigel must have a visitor. When I head inside, I find him sitting in the living room in front of a bottle of Moët champagne and two glasses. “Jujube is home,” he roars like a proud lion as I walk in. “It’s a spectacular Wednesday, my sweet!”
I drop my backpack on the floor and squint out the window. “Did you see the sky? I think it’s going to pour.”
“I’ve been waiting for you to get here.” He stands up and starts to unwrap the wire and foil from the champagne bottle. “You and your devastatingly good-looking father are going to celebrate in high style tonight.”
This does not sound good. I have plans of my own and they don’t involve champagne or any sort of style, high or low. Actually, dancing in the rain beneath a filthy old bridge probably does qualify as low when it comes to style. “I kind of have plans.”
“Well, cancel ‘em. Because ‘Rockabye’ just went platinum today!”
He pops the champagne cork, which shoots across the room and whacks the painting above the fireplace, and he holds up the bottle with bubbles oozing down one side. I rush to sop them up with my sleeve before they hit the carpet and Nigel puts his arm around my shoulders. “Huh? What do you say to that, Missie J?”
Joules’s dad is so happy. It’s a big moment for him. Can he help it if the person he wants to celebrate with can’t get her mind off the weather? I mean, here’s this guy—this generous guy who practically any female on earth would kill to be with right now—celebrating what is really stupendous news. But me, I can’t drum up enough emotion to care.
I work hard to make my smile appear genuine and hug him back. “You deserve it, Nige—Dad. There isn’t a rocker-dad-dude on earth who deserves this more than you.”
He beams at this. “So you’re proud of your old father?”
“I could not be more proud of you. Seriously.” I look around. “Is someone here?”
His bedroom door creaks open and none other than the journalist from Vanity Fair walks out, buttoning her shirt. Ah. I should have known. But the car can’t be hers. I’d have noticed it in the driveway this morning.
“I guess I should head home then,” she announces as she picks up her purse and stands hopefully before him. “That is, unless you …”
He shoots her a disinterested two-fingered wave and starts pouring the champagne. Instead of handing her a glass, he takes one for himself and hands the other one to me. “Thanks for everything, Amanda. I’ll give you a ring.” From the way he says it, it seems she might be waiting by a silent phone for a long, long time.
She’s been dismissed. She nods to me, embarrassed, dejected, and slips out the front door.
I hold the champagne in my hand and say, “I’m not really feeling too champagne-ish right now.”
He gathers a set of keys. “No worries. You’ll feel like it when you hear what we’re about to do. Did you see my new toy out front?”
“The old car?”
“That’s not just an old car. It’s a classic. Come see.”
With a longing glance through the window at the churning sky, I follow him out the front door. And this time I take a closer look at the car. It’s boxy and high-windowed and decked out with running boards and wheels that look like jogging stroller tires. It shines. It gleams. On a sunny day, I’m sure it winks at passersby.
“Model T Ford,” Nigel says, setting his champagne glass on the roof. He reaches down to fiddle with something, then lifts the hinged hood cover from the side to show me the engine—the antique-y-ness of which might impress another girl, a girl who’s actually seen a modern-day engine, but is totally lost on me. “A 1926 Tudor sedan.”
I nod as if impressed and say the only thing I can think of. I don’t know much about cars. “Wow.”
“Over eighty years old. And look here.” He points to a scribble on the underside of the hood. “Ford himself signed it. Henry Ford himself!” After I look, smile, he re-latches the hood and climbs inside with his champagne.
I should focus on the car. I should focus on Nigel and his moment. He deserves this much from his only daughter. I mean, let’s face it. What is he going to remember when he’s ninety years old and sitting on his front porch with no more Vanity Fair journalists to entertain him—the times Joules ignored him? No. He’ll trawl through his memory and pull up a moment like this. He’ll roll it around in his head and suck every bit of joy he can from it before his nurse comes outside and smacks him for sneaking another cigarette.
Just as I reach for the door handle, the sky rumbles overhead. I look up. It’s nearly six o’clock now, so naturally the sky has darkened, but some of the clouds are nearly black with fury. Without question I’m about to get my storm.
Do I really want to get into t
he car and possibly miss my chance? I’ve lived in Southern California all my life and am perfectly aware that we could go weeks without a drop of rain. And what Joules and I need is a real soaker.
I lean over and look at Nigel through the window. “How long do you think we’ll be? I’m just thinking of my homework.”
Again, he throws back his head and laughs. “You kill me, Jujube. You really do.” He turns the key and, after a cough and a sputter, the engine shifts into an amplified rattle-rattle putt-putt. This huge grin spreads across his crumply face and he sets one hand on the gearshift.
Another rumble of thunder, and I’m not sure if I imagined it but there may have just been a flash of lightning over toward Anaheim. The storm could be here any minute. Besides that, Nigel is drinking.
“In you get, sweetheart. Let’s tear this town apart like only the two of us can.”
I could fake a headache. Or my period. With a girl as promiscuous as Joules a father has got to feel relief every time she gets it, right? Again, I think I feel a drip of rain on my face.
“Get in!”
He looks so happy. Come on, all the guy wants is to show off his toy, celebrate his news. Am I that selfish? I mean, Fullerton is a small town, one toot through the streets and we can be back in the driveway before the storm even gets going. It’ll be the gift of a lifetime for Nigel.
“What are you worried about—this?” He holds up his glass. “It’s not enough to get a squirrel drunk.” He revs the engine and the whole car starts to convulse.
What do I know about alcohol quantities? Still holding my champagne, I climb into the passenger seat. The magic of the moment must be getting to me because I find myself leaning across the seats and pressing a kiss to Nigel’s cheek.
He looks at me, awed, overjoyed. For a second I worry he may start to cry. But he just says, “It’s a good day, Jujube. A good day.” Then, with two stalls and two restarts and a mighty lurch, we’re off. Cruising through the darkening streets with streetlights zipping past like shooting stars, we sip champagne and sing along to “Rockabye” on the iPod Nigel has set up on the dashboard. In this fantastic old car, with champagne bubbles tickling my nose, I have to admit—it feels kind of good to be bad.
