“It’s called Compline,” he tells me, in a voice so low it’s hard to hear. “It’s a time of reflection and meditation at the end of the day. This one happens every Sunday at nine.”
“Oh,” I whisper, because I’m not sure what else to say. Or do, for that matter. I glance around the room, looking to see what other people are doing, but the closest person is at least twenty feet away. Everyone is so quiet. There are no whispers. There is no motion. Are we just supposed to sit here in the dark?
Then, out of the darkness, I hear a lone tenor, chanting in Latin, coming from one of the alcoves near the front. The voice is quickly joined by many others, all singing in beautiful, haunting harmony. I listen, trying to determine which side of the sanctuary the sound is coming from, but I can’t. The acoustics are too perfect to pinpoint the origin, and the choir is completely out of sight.
The words of the inscription come drifting back, as though carried by the music. Right now, the word “thick” feels more appropriate than “crowded.” The air feels thick with something divine. And in this one moment, any feelings of fear or confusion about my circumstances have been replaced by an overwhelming appreciation of the here and now. I say a quick, wordless prayer, thankful for a fleeting thought that has brought more clarity than any other. Grateful for this moment I so easily could have missed.
When the song ends a few minutes later, the room is completely silent. Then another song begins. Halfway through the third song, Michael leans over and puts his lips to my ear. “Like it?” he asks, his voice barely audible. His breath on my neck sends a shiver down my spine. I turn, finding his ear.
“Yes,” I breathe. And though I want to say more—how magical and significant this feels, how deeply I’m moved by the music, how honored I am that he shared this with me—I don’t, in part because I don’t want to interrupt the silence but mostly because I know words won’t be enough. So I touch my lips to his cheek in a soundless kiss—a silent thank-you—then sit back against the wooden pew, letting the music and the darkness envelope me. He finds my hand and squeezes it. Neither of us lets go.
OCTOBER
6
THERE
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 11, 2008
(opening night for my mom’s exhibit)
“There are a couple of calls you need to know before you get on the water,” she tells me, pulling her blond curls into a ponytail. We’re sitting side by side on a picnic table near the river’s edge, watching the rowers run laps around the boathouse. “You obviously shouldn’t push off until everyone is ready, so your first call will always be ‘number off from bow.’ The bowman will call, “Bow!” and then the rest of the rowers will shout out their seat numbers. Once you hear ‘stroke,’ check to see that it’s clear, then push off.”
“Number off from bow,” I repeat. Does it matter that I don’t know who the bowman is?
Turns out the smiley blond girl from astronomy (whose name I now know is Megan) is a coxswain for Brookside’s crew team. I didn’t even know what a coxswain was until three days ago when Josh told me the crew team was looking for one and suggested that my gimp foot and I would be perfect for the job. They needed a coxswain, and I needed a varsity sport for my Northwestern application. Lacking other options, I decided to give it a shot. The coach was so elated that he didn’t even make me try out. Say hello to the newest member of the Brookside crew team.
I’m making an effort to stay positive—about this and everything else. The effort is necessary, because without it I succumb to sulking and pouting and generally feeling sorry for myself, which isn’t the way I normally react to setbacks, but appears to be my default response to this one. For the first couple of days, I moped around like Eeyore, stuck under a giant cloud of gloom, until Caitlin finally shook me out of it (literally, took me by the shoulders and shook me, practically giving me whiplash in the process).
“I know it’s a lot to take in,” Megan is saying. “But you’re doing really great for your first day.” She smiles encouragingly. “Before you leave, I’ll give you a handout that lists all the calls with a little picture that tells you when to use them.”
“That’d be awesome,” I say with a grateful smile. “Thanks.”
“I’m the one who should be thanking you!” she gushes. “Because we only had one cox for the men’s team—me—Coach had to split practice so I could run both boats. I had no life.” She leans back on her elbows, arching her back to let the sun hit her face.
How can such a small girl have such big boobs?
