Windfall

  When I stagger into the house the next afternoon, Uncle Jake—who is working from home today, his computer balanced on his lap and his feet up on the coffee table—looks over.

  “What in the world…?” he says as I cross through the living room and toward the basement stairs, lugging a huge bundle of cardboard. I’m breathing hard and sweating. It’s already been an enormous hassle to get this from the store to the bus and now home, and I’m so aggravated at having to do it all by myself that I can hardly see straight.

  Uncle Jake jumps up from the couch and jogs over, slipping on the wooden floors in his socked feet. “What are you doing?” he says, taking the cardboard from me and leaning it against the wall. “I would’ve helped you with this.”

  It didn’t even occur to me to ask him. It’s not that he isn’t helpful when it comes to these sorts of things. Over the years, he’s assisted in the making of too many macaroni necklaces to count, continued to dye Easter eggs with us even after the great purple stain incident, and learned how to braid strings into bracelets when it was all the rage among sixth-grade girls and nobody else would make them with me.

  But I was so focused on the fact that I was going to have to build this boat without Teddy—so bitter about it—that I didn’t even think to mention it. And now the word pops into my head again, entirely unbidden: island.

  “It’s for physics,” I explain, leaning against the wall alongside the slabs of cardboard. I kick off my sneakers, still panting. “We have to build a boat.”

  Uncle Jake raises his eyebrows. “We as in…you and me?”

  “We as in me and Teddy.”

  “Ah,” he says, rubbing at his chin. “So…we as in you and me.”

  I start to shake my head, to tell him I’m fine on my own, because that’s what I always do. But then I stop myself, thinking: peninsula. Thinking: at least that.

  He eyes the cardboard, then peeks inside the plastic bag I’ve set down beside it, which is filled with rolls of tape. “This is it? All you can use? Seems less than ideal.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t want to have to cross the ocean with it,” I tell him, “but hopefully it’ll be enough to get us to the other side of the pool.”

  “You and Teddy both? In a cardboard boat?” He laughs. “I’d pay to see that.”

  “Lucky for you, admission is free.”

  “Then we’d better get to work,” he says, clapping his hands, and when he picks up the cardboard I feel immediately lighter, realizing how grateful I am for the help.

  The house is all ours—Aunt Sofia is at work and Leo is in Michigan—but even so we decide the basement is the best place for this, so we send the cardboard thumping down the stairs, where it lands in a heap on the unfinished concrete floor.

  “So,” Uncle Jake says as we cut the twine. “What have you got so far?”

  I stare down at the oversized rectangles in dismay. “You’re looking at it.”

  “Right,” he says. “So you haven’t…?”

  I shake my head.

  “And Teddy hasn’t…?”

  “Nope,” I say. “Not even a little bit.”

  He walks over to grab a notepad off the dusty desk in the corner. The basement is mostly just pipes, concrete, and extra storage space, and the walls are lined with boxes, many of them filled with things that used to belong to my parents, reminders of my previous life. Which is why I don’t come down here very often.

  “Teddy’s got a tough road ahead of him,” Uncle Jake says as we settle down on the floor, which is hard and cool. “That kid just got catapulted up to the moon. And you can’t travel that far and that fast without some motion sickness, you know?”

  I duck my head. “I guess.”

  “But,” he says, his voice firmer now, “it’s no excuse for disappearing on you either.”

  “He didn’t disappear, exactly. He’s in Mexico. For spring break.”

  “Yeah, well, I imagine he could’ve worked on this with you before he left.”

  “Teddy’s always taken more of a last-minute approach to things,” I tell him. “Though it’s gotten a little worse lately.”

  Uncle Jake is watching me with something like sympathy, his blue eyes clear and direct, and I have to look away, because those were my dad’s eyes too, and my chest goes tight with the familiarity of his gaze. “Must be hard.”

  “What?”

  “All of it.”

  I shake my head, not sure what to say. “It’s fine,” I tell him after a moment, picking up a pen and turning back to the pile of cardboard. “We’ll make it work.”

