JAKE
JAKE CLUTCHED HIS plastic cup of Sprite and looked around the crowded gallery. He was combusting in his button-down shirt. Why hadn’t he just worn a T-shirt? Smile. Why did he have to smile? His face was exhausted.
Allegra skipped over and put her arm around him. “Hey, sweaty boy,” she said. “Your painting is amazing. You deserved the prize.”
“Thanks.” Jake tried not to jerk away. He and Allegra were in art together again, but he was careful to keep his distance. He was keeping his distance with everyone. Mona Lisa had recently texted him for the first time in months, and he hadn’t even written back. “Yours was great too.”
“Yeah, well.” Allegra adjusted her bra and then dug around in her purse. “It’s not like I was quoting Peter Pan. The literary thing scored you points.”
“Not Peter Pan,” Jake said. “Winnie-the-Pooh.”
“That’s what I meant.” Allegra slid on red lipstick and then bounced over to the refreshment table.
Jake studied his canvas. He’d painted it last winter in art class. It was supposed to be a self-portrait, but one afternoon he was in the library when he saw a Winnie-the-Pooh poster that said, “You’re braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.” The next day in art he’d scrawled You’re braver than you believe in black letters across his portrait.
Last spring Ted had come by the art room and seen the painting. He thought it was crazy good and told Jake to send in a photo to the Anacorte Emerging Artists contest. The winners would receive a cash prize. Also, the winning paintings would be part of a month-long show at the Anacorte Gallery in Darien Shoppes.
That had been back in June. In September the Anacorte Gallery contacted Jake to arrange a viewing of the actual painting. Ted had just broken up with him. Jake barely even remembered putting them in touch with his art teacher. And then Jake had gotten the news two weeks ago that he was the grand-prize winner. His painting would be featured at the show. A couple was even interested in buying it.
The only thing Jake wanted to do was call Ted. But he couldn’t. Ted had said they should stay friends. Screw that. Jake didn’t want to be buddies with the guy he loved. He wanted to be with him, holding him, kissing him, being held by him.
“Your painting is extraordinary,” a middle-aged woman said to Jake. She had short auburn hair and rimless glasses. “It makes the viewer want to be brave.”
“Thanks,” Jake said. The muscles in his cheeks were aching.
“I’m Lydia Montaine.” She reached out to shake Jake’s hand. “You might know my daughter Whitney. She goes to Hankinson too.”
“Yeah, I know Whitney. She’s great.” Whitney was on student council with Jake. She was the one who’d helped him get elected a few years ago, which Jake was eternally grateful for. He hadn’t realized her mom was white. They didn’t look anything alike.
“I agree,” Whitney’s mom said, “but I happen to be biased.”
Jake glanced over her shoulder. Where was his mom? His face was flushed and his underarms were leaking.
“How’s your college search going?” Whitney’s mom asked. “Do you know where you’re applying?”
Jake nodded. That was all anyone asked about these days. “A bunch of SUNYs with strong fine arts programs.”
“Is there just one application for all of them?”
“Yeah.”
“Thank goodness,” she said. “I know it can be overwhelming.”
After Whitney’s mom wandered off, Jake wiped his face with a napkin. He spotted his mom and waved desperately to her.
“Ready?” she asked, walking over and tucking his damp hair behind his ears.
“Yes . . . please.”
It was freezing out. On the walk to the car, Jake started shivering.
“Your dad and I hate book parties,” his mom said. “For us it’s about the writing and the art. But talking about it? It’s the opposite of what we do. We’d much rather be loners.”
Jake burrowed his chin into his scarf. Snow was swirling around the parking lot, and his sweat was turning to ice. Honestly, he didn’t want to be a loner. He actually liked people. He’d been elected senior class president, and there had even been buzz that he and Ted would be voted homecoming kings for the first time in Hankinson history. That was before Ted dumped him.
“Want to drive?” Jake’s mom held out her keys.
“No, thanks,” Jake said.
