“But poetry and song lyrics are completely different. They’re related, but poetry conforms to a . . .” Wait. Flirt? My eyes caught on his smile.
“Standard?”
“A meter . . .” Everything around me was buzzing. “Did you just say flirt?”
“I didn’t say I was good at it.”
He was flirting with me. Oh. Oh, oh. He was so not dating Emma. Energy coursed around us, and my hope bird shook out its feathers.
“Well, you’re not bad at it,” I said, and Kai laughed and flicked his Hacky Sack into a high arc. I caught it and tossed the ball back to him, unable to contain a smile. “But maybe you should try real poetry next time.”
“Maybe you should start listening to the Cure.” He tossed the ball to me.
“I could try.” I tossed it back. “But can they beat Dickinson for lines that make your heart shudder?”
“They can beat anybody. Even old-fashioned poetry.” He tossed the ball to me.
“Nobody beats Emily.”
“So, Emily Dickinson is that one you’re always quoting?” Our eyes met and the ball fell to the floor.
“Sorry.” I picked it up, hiding my frown. I told myself to look up, to meet his eyes, but I couldn’t quite manage the confidence I’d had just a moment before when I was catching and throwing a ball. I bit my lip, chewing to keep from poeting. I took a deep breath, ready to see scorn or disgust, and handed the ball back to Kai. He was smiling, that sweet lopsided smile that was like a half-written sentence that ended in the word forever. He pushed open the quad door and held it for me.
The rush of students and noise blew in, scattering the shy sparkly energy between us. I took a step toward my next class. But I couldn’t help looking back at him.
“Thanks again, I—” Someone bumped me from behind, and I stumbled.
“Sorry,” Nate said, his hair flopping in front of his face. He ducked around me and grabbed a fistful of Kai’s backpack. “We can’t be late for calc. My perfect record will not be marred.”
Kai leaned toward me and touched my elbow. “Let me know what happens, okay? With Charlie?” Charlie. I’d almost forgotten about Charlie. And my mom.
Nate’s long fingers yanked Kai into the sea of students. As I watched him go, my eyes skipped over someone watching me. I blinked back, ready to tell Blythe about Charlie. I had to talk to her—finally talk to her. She’d know what to do. But it wasn’t Blythe. It was Emma. I lifted my hand to wave, but she turned her head as if she hadn’t seen me at all, and kept on walking.
7
IMPERCEPTIBLY, AS SUMMER GRIEF
“But why would Dad want to start a business in Thornewood?” Blythe had finally put her phone down on the new white bedspread when I’d handed her the printouts from the library. We were sequestered in our pink room, me on the chaise I’d fallen in love with despite grievous attempts not to, and her on the bed. The afternoon light slanted through the bank of windows, turning the room to rose gold. Blythe tapped the printouts with two fingers, as if she could reveal their secrets. I was worried she’d be angry I hadn’t told her sooner, but the news of the city documents and the denied permit were a puzzle to her, like math. Or global warming.
I shook my head in answer. “The permit was commercial. Maybe they wanted to start a mediation firm?” Or a mold-and-spore cultivation center.
A wrinkle formed between her brows. “That doesn’t make sense. Dad had a perfectly good firm where we lived, in perfectly good Dana Point.” Her brow furrowed further. I wondered if she felt the way I did—like she was floating above her life, looking down through a bank of fog. Our dad had had property he’d never mentioned. He had had business plans we’d never known. He had had friends we’d never met. What else would shift and change if we looked hard enough?
“Well. It’s a nonissue. The permit was denied.” Blythe threw the printouts on her desk, where a snack tray held bologna and cheese squares. Charlie knew his audience. I picked up his note: Girls. Your mother will be late today. I’m at the store for dinner fixings. C. “He’s ‘C’ now?” I crumpled the paper.
“Snackmaster C.” Blythe nibbled a bologna square.
I paced the floor so as not to give in and eat the tempting snacks. “What if he’s a con artist out to marry Mom and steal her . . . dilapidated mansion?” When I looked over, Blythe gave me a slow blink. “I’m serious. That letter from the city was addressed to Mom and Charlie like they were a couple.”
Blythe wrapped her bologna around a cracker. “Did it say Mr. and Mrs.?”
“No. But aren’t you suspicious? Dad dies suddenly, with no explanation, and then here’s Charlie to take over his whole—”
Blythe held up her hands. “All we know is Charlie is part owner. It makes sense. Mom got half the house from Dad, and Charlie kept his half.” She was quiet for a moment. “We just don’t know why Dad and Charlie owned the house together in the first place.”
“And Mom and Charlie aren’t telling us.”
Blythe licked her fingers of crumbs and picked up her homework, then stopped. “Do you still have those letters?” The letters. How had I forgotten the letters? But I knew how, and he worked for Big Family Movers. I shot up and pulled the box from under the bed. The next letter we read together.
July 23, 2009
Dear Mr. Parker,
I’m so glad the firm has settled adequately over the incident of the mismanagement of your termination. I have contacted the Mission Project on your behalf to let them know that an excellent attorney is in need of a position. They’re awaiting your call. This letter concludes our official engagement.
Good luck,
Mick Braxton, J.D.
We glanced at the third letter—advice on how to handle a case at this Mission Project place. Guess Charlie got the job. The next letter was an update on the same case. Blythe flipped through a few more. “I don’t know what I expected—a red letter titled: ‘Read me’?”
“That would be good.” I skipped to some of the last letters in the pile—the most recent ones. When I went to open it, Blythe stopped me.
“The address.”
I turned the envelope back over. Charlie Parker, Number 6 Magnolia, Thornewood, California. Blythe tilted her head. “How long has he lived here?” The room shifted from rose gold to pale gray as outside, rain began to fall. Above the patter, the Momobile roared up the driveway. We went to the window in time to see Charlie’s Mustang roar up behind. They both got out, neither wearing jackets or carrying umbrellas. Mom held up a piece of paper, and they looked at each other for a long moment. Then they both smiled, and he lifted her in his arms.