  I know that’s not what he meant. He wasn’t talking about the boat at all. But I can’t think about Teddy anymore right now, and Uncle Jake seems to understand this too. So instead we get to work. He grabs his toolbox while I sketch rough diagrams, and we discuss the principles of flotation, things like density and balance and buoyancy.

  And for a while I’m fine. For a while it’s easy to forget about Teddy and the fact that he’s spending spring break on a beach in Mexico while I’m spending it in our dimly lit basement, working on a project that we’re supposed to be doing together.

  “You’re pretty good at this,” I say to Uncle Jake, who is making clean slices in the cardboard, following the outline I’ve drawn of the base of the boat.

  He glances up at me with a smile. “I’ve built a few boxcars in my day.”

  “What’s a boxcar?”

  “It’s not all that different from a box boat. We used to race them.”

  “Who?” I ask, still bent over my diagram, not completely paying attention, but when the silence lengthens I look up. My uncle is watching me with an unreadable expression, his mouth screwed up to one side.

  “Your father,” he says, and though the words sound casual, I can see in the set of his jaw what this costs him. He never talks about my dad. At least not to me.

  For a few seconds we stare at each other. Behind him a thousand specks of dust are floating in the light from the window, making everything dreamlike and indistinct, and I’m almost afraid to breathe, like it might shatter the moment, like it might signal the end of something that I wasn’t even sure—until now—I wanted to begin.

  “He always used to beat me,” he says again, his voice gruffer this time. He bows his head and rubs at the back of his neck. “Drove me nuts to see my little brother whizzing past me year after year. But I swear that kid could’ve made a rocket ship out of two toothpicks and a paper clip.”

  “He was always building stuff,” I say, smiling at the memory. “When we went out to a restaurant, he’d be piling matchbooks on the table the whole time. He couldn’t help himself.”

  Uncle Jake’s eyes are watery. “He was something, your dad.”

  My mind is humming, moving so fast my thoughts are tripping over themselves. I hesitate, wanting to be sure of myself, then push forward before I can think again. “I’d love to hear more.”

  Uncle Jake seems surprised. “More?”

  “About my dad,” I say, suddenly nervous. “Not just when you were kids, but later too.”

  It’s been forever since I asked this of him. For so long now I’ve just assumed this particular door was sealed shut. But maybe time doesn’t make it harder to get through; maybe it makes it easier. Because now I find myself turning this new piece of information over like candy on my tongue: once upon a time, my dad used to build boxcars. It’s not much, but even such a tiny sliver of knowledge feels like stumbling across something rare and precious. And I find I’m not ready to let go of it just yet.

  “Alice,” Uncle Jake says softly, looking apologetic, and my heart sinks.

  “I know it’s hard for you to talk about him,” I say before he can go on. “It is for me too. But…it’s also getting hard for me to remember him sometimes. And that’s so much worse.”

  He looks stricken by this, and for a long time he just watches me, as if weighing something invisible to the rest of the world. Then, finally, he shakes his head.
r />   “Maybe,” he says, but it doesn’t sound like a maybe. It sounds like a no. It sounds like the closing of a door.

  I want to say something more. I want to ask him a thousand questions. I want to lie on my back on the basement floor and listen to all his stories.

  But instead I just give him a feeble smile, trying to hide my disappointment as he turns his attention back to the scattered pieces of our hapless boat.

  That night, Sawyer insists on picking me up at home, which gives my aunt and uncle an excuse to hover near the windows on the second floor, trying—and failing—to be nonchalant as they keep watch for him. When he finally comes into sight—tall and thin and lanky, his blond head bent, his eyes on his sneakers—they both let out a shout.

  “Have you guys ever heard the expression be cool?” I ask, unable to keep from laughing at the two of them with their noses pressed to the window.

  “He’s never been cool a day in his life,” Aunt Sofia says.

  Uncle Jake frowns. “Neither has she.”

