“Seriously? That’s awesome.” For the first time this afternoon, my anxiety about Ava fades a little.
“I know!” Cass does a gleeful little shimmy. “There are only seven spots in the class, though, so I have to do some intense practice this weekend. Auditions are Monday.”
“You should bring some of your original songs.”
Cass stops dancing. “Maybe.”
I roll my eyes. I was a little surprised a year ago when Cass bought a guitar and started teaching herself to play from YouTube videos. She’d never expressed any kind of interest in it before, but she’s already really good. She still gets shy about her own songwriting, though.
I don’t push it. “Hey, you’re in history with Penn Williams, right? Have you noticed anything weird lately?”
Cass considers it. “Not really, but that’s normal. Penn’s so quiet.”
I tell her what I saw in chem class.
“You think he’s in trouble?” she asks.
“Maybe. Or maybe I’m sticking my nose in where it doesn’t belong.”
“Well, you wouldn’t be you if you didn’t,” she says dryly. “Should we try some good old-fashioned internet stalking? If Penn’s got issues, bet you it’s all over Instagram.”
We spend the rest of the walk to her car discussing post frequency, content, and filter choices as possible clues of distress. A few times, I almost tell Cass about the strange, tense conversation I had with Ava, but then I don’t. Maybe I was imagining it. Maybe it was just the same old awkwardness between Ava and me, left over from last summer. If I bring her up now, Cass will want to talk about it. It might have been seven months and four days, but I’d still rather launch myself into the blazing sun than deal with all those feelings.
Cass drops me off, and I promise to call later to help her prep for the audition.
“I’m home!” I call out, dumping my stuff in the doorway.
“Yes, I was able to deduce that from the sound of the door opening at precisely the same time you come home every day.” My grandfather appears in the doorway. I’m about 99 percent certain he’s ex-CIA from the golden years when they had free rein to deal with those pesky Russians. William Calhoun has been retired for years, but he still wears a custom-tailored suit every day.
“You know, most parental guardians open with a ‘Hello, honey, how was your day?’ when their progeny return from the battlefield of high school education.”
“How quaint.” He retrieves my bag from the floor and throws me a pointed look as he hangs it neatly on its hook.
The scents of butter and cinnamon draw me into the kitchen. “Did you make cookies?”
“Yes, I thought you might appreciate a post-battle snickerdoodle.”
“Forget those other loser grandfathers, you’re the best,” I call back. I’ve always wondered if he learned to bake when he was undercover. He’s a little too good at it.
Gramps hums to himself as he dons oven mitts and pulls out a fresh batch of cookies. He’s downright cheerful today.
I guess it’s as good a time as any to ask. “So, I need a favor.”
He ignores me and grabs a spatula. Maybe some buttering up is in order.
“I have a new theory about you,” I tell him. “You were attempting to unveil a Soviet spy stationed within the French government. You went undercover as a baker’s apprentice at the patisserie where the pinko went every morning for his petit déjeuner, and that’s where you learned this delicious sorcery.” I brandish my cookie in the air for emphasis.
“Inventive.” He scrapes dried batter off the tray.
“So, this favor…”
No one sighs like William Calhoun. So soft, and yet weighted with such vexation.
He begins transferring cookies from the baking sheet to the cooling rack. “In case I have not mentioned it yet today, I must tell you that your tenacity is a rather ugly character flaw. What can I do for you this time? Plant listening devices in the home of a Venezuelan dignitary? Order the assassination of your physical education teacher?”
“Nah, I’m saving that one for a graduation present. I was hoping one of your old buddies could run a plate for me?”
“I thought we had finally realized that potential love interests seldom appreciate stalking as a precursor to courtship.”
“Yeah, well, if I never have a serious relationship, we’ll know who’s to blame. No crush. It’s Greg Garcy.” I pull the WANTED flyer from my bag. “The case has been cold for months, but I heard on the tip line he’s been spotted a few times in the area. I’ve got a lead on the car.”
“Flora, we’ve discussed this.” He scoops fresh cookie dough onto the baking sheet. “I do not mind you illegally tapping into the police phone system; I simply don’t wish to hear about it.”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it. You’ll call some of your friends in Virginia?”
He blinks. “I have no idea what you mean. I was nothing but a humble midlevel diplomat.”
“Is that why there’s a framed photo of you and William J. Donovan, founder of the CIA, on your desk?” I ask through a mouthful of cookie.
“Has anyone mentioned how off-putting it is for young ladies to be so observant?”
“Yes. You. Frequently.”
“Well, all right, then. I will call up some of the old boys for you.”
“I love you, and not because you’re my affable and genteel grandfather, but because of the goods and services I can extort from you.”
“I would expect no less.”
Olive walks into the kitchen. She’s dressed for ballet class, every strand of her hair pulled up tight in a perfect bun. I finger the ends of my own sloppy braid. Olive is only thirteen, but she has her shit way more together than me.
“Mom called.” She grabs a banana from the fruit bowl to put in her bag. “You just missed her.”
Yeah, I bet.
My mother has lived in Germany for the last two and a half years. She’s a painter at this artist-in-residence thing in Berlin. She was only supposed to be gone for six months, but here we are.
She knows my school schedule, and yet somehow she always calls about fifteen minutes before I get home. It’s a convenient way for her to pretend to be my mother without having to, you know, mother me.
“Hmm,” is all I can think to say. Gramps watches me, but I avoid his eyes.
“She’s good, if you were wondering. Her gallery show is next weekend.” Olive’s spine has gone very straight. She does that when she’s annoyed—practices her dance posture.
“That’s great.” I try to sound sincere, but it mostly comes out exhausted. I don’t even know how I’m supposed to feel about my mom anymore. Olive rolls her eyes. My attempts to appease her only piss her off.
Olive and I get along about as well as any sisters would, for the most part, but it’s no secret she blames me for Mom leaving.
She’s not wrong.
Olive turns to my grandfather. “Can we go?”
“Of course.” He wipes the flour from his hands with a dish towel. As they’re about to leave, he turns to me with pretend sternness. “Allow those cookies to cool before gorging, please.”