chapter eleven

then…

Ander throttled back the motor as we drifted closer to the dock. “Looks like your dad’s home,” he said, nudging his chin toward our house. I turned in my seat and shielded my eyes with both hands. A blue pickup was parked next to the back steps, a small green sedan beside it. Not only was my dad home, but we had company.

“Maybe he knows you’ve been kissing me.”

Ander went pale. “That’s not a conversation I’m ready to have.”

“I was kidding. He’s not psychic.”

Ander worried his lower lip.

“Is this even worth having a conversation?” I asked.

His eyes bored into mine. “You know what you mean to me.”

Of course I did. We had over ten years between us. That had to count for something. More than something.

So why did I want him to say it?

Because I’m an idiot.

I stood and the boat rocked. “It’s okay. Whatever this is, I’m not ready for everyone to know about it, either.”

This. Like kissing and boys and best friends were things I could pick up and set down and walk around as I analyzed them.

Ander nodded. “Fair enough.”

Then he leaned closer like he might kiss me and it took everything in me to lean away. “My parents could see us.”

Another nod.

“See you tomorrow?” I asked.

His smile went slippery. “That’s kind of the way things work with us.”

Now I was smiling. In fact, I was still smiling when I pushed through the screen door, still smiling when I stepped inside. It took my eyes a beat to adjust and then I saw them: my parents were standing at the kitchen counter, and the high school counselor, Mrs. Holland, sat at the table.

I hesitated. “Is everything okay?”

Mom nodded, her mouth wound tight. “Could you sit down with us for a few minutes? Mrs. Holland wants to talk to you.”

That couldn’t mean anything good. I slunk across the floor and took the closest chair. Had Jem done something? Had Ander? Mrs. Holland was new to Boone, and I knew her the same way everyone at school knew her: she was our guidance counselor and her office was filled with New Yorker magazine covers in Walmart frames. She talked to everyone, but I don’t think she liked anyone, and I was pretty sure she’d never been sixteen.

“I have some very good news, Grace,” Mrs. Holland began. “You remember at the end of last year when we got your test scores back?”

I nodded. We’d all been excited. College finally started to feel real rather than this thing my dad talked about.

“Honestly,” Mrs. Holland continued, “I just couldn’t stop thinking about how well you did, so I started doing some research into schools that might better accommodate your potential, and I kept coming across Alton Preparatory.”

“The fancy private school?”

She straightened in her seat, eyes terrier-bright and focused. “You know it?”

I shrugged. “They come to town every year for that project they do about the mill and the cemetery and the local history.”

Alton students returned to Boone every May, “just like herpes,” Jem always said. He didn’t like the prep kids—although honestly no one really did. They always stayed for about three days, renting out both floors of the Nine Bells Bed-and-Breakfast, and everyone said they were worse than the regular tourists.

They didn’t tip.

They never said please.

“They watch us like we’re lab specimens,” Ander had said.

“I think they look at everyone like that,” I had returned. Even during heat waves, the students walked around in clusters of hunter green and gold, wool slacks, and wool knee socks. They didn’t look like they ever sweated.

Mrs. Holland leaned a little closer, and her fingers dug into her bag a little more. “Alton Prep has a few select openings every year for deserving students, and I think you should apply.”

“To go there?” It was stupid question. I realized it as soon as I said it, but still. It was Alton Prep and I was…me.

“Yes.” Mrs. Holland’s eyes flicked from me to my mother. “I think you have a very good shot at acceptance, too. You see, Grace…”

It was the weirdest thing. Here was Mrs. Holland talking about Alton Prep, going on and on about scholarships and how I was an excellent fit for their program…and I couldn’t stop staring at how she clutched her bag to her chest.

Was she worried my parents were going to yell at her? Steal it? It was like she was trying to hide.

Or make herself smaller.

I didn’t understand—but then I noticed how her gaze kept straying from my parents to the kitchen around us, how her attention snagged on the breakfast-stained dishes on the scabby counters, how she kept looking at us. Only she wasn’t seeing us, she was seeing the turned-up linoleum in the corners and how my dad’s hands were still oily from the mill.

