“All aboard! This is the nine-fifteen express to New York City!”
The overhead announcement makes me smile as I slide into my window seat and settle my bookbag in my lap. I wonder if boarding the flight to France might have felt something like this—the strong blast of air-conditioning, the smell of coffee, the murmured conversations all around, the beat of anticipation in my chest.
Of course, I am not on a plane but a train—the steaming silver Metro-North that’s about to depart the Hudsonville station—and the destination isn’t quite so foreign or thrilling. Still, I haven’t been down to New York since my trip with Ruby in December, and I’m excited and nervous to go back, especially under these different circumstances.
“Okay, class!” Aunt Lydia calls from where she stands in the middle of the aisle. “Everyone ready for our big field trip? I’m going to hand out your tickets soon.”
Her brown eyes dart from seat to seat, and I can tell she’s taking a mental tally of who’s here. I did the same when I boarded the train, flushed and relieved to be on time, and I noticed that neither Hugh nor Wren had arrived yet. Now I glance out the window, bracing myself for the sight of them running together, maybe hand in hand, down the steps onto the gray platform.
The past three days in Aunt Lydia’s class have been full of amazing discoveries: I now know that a daguerreotype is a black-and-white, very early kind of photograph, invented by a French artist in the nineteenth century. I’ve learned how to load slippery film into an old-school camera, and how to use the more advanced settings on my new Nikon. I’ve learned that, way back in ancient times, a box with a hole in it, called a camera obscura (which means “dark chamber” in Latin) was the start of photography. And apparently the word photography itself means “drawing with light” in Greek. When Aunt Lydia told us that, I got a small shiver down my back. Drawing with light.
But I have yet to discover what, if anything, is going on between Hugh and Wren. And I certainly haven’t learned how to speak to Hugh at all.
I’ve even moved to sit in the front row of the class, teacher’s pet–like, to distance myself from the two of them—and, you know, to better focus on Aunt Lydia’s awesome lectures. Still, my ears prick up every time I hear Hugh murmur something to Wren, or vice versa, in the back row.
Yesterday, when Aunt Lydia brought us to the college darkroom, showing us the print tongs and developing trays, I’d kept my eyes trained on Hugh and Wren, trying to discern if they were standing too close to each other in the dim, small space. At one point, Hugh had glanced my way and I’d turned around so fast that I’d knocked over a (thankfully, capped) bottle of toner.
Smooth.
Now I feel a bolt of surprise as I see Wren—alone—fly onto the platform, a scarlet-haired blur in a long dark dress. A second later, I hear her thunder onto the train car, breathing hard. There’s a sharp whistle and then the train begins to move. My stomach plummets in disbelief as I watch the platform recede. Hugh isn’t coming?
“You made it!” Aunt Lydia says cheerily when Wren appears in the aisle.
“Barely,” Wren replies, sounding pleasanter than I would have expected.
And then she plops into the seat beside me.
Oh no.
I feel my whole self tense up. I also can’t help facing Wren, a question hovering on my lips.
“Where’s Hugh?” I ask her.
Wren is fiddling with the zipper on her fringed bag, and she glances up at me. She might raise an eyebrow, but it’s impossible to tell because of her bangs. They’re like an impenetrable curtain. I notice for the first time that her eyes are a startling violet color.
“Alien abduction,” she answers drily, the corner of her mouth twitching. “A UFO sucked up the mayor’s mansion last night. You haven’t heard?”
I stare back at her, at a loss for words. The train rocks us both from side to side.
“Nah,” Wren says after a moment, a smile crossing her face. “He’s already down in NYC. He went last night to stay with his cousin, so he’ll meet us at the museum.” She unzips her bag and starts riffling through it. “Man. Your expression was priceless.”
“I—” I shake my head, and, in spite of myself, I laugh. “I didn’t believe you.”
“Really?” Wren asks, and this time I’m positive she is arching her eyebrow behind her bangs.
“Here you go, ladies,” Aunt Lydia says, appearing next to Wren’s aisle seat and giving each of us our round-trip tickets. She shoots me the quickest of smiles before turning and walking to her seat near the front of the car. In this fallow time after rush hour, the sunlit train is quiet; our class fills most of the seats.
“Your aunt is a great professor,” Wren says, still digging in her bag.
“What?” I glance at her, startled.
“She’s great,” Wren repeats, nodding toward the front of the car. “I took a photography course at the YMCA last year and I didn’t learn half as much.”
“How—how do you know she’s my aunt?” I stammer. I inch closer to the window, feeling defensive. I thought I’d been doing a thorough, careful job of keeping my secret. In fact, it hasn’t been hard; ever since our strange interaction at Better Latte Than Never, my aunt has seemed a bit distant. There’ve been no more invitations to coffee, no more special call-outs in class. I’m at once grateful and unsettled.
Wren shrugs, taking from her bag a thick, tattered paperback: a collection of poems by Emily Dickinson. “It’s pretty obvious,” she tells me.
“How?” I press as the conductor comes over to punch our tickets. “We don’t even look alike.” Mom and Aunt Lydia are brunettes, while I inherited Dad’s coloring—the blond hair and light eyes. Not that I really bear a strong resemblance to anyone in my family.
Wren tips her head to one side, thinking. “You kind of do,” she says, accepting her ticket back from the conductor. “Something in your expressions. Anyway, it was more that Lydia knew your name on the first day of class, before she learned who the rest of us were. Also, she said that her sister was a philosophy professor. I remembered on Career Day in fourth grade, how your mom came in and told us about her job and I’d thought it sounded so cool.”
