Love, Jacaranda

by Alex Flinn

Phoebe finished reciting a list of shows she wanted to see and restaurants where we could eat, which was funny because I’ve never seen her eat much. (Today, she had one tea sandwich, which was the size of one of those travel soaps they put in my backpack when I first got into foster care.) Jarvis said he’d take it under advisement. He actually said “under advisement.”

  Then we talked about college. Jarvis is applying to all these fancy schools like MIT. I assume he’ll get in because he’s a genius multimillionaire. In fact, that’s why he was in Michigan, to look at the University of Michigan, which I hear is supposed to be good. We had a second pot of tea, Moroccan Mint. It tasted like gum.

  Too soon, it was over. We said our goodbyes, and I went back to my room.

  Just as I was about to put on my headphones and start my intervals again, I heard a tap-tap-tapping on my bedroom door.

  It was Jarvis. “Did you forget something?” I asked.

  “Umm.” He shuffled his feet. “I’m staying here tonight, I realized I’ll be alone all evening, and I was wondering . . .”

  I’m afraid I was staring at him. He looked down.

  “Are you maybe free for dinner? I mean, I know you just ate, but we could go later.”

  “My curfew’s at ten,” I said, though I knew I was going. Of course I was.

  “Seven thirty, then.”

  I nodded. “Seven thirty. Where should we meet you?”

  He said he was actually only asking me. “My cousin and I get along fine, but a little Phoebe goes a long way.”

  I hesitated. I was nervous, getting into a car with someone I barely knew. Especially since he wanted to keep it secret so Phoebe didn’t get mad. Maybe it’s because of where I grew up, but I’m cautious. Sometimes rich guys think they can take liberties. I mean, not you, but you’re old.

  He must have seen my hesitation because he said, “How about this: I’ll go to the restaurant, and I’ll get a car to bring you there. That way, you don’t have to ride with me.”

  I said I wasn’t thinking that (even though I absolutely was). “It’s okay,” he said. “I like that you’re careful. You don’t know me. You can search my name online, but that won’t tell the whole story either. Anyway, it’s only dinner, and I’ll be a perfect gentleman.”

  I gave him my phone number and agreed to be downstairs at 7:20. Then, as soon as I closed the door, I searched his name on my phone. One minute into it (about the time it would take him to get downstairs), he texted me.

  Jarvis: Find anything interesting yet?

  Me: What do you mean?

  Jarvis: I assume you’re googling me.

  Me: No . . .

  Jarvis: Search for the article about my report card.

  Jarvis: That was a funny one.

  Of course, I found the article. A New York paper actually published Jarvis’s entire report card. He had straight As, not surprising, but comments on his conduct in two classes, with a note about his being too talkative and “inciting other students,” plus another about spotty attendance.

  A quote in the article said, “Reached for comment, Pendleton’s father, John Jarvis Pendleton, Jr., stated, ‘If my son can make straight As while talking too much and skipping class, perhaps that says more about the school than about him.’” He also suggested the school violated some privacy laws by releasing the grades in the first place. Go, him.

  I spent about 20 more minutes searching. Jarvis definitely got around—there was a picture of him at the Golden Globe Awards with some movie star’s daughter and a bunch of him at parties and Broadway premieres. But nothing about him getting a DUI or getting any girls pregnant or overdosing and having to be revived with Narcan. He seemed like a perfectly nice, normal multimillionaire. I forced myself to work on intervals until 6:15. Then I showered and put on a very chic emerald-green sweater dress Vanessa bought me and went downstairs.

  When Jarvis said a car, I thought he meant a cab or some guy driving his Prius. But it turned out it was an actual Lincoln with a uniformed chauffeur. He took me to a fancy restaurant where Jarvis was waiting out front, wearing a jacket. I was glad I’d gone with the dress!

  “You sure know how to treat a girl,” I said, copying someone in a movie.

  “I really wanted to see you,” he said.

  I shook my head. “Why?”

  “You ever meet someone for the first time and already feel like you know them? Or you want to know them?”