She wasn’t trying to make herself small because we made her feel small. She was trying very hard not to touch anything, like my family was something that could rub off on her.

And judging from how my parents’ eyes kept bouncing to the floor, they knew it, too.

“It would be a full ride,” Mrs. Holland said to my parents, fingers flexing and releasing the edge of her bag. “Considering her…circumstances, the school would subsidize everything.”

“It’s all the way in Atlanta, though,” Mom said. She kept fisting her cardigan tighter and tighter around her frame. “The commute—”

Dad shook his head. “She would have to live there, Layla.”

“But she would hate that. Her friends are here. Jem is here. We’re here.”

“Alton is an excellent school,” Mrs. Holland added. “Grace would have academic opportunities she would never receive here. The math programs alone—”

“She would rather paint,” Mom said. “Grace loves painting. Do they even have an art program?”

“They do.” Mrs. Holland’s tone somehow managed to pull the two words into a verbal eye roll. Of course Alton would have an art program. They had everything.

“She doesn’t need art, Layla,” Dad said. “She needs to focus on math. That’s where her future is going to be.”

Mom stuck a finger in my direction. “She doesn’t even know what she wants to do with herself.”

Mrs. Holland’s lips wadded together. “You haven’t chosen a course of study, Grace?”

I shook my head, studying my hands. It seemed like everyone already knew what career they wanted, and I still had no idea. I took a deep breath and kind of regretted it. There was the faintest scent of mold in the air. The disposal again, probably.

I wondered if Mrs. Holland had noticed, too.

“Why drag her off to some school that might prepare her for a career she won’t ever want?” Mom demanded.

“Because Alton Prep could prepare her for almost any career she might want.” Mrs. Holland pushed to her feet, and my father was right behind her. I’d never seen him smile so wide.

“Well, clearly it’s a great deal to think about,” Mrs. Holland continued. “I do hope, however, you’ll give it careful consideration.”

My mom’s chin lifted. “Of course we will. She’s our daughter.”

“And I know you want what’s best for her.” Mrs. Holland’s smile was stapled on. She hoisted her bag to her shoulder and left a fan of brochures on our tabletop. “Please let me know if you have any questions.”

Our front door was less than ten strides from our kitchen, but Mom walked Mrs. Holland out anyway, and when she returned to us, her gaze went straight to the dishes. “You know,” Mom said, “considerate people call before they show up.”

Dad’s eyes were only for me. “I want you to do this. This is your chance to get out.”

“Dad—”

“Why does she need to get out?” Mom slammed plates together as she filled the sink. She dumped a handful of lemon soap into the water and then dumped a bit more. “You’re acting like she can’t have a perfectly good life here.”

“I’m not saying she can’t have a good life,” Dad continued, his voice climbing. “I’m saying she could have a better life. Opportunities like these don’t happen in Boone.”

“I didn’t realize we had it so bad!”

Dad winced, I winced, and when he finally looked at me again, his expression promised that whatever was coming, he didn’t want to say.

And I was sure I didn’t want to hear it.

“I regret not going on, Grace.”

My mother slowed. She groped the counter edge like her feet had slipped.

“I regret not getting out,” Dad continued. “I regret not trying to see what I could do beyond Boone.” A pause, just long enough for me to hear the rushing in my ears. “I regret staying.”

The rushing turned into a roar. He regretted the life he had? He regretted marrying my mom? Having us? My chest funneled shut. It hurt.

But it didn’t hurt enough to keep me from admitting part of me understood.

I’m afraid of the same thing.

Mom braced her spine against the sink edge, no surprise in her face. She’d known.

“Well,” she said finally. “I guess it was different for me. All I ever wanted was love, family. It filled the cracks in me.”

Like it hadn’t filled my dad. I swallowed, mouth suddenly sticky.

“I don’t want you to have the same regrets,” Dad whispered.

“I’ll think about it,” I said, which made my father smile and my mother wince.

They argued for hours that night, hushed hisses that sounded like snakes. In the end, my dad slept on the couch, and my mother cried.

No matter what I chose, I was going to disappoint one of my parents.