“Oh,” I manage to say, shocked that Wren was able to deduce the truth. And that she remembers Career Day. Although I do, too. I’d wanted Dad to come speak to my class—in my nine-year-old opinion, painter sounded much cooler than philosopher—but he’d been in France for work. Wren’s parents had come, I recall; they were both lawyers, which had seemed oddly ordinary for the already-weird Wren. “I just didn’t—I didn’t want anyone to find out,” I add haltingly.
The train curves, screeching, around a bend in the track. I hold tight on to the armrests. Does Hugh know, too? I wonder, my cheeks burning.
Wren shrugs again, opening her book. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” she replies. “And why should you care what people think?”
I watch Wren as she reads. The sun flashes through the train windows and alights on her bright hair. Her long dark dress is shapeless and looks like a Victorian nightgown. Her nails are bitten down, and she has a clunky old leather watch on her wrist. Wren is like nobody else. It hits me then that she doesn’t care what anyone thinks of her. Some people say they don’t care, but in Wren’s case, I can tell it’s true.
I care, I realize, plucking at my woven bracelets. Ruby really cares. I’ve learned that about my best friend recently. I glance down at what I’m wearing—a white linen sundress that Ruby gave me when she cleaned out her closet last year. I’d packed the dress to take to France, and the airline finally returned my wandering suitcase to me. But now I almost wish I’d put on something else this morning.
Reaching into my bookbag, I move aside my Nikon camera, and my notebook, and the cardigan Mom suggested I bring right when we were leaving the house, even though it’s already eighty-six degrees outside. I grab my phone from where it’s slipped down to the bottom of the bag and check the screen. No texts from Ruby.
I sigh. What was I expecting? My best friend is now officially dating Austin Wheeler. She broke the news to me on Tuesday, when I’d stopped by Better Latte after my Photoshop lab. “It’s my summer of falling in love!” she’d squealed, hugging me, our tension from the day before apparently forgotten.
That was the last time we’d spoken this week. Normally, in the summers, I’d see Ruby constantly. On weekends, we’d spread a blanket in Pine Park and spend a whole afternoon there. Or we’d sneak into the YMCA pool and swim until our fingers pruned and the chlorine had thoroughly soaked into our hair. We’d ride our bikes side by side, licking Popsicles that melted and ran and got our woven bracelets sticky. We’d movie-hop at the multiplex, feeling like we were allowed to because we’d worked there before. Ruby would sleep over at my house, and we’d turn up the air-conditioning in my room so high that our toes would become icicles.
Last night, when we should have been doing any one of those things, I’d been home alone. Mom had gone out to dinner with a friend from work, and Alice was in California visiting Inez. I didn’t feel like reading, there was nothing appealing on Netflix, and I was avoiding Instagram, so as not to witness the Ruby-Austin “summer of love” story no doubt unfolding on there.
So I’d sat cross-legged on the porch bench, eating cold leftover lo mein from Szechuan Kitchen. Ro, curled up beside me, had sent occasional hisses in my direction, to remind me that he was not a fan. The stars had winked overhead, and I’d wondered if this was it—the sum total of my summer here in Hudsonville. I’d felt a flash of anger toward Dad, whom I haven’t heard from once since the Fourth of July.
Now I gaze sadly out the window. The train is winding southward along the Hudson River. Here, a good distance from Hudsonville, the wide river does look blue under the sun. I knew it; I knew my town is cursed with grayness.
Beside me, Wren turns a page in her book. I glance at her again.
“Is that good?” I ask, wanting to get my mind off Dad and Ruby and the ache in my chest. The train pulls to a stop in a station with a sign that reads TARRYTOWN.
Wren nods. “I love Emily Dickinson. Like, look at this.” She flips the book around to face me.
I read the typed words on the page, the beginning of a poem: I felt a Cleaving in my Mind— As if my Brain had split—
“Um, yeah,” I say, even though I don’t really understand. Poetry mystifies me most of the time. That’s partly why I’d been so impressed by Hugh’s brilliant Robert Frost presentation that fateful day freshman year. My assigned poet had been Walt Whitman, and I’d had trouble parsing his strange poems about leaves of grass and astronomers. I’d fumbled through my own presentation, and I’d gotten a B-minus.
“Did you know,” Wren says, turning the book back toward her, “that Emily Dickinson was a recluse? She never left her house. Or her hometown of Amherst, Massachusetts. She was considered a weirdo in her day.” Wren pauses, flipping another page. “It’s kind of amazing, isn’t it? That she understood the world so deeply without having ever really seen it?”
“I guess,” I say. I look at the cover of the book—a daguerreotype (I know this now!) of the poet, a pale, solemn-eyed young woman in a dark dress, her hair pulled back in a bun. I wonder if Wren relates to Emily Dickinson, the “weirdo.” But I see now that Wren isn’t actually that weird. Or, rather, she’s weird in a good way. And super smart.
Is that why Hugh likes her? I find myself thinking. I frown. Does he like her? They do seem like they’d be an intellectual match. I fight down a pang of jealousy.
“My boyfriend lives in Amherst,” Wren goes on, idly turning another page, “so when I visited him over spring break, I got to see her house. I also went to her grave, which is maybe sort of morbid, but it was really cool.”