“How long have you been on the team?” I ask. “I didn’t even know we had one until I met Josh.”
“He’s great, isn’t he?” Megan says, flashing a smile at Josh as he runs past us. He returns her smile, then waves at me. “Are y’all a couple?”
“Oh—no,” I say quickly, shaking my head. “Just friends.” In reality, I’m not sure you can even call us that. We haven’t hung out outside school since the night I hurt my foot. And we don’t really hang out at school, either. The polite “Hey!” we lob at each other across the room during fifth period is pretty much the extent of our social interaction. His suggestion that I join the crew team was the longest conversation we’d had since Ilana’s party, and it was only two sentences long. How pathetic is it that talking to him was the highlight of my week? Fortunately, I’ve been doing a better job of keeping my feelings to myself. I’ve been polite but aloof. No more stalkerish staring in astronomy. No more asking him out. If there’s gonna be a next move, it’ll have to come from him.
So far he hasn’t made one.
Caitlin thinks I secretly like the fact that Josh is so enigmatic. That the uncertainty keeps it interesting. It does, but that’s not why I find him so appealing. I like him because when he’s around, I feel really, really awake, like I’ve just drunk a Venti Red-Eye and chased it with Red Bull. It’s not an adrenaline rush, exactly (the boy wears crew socks with loafers), it’s just that when he’s around—even if he’s on the other side of the room and not paying any attention to me—I stop thinking about all the things I normally obsess over, i.e., the Things That Matter: my grades, my college applications, my future, my Plan. When Josh is there, wherever “there” is, the only moment that matters is the present one. The rest of it just falls away.
“So you’re not a couple then?” I hear Megan ask.
“Not a couple,” I reply, resisting the urge to add the word “yet.”
Megan’s eyes light up. “Could you talk to him for me, then?” she asks. “Be subtle, of course. If he doesn’t like me, I don’t want him to know that I like him. . . .” Megan smiles self-consciously. She’s pretty. I-can’t-help-it-that-I’m-adorable pretty. Ugh.
“Uh, sure,” I reply. “No problem.” What was I supposed to say? No, sorry, I can’t talk to him for you because I’m still hoping he’s secretly in love with me?
“Thanks!” She hops off the picnic table and turns to face me. “Let’s head down to the water,” she suggests, handing me my crutches. “I can explain the rest of the calls on the way.”
When we reach the water’s edge, Megan climbs into a boat mounted on wooden blocks a few feet from the dock. “This is our practice shell,” she says. “Hop in!” As soon as she says it, she giggles. “I guess you’re not doing a lot of hopping, huh?” she says. “Do you need help getting in?”
“No,” I say irritably, laying my crutches on the ground next to the boat. “I can put weight on it, just not for long periods of time.” I swing my leg over the edge and ease down onto the seat facing Megan, my knees at her nose.
“Where you’re sitting, that’s the stroke seat,” she tells me. “So depending on what boat you’re in, that’s either Josh or Brad.” Megan prattles on about the various boat positions, but I don’t hear her. I’m too busy fixating on the fact that I’m supposed to remember what to call, when to call it, and how to steer the boat with my face at Josh’s thighs.
“To steer to port, pull the cord on your right toward you, lik
e this. To steer to starboard, pull the cord on your left. Just remember that it’ll take a few strokes for your actions to take effect—the worst thing you can do is—”
“The stroke seat, is that a good position?” I ask, interrupting her. “Is that where the best rower sits or the worst, or does it not work like that?”
“Oh, definitely the best,” Megan replies. “From a technical standpoint, at least.”
“So, Josh . . . he’s pretty good, then?”
“Like, ridiculously good,” she says. “His team got the gold last year at the World Rowing Junior Championships in France.” Megan glances over at the rowers, now huddled together for a team meeting. I follow her gaze. Josh is listening intently to whatever the coach is saying. “I wonder what else he’s good at?” she whispers, then starts giggling uncontrollably.
She did not just say that.
