“You know, I think people usually like those things for what’s inside.”
Hazel looked down at the long, lanky shadow cutting the sidewalk beside her. She recognized the shoes before the voice. They laced up the front and were cool in an old-school, grandpa kind of way. There was only one person she knew who could get away with wearing shoes like that.
“Jasper,” she sighed, planting her hands on the ground and hoisting herself up. “You scared me.”
She turned to find Jasper Greene smiling his trademarked heart-shaped grin, hands stuffed in the pockets of his faded blue jeans. Jasper was the first person Hazel had spoken to at her new school last fall. They were two of only four people who had signed up for the yearlong Mixed Media elective, and were often partnered up for projects. He was one of those rare floaters who didn’t really fit into any one group at school and, as a result, was totally comfortable talking to anyone. Whether or not either of them realized it, he was probably the closest thing Hazel had found recently to a friend.
“Who, me?” Jasper gasped, taking a step back. “You’re the one lurking around, all paparazzi style. Was that you jumping behind a tree when I got off the bus?”
Hazel rolled her eyes. “What are you doing here?” she asked, flapping the blurry Polaroid. She still felt jittery and wondered if it was the coffee.
“Taco truck on Harrison,” Jasper said, nodding toward the end of the block. His dark, curly hair flopped over his eyes and he pushed it away. “It’s a Sunday ritual. What about you?”
“Nothing,” Hazel blurted out. Jasper may have been the one person she knew well enough to talk to on the street, but it didn’t mean she was about to tell him her life story. “Just walking around.”
“Whatcha got there?” Jasper asked, gesturing to the photo she was still shaking in one hand. Hazel flipped it over and held it up with a shrug. It was a close-up of three books side by side. Hazel had been drawn to their mishmashed typeface and fraying seams.
“Cool.” Jasper smiled. “Miss Lew was totally right about you.”
“Right about what?” Hazel stuffed the photo in the pocket of her sweatshirt and pulled the soft material closer to her waist. Miss Lew was their art teacher, and the person who had demanded that Hazel apply to art school in New York City for the fall. In the end, Hazel had applied, though it was Miss Lew who had filled out the forms, sent in her portfolio, and even written a check for the application fee. Hazel had been accepted just after winter break. Miss Lew was ecstatic, and Hazel had pretended to be happy, but she already knew she wasn’t going. She’d never been out of the state of California, let alone all the way across the country, and what was the point of going to art school, anyway? It was silly, not to mention astronomically expensive. Taking pictures was something she did for fun, and to stay sane. She didn’t need a degree for that. Much less a lifetime of loans.
“She said you were the most talented photographer she’d ever had in class,” Jasper said flatly, looking Hazel squarely in the eyes. “She said you see things different than everyone else.”
Hazel’s skin prickled. It always gave her a jolt, hearing that other people were talking about her. Not so much that they had nice things to say, just that they had noticed her at all. Maybe it was because she moved around so much, or because she spent almost all of her time imagining her life was different. Imagining that she knew where she came from, who her parents were, what they looked like, what they did. Hazel had no idea who she really was; how was anybody else supposed to know her, either?
“I tried not to take offense,” Jasper went on with a smile. “Luckily, the word on the street is that New York is a pretty big town. Think there’s room for both of us?”
Jasper had gotten in early to film school at NYU. They’d worked together on a short film he’d done for his application, and he’d admitted that he’d always wished he was a better photographer. She thought the stills he’d taken on set were pretty good, but she hadn’t said anything.
“Anyway,” Jasper sighed dramatically, like talking to her was a challenge. Hazel had no idea why he tried so hard. “I’m about to head down to SOMA to check out this new gallery show,” he said. “It’s birds, I think. Or trees. Want to come?”
“Can’t,” Hazel said, scuffing the top of her sneaker against the rack of books. “I should get going, actually.”
Jasper tilted his head to one side, a thatch of dark hair shadowing his face. “How about later on? There’s supposed to be this really good Thai place near the museum.”
