He shakes his head, pushing aside my gratitude. “You wouldn’t have died. Probably.”
“I’m glad you’re good at the whole numbers business thing, because a career in motivational speaking is out of the question for you.”
He leans forward and opens his mouth, as if he’s going to say something important. And then he stops. When he finally speaks, it’s something I never would have expected. “You’re smart,” he says, and I laugh.
“What?”
“You’re smart, but you don’t want anyone to know.”
“I’m not smart, as my grades can definitely attest. We can’t all be valedictorian, can we?”
He laughs a little. “You are so full of shit.”
“Excuse me? My report cards are very clear on this issue. I am the absolute best at failing. If there were grades given for failing, I would get straight A’s.”
When I was in third grade, the teacher called my mother in for a conference and showed her my math workbook. I had used the numbers like an abstract paint-by-numbers, turning the pages into stained-glass drawings of flowers and puppies and this one grim reaper with its scythe made out of a column of fractions. It’s not that I can’t add or subtract or even do advanced derivatives. It’s that my mind will flit away like a butterfly in a meadow filled with flowers.
“Okay,” Christopher says. “But I know the truth.”
Frustration makes me huff, which is a lot safer than letting myself smile at him. “Fine, but I know the truth about you.”
One dark eyebrow rises. “What’s that?”
The insight hits me with the same clarity as I saw every page in that workbook, the possibility rising up out of the framework. “This whole thing. The insanity of the yacht and the silver spoon, you want it so bad it hurts. That’s why you study so hard. Because you want this life as bad as your mom, but you’re working for it in a different way.”
The silence descends on us, as heavy and cold as the water. His throat works. “That obvious, huh?”
My brain, usually good at comebacks, falls suddenly silent. There are things I could say to ease the moment: I didn’t mean it, I’m sure it’s not true. But those would be lies. We’re sitting in the cabin with only nakedness between us, the same way we were last night. “It doesn’t mean anything bad about you.” At least that much is true.
He laughs without humor. “It doesn’t mean I’m a greedy asshole?”
“Oh, for sure, you’re definitely a greedy asshole. Who isn’t? Everyone wants money. Very few are willing to work as hard as you to earn it.”
“Listen,” he says, seeming uncertain for once. “What you said about that guy. The one who owned the job website. The one who—”
“I shouldn’t have told you that,” I say, my cheeks burning like fire. “It was a moment of weakness. Which I seem to be having around you with unfortunate frequency.”
“Maybe we should tell your dad. He could make sure that—”
“Absolutely not. No offense, but you’ve been my stepbrother for like a month. You don’t know the history in my family. That guy is gone, and the best thing to do is leave it alone.”
My parents alternately hate each other and love each other, but that isn’t what breaks us. It’s the money that fractures us into a million sharp pieces.
Like the men in my life, money is only temporary.
And if I never want either of them, I won’t be disappointed when they’re gone.
Dear Christopher,
My mother married a German count, which is exactly as pretentious as it sounds. We’re moving to Frankfurt and that means a boarding school with new rules and lesson plans where I’m already going to be behind. I hope you don’t mind that I’m writing you, because I know we’re not technically related anymore.
PS. Who’s going to dive in and rescue me on spring break?
Dear Harper,
Thank you for writing to me, even if we aren’t related anymore. If it’s any consolation, you feel as much a sister to me as you did before. Which is to say, not much. I’m sorry to hear about the new boarding school. I hope they have lots of paint.
PS. Don’t sit on the rail at midnight, and whatever you do, don’t die.
Dear Christopher,
Germany is cold and guess what? They speak German. It’s hard to make friends when the only things I know how to say are “Yes, ma’am” and “Which way is the bathroom?” I’m super popular.
You will be pleased to know that while I did smoke a joint on the railing, I had my phone in my pocket in a waterproof case. So even if I had fallen in, which I didn’t, I could have called the yacht’s concierge line and gotten rescued. Three cheers for technology.
PS. My new stepbrother wears twenty pounds of cologne and has a goatee.
Dear Harper,
It’s kind of strange how different the second year is from the first. In the freshman classes they kept talking about weeding people out (which doesn’t mean what you think it does) and how hard it would be, but I felt like I had a handle on things. Now they’re acting like it’s straightforward and I’m staying up late every night banging my head against these textbooks.
I feel like I’m drowning here.
PS. If I had written this textbook, I deserve to be shot. With a silver bullet.
Dear Christopher,
You have an amazing brain, which is something I can state without any hesitation because you said I was smart—so obviously you have a clear and accurate understanding of the world. Plus, Daddy keeps talking about how you’re going to do great things.
And I’m not just saying that because you’re a vampire who wrote a shitty textbook.
PS. For the love of God, don’t die.
Dear Harper,
Finals damn near killed me, but I kept your letter on my desk. I figured as long as you had ordered me not to die, I had no choice but to listen. That’s how saving your life works, right? I never took etiquette class, so I’m just guessing here.
Your dad gave a speech at commencement and took me out to dinner. He said you were doing some kind of big art exhibit in New York City. That’s incredible.
PS. Why didn’t you tell me about it?
Dear Christopher,
That’s exactly how saving my life works, and congratulations on graduating!!! The only reason I applied to Smith College is my art professor. Her work is amazing. In my admissions essay I wrote about the Medusa painting. I thought they only made interns read those things, but Professor Mills found out and asked me to do an exhibit.
I thought about vandalizing the school and tearing out the wall of the gym, but shipping rates are ridiculous. So instead I’m doing a series of canvas paintings about the myth.
PS. I’m enclosing an invitation to the exhibit in case you can make it.
It seemed impossible that Christopher would spend his weekend traveling to New York City for a girl he knew for a week a couple years ago. The fact that we kept in touch felt surreal, almost a dream, like the night I fell into the bay. That we were stepsiblings, if only for a few months, made it more strange, not less. I couldn’t be sure what I wanted from him, not even in the privacy of my mind. What were the odds a man like him would be interested in a girl like me?