Better Than the Best Plan

by Lauren Morrill

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  My morning starts with a call from Libby, who sounds like she’s talking to me from a war zone.

  “I’ve got to make this quick,” she says, her voice rising above the chaos happening around her. I hear a crash, then a shriek. “Your background check won’t be done until tomorrow, which means I’m filling in with the tiny humans today. You better not have a jewelry heist in your background that will prevent you from doing this job, because I am not cut out for it.”

  “I’m clean, I swear,” I tell her.

  “Thank god.” Then another crash, and I hear her mutter what starts out as a swear, but quickly morphs into the more family-friendly fudge. “Gotta go.”

  With no work, my day is wide open. I wonder if Lainey could come back out, but after last night’s tense talk with Kris, I’m not eager to ask her permission. I’m not sure what kind of trouble I’m actually in. Is this a thing that cools off overnight? Or am I grounded? What does that even mean?

  I ponder the possibilities as I pour myself a bowl of cereal. I’m slowly picking out the marshmallows from the organic interpretation of Lucky Charms that Kris buys at the health food store when Pete strolls into the kitchen. Instead of his usual running attire, he’s in a pair of jeans and a button-up shirt, the sleeves rolled up. He looks casual but official.

  “First day of work?” he asks.

  “Not yet. They’re still waiting to find out if I’m a felon or not.”

  “Well, keep us posted on the results,” he says with a wink. He pours himself a cup of coffee from the pot Kris has set to brew each morning. He adds a spoonful of sugar, then pauses before adding another. “So, no plans today?”

  “You’re basically looking at my whole agenda,” I say, gesturing to my bowl of cereal.

  “Kris had some errands, so she’s already out. I have to head into campus to sign some expense reports. Want to come?”

  Do I? I haven’t spent any time alone with Pete since I got here. He’s been more of a sidekick to Kris, who is the star of this foster parent show.

  “We won’t be out long. You could see campus. It’s really pretty this time of year.”

  I’m not totally sure this sounds like the rip-roaring time he thinks it is, but I can’t really think of a nice way to say no, so I shrug. “Okay, let me get dressed.”

  Half an hour later, we’re in Pete’s Prius cruising across the bridge. Mercer is a twenty-minute drive, but the first five of them feel like a freaking eternity. Pete and I seem to have no idea what to say to each other, and after the last minute clicks by like Chinese water torture, Pete gives up and turns on some music. Some twangy singer-songwriter situation that sounds very dad plinks out of the speakers, but at least it fills the awkward silence between us.

  When we pull onto campus, I recognize it immediately. Not because I’ve been there, but because I’ve seen the brochure. There’s a whole stack of them in the guidance office at Southwest, and they’re handed out to the most promising students. I remember paging through it, admiring the diverse array of faces and the beautiful brick and ivy of the grounds. It just looks like what college should look like. And it looks like something I’d never be able to afford.

  I’ve spent a lot of time trying not to wish for more than I have. Like Lainey says, Wish in one hand, spit in the other, then see which fills up faster. And so I’ve worked hard and picked goals that I could achieve. State school with a good financial aid package was something to work toward, something it seemed possible to achieve. It’s a goal that probably won’t lead to disappointment. But being here and seeing all this, there’s a glimmer that wonders if I could be so lucky. Could I be hurrying across these paths between buildings and trees, a bagful of notebooks and pens and books slung over my shoulder?

  Pete locks the car. “My office is over there, in the main administration building,” he says, pointing to a three-story building with ornate windows and spires and a grand set of stairs leading to the enormous wooden doors.

  “What does a dean of students do, exactly?” I ask.

  “It can vary from campus to campus, but here at Mercer I oversee all aspects of student life, from student activities to housing to conduct. I’m also the middleman between student organizations and the rest of the administration.”

  I nod, piecing together what that might mean from what I know about college, which is mostly what I’ve seen on television.