Nothing else Wren said has registered except for the words my boyfriend.
“You have a boyfriend?” I blurt. I realize that sounds cruel, à la Skye Oliveira: Typhoid Wrenny has a boyfriend?! But that’s not what I meant. “I thought you were, like, dating Hugh or something,” I add. My face flames. That’s even worse. Shut up, Summer!
Wren’s mouth curves into that smirk I’m beginning to recognize. “I’m not dating Hugh,” she answers, her violet eyes regarding me thoughtfully. I feel my stomach jump. “Why would you think that?”
“I—um, you guys are always talking, and leaving class together, and stuff,” I say in a rush. Oh God. If Wren has Sherlocked out the fact that Lydia is my aunt, then she will surely be able to tell from this little exchange that I like Hugh. We’re pulling into another station—YONKERS—and I give some serious thought to getting up and casually strolling off the train, maybe starting over with a whole new life in this Yonkers place.
Wren chuckles, closing her book. “We’re friends,” she tells me, as if I’ve overlooked the most obvious thing in the world. “I got to know him this past year because my mom started working as a lawyer for the mayor’s office, and Hugh and I were always winding up at boring events together.” She stuffs the book back into her fringed bag and begins rooting around in there again. “Hugh’s awesome, but he’s not my type. And besides, he’s into another girl.”
Another girl? My pulse is pounding. Who? I’m debating whether or not I want to preserve any dignity, or just ask, when Wren pulls a phone out of her bag.
“This is Will,” she explains, her voice softened with affection. She’s showing me the picture on her screen, of a grinning guy with green hair that’s shaved on one side and floppy on the other. He’s holding his hands forward in a heart shape, and he has words scrawled on his arm—they look like song lyrics—just as Wren often does. Maybe that’s, like, some sweet, couple-y thing they do. Who would’ve guessed? “Isn’t he cute?” Wren asks me.
“Very,” I lie. Mostly I’m relieved to know that Hugh isn’t Wren’s type.
“We met at a Walk the Moon concert last summer,” Wren explains, smiling down at the photo, “and even though we’re long distance, it works. We Skype all the time.”
I nod at her, floored. The fact that Wren has a cell phone—and Skype—feels more noteworthy than the boyfriend revelation. I’d assumed she shunned all technology. But that was only because of cruel comments made by Skye and her clones over the years. It’s turning out that I knew nothing about Wren D’Amico. What was the phrase Aunt Lydia used in regard to Dad? Shocking surprises. Wren, it seems, is full of shocking surprises herself.
“Are you on Instagram?” I ask her, curious as to what else I might not know.
Wren rolls her violet eyes. “Nah. It can be so fake. People just post things that make them look good. You never get the whole story.”
I look at my phone in my hand. Pics or it didn’t happen! Ruby likes to say. I think of that picture I posed for with Ruby and Alice before Skye’s party. Even though a photograph might exist, it isn’t always evidence of what really happened.
“I guess it depends what kinds of pictures you post,” I say. I haven’t put anything up on Instagram all summer. Maybe I’m waiting to post something real.
“Hey, photographers?” Aunt Lydia calls, turning around in her seat to face the class. “Next stop is Grand Central Station. That’s us.”
Dazed, I peer out the window. The trees and rocks and water have given way to the bridges and buildings of the city. The train ride flew by. I glance down at my phone again, and imagine texting Ruby: Wren D’Amico is really fun to talk to. I imagine how Ruby, especially this new Ruby, would respond.
“What about you?” Wren asks me as the train dips belowground into a tunnel.
“Yeah, I’m on Instagram,” I say distractedly, returning my phone to my bag.
Wren laughs. “That’s not what I meant. Do you have a boyfriend?” she asks matter-of-factly as she zips up her bag.
“Oh.” I shake my head, and I can’t help but laugh myself. “Not on this planet.”
The train judders to a stop inside Grand Central and we all stand up, gathering our things.
“Huh,” Wren says as we follow Aunt Lydia, our classmates, and the other commuters off the train onto the platform. “I would’ve pegged you for someone who has, like, a secret, sophisticated boyfriend somewhere in Europe.”
“Me?” I’m so astonished that I almost crash into a passerby. “That is insane,” I tell Wren as we walk up the platform toward the main hall. It occurs to me then that perhaps Wren also saw me in a certain way. And we were both off base about each other. I want to laugh again, at the notion that I seem like someone with a European boyfriend.
But what if …
I let my mind wander. What if I had gone to France, and Ruby’s prediction had magically come true? What if I’d met a gorgeous French boy—
No. Don’t be ridiculous.
We’ve arrived in the station’s main hall, and I tip my head back to admire the beautiful vaulted ceiling. It’s a deep blue-green, decorated with drawings of the constellations. There’s Orion, and Pegasus, and Aquarius. And Cancer the crab—me. I reach into my bookbag for my Nikon and take a picture of the indoor sky.
“Everyone, please put down your cameras,” Aunt Lydia says, sounding amused.
I notice that all my classmates are also standing still in the mad whirling rush of the station, their cameras pointed up. I smile, feeling an unfamiliar flash of belonging. Aunt Lydia motions for us to follow her to the famous bronze clock, the one with four identical faces. We stand in a clump as she starts speaking.
