“We were upstairs,” April says. “On the roof.”
Dad turns to us. “You know we don’t want you going up there,” he says. “It’s not safe.”
“Sorry,” I say.
April rolls her eyes, but I notice a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. Wuss, she mouths.
“Nate, are you staying for dinner?” Mom asks. “You’re more than welcome. There’s going to be plenty.”
“Thanks, but I’ve got to get back home,” he says. “Catch you later, April.”
They stare at each other for a moment, then she gives him a quick kiss and pushes him out the front door.
“Interesting,” Dad observes. Mom just smiles.
I take a seat at the breakfast bar. April joins me, her cheeks flushed, but then she tips her head in Mom and Dad’s direction, and I know she’s back to thinking about the problem at hand: talking to them about how much I hate working at the store. Part of me wishes she would kick the conversation off, since it was her idea to talk to them, but a bigger part knows I need to do this for myself.
“Mom, Dad,” I say, my voice loud enough that they both jump, “I have something to tell you.”
Dad puts down the knife he was using. “What’s up?”
I take a deep breath to prepare myself. There’s a good chance they’re going to get defensive, or act like they have no idea what I’m talking about and try to change the subject. They might even give me some kind of lame excuse. But it’s like I learned in the debate class Shruthi and I took junior year—it’s okay if you’re forced to refute a counterargument or dodge a curveball as long as you get back on track as soon as possible.
Except there’s also another possibility: They could listen. If that happens, then they’ll know the truth. They’ll be forced to stare it in the face and grapple not only with how they’ve been making me feel, but how dysfunctional things are between them. I know that’s the whole point of telling them—to clear the air so we can fix things. But sitting here, watching them making dinner, I’m not sure I can do it. I’ve spent so long keeping the peace between them. If I shatter it now and everything falls apart, it’ll be my fault.
Everyone is watching me, waiting. I can feel their expectation, especially April’s. God, I don’t want to let her down. But I can’t do this. I can’t.
“Jenn?” she says.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I can’t.”
“That’s okay,” she says. “I can.”
Before I fully grasp what she means, April turns in her seat to face Mom and Dad. “It’s not fair for you to make Jenn stay here and work at the store. She hates it there, and it’s your fault.”
Dad jerks back, almost like he was slapped. “Excuse me?”
“She didn’t mean that,” I say quickly. “She was—”
“I did mean that,” April says. “You guys are always fighting, and it’s not just screwing up the business. It’s screwing up Jenn’s life.”
I drop my head into my hands.
“What is your sister talking about?” Dad asks.
I take a long, steadying breath. I can do this. “The thing is,” I say slowly, “you guys are almost never in the store. And when you are, you’re always fighting. Even in front of customers.”
“That’s not true,” Mom says. “We may disagree from time to time, but we never let strangers see us do it.”
“Well, I don’t,” Dad says. “But your mother definitely has a habit of raising her voice in public.”
Mom slams the tomato she’s holding onto the counter with such force I’m surprised it doesn’t explode. “Me?” she says. “You’re the one who is constantly losing your temper—”
“Stop!” I shout. “This is exactly what I’m talking about. One of you will say something rude, and the other will jump at the chance to respond. Then before I know it, you’re screaming at each other. It happened yesterday, when that lady came in for a lamp.”
“And today,” April adds. “Two guys came in while we were in the office. You were fighting so loudly that they left.”
Dad clears his throat. “That’s . . . that’s good to know. But how your mother and I handle our relationship isn’t really your concern—”
“It’s absolutely our concern,” April says. “Who knows, if you two would stop fucking fighting all the time—”
“April!” Dad barks. “Watch your language.”
“Sorry,” she says. “What I meant is, if you stopped fighting, the business would probably do better. We might even make enough so you could hire extra help. Then Jenn wouldn’t have to work at the store.”
“It’s not that simple,” Mom says.
“Maybe not,” I interject, “but it’s not really the point I’m trying to make either.” I take another steadying breath. This is it. There’s no more beating around the bush. “I’ve always wanted to go away to college,” I say carefully, “but it’s not just because I wanted to live somewhere else. It’s because I don’t want to live here.”
“Why not?” Dad says, his voice full of surprise. “You love LA.”
“I do,” I say. “Especially after today.”
Beneath the breakfast bar, April reaches over and gives my hand a squeeze. I squeeze back.
“But I’m constantly caught in the middle of your fighting,” I continue, “and I can’t do it anymore. I can’t take care of you and your business.”
Mom’s face falls, and my confidence falters. I don’t want to hurt them. I really, really don’t. But I think about what April said on the roof, and I push forward. “It’s not my responsibility to take care of you guys.”
The kitchen goes quiet, the only noise coming from the clock on the wall. I look back and forth between Mom and Dad, willing them to understand. One look at April tells me she’s doing the same.
“I’ll be honest,” Dad says at last, “you’ve caught me a bit off guard, so I’m not exactly sure what to say. But I’m sorry if we’ve made you feel like you have to be in the middle of our, erm, arguments.”
“So am I,” Mom says quietly.
