My schedule sends a thrill through my chest, just like it did the first time I saw it. I have all the usual classes I would have had at South High: American Lit Honors, Spanish 3, US History, precalc, and physics. But all of the boring academic classes are done before lunch at Chrysalis, leaving the afternoon hours for our conservatory classes. I’m taking four classes in the creative writing conservatory: a genre study of magical realism on Tuesdays, Book Club on Wednesdays, and the school’s literary magazine, Wings, on Thursdays. But what I’m most excited about is the class that will bookend my week, the Art of the Novel, every Monday and Friday.
They usually don’t let new students into the class, the creative writing director told me when I went to tour the school. But I wrote an email to the instructor—and celebrated fantasy author—Lorelei McKinney, pleading my case by telling her I was working on not one but two novels currently. It was scary, writing a successful author and acting like what I do is even anything comparable to that. But I had to try. When I got my schedule and saw that I’d been admitted, I screamed so loud that Mom came to check on me. I’m still in shock that I’ll get to do something I love so much, something I usually do for fun, as part of school. It almost makes me forgive Mom for invading my privacy and submitting my work.
At seven forty-five, I finally leave my room. My hair isn’t fully dry, but it’s as dry as it’s going to get, and after I picked it out a little bit, it actually looks really nice.
Dad’s already left for work, and Miles is in the family room, eating a bowl of cereal with his eyes glued to Dream Zone. They’re performing “Together Tonight,” his favorite song. Usually I get Miles his breakfast so Mom can finish getting ready. But she’s in the kitchen all dressed in her business casual and has already done my job. Except she’s doing this thing where she picks things up and then puts them down in another spot in the corner, moving piles around instead of really tidying anything. It usually means something is wrong.
She lets out a sigh, so loud I can hear it across the room, and finally pauses her restless hands, pressing them together into a steeple. Her eyes zero in on me.
“Why didn’t you just let Miles into the bathroom this morning?” she asks, the accusation clear in her question. “He said you weren’t in the shower.”
My stomach sinks, guilty, but then I puff my chest up with more confidence than I actually feel. “I was doing my hair. There are two bathrooms in this house.” I brush past her to grab a yogurt out of the fridge, but I make sure to avoid her eyes.
“Yeah, and he had an accident on the way to the other bathroom. It’s all the way on the other side of the house.” All the craziness I heard this morning makes sense, and my chest feels tight, thinking about the extra work it probably made for my parents, how upset Miles must have been. Mom shakes her head and then goes back to moving things around on the counter.
“We need to work together here,” she says as a carton of milk goes next to the sink, then over to the island, then eventually into the fridge.
“I know,” I say, looking down. “I’m sorry.”
“I just don’t understand why you couldn’t have let him in,” she continues. “It would have bothered you for maybe a minute. We could have avoided all this.”
That makes me bristle. It’s like she expects me to be able to anticipate every problem. Can’t she see that it’s my first day of school too?
“I said I’m sorry. How was I supposed to know he would have an accident? He hasn’t had one in months!”
Her eyes flicker to the family room, checking if Miles is paying attention, but his music continues on. “Watch it,” she warns.
Anger builds in my chest, hard like a rock, but I hold in my words and eat my yogurt instead. Fighting with Mom this morning doesn’t fit into the plan. I can feel her presence a few feet away—pacing, tidying—but I hold my body stiffly, refusing to look up. The yogurt is tasteless and feels heavy going down my throat.
When I finally walk past her to throw my trash away, though, she grabs my hand, and her eyes are soft again. “I’m sorry, Tessa. I’m just tired. There’s so much going on with this move. . . .”
The fury that was building inside me suddenly deflates, and I squeeze her hand. “I know.”
It’s our usual pattern: picking and poking and then apologizing. Tension and then release.
“This transition is really hard for him,” she continues, her eyes watery. “I think that’s why he’s acting out, and these old habits are showing up again. We have to be patient with him . . . and with each other.”
This transition is really hard for me too, I want to say. But I nod instead.
“We should leave soon, shouldn’t we?” I say, letting go of her hand. “Are you going to take Miles first?”
Luckily, the high school in our neighborhood, Bixby Knolls, has a program for students eighteen to twenty-two that’s perfect for Miles, so he won’t have to go far. But Chrysalis Academy is across town, closer to the ocean. School doesn’t start until eight thirty, but we’ll need to get going soon if I’m going to get there on time.
Mom’s giving me a confused look, though, as if this doesn’t make sense.
“I thought I told you,” she says, shaking her head. “I’m going to sit in on Miles’s class for the first period today. He’s really agitated about it, and I want to help him settle in.”
“How am I going to get to school?” I have my license, but no car. And it’s not like I can just walk the seven miles to Chrysalis.
“Sam from across the street is going to drive you. He offered last night when I went over to talk to Audrey. He seems like such a nice boy. Is that okay?”
I want to say that it isn’t. But then I think about Miles all alone at his new school. He hasn’t had an accident in a long time, so he must have a lot of feelings going on. Change can be so hard for him, even if he doesn’t always show it in conventional ways. I know Mom going with him is the right decision. Of course it is.
So I just force my lips into a smile and nod my head. “Sure.”
Chapter Five
Hawaiian Shirt Sam is wearing another Hawaiian shirt, if you can believe that, though it’s light blue this time. It must be, like, his thing. Only today, he has a corduroy blazer over it and khakis that are too loose, making him look like a kooky college professor. And he must be burning up, because September is still very much summer in southern California. Even this early, the sun is already peeking out.
I cross the street to his white Tudor-style house, trying to avoid the last of the season’s slimy purple jacaranda flowers on the ground so my shoes don’t get dirty. He waves at me, and there’s that same half smile on his face. “Hey, carpool buddy!”
I wave back and try to swallow some of the irritation I feel at Mom for putting me in this situation. I had a plan for this morning, and my stomach aches now that it’s all changing. She was going to drive me to school but drop me off half a block away, so no one would know that my mom dropped me off. I would walk up to my fresh start at Chrysalis, unencumbered by any history. Just me. A new girl in the creative writing conservatory with a perfect wash-and-go and a perfect outfit.