  “I also handle the student life budget, which is why I’m here today. I have to sign a bunch of expense reports. It’s a glamorous job, really.”

  He pulls open the door to the administration building, and I step into what I’m pretty sure is Hogwarts. There’s a double grand staircase leading up to a second floor, where there’s a fireplace on the landing so big I could walk inside of it. A chandelier the size of a small SUV hangs overhead, and it reflects the light streaming in through several ornate stained glass windows.

  “Dang,” I say as we start up the stairs, my sneakers squeaking on the polished mahogany.

  “Yeah, it’s not a bad life, I gotta say. Certainly makes up for the years I spent working in housing breaking up drunken freshman dorm parties and trying to find out who kept drawing penises on the whiteboards.” He laughs to himself, then at an office door. DR. PETER CARMICHAEL is painted in delicate gold on the frosted glass window of the door.

  Inside, there’s an enormous desk that’s large enough to double as a life raft for the both of us. Behind the desk, a set of enormous windows look out onto the leafy green quad, where I imagine when it’s not summer, there are students reading and tossing Frisbees or whatever else they do that winds up in a photo in the brochure.

  I take a seat in one of the leather chairs across from his desk, while Pete settles in to sign a folder full of papers on his desk. A stack of brochures is sitting on the corner, the same ones that were in our guidance office. I pick up one and start paging through it, reading about Mercer’s liberal arts curriculum, their brand-new student center, and their recently remodeled residence halls. I flip to the back, to the section on academics, and start to read about their teacher education program. I’m not totally sure what I want to be, other than a college graduate, but teaching has always seemed like something I could be good at. I like kids, and I like school. And I definitely like a job that I understand and one that offers a steady paycheck and benefits.

  “Have you thought about where you want to go to school?” Pete asks, looking up from his forms.

  “Yeah, I’m probably going to apply to Florida and Florida State. Maybe Central Florida. And I’m not ruling out doing my gen eds first at Florida State Jacksonville,” I say, repeating the plan I’d worked out with my guidance counselor.

  “Do you have any reach schools in mind? Maybe someplace smaller, private? Mercer’s a great school,” he says with a grin.

  “I think paying for college is going to be my reach,” I say, trying to play it off like a joke. “That FAFSA thing is going to be my toughest application.”

  “There are lots of ways to pay for college, Maritza. And if you have the grades, you should definitely look at some other schools. You want to find the right fit. Someplace like Mercer could be it.”

  I don’t tell him that the right fit is one I can pay for, because that sounds snotty, but it’s true.

  “Besides, dependents of faculty get free tuition here,” he says, returning to his stack of forms.

  My head snaps up from the brochure. “I’m not your kid,” I say, the words out of my mouth before I can stop them. Then I suck in a breath before I can do any more verbal damage.

  Pete’s pen pauses mid-signature, his cheeks turning red. “No, of course not. I would never—I just mean, I mean, in case things…” He trails off, then sighs. He takes his glasses off and sets them down on the desk, rubbing his eyes. “Maritza, I don’t really know what my role is with you. This is all new to me, and I want you to know that I support you and want to help you, but I don’t want to be anything yo
u don’t want me to be. That’s why I’ve been sort of staying out of the way.”

  I nod, not sure what to say. Because if he’s waiting for me to tell him what his role is, he’s going to be waiting a long time. I have no idea.

  “Here’s the thing, though. Kris isn’t trying to be your mom, but like it or not, she definitely considers you family. And it’s really hard for her to walk that line, so maybe you could give her a little bit of room to make some mistakes, okay? Just cut her a little bit of slack.”

  I wonder if he’s talking about last night and the curfew. Last night Kris was definitely trying to be a parent, and I was definitely not interested. I didn’t want to make her feel bad, but I also don’t want her to think she can roll up in my life at the age of seventeen and try to parent me. And if Pete thinks the offer of free fancy college is going to make it easier for me to let that happen, then he’s sadly mistaken.