“Here’s the game plan,” she tells us, adjusting the chopsticks in her messy bun. “We’re going to walk up to the Museum of Modern Art, and I want you all to observe the sights and sounds and shapes of the city. Feel free to take pictures, obviously—just don’t get so distracted you get lost.” She grins, and I feel a twinge of nervousness. “Then, at the exhibit,” she adds, gesturing enthusiastically, “you can compare your visions to those of the masters. After that, we’ll get lunch. Any questions?”
One of the college kids asks a question about the museum. I bite my lip, gazing over at the clock. When Aunt Lydia told us on Tuesday that we’d be taking a field trip to see a photography exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art, I’d thought instantly of Dad. His painting of a mailman, The Deliverer, hangs in the Whitney Museum: a quick cab ride downtown from here. I’d wondered if I’d have a chance to break away from my class and go see the painting, even though I’d recently visited it with Ruby, in December.
Now, as Aunt Lydia leads us to the exit, I realize that I don’t want to interrupt this day for my father. He decided I shouldn’t be a part of his summer, so why should he be a part of mine? A stew of hurt and regret swirls in me as I step out onto the street.
Horns honk and sirens wail. The air is thick and sticky—the temperature feels hotter than it did back in Hudsonville, and not just because it’s later in the morning. Heat seems to rise up from the sidewalk in waves. People swarm everywhere, shouting at one another and staring at their phones, juggling sweating cups of iced coffee, hailing yellow taxicabs.
I remember how scared I’d been when I’d stood in this same spot with Ruby. This time, though, I don’t have the urge to hide. In fact, I feel a swell of excitement, breathing in the scent of pretzels and mustard coming from a cart on the corner. The city crackles with energy, and I’m energized, too, holding the solid heft of my Nikon in my hand.
As the class starts walking west, I point my camera up, taking dizzying shots of the skyscrapers, their spires glinting in the sun. Someone bumps into me and I stumble. Wren grabs my arm, steadying me, and I thank her. It’s tricky to maneuver around the constant stream of passersby and cars. But there is so much to look at, and capture.
There is the huge library on Fifth Avenue, with its two stone lions out front. There are the revolving doors of department stores, which suck in and spit out people at once. There are elegant women in tall heels and pencil skirts and big sunglasses, and children eating dripping ice-cream bars in their strollers. We pass a perspiring man selling handbags on the sidewalk, and carts hawking hot dogs and sodas. I recall the vendors at Pine Park; that seems like another world. Strange to think it’s only two hours away.
We walk past Rockefeller Center, with its colorful flowers and flags, and the statue of the Greek god, Atlas, holding the earth on his shoulders. We are turning onto 53rd Street when I spot a mailman pushing his blue cart. I stop and stare, recalling Dad’s painting. Could this be the same city mailman Dad saw all those years ago? It seems impossible. Still, I snap the mailman’s photo—he scowls at me—and then I hurry to catch up with my class.
I see that they’ve already gone inside the museum, a glass building with a banner reading MOMA—Museum of Modern Art—out front. As I enter the cool, airy lobby, I wonder what it would have been like to visit that gallery in the South of France this summer. To finally see my portrait, Fille, hanging on the wall. I swallow down my bitterness, and join Wren and the others by the ticket counter.
“Sorry,” I say to Wren, stashing my Nikon inside my bag, “I was taking a picture of—” I pause, my heart leaping, when I notice who’s standing next to her.
Hugh.
“Oh. Hi,” I mutter, blushing while also attempting to put on my “Hugh face.” I’d forgotten that he would be meeting us here. I feel the weight of my notebook in my bag—the notebook with the embarrassing letter I wrote to Hugh on the first day of class.
“Hi,” Hugh replies shortly, his hands in his jeans pockets. He looks really handsome in a green-checked button-down shirt with the sleeves half rolled up. He has his Nikon on a strap, slung over one shoulder, and this gives him the appearance of a rugged photographer about to go shoot wildlife or something.
I suddenly have the funniest desire—to walk right up to Hugh and twine my arms around his neck. My stomach flips. What am I thinking? I wouldn’t even know how to do that. And Hugh would surely stagger away in confusion and disgust.
I feel Wren watching me with her knowing violet eyes. I glance down at my beat-up Converse sneakers and brush my hair off my flushed face.
“How’s your cousin?” I hear myself ask.
Wait.
A wave of shock rolls over me. I just spoke to Hugh Tyson! Voluntarily!
I mean, technically, I was addressing my sneakers. But I did ask Hugh a question, and my voice sounded like a normal human voice. I think.
Where did my bravery come from? Maybe from knowing, for sure, that Hugh and Wren are not together. Or maybe from Wren telling me I seemed like a person who could have a European boyfriend. Regardless, this progress feels promising; Hugh and I are supposed to work together on our class assignment this weekend. I’d been dreading it, but perhaps I won’t be a complete disaster around him after all.
I glance up. Hugh looks surprised, too. His gray-green eyes are wide behind his glasses, and his lips part slightly.
“He’s well,” he replies after a moment. I think about the fact that only Hugh Tyson would use well instead of good. This kind of makes me want to embrace him even more. “It’s his birthday,” Hugh adds, adjusting his camera strap on his shoulder. “That’s why I came in last night. We went to a baseball game.”
“My birthday’s on Tuesday,” I blurt. Agh! What? Why did I say that? There were a million other things I could have said in response. Like: Who was playing? Or the ever-reliable: Oh, cool. But noooo. I had to share unnecessary information about my birthday. I am a disaster.