“It’ll get better. You’ll slowly start feeling better about what happened with Ted. I promise you will.”
“It doesn’t feel like it,” Jake said as he climbed into the passenger seat.
Jake’s mom turned the heat to high. “It never does.”
Jake leaned back in his seat. When he and Ted had gotten together, he dove headfirst into the relationship. He let himself free-fall because he thought it would never end. Well, he messed up big time, and now he was paying for it.
MIA
ON DECEMBER 15 at 2:59, Mia blasted the Clash and logged on to Swarthmore’s admissions site. She kept hitting refresh until it showed up.
She’d gotten in.
Mia clutched her chest.
She was going to Swarthmore!
Last year it was ranked number one in U.S. News and World Report. At least five Swarthmore alumni were Nobel laureates, one in math. It was outside of Philadelphia, about three hundred miles from Hankinson. But in Mia’s mind she was rocketing to another planet.
She reached for her phone but then set it down again. Her parents would lecture her about the expense of a private college. They’d say how they went to state schools and that worked out fine for them.
Mia texted Jeremiah from IMLI instead.
So . . . I got in. You? PS Listening to “Welcome to Paradise.”
They’d been texting every few weeks, and they promised to check in with each other today. As Mia waited to hear from him, she thought about calling Brock. She and Brock didn’t hang out in person, but they had this phone thing going on. Sometimes Mia would get a text from Brock in the middle of the night saying Are you awake? She’d text him back, and they’d stay up talking for hours.
Mia’s phone pinged. Jeremiah had written, Greetings from Kansas. I’m listening to the Suicidal Tendencies.
Oh no, Mia wrote.
I got the big W. Waitlist. You rock. I’ll roll with it.
Mia was about to write back to Jeremiah when her phone rang. It wasn’t a number she recognized.
“Hello?”
“Oh . . . hey,” a girl’s voice said. “Mia, right? It’s Whitney . . . you know . . . from school.”
As if she had to clarify.
“What’s up?” Mia asked. She tried to sound like it was normal for Whitney Montaine to be calling her.
“I was talking to Brock, and he gave me your number.”
Mia’s breath caught in her throat. She didn’t even know where to begin. Whitney and Brock were talking about her? Never in a million years would she have imagined that.
“Maybe this sounds weird,” Whitney said, “but remember that time you told me you were applying early decision to Swarthmore?”
“Yeah,” Mia said. It had been in the pharmacy line at PriceRite, the day before senior year started.
“It made me want to apply early to NYU.”
Mia smiled. Now this was a subject she could talk about. “So did you hear?”
“Did you?”
Mia’s face erupted into a smile. “Yeah. I just got into Swarthmore!”
“And I got into NYU!”
Before Mia could stop herself, she shrieked into the phone. Whitney shrieked too, which made Mia shriek even louder. If all that prep work was college porn, then this was definitely a huge college orgasm.
GREGOR
GREGOR PUT OFF college applications until winter break. Now, no joke, it was down to the wire. His guidance counselor was leaving for Belize tomorrow. She told Gregor that she needed to know first thing in the morning
where to send his transcripts and recommendation letters. The other seniors’ deadline was two weeks ago, but she’d given him an extension.
Gregor leaned against a pillow and turned to a new page in his journal.
December 23
I can’t decide where to apply. How can I make this choice about the rest of my life? City or small town? Liberal arts or big university? Music conservatory? Every decision I make sets my life on a different course. Here’s something else. Whitney and I are starting to talk in school. STOP. Goal: get through one journal entry without mentioning Whitney. (I will try.)
Okay. College.
•Reed. My dad went there. I still have a Reed sweatshirt.
•Ithaca College. They keep sending me catalogs.
•Berklee College of Music. Top music conservatory. Ava is a sophomore there. Yes, that Ava. We’ve texted a few times, no big deal.
•Juilliard. I’d never get in.
•University of MD. My sister goes there.
