Ellerby’s words wheel off my tongue. “Off to enjoy the beautiful Saturday?”
Sumner’s smile is a teeter-totter, the left side millimeters higher than the right. “Disappearing before I have to explain the precise functionality of the refrigeration system.” He begins backing away. “Again.”
11
Inessa insists we celebrate, whichis how I spend part of my Sunday on an impromptu trip into town.
Students are allowed off campus on weekends as long as we scan in and out at reception and are back before eight. It’s a twenty-minute walk to Main Street, the town’s center that draws in year-round tourism. Boutiques with curated knitwear and timeless treasures, confectionaries with handcrafted truffles, and cozy coffee shops offering seasonal drinks overlook the picturesque Mirror Lake. But today we stop in my dad’s favorite bakery, gathered around two wrought iron patio tables we’ve pushed together.
It drizzled earlier this morning, and I smell the petrichor rising from the damp earth. As I bite into a maple-buttercream cookie, I remember the countless times my dad placed the same order. But Inessa nudges my shoulder before I can sink into that memory and encourages me to recount my part in our great trophy heist, so I rehash the details to the members of our Capture team as they listen, enraptured, cheering at all the best moments.
I don’t mention Enzo’s strange attire.
I don’t mention how he introduced himself by another name.
I don’t mention my brain is hazy on the details surrounding our collision.
Later, Analiese texts me when she’s ready to get dinner and spends half an hour complaining about Tyler, the editor-in-chief ofThe Herald. My eyes spring from her to Sumner, who’s invited Enzo to sit at his table. He’s wearing the same outfit, and I wonder if his luggage is permanently lost. Poor guy. Not exactly the greatest start to the year.
On Monday, I find a rhythm in my new routine. Physics III: Electricity and Magnetism, Calculus II, and European History, followed by lunch, then Biology III, Honors English, and Astronomy. According to Ivernia’s online portal, I’m currently ranked twenty. Sumner is twenty-one. A slight thrill zips up my spine when I imagine his utter annoyance.
Once Astronomy ends, I FaceTime Madelene as I maneuver my way to meet Mrs.Vidar-Tett. It takes three attempts before she answers.
“What?” She’s annoyed. The grainy video clears to reveal her sitting on the theater’s black Masonite flooring. Long legs scamper in and out of frame behind her, but she doesn’t seem bothered.
“She lives,” I joke.
Mads rolls her eyes, and I pretend like it doesn’t hurt. “Did Mom tell you to call?”
I text Mom daily, mostly to make sure she’s okay. We’ve talked a few times since I’ve been back, but not about Mads. She tells me she’s proud of me, that he’d be proud of me, and every time I hear the layers of grief in her voice.
“No,” I say. “You haven’t responded to my texts.”
I don’t mean to sound accusatory, but the longer she left me without a response, the more my concern grew. She’s been ignoring Jared, too. It’s just me and him talking to each other in our group chat.
“I’ve been busy.” Her focus catches on something to her right. “Rehearsals.”
“And high school, it’s—good?”
I hope she can’t hear the worry in my question. I haven’t told anyone in my family what I’ve overheard about Ivernia. That’s not a problem I want to unleash on them right now.
“It’s school,” she says. “Somewhere I’m required to be by law. And I have to go.”
Before I can say goodbye, two steady beeps let me know she’s already hung up.
I’m iced out of her life, and I don’t even know why.
I tap to our text thread where a half dozen of my messages take up space with no response.
Did I do something to upset Maddy?I text Jared.
Don’t think so, he replies.
It stresses me out when there’s conflict in the family. Not that it happens often since we’re not children anymore, but still. I like us best when we’re getting along, not when there are cracks in the glass.
We spent the summer redecorating her room with treasures we’d scored at thrift stores. When she pulled out her nail polish collection late one night, we painted each of our fingernails adifferent color, and after, we dug through Dad’s old DVD collection and ranked the classics he’d kept. So when I rack my brain to try to figure out why I’m experiencing the short end of her fuse, I come up empty.
Maybe it’s not me. It’s a lot of change at once. A care package might help. It won’t eliminate the hard feelings, but it’ll let her know I’m thinking of her. A reminder I’ll give her whatever she needs from me.
