“—half down with some ringlets pulled out on both—”
“Hold on,” I say, standing up. “I think that’s our food.”
“She said ‘Kate.’ ”
“I know,” I say with a sigh, and we go up and get the food I ordered.
* * *
Cameron Evans can’t stop staring at me. “Wow,” he says. “Keats Sedlak. I’d recognize you anywhere. I sat right behind you for all of ninth grade English.” He circles around me. “The back of your head hasn’t changed at all.”
“Thank you,” I say since it seems to be meant as a compliment.
His father, who pumped my hand energetically when they first arrived, now beams delightedly at both of us. “You don’t forget hair like that!” he says, then turns to my mother. “Look at them. Two minutes ago they were little kids, and today they’re all grown-up and smarter than we are. How’d that happen?”
“Time passed?” my mother suggests drily.
“Ex-act-ly.” He looks like a blown-up version of his son. They’re both tall with big heads and straight, fair hair that’s parted and brushed down, but Cameron is superthin and his father’s shoulders and waist are padded with flesh under the wool suit jacket he wears. His shrewd, dark eyes dart around, assessing the house, assessing my mother, assessing me. “So do you remember Cameron as well as he remembers you?” he asks me.
I nod. He’s changed, though. He was awkward and self-effacing in high school, but he’s become slick and outwardly confident.
He swipes his hand through his hair, smooths it down on top, leans his hip against the dining room credenza, and says smoothly, “You were a lot more memorable than I was.”
“I doubt that.”
“No, you were. She was,” he tells my mom. “She was just so smart. The teacher loved her. Everyone waited to hear what she had to say. If Keats didn’t know the answer, no one did.”
“That is so not how I remember it.” I’m trying to be a good sport, but I’m finding this conversation excruciating. This guy is a salesman, just like his dad. It’s the house that’s exciting them, this big old house that my mom is dying to get rid of and doesn’t owe any money on—it should be an easy sale; she won’t hold out for an impossible price. They’ve got the scent of it, and it’s clearly giving them both a hard-on. They’ll say anything right now to make us happy.
But my mom seems enthralled by all this reminiscing. “Yes, teachers always loved Keats.”
“No, they loved Hopkins,” I say. “Sometimes they loved me for being her younger sister.”
She shakes her head. “Hopkins drove most of her teachers nuts.”
“Only because she knew more than they did before class even started.”
Mom shrugs. No argument there.
“Oh, I looked up that article you mentioned,” Mr. Evans says to Mom. “The one in Harvard Magazine. And the one in the Wall Street Journal, too. Sounds like your daughter’s doing some groundbreaking work.” Mom’s clearly told him a lot about Hopkins. He turns to me. “And what are you up to these days, Keats? You must have graduated from college a few years ago, yes?”
Mom’s clearly told him nothing about me. Well, what is there to tell?
“I work over at Waltham Community College.”
“Teaching?”
Mom answers him. “Keats manages their English department.”
“The English department office,” I correct her sharply. “I don’t run the department. I run the office.”
“Interesting,” says Cameron, even though it really isn’t.
“What do you do?” I ask to be polite. Then I realize what a stupid question that is.
“Um…this?” He gestures around us, indicating the house.
I flush. “Right. I knew that.”
“Cameron didn’t come with me last time,” Charlie says. “He hasn’t gotten a good look at the property yet. How about you give him the grand tour while I sit down with your mother and start throwing some boring numbers at her?”
Oh, great. It occurs to me that maybe Mom had me come out today just so she could fix me up with Cameron. But all I can do now is try to sound cheerful as I tell him to follow me. As we walk out into the hallway, I hear Charlie saying, “We’re truly honored that you chose us to represent this amazing property, Eloise. I can see that this is a house that’s been cherished, and I promise you that we will find a buyer who’ll love it just as much as you have.”
“They can set fire to it so long as they give us our asking price,” Mom replies.
I trot Cameron swiftly through the downstairs. I’m a little bummed to see Mom hasn’t made much progress since the last time I was here. There are some boxes scattered around, so I guess she planned to start packing, but they’re still empty, and the shelves and tables are still crammed with junk.
“I love the way your house rambles,” Cameron says as we head up the stairs. “It has so much character.”
“It always felt kind of rabbit warreny to me. Not necessarily in a good way. But I will say, there are lots of excellent places to hide here.”
“Did you hide a lot when you were a kid?”
We’re upstairs. “Not really hide. I just liked to crawl into tight places where no one could find me.”
“How is that different from hiding?” he asks seriously.
“I’m not sure.” I point down the hallway. “That’s my brother Milton’s room—he still lives here—and the one next to it used to be mine, but he’s spread into it, and over there—”
“Wait—spread into it? Did he break down any walls?”
“No, he just leaves the doors to the shared bathroom open.”
“Let me see.” He’s already at the door, turning the knob.
“Wait! We have to knock first. He’s probably in there.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize he was home.”
I knock and Milton says, “What?”
“It’s me. And”—I hesitate, not sure what to call Cameron—“and a real estate agent. Can we come in so he can see your room?”
“Do you have to?”
“Yes,” I say and open the door.