Mercifully, Aunt Lydia chooses this moment to announce to the group that we can head into the exhibit. I let out a huge breath, and stride ahead, away from Hugh and Wren, hoping to spare myself further mortification. I also hope that, over the course of the day, Wren won’t reveal anything to Hugh about what I said on the train.
“Stick together,” Aunt Lydia says as she leads the fourteen of us out of the lobby. We climb a staircase to the exhibit hall, weaving around the other visitors who are milling about, holding maps and brochures. “Pretend you’re in elementary school.”
Some of the students laugh. The last time I was in this museum, I was in elementary school; I’d come with my parents. Pre-divorce. We’d seen the permanent collection: the incredible paintings by Chagall and Matisse, Picasso and Van Gogh. I’m almost surprised that a photography exhibit is on display here now—I’ve always thought of photographs as somehow separate from paintings, from “real art.”
But the exhibit, which is called Manhattan in Pictures, is as incredible as any collection of paintings. There are countless photographs, some in black and white, some in color, some old, some current. They all show different pieces of New York City—the skyscrapers, the crowds, the subways, the taxis. I think of the pictures I took earlier, and I’m eager to improve on them.
“Look closely,” Aunt Lydia instructs us, motioning to the framed pictures on the walls. “See how the photographers paid attention to angles and lines, shadows and light. To strange and interesting people. This is the work of Robert Frank and Richard Avedon, Alfred Eisenstaedt and Cindy Sherman. Learn these names. Learn from them. They had sharp eyes. You can make your eyes sharp, too.”
I listen to my aunt, and examine everything. I take notes on my phone. If only I were half as devoted a student in regular school! I’d probably have Hugh Tyson–level grades.
At one point, I find myself standing next to Aunt Lydia; we are both studying an old photograph of construction workers eating their lunches high above the city.
“Hey,” I say to her, feeling a rush of gratitude. “This trip is so great.” I mean it, I realize. I also realize that I miss talking to my aunt. And after my conversation with Wren on the train, I no longer feel such a desperate need to hide my niece-hood.
“I’m glad to hear it, kiddo,” Aunt Lydia replies.
Our eyes meet, and I remember what Wren said, about our expressions being similar. For a second, I think my aunt is going to say something else. Then she turns away, walking toward a photo of the Brooklyn Bridge across the room.
I watch her go, feeling a strange pit in my stomach. Maybe I’m being paranoid, but it almost seems like my aunt is avoiding me. Why?
On the train ride back to Hudsonville, I sit next to my aunt, wanting to test out my theory. And I fear I’m right: Immediately, she tells me she has to do some research and she spends the whole trip with her earbuds in, working on her iPad.
Wren and her elderly class partner, Maude, are sitting right behind us. I can hear the two of them discussing the merits of some vintage store near the mall, where Wren buys her clothes and Maude sells hers. I’m envious of their conversation.
Hugh stayed in the city to spend another night at his cousin’s. When he’d said good-bye to the class at Grand Central, he’d glanced at me and added a quick, “I’ll text you on Sunday.” He hadn’t sounded very excited about it. At lunch, Aunt Lydia had given us handouts listing everyone’s cell phone numbers so we could get in touch with our partners over the weekend. So now I have Hugh Tyson’s phone number burning a hole inside my bookbag.
The sun is a low red ball in the sky by the time we pull into the Hudsonville train station. It’s also gotten chillier out. When I step onto the platform, I reach into my bag for the cardigan, now grateful that Mom told me to bring one.
“Is your mom picking you up?” Aunt Lydia asks me—the first full sentence she’s spoken to me since we left Manhattan. We walk side by side up the station steps and toward the parking lot.
“Yeah, there she is,” I say, pointing to my mother’s waiting car. Mom blinks her headlights at me. I wonder if Aunt Lydia was going to offer to drive me home. I also wonder if she might stop by Mom’s car to say hello to her twin.
But Aunt Lydia just squeezes my arm and says, “See you Monday, kiddo.” Then she speed-walks over to her own car, parked a few feet away.
I frown as I climb into Mom’s car and shut the passenger side door. Out the window, I see Wren getting into her parents’ Volvo; as if she can sense me watching, she glances over her shoulder, smirks, and waves. I wave back, marveling anew at our unexpected … is it a friendship? I’m not sure I’d call it that yet.
“So let me guess,” Mom says brightly, checking the rearview mirror and pulling out of the parking lot. If she’s at all offended that Aunt Lydia didn’t come over to greet her, she doesn’t show it. “New York was noisy, overcrowded, and didn’t smell great. But you survived it okay?”
I smile, setting my bookbag down between my feet. “Actually I … liked it,” I tell her. “A lot.” I realize then that I’m no longer afraid of the city the way I used to be.
“Well,” Mom says, sounding surprised, her eyes on the highway. She reaches up to adjust her glasses. “How about that.”
I study Mom; she hadn’t been too happy when I’d gone to Manhattan with Ruby over winter break. And she’d protested this field trip, too, asking me twice if I was sure Aunt Lydia would be chaperoning at all times. I wonder if Mom herself, with her poor sense of direction, finds the city a bit daunting. Or maybe she only wants to protect me from whatever dangers she thinks it harbors. Was that how she’d felt about France, too?
“You must be tired, though,” Mom says as we drive past the Shell gas station. “And hungry. I prepared meat loaf, so you don’t need to eat any more leftover takeout tonight. You’ll find it in the fridge, and you can warm it up in the microwave.”