Dad sinks into a chair at the kitchen table and rubs his eyes. “As for working at the store, I don’t see how we can change that right away, but we’ll discuss it.”
“What about Stanford, though?” April asks. “Are you seriously not going to let her go?”
Mom stiffens. “We can’t be expected to change our minds at the last second just because the two of you decide to join forces, April. It’s completely unreasonable.”
“But you’ve known I wanted to go for months,” I say. “You knew when I applied, and you knew when I got in. The only reason you said no—”
“Was because we needed your help!” Dad says. “The store can’t stay afloat without you.”
“Are you really talking about the store?” April asks. “Or about your marriage?”
The kitchen goes dead silent.
I’m immediately struck by the urge to tell Mom and Dad that April is kidding, that we know they only want me to stay in LA because it’s what’s best for the store, and by extension, our family. But I won’t undermine April’s bravery by running from the truth in her words.
I do have to say something, though.
“I’ve been working toward this for years,” I say, “and I’ve been preparing to leave for months. I’ve got a dorm and my classes picked out and everything. I’m even packed, for the most part. The only thing that’s left for me to do is to go.”
“And to pay the rest of your expenses,” Dad says.
“Right,” I say. “I can’t make you help if you don’t want to.”
Beside me, April’s shoulders droop. “This is so unfair,” she says. “Jenn’s been working at the store for free for years. Can you imagine how much money she’d have saved up if you’d paid her?”
They start to argue about how it’s a family business and you don’t pay family, but I’m too busy doing the math in my head to pay attention. “Hold on,” I say. “She’s right.”
Dad opens his mouth to protest, but I hold up my hand. “Not about you guys paying me,” I explain, “about me being paid in general.” I hop off the stool and start to pace back and forth across the kitchen. I’m so used to not being paid that it never occurred to me, but I’ve been working twenty hours a week for the last two and a half years. If I can keep that up at a job that pays better than minimum wage, I can probably cover the difference by myself. I stop pacing and look at Mom and Dad. “If I get a job, I won’t need your help.”
Mom looks alarmed. “But—but what about the store? I know you think we wouldn’t need the extra help if your father and I . . . handled . . . things differently, but we can’t be there twelve hours a day.” She looks to Dad, and when she speaks again, she doesn’t sound worried. She sounds hopeless. “I don’t see how we would manage on our own.”
“I’ll do it,” April says suddenly. “I’ll work in the store after school and on the weekends. I’ll pick up all of Jenn’s shifts if I have to.”
“April, no,” I say. “You don’t have to do that.”
“Apparently, I do.”
I turn to Mom and Dad, expecting to find a combined look of relief and doubt on their faces. But instead, they look . . . sad.
“You’d really do that?” Mom asks. “Even though you’d have to give up soccer?”
“Yes,” April says. “I’d give it up if that means you can keep the store open.” She smiles sadly at me. “It’s my turn to help.”
Mom crosses the kitchen and wraps her arms around April. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
April’s eyes fill with tears. “You’re welcome,” she chokes out.
“You can’t do this,” I say, shaking my head. “April, tell them about USC. Tell them.”
April grimaces. “Jenn, it’s fine.”
“It’s not fine,” I say, turning to Mom and Dad. “Did you guys know that April is on the varsity team this year? And that she’s so good that USC is interested in her?”
Dad looks to April. “Really?”
“Yes, really,” she says. “A USC rep is coming to watch me play. They could give me a scholarship for college.”
“Isn’t that awesome?” I beam at my sister. I did a shitty job of supporting her when she told me about the scholarship in the car. I’m not going to make that mistake again.
“Hold on,” Dad says. “How likely is this? It just seems like they’re going to be really picky about who they recommend.”
“They are,” she says.
“How do you know they’ll pick you, then?” Mom asks softly. “Or that USC will decide to offer a scholarship?”
April lifts her chin, but instead of looking stubborn, she looks strong. “I don’t know for sure,” she says. “But I do know I’m good at this, and that I work hard. I have a shot.”
“But only if she’s on the team,” I add. “If she’s not, the USC rep will never see her. No team, no USC.”
“And you can’t be on the team if you miss games,” Mom says quietly.
“Or practices,” April adds. “I’ve got to be all in, or I’m out.”
Mom and Dad look at each other for the first time since April called them out. I half expect them to start arguing again, but instead they stare at each other for a long time, communicating in that silent way they used to do all the time when we were kids. “A scholarship is a big deal,” Dad says at last. “We wouldn’t want you to miss out on the chance at getting one.”
“No,” Mom agrees. “We wouldn’t.”
They share another long look, then Mom reaches out and gently tugs one of April’s curls. “I think it might be time we tried running the store on our own. At least for a little while.”
“Oh, thank god,” April says, sagging back in her seat. “I really didn’t want to work there.”
Mom barks out a laugh, then covers her mouth.
“Wait,” I say, barely daring to hope. “If we’re not going to work at the store anymore, does that mean you’re okay with me going?” I realize it sounds like I’m asking for permission, and I clarify quickly. “I mean, I’m going no matter what. But I’d feel a lot better if you guys were on board.”