  I nodded. I’d felt the same spark. But I reminded myself that if he knew everything about me, he wouldn’t be interested. Eligible- bachelor-multimillionaire-genius-philanthropists don’t date girls whose mothers are in prison. Nobody’s that philanthropic.

  Still, it was only dinner. And, just in case, I confirmed that it was a secret meeting. What if the same people who unearthed his report card dug up dirt about me?

  “Absolutely secret. Wouldn’t want cousin Phebes to be jealous,” he said. Then he asked me if I had any more questions about what I’d found online. I had to ask about the Golden Globes. He said it was fun because he loves movies but that his date wore some dress that was glued to her body, and she kept complaining about how uncomfortable it was. Then we spent a while discussing movies we liked. I hadn’t seen most of the ones he liked, so after I finish watching every movie musical ever made, I’ll watch those. Jarvis said he’d text me a list. He also said he likes musicals, especially old Rodgers and Hammerstein ones like The King and I and The Sound of Music.

  He didn’t over order this time but suggested lobster. I decided not to mention that I’ve never had a lobster before. Until the lobster showed up, and then it was obvious. But Jarvis was very patient. He showed me how to crack and eat it. I might have ruined my new dress, but it was definitely worth it.

  Then he suggested we play a version of Truth or Dare, only the truth part since we were in a restaurant.

  “That still sounds risky to me,” I said.

  He promised not to ask me anything sexual. “I just want to get to know you.”

  That also sounded risky, but I figured I could lie if he asked me anything too uncomfortable. So I said okay, if I could go first.

  “Any tattoos? If so, what are they?”

  He laughed at that one. “No tattoos.” He said he was too young—he’ll be 18 in April. And people knew him, so he couldn’t lie about his age.

  “So would you get one if you were older?” I asked.

  He shrugged and said one time, when he was little, he was at the doctor’s office, and there was a guy there who’d just turned 18. “The doctor told us he was lying to his mother about the fact that he’d gotten a tattoo. My mother said she thought it was nice that we could really talk about things.”

  Then I asked him if he was close to his mother, and he nodded. “My dad hasn’t been around that much, and I’m an only child, so a lot of times when I was little, it was just the two of us. Nights when he’d go out, she’d send the maid home early and make eggs for dinner or order pizza, and we’d watch a movie on TV. That’s probably why I love movies so much. I went through an astronaut phase when all I wanted to watch was Apollo 13 and October Sky over and over again.”

  This was the point where he should have asked me about my family, and then I’d have to lie, but instead he said, “How about you? Any tattoos?” When I shook my head, he said, “If you were going to get one, what would you get?”

  Thing is, I’ve actually thought about this, which is probably why I asked him. I said, “I don’t think I’d ever get one. I don’t like pain. But, at the airport when I was coming here, I saw a girl with one I liked. It was on her wrist, where people put things they want to be sure to remind themselves of, and it said, ‘Art never comes from happiness.’”

  “Chuck Palahniuk said that,” he said. (I had to look up how to spell it just now—it’s pronounced “Poll-uh-nick.”) He nodded thoughtfully and touched my wrist, where the tattoo would go. He said, “Are you unhappy, Jackie?”

  The real question! I thought about
it. Here, in Michigan, with the fall leaves turning stunning shades of red and orange and music in my ears, it seems like I’ve never been unhappy. I shook my head. I said, “Do you ever think about how it would be if some omniscient narrator was narrating your life, like in a Dickens novel? Like whether the narrator would say you’re pretty or ugly, interesting or just strange, happy or unhappy? Sometimes I don’t know the answers to those questions. It would be cool to have someone truly objective around.”

  He laughed, but then his expression turned serious. “I know what you mean. People are always telling me I should be happy, but no one of quality is always happy. It’s those bad experiences that make you grow.”

  I smiled and said I guessed I was growing.

  “Should I ask you about it?” he said.

  I told him no. “Right now, the narrator would say, ‘Miss Abbott couldn’t decide whether she was more enthusiastic about the lobster or her dinner companion.’”

  Jarvis laughed and said he could accept being tied with the lobster. I loved making him laugh. I want to be the type of girl who can go out on a date with someone like him or even someone more regular than him and laugh and not have to worry about the future and all its ramifications. Like every other girl at MAA.