I hold my belly. “I am still so full from lunch,” I reply, laughing. “After the museum, we took the subway down to Lombardi’s, which I guess is the oldest pizzeria in the country? Anyway, Aunt Lydia ordered all these delicious pies … ” I trail off as I digest the rest of Mom’s words. “Hang on,” I add. “You’re going out again tonight?” Disappointment rises in me.
Mom nods and tightens her grip on the steering wheel. Also, it’s the strangest thing—she appears to be blushing. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this phenomenon before, but there it is: an undeniable pinkness creeping across her fair cheeks. I also notice then that she’s wearing a pretty black dress, heels, and lipstick.
“Where are you going?” I ask, uneasiness mingling with my disappointment.
We exit the highway, approaching College Avenue. Mom lets out a cough and slows at a stoplight, even though it’s distinctly yellow.
“I figure now is as good a time as any to tell you,” she begins.
My heartbeat speeds up. Don’t tell me, I want to say. I am increasingly certain that whatever Mom will say will change things.
“I’ve … well, I’ve started seeing someone,” Mom says, her cheeks becoming pinker. “It’s very early days, nothing too serious,” she goes on in a rush. “I wasn’t even planning to see him again this evening, but he got us tickets to the philharmonic in Albany, so … ” Mom looks over at me. I’m silent. “I thought you should know. I didn’t want it to be a—secret.” She clears her throat.
The light changes from red to green but Mom doesn’t move. All the pizza seems to be churning in my stomach.
“You—you have a boyfriend?” I stutter in disbelief. It’s the second time today I’ve posed this question. Randomly, I think of Will, grinning and green-haired on Wren’s phone. “Is that who you had dinner with last night?” I ask, searching my mind for clues. When Mom came home, she’d been wearing lipstick then, too. “I thought you were with a friend from work!” I add, my tone accusatory.
Someone behind us honks and Mom finally accelerates. “Well, it’s funny,” she says, glancing over at me. Then she gives the kind of forced chuckle that never precedes anything truly funny. “I sort of was. You know Max?”
Max? I can’t summon up anyone named Max. I stare out the window. We are driving down College Avenue, past the campus. Something clicks in my mind.
“Max the security guard?” I burst out. “He’s your boyfriend?”
“Now, now,” Mom says calmly as she turns onto Rip Van Winkle Road. “I wouldn’t call him a ‘boyfriend’ yet, per se. But yes, I’ve known Max for many years, as have you, and he’s just a lovely guy.”
I’m speechless. I think of Max sitting in the security booth behind the gate, wearing his light-blue uniform and sipping his coffee.
“How long has this been going on?” I demand, feeling a sense of betrayal. I wrap my cardigan tighter around myself.
“I told you—it’s recent,” Mom says as our house comes into view. “He asked me out about a month ago. I was reluctant at first. And then … ”
“What changed your mind?” I ask numbly.
“Well.” Mom clears her throat and pulls into our driveway. “Actually … it was your France trip.”
“It was?” I ask, whipping my head toward her in surprise. “How? I thought you didn’t even want me to go!”
Mom shrugs, putting the car in park. “It just made me realize that … you know, you won’t stay at home forever. Someday you’ll be going off to college.” Her voice has a note of sadness. She reaches for my hand, but I shift away from her, closer to the car door. “I thought it couldn’t hurt to … try something different for myself.” Mom gives me a tentative smile. “As your aunt likes to remind me, I’ve been divorced for a while now.”
I stare ahead at our dark house. So Mom wouldn’t have been lonely with me in France. That should make me feel glad for her, but … it doesn’t.
“Max is divorced, too,” Mom goes on. “We have a lot in common—he loves to read, we both enjoy classical music. We sort of … discovered each other.”
“Ew, Mom,” I groan. I bend forward, covering my face with my hands. “Please stop.” It’s true that Max isn’t bad-looking for, like, a parent-age person. But still. Ew.
“Summer.” Mom sighs. “You’re overreacting.”
“What if you wind up getting married?” I cry, looking over at Mom, my imagination whirring. “What if you end up having a kid? Then I’ll have a half sibling, which would be so weird—”
Mom’s face tightens. “Enough with the ‘what ifs,’ ” she tells me, her voice growing sharper. “We’ll discuss this at greater length another time. Why don’t you head inside and relax? I don’t think I’ll be home too late.”
My stomach falls. “I didn’t realize you were going to Albany now,” I say sourly. I look back at the house. I can see Ro curled up in the front window, his eyes little slits, no doubt in a sour mood, too. Faintly, I hear Mom explaining that she’s going to drive to Max’s house first and leave her car there, and then he’ll drive them to Albany …
“Can you drop me off at Better Latte?” I interrupt. I know Ruby is still working at this hour. And suddenly she is the only person I want to see, regardless of how strained things have felt between us. I can only hope that Austin—or Skye—won’t be there.
Mom seems like she’s about to argue, but then, thankfully, she presses her lips together and takes the car out of park. We don’t speak as she makes a U-turn. She zooms up our street and down Deer Hill, driving faster than she normally would.
To my knowledge, Mom hasn’t dated anyone since she and Dad got divorced. And selfishly, I liked it that way: It kept things safe and steady; it kept Mom always around. I assumed that Dad wasn’t dating anyone, either. So maybe, on some tiny, childish level, I hoped that he and Mom would one day get back together. Or, at least, with both of them single on either side of the Atlantic, things felt … even.
