EMMA’S WORDS ARE NOT AN EGO BOOST. THEY LAND LIKE A PIANO across my shoulders. The weight of wanting to prove her right and everyone else wrong is crushing. I have to keep reminding myself that I can do this job. I have fire. Emma saw it. I just need William, the other interns, and my family to see it, too.
I should have talked to her as we left the office about not getting any footage of Gabe with the kids from the children’s hospital. Later, I promise myself. After he texts me tonight and I have something concrete to offer Emma as an alternative.
A walk with Watford and a carb-heavy dinner will help me figure everything out. I head north toward the lily pond by the conservatory instead of toward the beach. Watford is so grateful to be out of the apartment that there’s a bounce to his step, and his stubby little tail is extra waggly. Emma has a professional dog walker who comes in Monday through Thursday to let him go potty and take a turn around Lincoln Park, but it’s really not enough exercise for an eighty-five-pound monster dog.
He bounds toward a bush sniffing happily, dribbling three drops of pee onto it, and then trots away. I wish his joy were contagious, that a good mood were a thing you could catch. Wouldn’t it be amazing if something as simple as a walk in the park, a nap in the sun, and a cuddle with someone you love would be enough to alter your perception of a day? This trip to the pond needs to shake my thoughts around, so that maybe the good ones can surface.
What I really need is someone to help me see this whole situation clearly. And I have a person in mind who owes me a million hours of listening, since I’ve nodded my head and mm-hmm’d for every plot and character problem for as long as I understood those words.
My mom picks up on the first ring. “Maddie! Hi, honey! I sure miss your face. How is everything going?”
I smile at the real pleasure in her voice. Despite our different ideas for my future, I know she loves me. “I have a nemesis.”
“You?” She sounds a little echoey, and when I hear something clicking in the background, I realize it’s the overloud blinker in our ancient Camry. “I don’t believe it. What could you have possibly done in such a short period of time to earn someone’s ire?”
Ire. Only my mom.
I give her a very brief rundown of what happened with Mara and a very edited version of how I met Gabe. “And now,” I say as I force Watford onto the path that heads past the Lincoln Park Zoo instead of toward Lake Michigan—he seems a little confused, but he plods on, still happy to be outside—“she’s turned into the villain of my summer internship.”
“Oh, sweetie. The best villains have justifiable reasons for being awful. You have to remember that this Mara person is the hero of her own life.”
“It’s hard to do that when she’s such a—”
“Shh!” she hisses before I can even get the first letter past my lips. “Milo’s in the car.”
“Sorry.” Then it’s my turn to laugh. “What’s up, Cube?”
My little brother literally growls like a rabid animal. “I told you not to call me that anymore!”
Max came up with the nickname “Cube” because our little brother’s real name is Milo Matthew McPherson, and he’s the third McPherson with an M name. It was really cute when Cube was a toddler because he was supper chubby; the name just sorta fit. He’s gotten taller and leaner the last few years, looking more like a Mini Max than anything else, but he’ll always be Cube in my head.
“You did tell me,” I say, as Watford leaps into a bush. I see the white tail of a rabbit disappear into the distance. Watford whines for a second as I hold him back. “Wish you were here to help me with Watty.”
“I wish I was too, because that would mean no more math camp.” His voice gets really loud at the end of the sentence, and I can imagine him leaning between the seats to yell into the phone.
“Hush and sit back,” my mom reprimands. “And put your seat belt back on.”
I give myself a mental high five because I know my family so well. “Is someone being mean to you?”
“No,” he mumbles. “It’s just boring.”
This moody thing he’s doing is almost funny because I know it’s an act. There are days when Milo forgets he’s trying to behave like his older siblings and totally gives in to being a kid. I like him better when he’s all pew-pew sound effects and Lego battles, but I can’t hold on to baby Cube forever.
“I know, but math camp is good for you.”
“How would you know?” He sounds farther away now, probably having been smacked in the chest so he’d obey. “Mom never made you go.”
“Everyone has different gifts, Milo. Maddie’s might not be in math, but she’s amazing at other things. Like … teaching dance to toddlers.”
I try not to let that sting. “Yeah. Well, Cube, just try to make it fun.”
“Whatever.”
My mom and I sigh at the same time, then we both giggle.
“We’re headed into the store. Call me later if you want to talk more.”
“Thanks, Mom. Love you guys.”
There’s a weird, guttural noise in the background, but I don’t know what it is until I hear Mom yell, “Milo! How many times have I told you belching is not appropriate?”
“I was telling Maddie that I love her in burp language.”
“Back atcha, Cube.”
We hang up as I reach the gates of the Alfred Caldwell Lily Pool. It isn’t one of Chicago’s most famous locations, but it’s certainly one of my favorites. As much as I love Lincoln Park, Lake Michigan, the energy of the Magnificent Mile, and all the urban offerings, I find my way to this quiet, secluded oasis at least once on every visit to the city. My dad introduced me to it, sharing his reverence for the arching trees and slow-moving water. If I equated all the adults in my life to a particular location, Emma would be Chicago—all flashy and bright and busy. My mom would obviously be Normal—constant, predictable, and the place I’ll always go home to. And Dad would be the Lily Pool—quiet, unshakable, a little rugged.
For as much as I want to be like my aunt—all go all the time—I know I do my best thinking in quiet places. I take a deep breath, excited to worship at the church of nature.
The entrance has a big, metal gate that makes it look like someplace the public isn’t invited, but I think that’s part of its charm—a man-made gateway to a natural wonderland.
And then I notice the sign: NO DOGS ALLOWED.
Inside jokes, intern dinners, and now the pond. It seems the theme for the day is “Places Maddie will be left out of.” Watford looks at me with mournful eyes and bumps his head against my thigh. I hear the “I’m so sorry” in his contact.
“It’s okay, buddy.” I scratch behind his floppy ears. “We’re not going to let this get us down, right?”
As we walk back to Emma’s apartment, I decide the best way to salvage this day is with cake.
Everything’s better with cake.