  “This isn’t a big deal,” I say for what feels like the hundredth time. “I don’t even know if I like him.”

  “But he’s so cute,” Aunt Sofia says, still peering through the window.

  “And punctual,” Uncle Jake adds with a note of approval.

  “Unlike some people,” she adds under her breath, and it makes me want to burrow under the floorboards, because they can only be talking about Teddy, which means I’ve obviously done a much worse job keeping my feelings hidden than I thought.

  “He’s a junior,” I say as below us Sawyer turns up the walk. “And I’m graduating soon. What’s the point?”

  “What’s the point of anything like this?” Aunt Sofia says. “You date. You enjoy each other’s company. You have fun. Maybe you make out a little.”

  “Sofe!” Uncle Jake says, leaning back from the window to glare at her.

  “Well,” she says with a smile, but then her face rearranges itself into something more serious. “All I’m saying is that it doesn’t have to be complicated. This is supposed to be the fun part, you know? So go have fun.”

  As if on cue, the doorbell rings.

  “I’m not inviting him in,” I inform them as I start to head downstairs. I’m still wearing the same worn jeans and plaid button-down I’ve had on all day. I’m determined not to think of this date as a big deal. Because as much as I like Sawyer, and as clear as it is that nothing more will happen with Teddy, it still feels somehow dishonest. My heart is a balloon on a string, and I’m not ready to let go of it entirely.

  “What,” I hear Uncle Jake call as I hurry down, “are you embarrassed by us?”

  “Yes,” I say emphatically, though really it’s just that I’ve never had a guy pick me up here before—at least not like this, not in a way that feels so oddly formal. We don’t live in the suburbs, where it’s easy to cruise over in a car and honk a few times. In the city, going somewhere usually means taking public transportation, and it tends to be more convenient just to get there on your own. Teddy comes over all the time, but if we had plans to go out in an entirely different neighborhood, it’s almost impossible to picture him showing up on my front porch beforehand just to personally escort me there.

  This doesn’t exactly bother me. But it does make me a little sad. Because Sawyer is different.

  Sawyer is here.

  And when I open the door and see him blinking at me as if I’m wearing a prom dress and not my rattiest pair of jeans, I realize it doesn’t matter whether I consider this a big deal. Because it is to him.

  “You look beautiful,” he says, though all he can see is my usual quilted jacket, my jeans—which have a hole in one knee—and my scuffed black Vans. Even my hair is just tied back in a messy bun. If Teddy was here, he’d probably raise an eyebrow and ask if I’d just gotten up. But it’s Sawyer who is standing before me, looking flustered.

  “Thank you,” I say, and he beams at me. “So what’s the plan?”

  “Well, it’s choose your own adventure, actually.”

  “Is this going to end with me walking the plank of a pirate ship?” I say with a laugh. “Somehow I always ended up getting eaten by a crocodile in those things.”

  “I promise that’s not one of the options,” he says, then rubs his hands together. “So here’s choice number one: bus, taxi, or walk.”

  I can tell he thinks I’m going to opt for a taxi, but it’s unseasonably warm tonight, the first hint of spring in the air after so many months of cold and snow.

  “Walk,” I say, and he nods, steering us away from the house, where I can practically feel Aunt Sofia and Uncle Jake still watching through the window.

  “So how’s your break so far?” I ask as we start to stroll, and Sawyer laughs.

  “Super nerdy. I’ve mostly been at the library for a history paper.”

  “This whole history thing of yours…”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “I just love it. There are so many different versions of the past. It’s like you can never find out enough. I know it’s kind of—”

  “Charming,” I say, and he smiles. “So what about the ancestry stuff?”

  He shrugs. “Well, we moved here last year when my grandpa got sick, and it made me realize I should probably know more about my own history too. And that I should be asking him more questions while he’s still around.”

  I consider my own family tree, how few branches are left and how few people there are to tell me about them. Aunt Sofia tries; she hangs ornaments that belonged to my parents at Christmas and makes cupcakes on their birthdays. But Uncle Jake is like a lock without a key. And how can I blame him, when I understand better than anyone how hard it can be to talk about them?