Jasper was always telling Hazel about the best new this or some totally underrated that. She imagined he must be on every mailing list and RSS feed in cyber-town, and couldn’t tell if he really wanted to hang out with her or just show off how many blogs he read.
“Can’t,” Hazel said again. “I have plans.”
Jasper nodded. “Right. Okay.” He clapped his hands and smiled again, his lips curling into a giant heart around his perfectly straight white teeth. “Tomorrow, then?”
Hazel checked her watch, a digital piece of plastic she’d won in an arcade in Santa Cruz. It was almost time to pick up her dress.
“Tomorrow?” she echoed, the tiniest hint of exasperation creeping into her voice. “Tomorrow’s Monday.”
“Perfect.” Jasper grinned. “Get the week started right.”
Hazel opened her bag and tucked her camera back inside.
“Hazel,” Jasper said quietly.
“Yeah?” Hazel responded, pulling her hair out from under the strap of her bag. “Sorry, I’m just, kind of, hurrying, I have to—”
“You’re going to have to give me a chance someday,” Jasper said lightly, holding her gaze again.
Just like that, Hazel’s cheeks were on fire. She checked her watch again, only this time she didn’t see anything but a blur of skin and plastic. “Okay,” she said, readjusting her bag and scurrying off down the street.
“Okay?” Jasper called after her, a laugh in his voice. “Tomorrow, then?”
Hazel tucked her hair behind her ears and prayed for the light to change so she could cross the street. After an eternity, it did. She yelled over her shoulder as she skipped to the crosswalk. “Sure, whatever.”
Jasper clasped his hands over his head, like a champion boxer at the center of the ring.
“I’ll take it,” he called out. “See you tomorrow!”
3
Hazel locked herself in a stall of the Ferry Building’s public restroom and hung the unopened garment bag from Posey’s shop on the door. She stared at its long, shadowy shape, trying to come up with reasons for leaving it zipped. Because unzipping it, she knew, would lead to trying the dress on. Trying the dress on would lead to wearing it, and once she was wearing it, she had little choice but to step out of the stall and exit the bathroom completely. And once she was outside, she knew where she’d end up. Her mother was in a restaurant less than the length of a football field away. And once she was in the same room with her mother—her mother!—she’d probably have to think of something to say.
But first, she’d have to get dressed.
Hazel ran her fingers through her hair, tugging at her auburn roots and squeezing her temples between the flats of her palms. She remembered the year she spent with Roy’s sister, Rae Ann, who lived on a lake up north. Rae Ann was intent on teaching Hazel to dive, and had shouted encouragement while Hazel stood on the dock. Hazel had gripped the edge of the wooden plank with her toes and watched them turn from red to pink to white. She’d learned how to swim only a few months before and couldn’t imagine anything worse than propelling herself headfirst into the cold, murky water. Everything inside of her was screaming to stop, turn around. Go back.
Eventually, she’d given up and taken the plunge. The cold shock of water stung her skin and she’d had a hard time catching her breath for a few moments afterward. But, in the end, she’d survived.
Hazel took a deep breath and unzipped the heavy gray plastic, reaching both hands i
nside the garment bag.
Right away, the dress felt different. Not “different” in the sense that Posey had done such amazing work that Hazel hardly recognized it. “Different” in the sense that it was a completely different dress.
Hazel sat down on the toilet seat lid. She heard a strange noise, like a gasping, or a breathy cackle, and it took her a few seconds to realize she was laughing.
Posey had given her the wrong dress! Of course she had. Of course Hazel would have nothing to wear. Of course she wasn’t going to meet her mother tonight.
A wave of relief rolled up and over Hazel. She’d been given the gift of an excuse. An actual excuse, something that was totally and completely beyond her control.
But quickly, the wave crashed, and Hazel was left shaking her head.
Really? Her mother, her birth mother, was in the room next door, and she wasn’t going to meet her? Because of somebody else’s stupid mistake?
