Page 72: Acceptable house paint colors are Benjamin Moore’s Eggshell, Egg-white, Ecru, Off-white, Dandelion White, London Fog, Decorator’s White—
Page 106: All shrubbery must be boxwood or similar, such as Myrtus communis ‘Compacta’—
No wonder Thornewood looked so perfect. I dumped the whole packet on the foyer table. A loose page beneath the rule book skimmed off. I picked it up.
To: Mrs. Maryann Braxton & Mr. Charles Parker, as if they were a couple. As if they were married. Agreement to Adhere to Historic District Codes and Rules of Project Review.
“In engaging with permitting for projects on a property zoned residential, owners must remain in compliance with all rules and guidelines at all times or risk the fines and liens capable of being placed by the city of Thornewood until such a time as the property is rezoned.” It went on. And on. I skimmed to the end.
At the bottom was a “permanent reconciliation date” of November 3 and Charlie’s graceful signature, Charles Parker, Esquire, and there beside it was a blank space for Maryann Braxton. That sliver of ice I’d felt when he walked in came back. How could all this have been set up in just a week? It was almost as if it was planned . . . as if Charlie had been waiting for our mom to get here.
Or . . . waiting for our dad to die of unexplained causes so he could show up in his hospital room and whisk his family away. A chill ran down my arms. I pulled out my phone and searched for: Charles Parker.
Every entry was a variation of: “Charles Parker was a jazz musician who played the saxophone and went by the name ‘Bird.’ He died in 1955.” Great. Even his name was a mystery.
I looked over the documents for something that would tell me what he had planned. And why my mom was so angry about it. But it was just a bunch of historic rules and regulations. Nothing to tell me what I really wanted to know.
Why were we here? And what did Charlie want with us?
4
WELL ENOUGH FOR HIGH SCHOOLS
Blythe and I stood outside the Rolls Edward admin building, waiting for first bell. I scanned the crowd, not quite believing what I saw. Was there anyone who looked remotely like our friends back home? Anyone who didn’t look outfitted to attend an interview at an Ivy League college? Or a hedge fund? But there was nothing but plaid and pastel. What kind of dress code was this?
“See any non-lemmings?” I asked.
Blythe glanced up from her class printout. “Are there ever?”
“Should I have worn jeans?”
“Do you own jeans?” She was right. I owned exactly one pair of jeans. Today, I was wearing a sparkling silver sweater dress and unignorable tall black boots because: that’s me. And Blythe had on her usual drawn-on hoodie/jeans combo because: that’s her. We hadn’t dressed the same since I could pull out dresser drawers. Being different was always better than blending. Except, maybe, at a new school.
Blythe leaned into my shoulder. “Bean. You look more like me than you do like them. Does that help?”
I relaxed against her side. “That helps.” I might be at an unfamiliar school in an unfamiliar life, but I still had the most familiar thing. I had Blythe. Blythe—who I hadn’t yet told about sneaking a peek at the suspicious house documents. But I would. Today. She pulled away, holding up her printout. She had Honors Bio first. I had French.
“Why didn’t we take the same language?” I grumbled.
“I don’t want to be late.” Her eyes were sparkling. Of course. She was excited, about to have new adventures in biology.
“Have fun.” I waved, and she was off. I gripped my leather backpack straps more tightly. People were filling the breezeway and sending me curious looks. Being new and alone = no good. Head down. Move. My legs obeyed, and I found my classroom without having to raise my head to eye level. I slipped inside to lean against the wall, waiting for everyone to file in. My face tingled from the pressure of everyone’s eye scans. The bell rang, and I could see only two empty seats—both in the front row. Great.
“Bonjour!” Monsieur Cade called out and shut the classroom door. He introduced himself and welcomed me to French III, then gestured to the front corner desk. I sat down, a wall on one side and an empty desk on the other. Monsieur Cade pronounced my name the French way, “Sabina,” then started talking about how a whole group of people were once named Sabine. He called them a colony. I was pretty sure I wasn’t the only one thinking I sounded like a disease that had been quarantined in this corner. I could feel eyes on the back of my head, probably imagining it rolling off. From colony disease. I was seriously considering making a run for it when the door flew open. Kai, Mover Guy, jogged in and sat down. Next to me.
He was breathing heavily, like he’d run to school. “Pardon, Monsieur Cade.”
“Pas de parler, Monsieur Thompson.” Monsieur Cade leveled his dark gaze on Kai. The silvery wings in Monsieur Cade’s hair flared. Note to self: he doesn’t like to be interrupted. Kai muttered something under his breath and glanced over at me. He did a double take, then lifted his hand in greeting.
I bit my lip to keep my smile from becoming scary.
Monsieur Cade was talking, but all I could think was: Mover Guy was here. Mover Guy—Kai—went to my school. And sat at the desk beside mine. I mean, I’d have to get Blythe to calculate the odds, but I was pretty sure they were slim. Finding him sitting beside me in my first class was like something out of a novel, or a poem—stop! No thinking about poetry. No poeting. I imagined sealing my lips closed to keep myself from word-vomiting all over the classroom.
Midway through class, Kai slipped a folded piece of paper under my spiral-bound. I waited until Monsieur Cade was writing on the board to open it.
His handwriting was neat and tidy.
S— Want a Rolly tour guide? —K
He knew which twin I was. What did it matter that I’d already had a tour? I crossed out want and wrote in desperately need. Then I slipped the note back. He glanced at it but didn’t smile. Maybe the word desperate wasn’t funny. It was just desperate. I slumped as far as my spine allowed.
At the end of class I lingered, but Kai was talking to a guy wearing a Rolly Soccer sweatshirt. So I hefted my bag and headed out. Then at the door, I looked back.
He was watching. My heart hammered. He mouthed: Find me at lunch.
I waved and ducked out, afraid my smile would outgrow my face and fall off.
I wasn’t able to talk to Blythe until we were in line for what Rolly generously called “haute cuisine.” The cafeteria did smell a little better than our old school’s. As we moved up in line, I thought of telling her about the house documents, but instead blurted everything about seeing Kai. “He said to find him at lunch.”