“No, it’s not.” He traded with me. His copy had bananas wearing hats doodled on it. “I don’t own a green pen.”
He couldn’t see the goose bumps that rose beneath his sister’s sweatshirt, but something must have registered in my expression, because his eyebrows drew in. “Are you okay?”
I sank onto the bench. If it wasn’t his, then whose list was this? How did it get in my former book, with the title of my next book already underlined? “I need you to switch books with me.”
“No.”
“What?” I lifted my head. I’d been concentrating on the floor and my breathing so the feeling of disorientation would go away, but now it was back. This was supposed to be straightforward. Even Ms. Gregoire had implied as much.
“Is that why you came over? The whole baking thing was to soften me up?” Curtis’s expression was chiseled from unfamiliar stone, like irritation had sharpened his bones and made him look more like his younger, angrier brother. “Not happening.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Are you really going to tell me reading Anne of Green Gables means that much to you?”
“Yes.” He put down the list that wasn’t mine and wasn’t his. “Not because of my author-name connection; because of you.”
“Me?” I hadn’t read more than the summary yet, but the heroine was a wildly imaginative red-haired orphan. I was none of those things.
“I messed up the first time I met you. We both know it. I’d never met anyone as . . . stunning. And, fine, I may have drooled and stared. But we’ve spent so much time together since then. I thought I’d proven I see you as more than that. We’re friends—sort of. But if you don’t get why I want Anne of Green Gables as my book . . .” He shook his head. “I’ve never identified with a character as much as I do with Gilbert after he called Anne ‘Carrots’ the first time they met.”
If his goal had been to make me back off, it had backfired. Because now I was lit up with curiosity. I had no idea what any of that meant, but I couldn’t wait to read and find out. “I’m over it—the way you were the first time we met.”
He leaned down. “Are you?”
“I—” I had to shut my mouth and consider. I’d hated him in that moment. It had occurred during our first five minutes on campus. Fielding had just made a horrible impression on Merri, and Curtis had followed up by stumbling over himself to ogle me. In that instant I’d been ready to eschew fancy science labs and flee back to the all-girls school. Better the bullies I knew than guys who proved that my parents were correct—that I’d never be seen as more than my face or body. Maybe some part of me nursed a kernel of resentment toward him, but if so, I was discarding it now. “I am.”
He searched my face with eyes that seemed to discern more than I wanted to reveal. “Everything you said at lunch today—is that what your parents tell you, or do you really believe it?”
“I don’t know. Definitely the first, and I used to believe them, but . . .” I met his eyes. “I didn’t mean to hurt everyone—I was angry and I wasn’t thinking. And I just . . . I want . . .”
He took a step forward. His chest rising in deep breaths and his voice low as he asked, “You want what?”
“I want . . .” I licked my lips. They tasted like sugar, even though I’d turned down every spatula and spoon he’d offered to let me lick. My eyes fell to his mouth—he’d indulged in every batter-laden utensil I’d rejected, so I bet his tasted even sweeter. Or were contaminated with salmonella. But that risk felt less risky than finishing my thought. “I want—”
The beep-beep-beep of the oven timer split the air. We both blinked like we were inhaling pure oxygen after having been underwater for too long. It didn’t matter what I wanted. My life came with directions, and none of them factored my wants into their formulas. Wants were for some point after my first PhD. Right now was for laying the groundwork for future achievements.
Curtis hadn’t moved. His eyes hadn’t left mine, even as the intensity in them had dimmed to mirror my own emotional withdrawal. “I’ve got to—” He glanced over his shoulder at the beeping oven. “Hold that thought.”
By the time he’d set the second tray on the counter and walked back over—oven mitt still on his hand—the moment was so far gone I couldn’t even imagine what I’d been thinking.
He prompted me with, “You were saying?”
“Forget it.” That part was for him; the second was for myself. “Please, forget it.”
16
Curtis and I were still standing by the door when it opened and a woman who looked like an older version of Wink walked in.