  But I don’t say any of that. Instead I nod, then go back to the brochure, which suddenly feels like a brick in my lap.

  * * *

  The drive home is more radio and no talking, which I’m glad about, because it gives me time to sort through my conversation with Pete, who isn’t trying to be my parent, and Kris, who definitely is. He’s probably right, I do need to cut her a little slack. But I also don’t want to let go of my freedom, of who I am and who I’ve been, just to make her feel good about being a fake mom.

  When we pull up to the house, I realize it’s the absolute last place I want to be. I can’t tiptoe around this house and pretend it’s home right now. I want out.

  I try Lainey first.

  “Sorry, dude, Barney’s got a flat, and I can’t make it all the way out there on the spare,” Lainey says when I call her for a ride. “Plus, I’ve got work. Where do you need to go?”

  I know that if I tell her, she’ll figure out a way to get out here, and I don’t want her feeling guilty, not when she has her own stuff on her already-overflowing plate. I’ll fill her in later.

  “Oh, I just wanted to hang out,” I say, pacing my room with the landline pressed to my ear. My cell still says NO SERVICE. “I miss you.”

  “Miss you, too, dork,” she says. “I gotta go. I volunteered to lead toddler story time this afternoon, and I will not survive that without caffeine. Hang out soon?”

  I wish Lainey good luck with story time and toss the phone onto the bed, then fall back onto the comforter. Could I call a cab? That would cost a fortune, money I definitely don’t have without asking Kris, and where would I even go? Maybe a bus? But in all the time I’ve been on Helena, I’ve never seen any kind of public transportation buzzing around the island. You can walk most places, and everyone here has a luxury car or two at their disposal.

  I’m starting to spiral when I hear a familiar thwack, thwack, thwack.

  Spencer.

  He owes me. He said so last night. And I’m about to cash in.

  Before heading out the door, I rifle through my bag to find an old Sonic receipt and a pen. I scrawl a quick note to Kris in hopes of avoiding the same kind of scene we had last night. Then I stuff my useless phone into my purse, sling my purse over my shoulder, and creep down the hall. Kris’s office door is closed, a top forty radio station blasting through an old stereo she keeps in the corner. I pause to see if she heard me, but either the music is too loud or she’s still mad at me and giving me space. Pete, as per usual, has disappeared out on a run.

  I cross the lawn, my sandals still in my hand, until I emerge from the trees to find Spencer practicing. Just as I did on that first night, I pause between the trees to watch him. Now he’s wearing a pair of gym shorts and a loose tank top, tennis shoes on his feet. He stands next to a wire basket full of brand-new bright green tennis balls, serving each one over the net with impressive force. I watch the way his body moves, fluid and practiced, his arm rising and then dropping as he tosses the ball, his racket following behind him to make contact. I can see the muscles in his arms and legs, built up from years of doing exactly this motion, a task as second nature for him as brushing your teeth.

  Unlike the first night, this morning I step out of the trees and toward the opening in the fence surrounding the court. With his eyes trained on the white line on the opposite side of the court, his brow furrowed in concentration, it takes him a moment to notice me standing there. In fact, he doesn’t notice me at all until I finally speak.

  “Hey.”

  His head turns only a fraction, his eyes sweeping across the court to me. Then he turns his body back to the net, a ball held low on the racket in front of him, preparing for another serve.

  “What’s up?” he asks, then tosses the ball and hits it with another impressive thwack.

  “I need a favor.”

  “Okay.” Thwack.

  “I need a ride.”

  “Okay.” Thwack.

  “Now.”

  He’s halfway to another serve when he stumbles forward slightly, the hand holding the ball dropping. He pivots toward me, letting the racket fall to his side.

  “You owe me,” I remind him.

  He lets out a sound that falls somewhere between a sharp exhale and a laugh, then shakes his head.

