Since we got back he’s been strangely distant. When I see him in physics, he always seems distracted. When I text him, he doesn’t respond. And when I call it goes straight to voicemail. There’s a reason I don’t talk about my past very often. I hate the idea of anyone feeling sorry for me—especially Teddy. And now it feels like nine whole years of self-preservation has been drained away in a single weekend.
I turn back to the Stanford website with a sigh. It’s especially hard right now, when all I want to do is talk over this decision with him. For so long California was the plan. But something shifted during our trip and now suddenly I’m not so sure.
I rest my fingers on the keyboard, and this time I find myself typing the wordNorthwestern.When the site comes up I stare at the homepage, remembering what Aunt Sofia said that day on campus:I want to make sure that’s what you want too.
More than anything, I wish my mom was here. I wish it so fiercely I can feel the pain of it straight down to my toes. I wish I could ask her what to do. I wish I could know what my parents would think of me now, whether they’d be proud or worried, whether they’d see a girl trying to honor their memory or just a girl who is hopelessly lost.
I shut the computer and rub my eyes, feeling torn. I grab a piece of paper and draw a line down the middle. Then, before I can think too hard about what I’m doing, I writeStanfordon one side andNorthwesternon the other.
I blink at the words, knowing what I really mean is California versus Chicago.
What I really mean is past versus present.
There’s a knock at my door and Leo pokes his head in.
“Mom wanted me to tell you we’re eating out back tonight, so come down soon. I think she wants to have a little celebration.” He raises his eyebrows at the list in front of me. “Any hints what we’ll be celebrating on your end?”
“Not yet,” I tell him, and he leans against the wall, his arms folded.
“One day on campus with Teddy,” he says with a grin. “That’s all it took to make you doubt Stanford?”
I laugh. “It’s not his fault.”
“Listen,” Leo says, his face growing serious. “I’m gonna give you the same advice you gave me: You have to do what’s right for you. Not for me. Not for Teddy. Not for my parents. And not for yours. Foryou.”
I glance down at the piece of paper in front of me, my eyes bouncing between the two sides, two possible futures.
“We’ll see you out there soon?” he asks, and I nod. When he closes the door behind him, I find myself turning back to the column on the left.
Before I can overthink it, I begin to write.
By the time I’m finished I can hear the sound of voices outside, and I stand up and walk to the window. Down below, the three of them are sitting around the wrought-iron table on the back patio, and as I watch, Aunt Sofia raises a glass in a toast to Leo, who does his best to look embarrassed even though he’s beaming.
Once upon a time I might have seen this and crawled back into bed, keeping a safe distance, sticking close to the edges. But not anymore.
When I got back from San Francisco and the limo pulled up to this house, with its glowing lights and cheerful flowerpots, my shoulders went slack with relief. Whatever had been roiling and churning inside me throughout those days on the West Coast quietly settled like the wind falling flat after a storm, like the finish line of some race, like familiarity, like peace, like home.
And for the first time in a long time, maybe even the first time ever, that’s what it felt like, returning to Chicago: it felt like coming home.
Now, seeing the three of them gathered outside, all I want to do is go down and tell them I’ve made a decision. That I know where I want to be next year. But instead I wait for a moment, just watching them: Uncle Jake with his head thrown back in a laugh that carries up to my window, and Aunt Sofia looking so lovingly at Leo, who is telling a story with his arms outstretched, his face animated, his eyes dancing.
My family.
Beyond the rows of buildings behind us, the sun is sinking lower, washing everything in a soft yellow light; a few birds are perched on the telephone wires that stretch across the yard, looking down on the scene below, same as me.
There’s a cake on the table, and from above I can see that it saysCongratulations, Leo and Alice!Beside it there are three piles of napkins. One stack has cartoon lions on them, in honor of the larger stone ones that stand guard at the entrance to the Art Institute. The other two are solid colors: red and purple.
One for Stanford. And the other for Northwestern.
I can’t help smiling at the idea that Aunt Sofia managed to recognize this possibility even before I did. That she somehow knows me this well, in spite of all the roadblocks I’ve put up between us. It’s a nice feeling, like finding solid ground, like finally being discovered after the world’s longest game of hide-and-seek.
I walk back over to my bed and sit down in front of the computer, staring at the website again, remembering my parents that day at the bell tower, the longing in my mother’s voice when she talked about going to Stanford.
Then I think of Aunt Sofia and Uncle Jake, of Leo and Teddy, of what my parents would’ve really wanted for me after everything that’s happened—to do what makes me happy and to be close to the people I love, the people who love me back—and I take a deep breath and make my decision.
When I get downstairs, I slide open the glass door that leads to the patio, and all three of them turn to look up at me, their faces asking the exact same question.
“So?” Leo says, and I smile.