  But I know I’m not like those other girls.

  Soon it was 9:30. I was about to tell Jarvis he could drive me back, but he said the Lincoln was already out there. I was sorry it was over. I wanted to spend more time with him.

  He must have felt the same way, because he touched my arm on the way out, and when I turned back, he said, “I’d like to see you again.”

  I said I’d like to see him too.

  “Please come to New York for Thanksgiving,” he said. “If you can’t stay with Daisy, I’ll get Phoebe to invite you.” He said Phoebe’s mom liked him better than she liked Phoebe.

  I laughed at that and said I’d ask.

  I wondered if he’d try to kiss me. I’ve been kissed before, by sloppy guys at parties, and once, this guy, CJ, who worked with me at Publix, kissed me in the parking lot when I was bringing in the shopping carts. I avoided him for weeks after that. But I never had a romantic first kiss under the moonlight like in movies, where the couple moves toward one another with an inevitability of mutual desire. I had a feeling kissing Jarvis could be like that. I mean, I wanted to kiss him, but I didn’t want it to be all hurried, out in a parking lot with the driver watching. Also, my hands had butter on them, so I couldn’t get them anywhere near his expensive jacket.

  I stepped back.

  He stepped back too. He said, “Don’t worry. I’m not going to kiss you.”

  I must’ve looked at him funny, because he said, “If you come to New York next month, maybe you’ll let me kiss you under the bright lights of New York City.”

  I said maybe, even though I knew I would. He glanced at the Lincoln and said I should get going. But he was still touching my arm, and I didn’t want to pull away, because it was such a beautiful night and he was such a beautiful boy. I wanted it to last forever.

  I stood on tiptoe to brush my cheek to his, which is the very least anyone from Miami would do at the end of an evening, even with a completely platonic friend.

  I said I hoped I’d see him soon.

  Then I turned and ran to the car before I could change my mind and miss curfew.

  As soon as I got in, my phone buzzed with a text from him. It said:

  Jarvis: Come to NY and I’ll take you to 2 plays and an opera

  Me: I’ll try . . .

  Me: What do you wear to an opera?

  I saw the . . . that said he was texting. When he replied, it said:

  Jarvis: Probably nothing they have in this part of Michigan

  Jarvis: Maybe you can go shopping in NY.

  Jarvis: I have to stop texting now because I’m going to drive

  Jarvis: I’ll see you soon though

  Jarvis: I hope

  I’m lying awake at one in the morning, reliving the whole perfect day. And I’m asking again, PLEASE can I go? I’ll go visit Vanessa for part of it, so she can report back to you about me. I know you’re paying for my education and not for me to kiss boys. But I’m feeling like part of my education is kissing boys, and besides, he said he’d take us to 2 Broadway plays, which is 2 more than I’ve ever seen and at least 50 fewer than everyone else in my class has seen, so that will be educational.

  Please . . .

  Love, Jacaranda

  To: Johnsmith247@dll.com

  Date: October 19, 8:33 p.m. Eastern Standard Time

  Subject: Thank you!

  Dear Mr. Smith,

  Thank you!

  Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthank youthankyouthankyouthankyou!

  I heard from your travel agent (a profession that I didn’t know still existed!) that she is getting the tickets, and Daisy and I should contact her so we can get a flight to LaGuardia together. And I heard from Vanessa that she’d love to see me the first weekend I’m there and “maybe shop.” I wasn’t begging for a dress, Mr. Smith. I’ve saved up my allowance, so I’ll be fine, really. But I would love to see Vanessa, because it’s as close as I can get to seeing you, and also, because she has better taste than I do and probably knows what to wear to an opera.

  I wish I could also meet you. Could you join us at Starbucks for coffee? Just pop in and pop out. Would that be so much trouble?

  In any case, I’ll visit Vanessa.

  By the way, I got 100% on my interval test.

  Thank you again!