•Manhattan School of Music. I have a good chance of getting in with cello. Whitney just got accepted to NYU. We’d live in the same city.
(So much for not mentioning Whitney.)
JANUARY
ZOE
ON NEW YEAR’S Day, Zoe was playing piano in the living room when the doorbell rang. She slipped a sweatshirt over her tank top. Rich Morrison, Aunt Jane’s ex-husband, was shivering on the doorstep. As Zoe opened the door, an icy wind blasted into the foyer.
“Hey, Zoe,” Rich said, shutting the door behind him. He set a tote bag on the ground and kicked off his boots. “Happy New Year.”
“Yeah, Happy New Year.”
Zoe crossed her arms over her chest. She’d never talked much to Rich at family gatherings, but he seemed friendly enough. He was her cousin David’s father, and he and his wife, Glenda, had that little girl, Mariah. At David’s college graduation last year, Zoe had seen him blowing raspberries on Mariah’s stomach and that seemed cute.
“Is Jane here?” Rich asked. “I’m dropping off containers from Thanksgiving. I told her I’d swing by.”
Zoe shook her head. “She’s at a brunch with people from Downing. She’ll be home around three.”
Aunt Jane had invited Zoe to the brunch, but she needed to work on her song. Anna was coming over later with a draft of the lyrics, and Zoe was supposed to have the melody figured out. Anna signed them up to perform an original song for the Class Acts talent show in April. She said it would help get Zoe out of her funk.
“I’ll leave the containers on the counter,” Rich said, draping his coat over the couch. “I need to grab a bill for David too.”
Rich headed into the kitchen, and Zoe sat at the piano again. She’d come up with a sequence of notes, but when she tried it now, the song only lasted seven seconds. Damn. Everything felt so crappy right now. Zoe’s mom was drinking again and refusing to go to rehab. She’d told Max who told Jane who told Zoe that she felt a “moderation approach” to alcohol would be more effective. On top of that, all everyone at school talked about was college and where they were applying. Zoe had no clue what she wanted to do next year. She’d applied to Downing because that was where Aunt Jane worked, but she wasn’t even sure she wanted to go to college. Maybe she’d take some cooking classes or work full-time at Bean.
“Are you composing?” Rich was standing under the archway in the living room.
Zoe flinched. She hadn’t realized Rich was listening. “My friend and I are trying to write a song.”
“Did Jane tell you I play piano?”
Zoe shook her head.
“In a band on weekends. We write our own stuff.”
Rich slid onto the piano bench next to her. He rubbed his hands together to warm them up and then played a ragtime tune. He was good, like, really good.
“That’s amazing,” Zoe said.
“I wrote it last fall. Want to learn it?”
“Sure.”
Piano was the one thing that got her out of herself. She’d recently restarted lessons with a teacher whose house was two streets away from Bean.
Rich played with his right hand, showing Zoe the notes. Zoe picked out a few notes herself.
“You’re fast,” he said. “How long have you been taking lessons?”
“On and off. I just started again.”
Pretty soon they were both playing, Zoe’s fingers alongside Rich’s on the keyboard. They sounded solid together. Zoe was getting into it.
She gave Rich a grateful smile. This was what it meant to push beyond the gloom. These were the moments when Zoe realized that, somehow, she was going to muddle through.
WHITNEY
WHITNEY CLIMBED ONTO the school bus. It felt silly to be taking a field trip like they were back in fifth grade. Pretty much everyone had their driver’s licenses by now! But her senior lit teacher wanted them to go to the Downing Library to learn about academic research, to get ready for college next year.
“Hey there,” Whitney said as she sat next to Gregor and unbuttoned her navy pea coat. It was hot on the bus and smelled like sweaty socks. “The school bus makes me feel like one of those clowns in a car that’s too small.”