  “Where are we going, exactly?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, digging my toes into the grass, trying to avoid his gaze. “I just want to leave here. I need to get out, okay?”

  I don’t know what about that convinces him, but he immediately drops the ball in his hand. “Yeah, okay. Lemme get changed. Meet me at the garage.”

  He disappears into the house, and I head toward the garage to wait for him. It only takes a minute or two before one of the doors starts its mechanical groan, and a black Range Rover begins to back out. I immediately duck behind an oversized hydrangea, thinking this will be Spencer’s mom, or worse, his dad, but the car comes to a stop and the driver taps the horn. Spencer.

  “This yours, too?” I ask as I heave myself up and into the passenger seat.

  “It’s my dad’s,” he replies. “I use it sometimes. I don’t know if you noticed, but the MG isn’t good for inclement weather, and I usually smell like gas after I drive it.”

  “Isn’t your dad going to miss it?” I ask, but he only shrugs in response. He has his reasons, but he’s not sharing them with me.

  We set off down the road, the sky covered in a thick blanket of gray clouds. There’s enough mist in the air that Spencer has to keep activating the windshield wipers, but not enough to keep them going automatically. It becomes almost like a nervous tic as we navigate off the island and onto the highway. Every few seconds he reaches for the windshield wipers and flicks them to clear the moisture.

  I take a moment to appreciate the car as we drive. The tan leather of the seats is buttery soft; the dashboard—which looks like a tiny command center—is accented with shiny chrome. The car is wide, which provides for ample space between us, unlike the MG, which had us brushing elbows the entire drive.

  The silence stretches as wide as the six-lane highway we’re driving on. Spencer bobs his head as if to a beat, but there’s no music playing. I want to turn on the radio, but I’m not sure what the etiquette is in his—er, his dad’s—car. With Lainey, the rule is the driver controls the tunes, which means I pretty much never get to pick. Which is fine, because Lainey never bothers me about gas money, which I can only offer her sporadically.

  “So you’re sneaking out, huh?” he asks, finally cutting the silence.

  “How do you know I’m sneaking?”

  “Um, because you arrived at my house carrying your shoes and acting all weird?”

  He has me there, but I keep my mouth shut.

  “So do you do this often?”

  “Never,” I reply, because it’s true. It’s not like I had to sneak out with my mom, and even if I did, I never really had anyplace to sneak off to. The only place I ever go is Lainey’s.

  “Seriously?”

  “Never had much need to.”

  “So y
ou don’t have an overprotective mom?”

  “My mom left three weeks ago to study a transcendental pyramid scheme. She left her house keys and a very nice note instructing me to follow my own path. So no, not an overprotective mother.”

  Spencer is quiet, his eyes glued to the road. I wonder what he must think of me now that he knows the truth.

  I shrug. “Well, now you know my secrets.”

  “I hate my dad,” he replies. “There. Now you know one of mine.”

  I owe you. I guess he was serious about being even.

  “Why do you hate your dad?”

  “Poor-little-rich-boy reasons,” he says. He shakes his head. “He’s planned out my entire life, basically trying to mold me in his image.” He adopts a stern, clipped tone that I recognize as his father’s. “Tennis scholarship to Duke, where I’ll double major in economics and political science. Then a dual program in law and business at Vanderbilt. Then I’ll join him at his firm doing finance and law or some shit that I don’t understand and don’t care to.”

  It doesn’t sound like a bad plan to me. A top college with a scholarship, a graduate degree, and a guaranteed job with a guaranteed big fat salary? If these are champagne problems, crack me open a bottle, please.

  “So you don’t want tennis or Duke or Vanderbilt?” I ask gently, trying not to let the judgment in my head seep out into our conversation.

  “Or finance or law,” he replies.

  “Okay, then what do you want to do?”

  “I mean, the tennis is fine, I guess. When my dad refuses to pay for wherever I do want to go to school, hopefully tennis will cover that.”