“So how’d you and Josh meet?” I ask, steering the conversation to less nauseating ground.
“Here,” she replies. “I was supposed to give him a tour of the boathouse before practice, but we never made it past the locker room. Not that anything like that happened. Not yet, anyway.” More giggling. The sound is really getting on my nerves. “We just started talking and the next thing we knew, it was time for practice. We, like, totally clicked.” She looks past me to where the rowers are gathered and brazenly stares at Josh’s butt.
“Megan!” Coach Schwartz calls. “Need you over here!” He motions for her to join the group.
“He means you, too,” Megan tells me, climbing out of the boat. “He’s just forgotten your name. He forgets everyone’s name, so don’t take it personally.” She picks up my crutches and hands them to me. “His bark is also worse than his bite, so if you mess up out there and he yells at you, don’t let it bother you too much.”
“I’m going out on the water?” I assumed I’d get to watch today from the safety of dry ground. “Isn’t it a little too soon for that?”
“Don’t worry, you’ll be great,” she assures me. “I’m sure Coach will put you with the M8A, which means you won’t have to do much, anyway. With the water being as calm as it is, you won’t even have to steer. Josh can handle the calls.”
“Megan!” Coach bellows. “Now!”
I follow Megan over to where the team is gathered, trying not to look like a total gimp in the process. When she introduces me as the team’s newest coxswain, everyone cheers and claps. When I count how many of them I’ve met before, I’m startled to discover that it’s less than half. How do I not know these people? Brookside isn’t that big. Then again, I’ve been hanging out with the same crowd since freshman year and haven’t exactly made the effort to branch out beyond Caitlin, Tyler, the golf team, and some girls from the Oracle staff. These kids seem nice. And super serious about their sport. As Coach Schwartz runs through the plan for practice, they hang on every word.
Megan was right about the M8A, which I soon learn stands for the men’s eight A, the team’s fastest boat. They barely need a coxswain, which is great, since having me onboard is basically the same thing as not having one at all. She was also right about Josh. He’s ridiculously good.
He doesn’t let me off easy, though. “The only way to learn the calls is to do them,” he tells me as he helps me into the boat. “So I’ll tell you what to call, but you’ve got to call it. As loud as you can.”
“I thought I got to wear a little microphone,” I say, pointing at the headset Megan has on.
“You will,” he replies, and smiles. “Eventually. The cox box does a lot of the work for you, but the best coxes don’t need one.”
“How about the no-clue-what-they’re-doing coxes?”
“Eh. They don’t know how to use ’em, anyway.”
“So, Wags, we actually gonna get in the water today or what?” It’s Phillip Avery, the bowman, who, if Josh’s body language is any indication, is Josh’s least favorite person on the team. Phillip also happens to have been my date to Homecoming freshman year, which ended with my leaving him on the dance floor and walking home after he tried to stick his hand up my dress during Coldplay’s “Fix You.” We haven’t spoken since.
“Since this is Abby’s first day,” Josh says evenly, “I thought, being captain, I might explain to her what she’ll be doing before she does it. That okay with you, Phil?” Phillip hates to be called Phil.
I look down at the dock, swallowing a smile. Astronomy Boy is a badass in spandex.
Phillip mutters something unintelligible.
Josh carries on, undeterred by the seven impatient rowers standing behind him. I glance over at the B boat, already fifty yards down the river. Megan’s voice echoes in the air.
“Come on, guys! Put it in clean!”
“I’d like to put it in clean,” Phillip says under his breath.
“Wouldn’t we all,” the guy next to him says wistfully. “She’s so freaking hot.”
Josh looks past me to Megan. He’s still talking about steering technique, but his eyes are on her. And her big, perfectly perky boobs.
“I think I’m ready,” I say suddenly, cutting him off midsentence. “Now.”
His eyes snap back to mine. “Yeah?”
“Sure.” I shrug, feigning confidence. “How hard can it be?”