Milton’s sitting at his computer. He’s got some major bedhead, but otherwise looks adequately presentable in sweats and a T-shirt. “Hi,” he says, swiveling in his chair. My companion starts to introduce himself when Milton cuts him off. “You’re Cameron Evans.”
Cameron blinks. “Yeah. How’d you know that?”
Milton shrugs. It’s something he’s always been able to do—remember virtually every person he’s ever seen. He used to read through the school yearbook once a year just so he could put a name to each face. And from then on, he knew who everyone was. It’s an unusual skill, and I’m jealous of it. People remember me because of my red hair and weird name, so I’m at a disadvantage at parties.
“You’re a real estate agent now?” Milton says to Cameron.
Cameron reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small silver business card holder. (Really? A business card holder? The guy is my age. Why is he pretending to be fifty?) He extracts a card and hands it to Milton.
“Evans and Evans?” Milton reads.
“My dad and me. Although the company name predates me. He and my mother were the original Evans and Evans, but now she uses her maiden name professionally.”
“Why?” Milton asks.
“They got divorced and don’t work together anymore.” He says it easily. I wonder if it’s a function of how much time has elapsed or if it just wasn’t all that traumatic for him.
“Ours are in the process of getting a divorce,” I say in the spirit of unity.
“Your mom mentioned that. It’s one of the most common reasons for people to sell their houses, you know.”
“Did yours?” asks Milton.
“What?”
“Did your parents sell their house when they got divorced?”
“Actually, no. Mom still lives in it.”
Milton hands him back the card
even though he was probably supposed to keep it. “Home prices are down about twenty percent from four years ago,” he says. “That must be rough on your business.”
“We’re doing okay.” Cameron’s smile is looking strained.
“How much do you think you can get for this house?”
“My father’s discussing that with your mother right now.”
“I’ve checked out the comps,” Milton says. “A house two streets over sold for one point five million eighteen months ago, but since then, two similar houses in the neighborhood have gone for less than a million, and there are about four currently on the market. Several of them have lowered their prices more than once. What do they call that? Chasing the market? Don’t you represent one of them?”
“We represent quite a few houses in your neighborhood.” Cameron wipes his hand across his forehead. “Not sure which one you’re thinking of.…It’s a moderately slow market right now, but you guys don’t have to worry about that. This house is unusually stunning, and with no mortgage—”
Milton shakes his head condescendingly. “Perrin Barton in the New York Times said a few weeks ago that no one should be selling right now. Hold on to your real estate, she said. If anything, buy more. Every sign says prices are depressed below market value because buyers are nervous about the economy, but in a couple of years, real estate should regain some momentum.”
I’m listening, amazed as always at how Milton—the guy who can’t boil water for pasta or run a simple errand—can easily track down, synthesize, and remember information. It’s no wonder he was a straight A student, but it’s easy to forget his strengths when I only ever see him fading into the background here at home.
“Huh,” Cameron says. I can literally see the sweat beading on his forehead. To be fair, it is warm in Milton’s room. He never opens a window. “Interesting. I’ll have to read that article. But no one really knows what the future will bring. The important thing to remember is that sometimes it’s just the right time in your life to sell, no matter what the market’s doing, and that’s where your mother seems to be right now.”
“She owns this house outright,” Milton says. “No mortgage means she’s not paying out every month, and the taxes are low since they bought it so long ago. It doesn’t cost her much to carry it. In fact, any place she moves, even an apartment, would probably cost her more per month. Seems to me it makes sense to hold on to it until the market gets stronger.”
“That’s definitely a conversation you should have with her.” Cameron’s edging toward the door. “My sense is she’s ready to just be rid of this big, old house. But it’s always a personal family decision—”
“Come on,” I say, taking pity on him. “I’ll show you the upstairs office.” I grin at my brother behind his back. “I’ll be back later to talk, Miltie.”
“Bring some toast with you,” he says and swivels back to his computer.
* * *
Later, after the Evanses leave, I tell Mom what Milton said about waiting to sell the house.
She shakes her head. “He’s not the one who has to take care of this monstrosity. I just want to get rid of it at this point.”
“I know. And I think Milton knows that, too, but he’s not losing his home without a fight. Oh, and also? He wants some toast.”
Mom follows me into the kitchen. “So Cameron seemed very happy to see you again,” she says pointedly.
“Only in your imagination.”
She goes over to the refrigerator, studies its contents, closes the door without taking anything, and whirls around, her skirt billowing up. “If he calls you, you should at least have coffee with him. It wouldn’t kill you.”
“Tom wouldn’t like it,” I say flatly. I put the bread in the toaster and press it down.
Her eyebrows go way up. “How medieval of him. And of you to think that means you can’t do it.”
“I’m not saying he’d forbid me. He lets me do what I want. But I’m not going to do something that makes him uncomfortable.” Good thing she doesn't know what a hypocrite I am.
She folds her arms across her chest. Then unfolds them and fingers the dangling silver earring in her right ear. “This is the time in your life to be meeting lots of people, Keats. I understand the attraction of a steady boyfriend, but you’re losing out on so many opportunities by playing house too soon.”