Dad crosses his arms and fixes me with a look he once reserved for misbehaving employees. “Do you really think you can work a part-time job and keep your grades up?”
I take a page out of April’s book and lift my chin. “Yes.”
He watches me a second longer, then gives me a curt nod. “Then I’m on board.”
I turn slowly to Mom, afraid of what I’ll find when I look at her. “Mom?”
She picks up the tomato again and rolls it slowly back and forth along the counter with her palm. “You said you’re not finished packing,” she says at last. “I suppose I better help.”
My eyes fill with tears. It’s not exactly her blessing, but it’s still an olive branch. I grab it without hesitation. “Yes, please.”
Mom puts down the tomato and wraps me in a tight hug. “I love you, Jelly Belly,” she whispers.
I laugh into her shoulder. I still hate that nickname, but not everything is going to change overnight. “I love you too.”
“We are going to have a serious talk once you’re settled in,” Mom says when she eventually pulls away. “In fact,” she says, looking to Dad, “we should see if any tickets to San Francisco are still available for tomorrow. We might be able to find a deal—”
“I have another idea,” I say. “What if April comes with me instead?”
April’s eyes widen. “You want me to go to college with you?”
“Just for a night or two. We could take a mini road trip, and you could drive back on your own.” The weight of the request hits me before the words are out of my mouth. Things are better between us, but this is still a big ask. “If you want to, I mean.”
“Are you kidding?” April says. “I’d love to!” She throws her arms around me in a tight hug. When she pulls back, she’s grinning. “And not just because this means I get to keep the car.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t help smiling. “You’re the worst.”
CHAPTER 33
APRIL
Are you in there?” I whisper-shout through Nate’s partly open window. I’m balanced on the bough of the oak tree that stands between our houses. Every time the wind blows, I picture falling to my death, and let me tell you—it isn’t pretty. “Either way, I’m coming in.”
I shove the window open, then carefully stretch one leg inside and scoot my way across. I’ve done this a million times, but this is the first time since we were kids. It’s also the first time I’ve done it since I was more than four foot ten and one hundred pounds, and it turns out this window is kind of a tight fit.
I step into his room and straighten up just as Nate comes in . . . shirtless.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, spinning to close his door. “My mom will kill me if she catches you.”
I drag my gaze away from his chest—when did Nate get so cut?—and assume what I hope is a totally relaxed stance. “I wanted to talk to you, and the phone felt passé.”
Nate laughs and gestures for me to take a seat on his bed. I do, but the moment my butt hits the sheets I’m filled with visions of all the things he’s probably—definitely—done here with other girls, followed by the things that we might do here—and I stand up again.
“Everything okay?” he asks, quirking an eyebrow.
“Um, yeah,” I say. “It’s just, uh, you changed your sheets.”
“Once a week, thank you very much.”
I laugh. “I meant you don’t have the same sheets you did when we were kids. All your sheets were—”
“Superheroes, yeah,” he says, smiling. “They got washed so many times I stopped being able to tell the Spider-Man set and the Wonder Woman set apart, so I decided to get new ones. But don’t worry—I still have them.”
“Thank goodness.”
We stare at each other from across the room, and suddenly I’m s
weating. Why is he so quiet? Should I say something? Is he as nervous as I am? Does he regret kissing me? What if this whole thing between us was a mistake, and now our friendship is screwed up? How will we go back to the way things were? How will we—
“April,” Nate says. “Come here.”
I start toward him, but before I’m even a few steps across the room, Nate is there, his warm arms wrapped around my waist, his bare chest pressed against me. “Everything is fine,” he says, reading my mind like he always has. “Better than fine, actually.”
“Are you sure?” I ask. “Because if you’re regretting what happened, we can always—”
He dips his head and presses his lips to mine. It’s sweet and soft, and the tenseness in my shoulders melts away. This is nothing like kissing Eric. There’s no nervousness, no worry. It’s just me and Nate, like always.
Then he lifts me up and carries me to the bed, and it’s still me and Nate, but not like always—it’s totally new, and totally hot. I wrap my legs around him as the kiss deepens and intensifies, and soon I’m not thinking about anything at all. When he eventually pulls back, I feel drunk with happiness.
I smile. “That was—”
“Yeah.”
“We should do it more often—”
“Yeah.”
“Can I have a million dollars?”
“Wait—what?”
“Nothing,” I say, shrugging. “Just wanted to make sure you were paying attention.”
He laughs, and then suddenly we’re both cracking up, then shushing each other, then cracking up again. We also do a bit more kissing, followed by even more laughing.
“Oh god, you’re going to get me in so much trouble,” Nate says when we’ve both finally calmed down enough to catch our breath. He leans over and kisses me gently. “By the way, I forgot to ask. How did it go with your parents?”
“Really well,” I say, brushing my nose against his. “They’re on board with Jenn going to Stanford. They won’t help her pay the rest of her expenses—not this year, anyway—but she’s going to get a job. If anyone can balance school and a part-time gig, it’s Jenn.”
“That’s great,” he says, pulling me up so we can sit side by side. “And what about you? Are you going to be the newest employee at the esteemed O’Farrell Antiques?”
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