Now, I knew part of Grace’s motivation for kicking things off at Independence Hall was to travel back in time. Not to the 1770s, but to elementary school, when we spent every moment together. It would help Everett and me reconnect, right? Taking a stroll down memory lane usually did.
As if that stretch of road wasn’t rife with potholes.
The Independence Visitor Center had been renovated since our last visit, beautiful brick with tall glass windows. We bought tickets for Independence Hall’s next tour and had some time to kill before it began. “We should probably get properly outfitted,” Grace said, gesturing toward the gift shop.
“Agreed,” Everett said solemnly. “We wouldn’t want to appear out of place.”
“You guys,” I protested, “it’s only a twenty-minute tour!”
Even so, we soon weaved our way through clusters of tourists and tour guides leading today’s round of field trips. Children walked in a zigzagging line, all holding hands so they wouldn’t get separated. “Do not let go of the person in front of you!” one teacher said through a megaphone. I felt Grace take my hand as I saw her take one of Everett’s. We laughed and didn’t let go of one another until we reached the gift shop.I am so lucky,I thought when Grace squeezed my fingers and I squeezed hers back.I am so lucky to have a friend I love this much, and who loves me this much.
She infuriated me, but it was true.
Before long, the three of us joined the line for our tour. “Please take off the baseball hat,” Grace told Everett. “It’s ruining your look.”
We all donned black tricornered hats edged in gold cording, but Everett was wearing his on top of his Mets cap. “Nope.” He shook his head. “Ride-or-die Metropolitans.”
“I wouldn’t say that too loudly,” I whispered as we took a few steps forward in line. I gestured to a nearby passerby. “A Phillies fan might challenge you to a duel.”
“Perhaps,” Everett said, “but it won’t be any of those people—listen.”
We quieted, only to hear the group speaking in rapid French. “What are they saying?” I asked. Already fluent in Spanish, I studied Mandarin in school and Portuguese on Duolingo. James had also downloaded the app. His daily five-minute Italian lesson was the first thing he did when he woke up in the morning. Today he’d extended his 623-day streak.
“I don’t know,” Grace answered. “I stopped taking French last year, remember?”
My brows knitted together. “Didn’t you test out of Pepperdine’s language requirement?”
Grace sighed. “Yes, but that placement test wasn’t very difficult. Written French is way easier than verbal. Plus”—she gestured to the tourists—“what shot do I have against native speakers?”
“I refuse to believe that,” I said. “You’ve retained more than you think.”
Grace shrugged. “Je t’aime?”
“That doesn’t count,” I said. “Even I know that one.”
“No need to brag, Isabel,” Everett said lightly. “Brown is proof enough, don’t you think?”
A lump formed in my throat. Brown—no, it wasn’t enough. In fact, it was a disappointment. Mamá and Papá and I’d dreamed of an Ivy League school my whole life, but what they truly meant by “Ivy League school” was Harvard, Princeton, or Yale. I felt sick sitting on the waitlist at all three; I wanted to celebrate that I was headed to Brown! “Isa, sweetheart, what’s wrong?” Mrs.Barbour had asked after presenting me with a classicBROWNcrewneck sweatshirt. “Why sad tears? This is happy news!”
My parents should’ve bought me that sweatshirt. Not Grace’s. Mamá had taken one look at it and asked if Mrs.Barbour had mentioned keeping the receipt.
Now I rechanneled my frustration, and Everett took the hit when I rolled my eyes at him. “Says the guy going toVanderbilt.”
And as if my stare had the power to turn him to dust, Everett’s gaze dropped to his feet. “I wouldn’t have gotten in without baseball,” he muttered.
“That’s not true!” Grace exclaimed at the same time I thought,That’s not true.
We might not be friends anymore, but I knew how hard Everett worked. He deserved his acceptance letter. Grace, too.
Grace grabbed Everett’s arm. “Never say that again, okay?”
He ignored her, instead daring to look at me. “Truce?” he asked.
I nodded. “Truce.”
Tickets were soon scanned, and our group gathered in a circle around George—no, I’m not joking—our guide for thenext twenty minutes. “Hello, everyone!” he said, his voice echoing off the walls. “Welcome to Independence Hall! If it’s your first visit to the City of Brotherly Love, you’ve chosen an excellent place to begin your journey.”
“What if it’s not our first visit to Philly?” a little kid shouted, and I pursed my lips so I wouldn’t laugh. I could imagine both eleven- and eighteen-year-old James asking the same thing.