She ripped the gown from the hanger and stepped out of her jeans, leaving them in a pile on the checkered floor. She pulled the dress up to her shoulders, wriggled her arms through the sleeves, slipped her feet into the boring black flats she’d found at Goodwill the week before, and pushed her way out of the stall.
The bathroom was empty and there were mirrors on all three walls, sending Hazel’s reflection back and forth, deep into layers of glass. Hazel stood in front of a row of porcelain sinks, her breath trapped in her lungs.
She turned around.
Because, although she knew it defied the law of optics, she had no choice but to assume that the reflection she was seeing, over and over again, belonged to somebody else.
The dress was stunning. She could see that now. It was a shimmery, teal green, and short, just like the other dress had been. But instead of abruptly ending at her knees, it sort of billowed out from her hips, giving her pale, slightly knock-kneed legs a shape. The neck was an easy, swooping cowl, and the delicate cap sleeves gave her usually sticklike arms the illusion of sleek contour.
But more than the way it looked, Hazel couldn’t believe the way the dress felt. Usually, her clothes hung on her body uncomfortably. This dress felt like it was made especially for her, barely even touching her skin in some places and resting like a material mist in others.
Hazel twirled and watched as the skirt spun behind her. She could feel her lips cinching up in a smile, and was about to take a second spin around when she heard low voices from the other side of the bathroom door.
Hazel scooted toward the sink and turned on a faucet, just as the door swung open. A petite woman with thick, blond hair passed behind her, dressed in head-to-toe black and bouncing a little girl on her hip. The girl was maybe two or three years old, her fine hair pulled back with rhinestone daisy clips.
“Wash our hands! Wash our hands!” the little girl was shouting gleefully, clapping her fingers together and holding her chubby arms out toward the sink.
“I know, I know, Bub,” the woman cooed as she flipped on the faucet with her elbow.
Hazel rubbed her own hands together under the water, trying not to stare. In the mirror, her eyes fell on the woman’s necklace, a simple chain with a purple stone or shell at the center.
“She’s in this water phase,” the woman said without looking up, and Hazel realized she was talking to her. “I don’t know what her deal is.”
“My deal, my deal,” the little girl sang, splashing in the running water. The woman rolled her eyes and smiled at the mirror, just as Hazel quickly turned, waving her hands beneath the automated paper towel dispenser.
Hazel collected her bag from the stall and made her way toward the door. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the woman kneeling low to the ground, whispering sweetly as she patted the little girl’s hands dry.
Normally, a scene like this made Hazel want to hit something. Without warning, her mind would instantly drift back to everything she’d lived without. All of the times she’d dried her own hands, all of the nicknames she’d never had. Her blood would burn; the veins in her forehead would start to twitch. Why should somebody else get all of the things that she never had?
But not tonight. Tonight, as the woman in black straightened the hem of her little girl’s skirt, Hazel smiled.
At last, she was going to meet her mother.
4
Hazel stood outside the sleek, windowed dining room of The Slanted Door, waiting for some kind of sign.
She wasn’t exactly sure what kind of a sign she was expecting. Maybe a Moses-like parting of the seas, where the crowd of well-heeled guests would split down the middle, creating a clear path from one side of the room to the other. A beam of light, perhaps, shining down on one woman, standing alone with arms outstretched, waiting to embrace her daughter—the daughter she’d given up but never forgotten.
What Hazel saw, instead, was a roomful of strangers gathered in a four-star restaurant. In fact, if it hadn’t been for a framed announcement propped on a wooden easel by the door, it could have been any group of sophisticated diners, out for a meal on any weekend night.
Hazel caught another glimpse of her reflection in the glass, the shimmering shadow of her face staring back at her. Her hair, though still growing out, looked straight and silky, and even her choppy bangs were behaving for once. Her blue eyes, which she’d always thought were too close together, sparkled and popped against the creamy white of her skin, and her nose, which was normally too long, looked, all of a sudden, elegant. She didn’t understand it, but somehow even her features had shifted. She was almost pretty.