“Mom, no one’s playing at anything here. Tom’s the guy I’m going to spend the rest of my life with and you need to—”
She cuts me off. “The rest of your life? You’re not old enough to know anything about the rest of your life. I’m not sure I’m old enough to make those kinds of statements, and I’ve got thirty years on you.”
“Fine,” I say. “As far into the future as I’m capable of seeing, I expect Tom to be at my side, first as my boyfriend and then as my husband and eventually as the father of my children. When we do get married, I hope you can find enough affection for me to congratulate us and to accept Tom into our family.” My voice is breaking, but I don’t even know what’s making me emotional, whether it’s my mother’s attitude or my own recent screwup. I open up a cabinet to get out a plate, hoping it’ll hide my weird overreaction.
“All I want is for you to be happy, Keats. And if I were certain that your happiness lay with Tom, I wouldn’t say another word. But given how young you are, there’s a very good chance that he’s not the right man for you, and if that’s true, I want you to realize that sooner and not later, when you have kids and a house and a mortgage and a life together that’s painful to untangle.”
I whip around. “You’re judging me because of your mistakes. And that’s not fair. I’m completely different from you.”
“Not as different as you might think. When I was twenty-five, I thought I knew everything, too.”
The toast pops up. “How wonderful for you that you’re so much wiser now.” I throw the slices onto a plate. “I’m going to go hang with Milton for a while.”
“Good,” she says. “He needs the company.”
“You think?” I take the toast upstairs. Milton and I play several rounds of Call of Duty, and then I come back downstairs and Mom says, “Your father just called.”
“How’s he doing?”
“Much better. He’s starting to really sound like himself. For better or worse. He did have a request for us, though. Since Hopkins is supposed to get in late tonight—”
“Oh, is she? I didn’t know that. No one tells me anything.”
“—he asked if we could all have an early dinner together tomorrow. Says he has something important to discuss.”
“Can I bring Tom?”
“That would be up to your father. He’s the host.”
“And he invited you?”
“He said I had to be there. I want to see Hopkins, so that’s fine with me. Oh—I’ll have to cancel my other plans.”
“Another date?” She nods. I raise my eyebrows. “Who is it this time? Donald Trump?”
“It’s Paul again.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Paul? Yuck. What happened to Michael?”
She laughs. “And you accuse me of intruding into your personal life.”
14.
In the midst of my misery, there’s one small ray of relief. I never told Tom what happened in this very apartment last week, so he can calmly walk into the room where Jacob and I rolled around naked together. If he knew—
He doesn’t. Thank God.
This proves I was right not to tell him.
But it doesn’t help with my internal distress. To be back here so soon with Tom…the guilt and shame rise up again as sharp as they were that very first night.
It almost ruins my excitement at seeing my sister. It’s been about four months since I last saw her on Christmas Day, but that was brief—Tom and I were at the house just long enough to open gifts, and she was gone the next day—and so much has gone on with Mom and Dad since then that it feels like it’s been a lot longer.
 
; She greets us at the door to Dad’s apartment and gives me a hug, then tells me I look tired.
Hopkins is tall and thin, angular like Mom but without Mom’s unexpectedly wide hips. She’s narrow all over. Even her face is long and narrow, and so are her nose and elegant eyebrows and her ponytail. She’s pretty—at least I think so; Tom doesn’t agree, maybe because she’s so decidedly ungirly. I’ve never seen her wear makeup or do anything with her hair other than wear it straight down on her shoulders or up in a ponytail. And she dresses terribly in shapeless dresses or dowdy skirts or jeans that are too short. Right now she’s wearing khakis that gape at the waist and sag at the butt and a dark blue oxford shirt that looks like it came from the men’s department. Everything about her screams, “Notice my brains, not my looks.” She doesn’t need to fuss over her clothing or wear mascara: she’s Hopkins Sedlak, the smartest, most powerful person in any room, no matter what she’s wearing.
She shakes Tom’s hand and gives him a cool kiss on the cheek. “I can’t believe you guys are still together after all these years,” she says before leading us over to the coffee table area, where Mom and Dad are already sitting.
Milton’s not there. I ask Mom about it, and she claims he “almost” came, which probably means that she asked him to come, he said he’d “think about it,” and then when it was time to leave, he said, “Not this time but maybe the next.” It’s never the next time. I wish she’d just confront him, force him to realize he’s always postponing joining the human race, and then just drag him along. But she never seems to have the energy or the time—or maybe the inclination—to do that.
Dad’s apartment is a lot messier than when I was there last. There are papers, journals, and electronics (a laptop, a BlackBerry, an iPad) scattered over every surface and even some dirty clothing on the floor. Hopkins has changed the landscape of the place.
I had forgotten what a slob she is. When she lived at home, she’d shove off her shoes the second she didn’t want them on her feet anymore, and I spent most of my childhood either tripping over her sneakers or picking them up and putting them to the side. No one else ever bothered. It wasn’t just her shoes, either. She left a trail of food and tissues and papers behind her wherever she went. I once complained to Mom that Hopkins made the biggest messes in the house and never helped clean up, and Mom shrugged and said, “She has more important things on her mind”—like she was proud of Hopkins for not taking the time to toss out her own peach pits.