  But that still doesn’t make it any easier.

  “Anyway, it was my grandpa’s side of the family that had a castle near Aberdeen, which is where I want to—” Sawyer stops abruptly and looks over at me. “You know what? I probably shouldn’t start talking about castles or I’ll never stop.”

  “No, it’s interesting,” I say. “I barely know anything about my family history. And the closest I’ve been to a castle is one of those bouncy ones at birthday parties.”

  He laughs. “Slightly less historical but way more fun.”

  We pass under the metal scaffolding of the L train, where a man is playing his guitar, something slow and sweet and full of soul.

  “So,” Sawyer says. “Next choice: fancy bistro, hole-in-the-wall Mexican place, or grab a slice of pizza and eat it in the park.”

  “Pizza in the park,” I say without hesitation.

  “I’m sensing a theme with you,” he says, but he looks pleased.

  Once we get our slices, we find a wooden bench beneath a towering oak tree. In the distance a game of kickball is coming to an end, and the paths are busy with evening joggers and couples holding hands.

  “This isn’t a complaint,” Sawyer says, opening up the pizza box and offering it to me first, “just an observation. But…you don’t have very expensive taste.”

  “That’s true,” I say cheerfully, taking a bite.

  “Is that why you didn’t want any of the money?”

  The question catches me off guard. I lower my pizza, unsure what to say, wondering how he could possibly know that.

  “Sorry,” he says. “Is this not okay to talk about?”

  “No, it’s just…why do you assume…?”

  “Well, you said the ticket was a birthday gift,” Sawyer explains. “And Teddy seems like a pretty stand-up guy, so I just figured he must have offered you some of it. And if you’d accepted, I probably would’ve heard about it on the news.”

  “Right,” I say, picking at the crust. “That makes sense.”

  “So I guess I’m just curious. What makes someone turn down millions and millions of dollars?”

  I stare out into the darkness, wondering how I can even begin to answer this. “I don’t know,” I say finally. “I think it scared me a little.??
?

  “It’s a lot of money,” he agrees.

  “Teddy’s whole life has changed.”

  “Some would say for the better.”

  “And some would say for the worse. I wasn’t sure I wanted that to happen to me.”

  It takes a great deal of effort to bite back the word again. But I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know anything about my past. Everything between us is still a blank canvas, and there’s something refreshing about that.

  Sawyer nods, but he still looks troubled.

  “What?” I ask, glancing at him sideways.

  “It’s just…well, I’ve seen you at the soup kitchen. My grandma says you’re their best volunteer. And I know you do a bunch of other stuff like that too. So wasn’t there a part of you that was tempted to take it and, I don’t know, do something good with it?”

  Once again I feel a wrench of sadness at this, because I know it’s what my parents would’ve done, and there’s nothing worse than feeling like I’m disappointing them even after they’re gone. I tip my head back, trying to sort through my cluttered thoughts.

  “Honestly? It was just instinct, turning it down. It seemed like the right thing to do, so I did it. And most of the time I’m glad. But of course there’s a part of me that wonders…I mean, I can hardly walk into the soup kitchen without thinking of what that money could do. Or what it might’ve done for my family. I feel guilty all the time. But I also feel insanely relieved that I didn’t take it, which only makes me feel even more guilty. And then I start wishing I never bought the stupid ticket in the first place, which is also awful, because it means so much to Teddy and his mom. So yeah. You could say I’m second-guessing myself. At this point I’m second-guessing my second guesses.”

  Sawyer shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

  “It’s fine,” I say with a shrug. “Really. This is just kind of a weird time.”

  “Well, hey, maybe Teddy will end up doing something really great with the money, and that’ll solve everything.”

  “Yeah,” I say, aware of the doubt in my voice. “Maybe.”

  “Are you cold?” he asks, and it’s only then I realize I’m shivering. I shake my head and zip my jacket up higher.