“Hello.” She hung her purse and coat on hooks, slid her feet out of black flats, then turned to us with wide, expectant eyes. She had shorter hair than her daughter and dressier clothing, but the same slim build, the same features. Her smile was pure Curtis—curiosity and mischief. “Who’s this?”
“Hey, Mom.” He stepped aside to give her room. “Eliza came over to help me bake the cupcakes for Sera and Hannah.”
“Hi,” I said. What sort of horrible impression did it give that I was wearing Wink’s clothing?
“This is Eliza?” Mrs. Cavendish’s eyebrows had risen like two graceful halves of a drawbridge, her expression underneath both intrigued and amused. “It’s very nice to meet you.”
Would she still think that after she’d heard about the mess I made in her kitchen? I hoped Curtis had cleaned well, because her black sweater and slacks would highlight every fleck of flour he’d missed.
“It’s nice to meet you too, but I should go. I . . .” I couldn’t think of a single excuse. The only things waiting for me were Nancy’s closed door and homework and brooding over how badly I’d messed up today. Oh, and coming up with a science fair project, a new book for Gregoire’s assignment, and studying quiz bowl questions. “I’ll see you at school, Curtis.”
His mom asked me to stay for dinner, and Curtis protested that I hadn’t tried the cupcakes, but I shook my head, grabbed my backpack and floured skirt, and fled.
Maybe I didn’t want to read Anne of Green Gables. There were other books on the list. Other books that wouldn’t be half the hassle. Maybe I wouldn’t like it. I downloaded an ebook sample as I reheated the dinner plate Nancy had left out for me.
It took an entire chapter before Anne Shirley appeared on my phone screen, but once she was there I was captivated. She was an orphan headed to live with a pair of elderly siblings at their house, Green Gables. Only, they’d requested a male child. And Matthew Cuthbert, the elderly brother who picked her up from the train station, was too overwhelmed by her vivacity to tell her the truth.
Anne was nothing like me. She was effusive and imaginative and outgoing. She described herself as “homely,” and she wished for beauty. She coveted pretty clothing and romance. Each of Anne’s meandering conversations made my chest ache, because she reminded me of Merri—who hadn’t responded to my Can we talk? texts.
I’d made up my mind about the story: It needed to be mine. Anne was unlike me, and she was also eleven. This book felt safe. I wasn’t going to overidentify; there wasn’t going to be romance. It was the perfect novel for my project. Now I needed to convince Curtis.
He’d snuck into my thoughts with annoying frequency as I read. Not just because I was trying to formulate how to persuade him, but because I was impatient to find out what he meant by “Carrots” and because Anne, like him, had an unfortunate habit of giving things ridiculous nicknames: “White Way of Delight,” “Lake of Shining Waters.”
The sample pages ended with Matthew and Anne’s arrival at Green Gables, stopping before she learned that she wasn’t the male orphan they’d requested and before I got any clarity about Curtis’s strange apology about vegetables and first impressions.
I wanted to buy the book and keep reading—but I couldn’t. I had my own apology to plan.
On Friday morning I hit every red light on the short drive between my house and Merri’s. I had an apology written and rehearsed, plus
a backup plan for if she didn’t want to hear it. And another backup plan for if that one failed.
Because I had failed. Merri loved love—she loved big and deeply, and she loved with her whole heart and imagination. My job as her best friend was to protect her from a world that delighted in smacking down those who dared to wear their heart on their sleeve. I never wanted her to lose her enthusiasm. Or to stop daydreaming and what-if-ing. Her optimism was often the only antidote to the cynicism that pooled in my thoughts when I spent too much time alone.
And yet . . . I’d attacked all of that with jealousy and anger and confusion—cloaking my accusations with science and strategic insults. I was ready to take full responsibility and also confess the why behind it. The things—and the boy—that had been keeping me up at night. But when I walked into their kitchen, Mr. and Mrs. Campbell blinked in surprise and lowered their coffee mugs in that eerie synchronicity old married couples develop. “Hi, Eliza,” said Mrs. Campbell. “Merri’s already left. She went with Rory and Toby.”