  Love, Jacaranda

  To: Johnsmith247@dll.com

  Date: October 21, 7:59 p.m. Eastern Standard Time

  Subject: Kindred spirit

  Dear Mr. Smith,

  There’s a girl here named Falcon who used to live on the streets in Baltimore. A volunteer at a shelter saw her beautiful drawings and sent her portfolio to MAA. They accepted her, gave her room, board, books, even let her stay for summer camp. Another me.

  Except, unlike me, she’s being truthful about her past.

  I saw her this morning, in the cafeteria, a small girl with wide brown eyes. She was sitting with one other girl, and they weren’t really talking. But that might be because the art kids keep to themselves. I thought about introducing myself. In fact, I was on the verge of tapping her on the shoulder. But then Daisy called on me to settle a dispute about whether hash browns are better than home fries, and by the time we’d finished talking about that, Falcon had left.

  I wanted to ask her whether people accept her, knowing her past, or do they get all weird?

  But maybe I didn’t ask because I was afraid to know the answer.

  You probably know about my mother. Maybe you assume she’s a horrible person, since she’s in jail. Or maybe you think I’m being unfair to her. You never tell me what you think!

  The truth about my mother is somewhere in the middle. She wasn’t terrible, but she wasn’t brave either. She fought to keep a roof over our heads, even if that meant living with some pretty scary men. But she never fought for me.

  Still, I have some good memories.

  Once, when I was in first or second grade, my teacher sent my coloring page home with a note for her to sign. It was for Memorial Day, and we were supposed to color a flag red, white, and blue.

  Except this kid, Darius, stole my red crayon. I could probably have used someone else’s. But I hated coloring pages. I hated always having to stay in the lines.

  So I made the red parts purple, and yellow, and green polka dots, and I made the white parts orange—a whole rainbow.

  My teacher yelled at me for not following directions. And for being unpatriotic.

  I brought it home and held it up to Mom, tears in my eyes.

  And she laughed!

  She said, “Randa, don’t ever let people say your picture has to be just like everyone else’s.”

  And she hung it on the refrigerator.

  Sometimes I forget the good times, but t
hat was one of them.

  Just thought you’d like to know.

  Love, Jacaranda

  To: Johnsmith247@dll.com

  Date: October 27, 7:48 p.m. Eastern Standard Time

  Subject: Drama drama

  Dear Mr. Smith,

  In drama, we are doing monologues from something called Spoon River Anthology. It’s a book of poems about dead people in Illinois. They’re sort of like their epitaphs, where they talk about important things in their lives. The one I chose is called “Elsa Wertman.”

  In it, she talks about how she was a servant, and her boss came into the kitchen where she was working, “and took me / Right in his arms and kissed me on my throat, / I turning my head. Then neither of us / Seemed to know what happened.”

  Okay, so I know what happened, but I guess they had to say it that way. It’s a million years old, long before #metoo.

  She got pregnant, and her employer’s wife adopted the child and raised it, pretending it was the wife’s, and Elsa had to watch him grow and be successful, never being able to admit he was her son.

  But I couldn’t get past the part where she says, “I cried for what would become of me. / And cried and cried as my secret began to show.”

  Doing it in class today, my voice broke, and I started to sob a little. Mr. Adams said, “You can’t cry in the middle of it. Hold it in, at least until the end.”

  I started over, and I broke at the same place.

  He waved his hand for me to stop and said, “People think it’s such a big deal to be able to cry on cue. But it’s a parlor trick. Acting is control.”

  I said I wasn’t crying on cue. I was actually crying. “I can’t help it.”

  He scoffed and told me to start over. Everyone was looking at their phones and talking. I got through it, finally, by not thinking about the words I was saying, so I was like a robot.

  But, Mr. Smith, I’ve been that girl in the kitchen. I worked at a sub place before Publix, and the manager used to try and grab me. Once, while I was sweeping up some shredded lettuce, he came up behind me. “I can do that,” he said, though he’d never offered to help before. He pretended to reach for the broom, not-so-incidentally brushing his open hand against my chest. I couldn’t quit, because I needed the job. Or once, my mother’s boyfriend-who-shall-not-be-named made a move on me. She stopped him, but then she got mad at me for leading him on, even though I was only eleven.