“Listen, Summer,” Mom says when we reach Better Latte. I have my hand on the car door handle, and I glance back at her. “There’s still a lot you don’t—understand.” She coughs again. “Not about Max—just, you know.”
“No, Mom, I don’t know,” I snap, opening the car door. I feel a wave of déjà vu, reminded of our fight before I left for the airport. It’s like my mother and I are repeating the same dance, over and over. I grab my bookbag and spring out of the car.
“Summer!” Mom calls out after me, but I’m already storming up onto the curb and into the coffee shop.
“Summer!” Ruby says, like an echo of Mom. She looks up from where she stands behind the counter, texting on her phone.
Aside from Ruby and one other barista, Better Latte is empty. It’s almost twilight, on the cusp of dinnertime, so people are either heading to PJ’s Pub or Szechuan Kitchen, or, if they’re feeling fancy, Orologio’s. Or they’re preparing meat loaf at home for their kids. No one is getting coffee. The cheerful scents of vanilla and coffee beans linger in the air, but there’s also a hollow, melancholy feeling. Or maybe that’s just me.
“What’s wrong?” Ruby asks as I trudge over to her. I drop my bookbag on the floor with a thunk and lean my elbows on the counter.
“Got an hour?” I sigh.
“Is half an hour okay?” Ruby asks. She tucks her phone into the pocket of her brown apron. “Austin is coming to pick me up because—how sweet is this? He wants to plan out our two-week anniversary celebration ahead of time.” She grins at me.
I might have grinned back, if not for the ridiculous phrase two-week anniversary.
“So … ” Ruby nods toward the espresso machine. “Want anything? Iced mocha?”
I shake my head.
“Bastille Day Special?” she offers, gesturing up to the chalkboard.
“What is that?” I ask, momentarily distracted from my gloom. I read the words written in blue, white, and red chalk: Bastille Day Special! Iced French vanilla coffee topped with whipped cream and a blueberry/raspberry crisscross drizzle. Ooh là là!
“July fourteenth is France’s Independence Day,” Ruby explains by rote, clearly having made this speech to many a customer today. Then she notices my stricken expression. “Oh God, Summer.” She slaps her forehead, her woven bracelets sliding up her arm. “I’m so sorry. You probably don’t want anything French right now.”
“You know what?” I shrug. A kind of recklessness is rising in me. “I’ll have one. It sounds gross, but I already feel sick, so why not pile it on?”
“Uh, okay,” Ruby says, looking at me worriedly. She picks up a plastic cup.
“Hey, Ruby,” the other barista calls from the opposite end of the counter. It’s the bearded guy who eavesdropped on our conversation on Monday. “I got this. You go chill with your friend. Seriously. I’m all out of lives on Candy Crush, so I need something to do.” He waves his phone sadly and comes over to take the cup from Ruby’s hand.
“Really? Thank you, Brian!” Ruby gushes, widening her dark-brown eyes winningly. I know Ruby doesn’t have a crush on this Brian, but I also know she can’t help herself: Flirting with guys comes as naturally to her as breathing.
As Brian graciously starts on my drink, Ruby ducks out from under the counter and the two of us sit down in a booth.
“Tell me,” Ruby orders. She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand.
It’s been so long since we’ve talked one-on-one (I mean, if we ignore Brian the barista), and my best friend’s presence feels so familiar and comforting, that tears immediately well up in my eyes. Trying not to full-on sob, I fill her in on Mom and Max.
“Apparently I’m the only person not having a summer of love,” I finish, oh-so-attractively wiping my nose on the sleeve of my cardigan.
Brian comes over and deposits my Bastille Day drink down in front of me. It’s a monstrosity, a trembling tower of cream and syrups. Brian must notice my sniffling because he beats a hasty retreat back to the counter.
“I can’t believe it,” Ruby murmurs. “Your mom is dating?” She picks up the unopened straw Brian put next to my drink and twirls it. “Good for her,” she adds.
For a moment, I’m so stunned I don’t know how to respond.
Ugh, poor you, I’d hoped to hear. Or That’s bad and crazy! Or Come spend the weekend at my house so you can avoid your mother for forty-eight hours.
Not Good for her.
“Excuse me?” I finally spit out, staring across the table.
“I said, good for her,” Ruby repeats, lifting her chin. “I wish my mom would date. All she does is work and worry about me and Raj. Meanwhile, my dad has been remarried for a year!”
“Yeah, except—” I reach across the table to snatch the straw from my best friend. I rip off the paper and shove the straw into my drink. “That’s your family. Mine is different. Our homes aren’t broken in the same way, Ruby.”
“Fine,” Ruby says, holding up her hands like I was attacking her. “Look, I get that you and your mom are close. Like, Gilmore Girls–close—”
“I wouldn’t say that,” I protest, even though I’m a little pleased.
“Oh, come on,” Ruby scoffs, running a hand through her shiny black hair. “With your stargazing and snacking and deep talks about outer space and stuff?” She pauses, and I wonder, for the first time, if she’s ever felt jealous of Mom and me. “But,” she continues, looking right at me, “sometimes you need to let people go a little.”
I feel my whole face get hot. Ruby isn’t simply referring to the Mom situation anymore, is she?