“Or those big guys who ride tiny dirt bikes,” Gregor said, smiling. His voice was deep, and he’d gotten tall this year, like almost six feet. For the past few months Whitney and Gregor had been joking around in their classes. She’d even gone to his jazz band’s holiday concert back in December. Whitney had watched Gregor onstage wearing a black shirt and black jeans, his hair spiked. The audience went crazy whenever he had a solo. It was obvious he was a rock star on the drums. But then, back at school on Monday, his hair was messy and he was his usual semi-geeky self. It was kind of adorable.
“When’s the last time you rode the bus?” she asked Gregor.
“Never, really,” Gregor said. “I walked in middle school, and then my dad used to drive me before I got my license. I guess I’ve just taken the bus on field trips.”
Gregor’s dad. Whitney’s tongue felt heavy, and saliva was pooling in her mouth. They’d never talked about his dad before.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “About your dad. That must have been terrible.”
“Yeah . . . well,” Gregor said quietly.
The bus pulled onto the main road. Whitney watched a police car zip around them, the siren on but the lights off.
“I think my mom knew him,” she said after a moment. She was remembering what she heard last year, how her mom had had a secret crush on his dad.
“Really? Is your mom a lawyer too?”
Whitney shook her head. “They went to high school together. My mom mentioned it once. Isn’t that crazy?”
Gregor stared at her. “Your mom grew up here?”
Whitney told him the year that her mom had graduated from high school.
“I think that’s the same year as my dad.” Gregor paused. “I wonder if they were friends.”
The light changed to green, and the bus rolled forward.
“I hope so,” Whitney said. She wasn’t going to tell him the parts about the car running over his dad’s foot or her mom’s crush.
“I should check his journal from high school,” Gregor said. “What’s your mom’s name?”
“You have his journal?” Whitney couldn’t imagine what it would be like to read her own dad’s journal! She had no idea what occurred in his brain, maybe chemistry formulas and tropical fish and the occasional realization that he had daughters to deal with.
“I haven’t read it,” Gregor said. “Maybe someday. I have a journal like it. He gave it to me freshman year.”
Kyra and Brock and Ted were in the back bellowing to each other like they owned the bus. Whitney wished they would shut up, even though two years ago she would have been right there with them.
“What do you write about?” she asked. Maybe she was getting too personal, but she’d never met a guy who kept a journal. It seemed so soulful, like Jack Kerouac or Kurt Cobain.
&
nbsp; Gregor’s cheeks were flushed, and he was looking into his lap. “I write about anything, I guess. Whatever comes up. It’s weird to talk about this. I don’t usually—”
“Me neither,” Whitney said. “I’ve always wanted to have a journal. I’ve never told anyone that.”
As Gregor drummed his thumbs against his thighs, she had this crazy idea to reach over and hold his hand.
“If you want to hear something else about me that no one knows,” she said, “I sleep with a teddy bear. Dorky, right?”
Gregor grinned. “Really?”
“It’s cute. It’s small and red and says coup de couer.”
“Coup de couer?” Gregor asked.
“It means—”
“‘Falling in love,’” he said. “I took French for seven years.”
“But it’s more than that. It’s supposed to be like a shock of love. At least that’s what I heard. The bear saved my life.”
Gregor was staring hard at her. He had nice teeth, white and straight.
“I know . . . it sounds silly,” Whitney said. “I was in the hospital with pneumonia sophomore year. Someone gave me the bear and then I got better. I guess it’s my lucky charm.”
Gregor shook his head but didn’t say anything. Whitney wondered what it would be like to kiss him, but she quickly pushed that thought away.
“That’s cool,” he finally said, his voice cracking. “I mean . . . about your bear.”
“Lydia, by the way.”
“What’s that?”
“Lydia Gibson. That was my mom’s name in high school if you ever look it up in your dad’s journal.”
FEBRUARY
JAKE
“DID KENI TELL you that’s okay?” Jake asked. His friend Zoe was walking around Bean, taping up hearts that she’d cut from construction paper. It was six thirty on Valentine’s Day, and they were expecting a rush of customers. “She’s a lesbian anarchist after all. She may be offended by little pink hearts.”