“I assumed you had another early morning meeting,” Mr. Campbell added.
“No.” I tapped my phone screen, sending her the backup apology I’d pretyped in preparation for this scenario. “Must’ve been a mix-up.”
“But since you’re here: Merri was searching for her crossover tie all morning, and I spotted it thirty seconds after she left.” Mrs. Campbell put a finger to her lips. “If I can remember where I saw it, will you bring it in?”
“Of course.” I smiled; that would be the perfect excuse to initiate conversation.
“How’s the book coming?” Mr. Campbell asked as his wife left to go tie-hunting.
“I changed books. Well, I’m in the process of it. Hopefully I’m doing Anne of Green Gables. I thought I’d find Anne insufferable and over-the-top—but she’s charming. So far she reminds me a lot of Merri.”
Mr. Campbell scratched Gatsby’s ears. “I haven’t thought of Green Gables in years. I read it to the girls at bedtime when they were little. I see some Merri in her—but Anne’s a lot more stubborn than my pixie.”
“True. Merri forgives so easily.” This was wishful thinking and also subterfuge; I studied his face to see if he had any idea we were fighting, then added another truth. “I hold grudges.”
“Ah, so does Anne. You also have her drive and ambition.”
I shrugged. “I haven’t read that far, but I’ll take that as a compliment?”
“I meant it as one.” He smiled over the brim of his mug. “So, do you have time to talk CRISPR, or know anything about this gravity pulse? The one from last year that made everyone momentarily taller and shorter? I’m baffled.”
“Hold on to those questions—because they’re perfect.” I’d been rolling around an idea in my head, and the longer I considered it, the more attached I’d become. “You know how you always joke I should do a podcast?”
He nodded.
“What if we did?” I twisted my fingers together. “There’s this science fair coming up . . .”
I paused to collect my courage, and he chuckled. “My science fair expertise taps out with baking soda volcanoes and Styrofoam models of the solar system—something tells me you’re beyond that.”
“That’s actually the point.” Science shut the door on so many people. It made them feel like they weren’t qualified to learn, and so they stopped trying. What if I changed that? “You have lots of questions about science, but no accessible source of answers.”
“Besides you. You’re like my own personal science-Google.”
“But what if that was my project?”
He nudged Gatsby away and sat up straighter. “I’m not following.”
“What if I made a project out of taking complex science questions and turning them into answers the average person could understand? With examples and anecdotes from real life. Merri loves an allegory; I’ve picked up a thing or two.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “You’d provide the answers, and I’d . . . what? Come up with questions?”
“Yes. You’d keep me from veering too technical.” I wasn’t sure if this project was “science-y” enough for the science fair. But I’d grown up in a household that weaponized science. My parents used it to make themselves feel big and others small—and somewhere along the line, I’d internalized that elitist model. I’d proved that yesterday when I’d used “science” to attack Sera and Hannah and everyone else in love. This podcast—creating something that invited people in instead of shutting them out—could be my atonement and so much more. My stomach fluttered as I asked, “Would you help? I can work around your schedule.”
“I’d be honored. I might not understand everything, but I’ll do my best to keep up. I like seeing you excited about something, kiddo. You’re always working so hard to pretend you don’t care. It’s good to see you let yourself shine bright.”
I wanted to contradict him—tell him he was wrong, but . . . he wasn’t. I beamed. “The whole point of the project would be for me to explain so you can understand. If I don’t, your job is to tell me, so I can give a better explanation.”
“I can do that.” He raised his mug and clinked it against my water bottle.
“Thank you!” I didn’t bounce on my toes or clasp my hands together like Merri would’ve, but for the first time in days, I felt like I could take a full breath. At least one aspect of my life was semi-settled. “Can we start tomorrow? Anytime. I’ll come to you.”