To avoid Ruby’s gaze, I glance down at my drink. It would make an interesting photograph—a kind of companion to the iced mocha picture. I reflect on how much Ruby doesn’t know about me now. She doesn’t know I was at a photography exhibit in New York City today, with Hugh and with Wren. I remember being here, in Better Latte, on Monday, when I’d defended Wren to Skye. That was before I even knew Wren at all.
I trace a circle on the wooden table with my finger. I have the sudden, ugly urge to taunt Ruby—to hurt her, maybe. “I should probably confide in someone else,” I say quietly. “Like Wren D’Amico. She’d be more understanding.” She probably would be, I think.
Ruby frowns. “What does Wren D’Amico have to do with anything?”
“Well,” I say, the recklessness surging in me again, “I’m sure your idol, Skye, wouldn’t approve, but Wren is cool, okay?” My voice is rising and Brian the barista can probably hear me, but I don’t care. I want to say it all, everything that has been building silently between me and Ruby for the last ten days. “I doubt Wren would dump her best friend,” I go on, gathering steam. “You know, ignore all her texts and not want to ever hang out, so she could cozy up to the populars—”
“Is that what you think of me?” Ruby cuts in. Her face is turning so red it’s nearly as purple as the pretty sundress she has on beneath her apron. “I’m not dumping you!” she says, her voice breaking. “Yes, I’m spending a lot of time with Austin … ”
“Stop pretending,” I make myself say. “There’s more to it than that.”
Ruby’s jaw drops. My limbs are trembling. I realize, then, why she and I have never fought before: because I always acquiesced to her. She was right; I was wrong. Any conflict was ignored. Buried. Until now.
The corners of Ruby’s mouth turn down, and she’s silent for a moment. “I just wanted … a change,” she murmurs. “You weren’t even supposed to—”
She catches herself, like last time. The exact same words as last time. You weren’t even supposed to. A chill goes down my back.
“Say it,” I tell Ruby. I stare right at her, hugging myself. “Finish it.”
“You weren’t even supposed to be here this summer,” she breathes through clenched teeth. She looks down at the table and rests her forehead in one hand. “You were supposed to be in France.”
I sit back in the booth, exhaling, all the energy leaking out of me. It’s almost a relief, to hear it, to know.
“I thought it would be … healthy,” Ruby continues, still looking down, her words coming out in a tumble. “For us to be apart for a while. We were always together, in our little world.” She glances up at me, her eyes teary. “I wanted to see what it was like, to branch out. And I knew you wouldn’t approve,” she says, tapping her palm against the table for emphasis. “I knew you’d roll your eyes if I told you I liked Austin and wanted to date him. I knew you’d get all huffy if I told you Skye wasn’t so bad—”
“She’s the worst,” I mutter.
“See?” Ruby cries. She shakes her head. “That’s why I invited Alice to Skye’s party with me, because I knew she’d be more easygoing about everything.”
I nod slowly, my throat tightening. It makes sense now—how eager Ruby was for me to go to France, how upset she was when Dad canceled on me. It wasn’t about my summer; it was about hers.
“I get it,” I say. My blurred vision turns Ruby fuzzy across the table. “If I went to France, that would have been your big opportunity. To be free of me.”
Ruby dabs at her eyes. “You make it sound so awful, Summer—”
“Don’t worry,” I interrupt her. My own tone is cold, unfamiliar to me. “I won’t hold you back anymore.”
Ruby’s phone buzzes inside her apron pocket. She takes it out and checks the screen. Her bottom lip quivering, she looks up at me.
“It’s Austin,” she tells me tightly. “He’s outside. I should go.”
“Go,” I say. Go, Ruby had said to me before I got out of her car at the airport.
I watch, shivering in my cardigan and Ruby’s old white dress, as Ruby stands up and unties her apron. She ducks under the counter, and Brian the barista makes a concerted effort to appear immersed in his phone.
I peer out the coffee shop window at the darkening street. Austin is there, waiting in his blue convertible. He’s not alone; Skye and her boyfriend, Genji Tanaka, are in the backseat, their arms in the air, dancing to the song coming from Austin’s radio. They look like the picture of summer.
“Have fun with your new friends,” I say snidely as Ruby emerges from behind the counter with her purse. I feel small and petty, but powerful, like I’m two people at once.
“And have fun with yours,” Ruby replies, equally snidely, even though her cheeks are wet with tears. Mine are, too; I can feel them coursing down to my chin.
Then she turns and walks out the door. It’s the first time in ten years that Ruby and I have parted ways without saying Love you times two. The absence of those words buzzes in my ear like a mosquito.
I sit still in the vacant café, the air conditioner blowing at my back. I hear the tinny music of Brian’s game coming from his phone. My Bastille Day Special is in front of me, untouched, the whipped cream dripping a little. I lean forward and take a sip. It’s terrible. It’s too sweet and too bitter. It’s like my sorrow distilled into liquid form. I push the drink away. Some Bastille Day.
I reach up to wipe my cheeks with the heel of my hand, and the rough rope of my bracelets—Ruby’s bracelets—scratches my face. Mournfully, I remove both bracelets and stare down at the exposed, pale strip of my skin. I wonder if this is what it feels like to break up with someone. Or get a divorce. This sense of loss mingled with freedom.
The summer stretches ahead of me, without Ruby in it. I’m terrified and also, strangely, exhilarated. The worst has happened. So, now, in a way, anything can.