Turns out, even when you have someone telling you what to do and when to do it, coxing is still hard. Really. Freaking. Hard.
By the time practice ends two hours later, I’m exhausted. My butt aches, my throat hurts, and my brain is approaching overload. It takes every ounce of my remaining energy to hobble to my car. So much to remember! So much to do! Cross-country is effortless compared to this. All you have to do is run. Coxing is so much more work, and it’s not even a workout. But at the same time, it’s oddly exhilarating. Being out on the water. Being in charge. Being six inches from Josh.
“Abby!” I jump when I hear my name. I turn to see Josh jogging toward me, his hair wet from the shower. “I was worried you were gone already,” he says, coming up beside me. “I’m glad you’re not. Here, let me take these.” He reaches for the keys dangling from my pinkie finger.
I smile, dropping the keys onto his outstretched palm. Megan who? I feel a flash of guilt for agreeing to talk to him for her. But it’s not like she gave me much of a choice.
“You really rocked out there!” he says enthusiastically.
“Ha. Yeah, right.”
“I’m serious. You just need to get more comfortable with the commands,” he tells me. “Your instincts were great.”
“I’m not sure I believe you, but thanks. It was fun. More fun than I thought it’d be,” I admit.
We reach my car. Josh unlocks the doors and opens the driver’s-side door for me. “Big plans tonight?” he asks, sliding my crutches into the backseat.
“Oh, just this museum event,” I say. “With my parents,” I add, just to be clear.
“Cool,” Josh says, and hands me back my keys. I just stand there, smiling, waiting for him to suggest that we get together some other time. That’s why you ask someone about their Saturday night plans, right? Because you want to ask them out?
“Have fun tonight,” is all Josh says. He gives me a little wave, then heads to his Jeep. Defeated, I plop down in my driver’s seat.
He must like Megan. That’s the only explanation. Okay, it’s not the only explanation, but it’s the only one I want to accept. I’d rather believe that he fell for the smokin’ hot girl on the crew team than think he just doesn’t like me.
There’s only one way to find out.
I grab my cell phone from the glove compartment and quickly dial his number, waiting until he’s in his Jeep to press send. He answers on the second ring.
“Hey,” he says, looking my direction.
“Hi. I was wondering what you thought of Megan.”
“Megan Watts?”
“Megan the coxswain.”
“Megan the coxswain is Megan Watts,” Josh says. “What do you mean, what do I think
of her? I think she’s a good coxswain.” I lean forward in my seat to get a better look at his face, but there’s a glare on his windshield.
“I meant, are you interested in her? As a girlfriend.”
“Why?”
“Because I think you’d be a great couple,” I lie, fiddling with the zipper on my backpack.
Josh is silent on the other end of the line. When I look up, his Jeep is pulling away. I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t.
This is awkward.
“I just didn’t want you to feel weird about it,” I say quickly. “If you like her. Because I’m fine with it. If you do.”
“Great,” Josh says, his voice totally void of anything for me to latch onto and analyze. “Thanks.” There is a sinking feeling inside my chest.
“Okay, well . . .” How does one end a conversation like this gracefully? Hope it works out! Obviously not, but somehow the equally ridiculous words “Good luck!” spring from my lips. Then, before it can get any worse, I hang up on him.
“I am a lunatic,” I say to the phone in my hand. Now what? Do I call him back? Send him a text blaming a bad connection?
Caitlin calls before I can do either.
“Hey,” I say, answering. “I think I just set Josh up with Megan Watts.”
“Who’s Megan Watts?”
“The other cox. Curly blond hair, big boobs. The guys on the crew team thinks she’s really hot.”
“Why would you try to set Josh up with another girl?” she asks. “Wait. Lemme guess. It was some twisted plan to see if he liked you, and it backfired.”
I sigh. “Something like that.”
“How’d I know? Listen, I want to help you overanalyze every detail of this, but I only have a minute before I have to be at the lab.”
Parallel Page 15