“Let’s do it,” he said, and I may have done a subtle bounce.
“Found it!” Mrs. Campbell was a little breathless from rushing down the stairs. “I remembered Merri was using it as a bookmark, but I couldn’t remember where the book was.” She sighed in exasperation. “On the side of the bathtub. I hope I haven’t made you late.”
“No,” I said. “Your timing is perfect.”
After I left the Campbells’, my morning went quickly downhill. I struggled to hold on to my science-project joy as I sat beside Merri in bio. She wasn’t giving me the silent treatment—she’d thanked me for bringing her her school tie—but she was the least–Anne Shirley version of Merri I’d ever seen. One who didn’t chatter whenever the teacher’s back was turned, or wait to walk with me to our classes, and didn’t meet my eye across the lunch table—not even to tease when Curtis announced I’d helped make the cupcakes.
She didn’t smile when he reenacted how I’d “made it rain flour” to the amusement and apparent forgiveness from everyone else at the table. She didn’t declare custody of the leftover cupcake after I’d declined mine. She looked like someone had programmed her to run at half-speed, muted her colors, or turned down her volume.
I hated every second of it. Hated that I’d been the cause, and that my text apology and the written note I’d slipped in her locker hadn’t undone the damage.
I left lunch early and headed to the library, where I logged into my email and dashed off a message to my parents. One I didn’t preplan or agonize over. What would it take for you to consider staying here when you come home?
There’d been a second line of text, one I was smart enough to delete before pressing Send but that I could still picture on the screen, even after I logged out. Or let me come with you—I hate being alone. I miss having a family.
17
“Eliza!” Curtis jogged across the lawn toward where I was waiting in the mass of students funneling into the Convocation Hall. People parted to let him through. “Eliza, hey!”
“How complicated is ‘Don’t walk on the grass’? Why do you have such a hard time following that rule?”
“Because it’s a stupid rule. It’s grass. Being walked on is its job.” Curtis smiled, but it looked fake. His eyes were dim. “Listen, let’s get out of here.”
“What?”
“Let’s . . . go to the library or my house or yours.” He wrapped his long fingers around my wrist as the crowd shifted around us.
I yanked out of his grip, accidentally banging into the person b
ehind me. I offered an automatic “I’m sorry,” but didn’t turn to see who’d gotten an elbow to the kidneys. “No. Absolutely not.”
“C’mon, Firebug. You really don’t want to—”
“Skip school? You’re right, I really don’t want to.” I turned and aggressively wove my way through the crowd. How could he know so little about me? I thought . . .
I slid into the first empty row I passed. I kept my chin up, my eyes forward. Headmaster Williams stood at the podium, droning about something, but I was busy steeping in my emotions—a stew of annoyance, loneliness, and stress.
“—by the parents of one of our own.”
I sat straighter. Something about his words had penetrated my introspection. The back of my neck began to sweat.
“I’m sure by now you’ve realized we have the science community’s equivalent of royalty among us. She’s rather hard to miss.”
My classmates were stirring. Some were craning their necks like this was that children’s book and I was Waldo. Some jerk whistled, and Headmaster Williams paused to narrow his eyes at a clump of senior boys.
“Not only are we lucky to have Ms. Gordon-Fergus in our student body—” My cheeks burned. There were snickers as I’m sure at least a half dozen students made the crude joke Headmaster Williams’s comment had set up. He ignored them. “We’ll also be sending a record number of students to the prestigious Avery Science Competition this year. You may be asking, how are these connected? Well, the doctors Gordon and Fergus are among this year’s judges.”
He paused while students clapped. My hands didn’t move. “Ms. Gordon-Fergus is every bit as remarkable as the daughter of two brilliant minds should be. And since I’m sure she has insight about the Avery, I’m going to put her on the spot—”
My eyes widened. I turned to locate the nearest exit, trying to determine if I could get through it before Headmaster Williams finished his thought—
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