Hazel steadied her trembling hands by clasping them together at her waist, blinked back a burning in her eyes, and took a step inside.
A low buzz of conversation filled the room, and people hovered in small groups around the sleek, brown leather booths. A buffet of fancy finger foods was set up against one wall, tiers of dumplings and tempura on shiny silver trays.
Hazel tucked her hair behind her ears and approached the unmanned hostess stand. The announcement listed the name of the foundation in a big, bold font: ARTS FOR ALL. And beneath it, a color photograph of the founder and director: Rosanna Scott.
It was a portrait-style headshot of a woman with long, thick gray hair, the kind of gray that was mostly silver. Her skin was smooth and her green eyes sparkled, her smile symmetrically perfect and bright.
For the first time in her life, Hazel was seeing a picture of her birth mother, and the first thought she had was: Nice teeth.
Hazel reached out and steadied her hands on the bottom of the black metal frame. She was starting to feel dizzy, and took a few deep breaths as she glanced around the room.
Where was she? What would she be doing when Hazel saw her first?
A dense crowd had gathered at the bar. Hazel took a few steps closer, and noticed that at the center of the group was an older man. He was by far the most casually dressed person in the room, wearing jeans and a navy blue button-down shirt. His salt-and-pepper hair looked uncombed and he leaned with one elbow on the bar, twirling a straw in circles against his glass.
Hazel stood with her arms stiff at her sides next to a centerpiece of tall, white lilies. At the other end of the buffet, an older woman with a short black bob was nodding as a tall, dark-skinned man with a speckled gray beard spoke.
“It’s just so terrible,” the man was saying. “I knew she’d been sick, but I didn’t realize how sick.”
Hazel folded her arms and turned away, uncomfortable eavesdropping on such an intimate exchange. But the couple was making their way down the table toward her, and the woman’s voice was high-pitched and impossible to ignore.
“It all happened so fast,” the woman sighed. “You know, I saw her just last month. She looked beautiful, as ever. Rosanna was so strong.”
Hazel’s breath caught in her throat, her heart squished against her ribs.
What all had happened so fast? And did she say was?
“Excuse me, dear.” The woman was touching h
er shoulder now. “Could you pass me a plate?”
Hazel looked from the woman to the stack of plates at her elbow, white porcelain with gold stripes around the edges. With robotic movements she picked one from the top and passed it over.
“Sorry,” Hazel heard herself saying. “Were you, did you just say …?”
The woman stared at Hazel, her eyes warm and understanding as she touched Hazel’s elbow. “Were you a friend of Rosanna’s?” she asked. Behind her, the man was tilting a miniature ceramic pitcher over his plate, pouring a stream of thick, dark soy sauce onto a pile of sticky white rice.
“Um, no.” Hazel’s vision blurred. “Rosanna?”
The woman continued to nod like a slow-motion bobblehead.
“Yes,” the woman said, selecting two pairs of chopsticks wrapped in red linen napkins. “It’s wonderful that they decided to go ahead with the event. Rosanna worked so hard on it every year. And I know she would’ve wanted us to remember her together.”
Hazel felt her eyes widening, her pulse raging in her ears. She looked around the room. Everyone was dressed in black. The somber man at the bar, receiving condolences. It wasn’t a party. It was a wake.
The man dropped a heavy hand on the woman’s shoulder and leaned in, whispering something about finding a table by the window. The woman smiled at Hazel and gave her elbow a final squeeze before following her companion across the room.
The ferry was just about to leave when Hazel scurried on board.
She had scrambled out of the restaurant in a haze, pushing open the double doors and shoving her way through the crowds of tourists arranging themselves into photographable poses as the sun slipped behind them and into the bay. Without thinking, she’d walked across the dock toward the boat to Marin, only remembering to buy a ticket when prompted by the indifferent attendant at the booth.
Her face was already wet with tears by the time she found a seat outside. The night air was cold and the wind whipped loose strands of hair into her stinging eyes.
Wishful Thinking Page 2
