What Happens to Goodbye Sarah Dessen

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Nine

v width="0em" align="left">The next day I woke up to a bright white glare outside my window. When I eased the shade aside and peered out, I saw it had snowed overnight. There were about four inches covering everything, and it was still coming down.

“Snow,” my dad reported as I came into the kitchen. He was at the window, a mug of coffee in his hands. “Haven’t seen that in a while.”

“Not since Montford Falls,” I said.

“If we’re lucky, it’ll delay Chuckles at the airport. That would at least buy us some time.”

“To do what?”

He sighed, putting down his coffee cup. “Wave a magic wand. Poach the staff of the best restaurant in town. Consider other career options. That kind of thing.”

I opened the pantry door, reaching inside to pull out the cereal. “Well, at least you’re thinking positively.”

“Always.”

I was getting out the milk when I suddenly remembered the call I’d answered the night before. “Hey, did you leave the restaurant last night?”

“Only at about one to come back here,” he replied. “Why?”

“That councilwoman, Lindsay Baker,” I said. “When she called and left that message, she said they’d just told her you were gone.”

He sighed, then reached up to rub a hand over his face. “Okay, don’t judge me,” he said. “But I might have told them to tell her I wasn’t there.”

“Really?” I asked.

He grimaced.

“Why?”

“Because she keeps calling wanting to discuss this model thing, and I don’t have the time or energy right now.”

“She did say she’s been trying to reach you for a while.”

He grunted, taking one last sip off his mug and setting it in the sink. “Who calls a restaurant in the middle of dinner rush, wanting to make a lunch date? It’s ludicrous.”

“She wants a date?”

“I don’t know what she wants. I just know I don’t have time to do it, whatever it is.” He picked up his cell phone, glancing at the screen before shutting it and sliding it in his pocket. “I gotta get over there and get some stuff done before Chuckles shows up. You’ll be okay getting to school? Think they’ll cancel?”

“Doubt it,” I said. “This isn’t Georgia or Florida. But I’ll keep you posted.”

“Do that.” He squeezed my shoulder as I reached into the fridge for the milk. “Have a good day.”

“You, too. Good luck.”

He nodded, then headed for the front door. I watched him pull on his jacket, which was neither very warm nor waterproof, before going out onto the porch. Not for the first time, I thought of the next year, and what it would be like for him to be living in another rental house, in another town, without me. Who would organize his details so he could be immersed in someone else’s? Iidth it wasn’t my responsibility to take care of my dad, that he didn’t ask for or expect it. But he’d already been left behind one time. I hated that I’d be the person to make it twice.

Just then, my phone rang. Speak of the devil, I thought, as HAMILTON, PETER popped up on the screen. I was moving to hit the IGNORE button when I looked at the clock. I had fifteen minutes before I had to leave for the bus. If I got this over with now, it might buy me a whole day of peace, or at least a few hours. I sucked it up and answered.

“Hi, honey!” my mom said, her voice too loud in my ear. “Good morning! Did you get any snow there?”

“A little,” I said, looking out at the flakes still falling. “How about you?”

“Oh, we’ve already got three inches and it’s still coming down hard. The twins and I have been out in it. They look so cute in their snowsuits! I e-mailed you a few pictures.”

“Great,” I said. Thirty seconds down, another, oh, two hundred and seventy or so to go before I could get off the phone without it seeming entirely rude.

“I just want to say again how much I enjoyed seeing you last weekend,” she said. She cleared her throat. “It was just wonderful to be together. Although at the same time, it made me realize how much I’ve missed of your life these last couple of years. Your friends, activities . . .”

I closed my eyes. “You haven’t missed that much.”

“I think I have.” She sniffed. “Anyway, I’m thinking that I’d really like to come visit again sometime soon. It’s such a quick trip, there’s no reason why we can’t see each other more often. Or, you could come here. In fact, this weekend we’re hosting the team and the boosters for a big barbecue here at the house. I know Peter would love it if you could be here.”

Shit, I thought. This was just what I’d been worried about by agreeing to go to the game. One inch, then a foot, then a mile. The next thing I knew, we’d be back in the lawyers’ offices. “I’m really busy with school right now,” I said.

“Well, this would be the weekend,” she replied. Push, push. “You could bring your schoolwork, do it here.”

“It’s not that easy. I have stuff I have to be here for.”

“Well, okay.” Another sniff. “Then how about next weekend? We’re taking our first trip down to the beach house. We could pick you up on the way, and then—”

“I can’t do next weekend either,” I said. “I think I just need to stay here for a while.”

Silence. Outside, the snow was still falling, so clean and white, covering everything. “Fine,” she said, but her tone made it clear this was anything but. “If you don’t want to see me, you don’t want to see me. I can’t do anything about that, now can I?”

No, I thought, you can’t. Life would have been so much easier if I could do that, just agree with this statement, plant us both firmly on the same page, and be done with it. But it was never that simple. Instead, there was all this dodging and running, intricate steps and plays required to keep the ball in the air. “Mom,” I said. “Just—”

“Leave you alone,” she finished for me, her voice curt. “Never call, never e-mail, don’t even try to keep in touch with my firstborn child. Is that what you want, Mclean?”

“What I want,” I said slowly, trying to keep my voice level, “is the chance to have my own life.”

“How could you think it’s anything but that? You won’t even share the smallest part of it with me unless it’s under duress.” Now she was actually crying. “All I want is for us to be close, like we used to be. Before your father took you away, before you changed like this.”

“He didn’t take me away.” My voice was rising now. She’d fumbled around, poking and prodding, and now she’d found it, that one button that could not be unpushed. I’d changed? Please. “This was my choice. You made choices, too. Remember?”

The words were out before I could stop them, and I felt their weight both as they left me, and when they hit her ears. It had been a long, long time since we’d talked about the affair and the divorce, way back to the days of What Happens in a Marriage, that brick wall that stopped any further discussion. Now, though, I’d lobbed a grenade right over it, and all I could do was brace for the fallout.

For a long while—or what felt like a long while—she was quiet. Then, finally, “Sooner or later, Mclean, you’re going to have to stop blaming me for everything.”

This was the moment. Retreat and apologize, or push forward to where there was no way to return. I was tired, and I didn’t have another name or girl to hide behind here. Which is probably why it was Mclean’s voice that said, “You’re right. But I can blame you for the divorce and for the way things are between us now. You did this. At least own it.”

I felt her suck in a breath, like I’d punched her. Which, in a way, I had. All this forced niceness, dancing around a truth: now I’d broken the rules, that third wall, and let everything ugly out into the open. I’d thought about this moment for almost three years, but now that it was here, it just made me sad. Even before I heard the click of her hanging up in my ear.

I shut my phone, stuffed it in my pocket, then grabbed my backpack. Four hours away, my mother was crumbling and it was all my doing. The least I could have felt was a moment of exhilaration. But instead it was something more like fear that washed over me as I started down our walk, pulling my coat tightly around me.

Outside, the air was cold and crisp, the snow coming down hard. I turned the opposite way from the bus stop and started walking toward town, the snow making everything feel muffled and quiet around me. I walked and walked; by the time I realized how far I’d gone, there were only a couple of storefronts left before the street turned residential again. I had to turn around, find a bus stop, get to school. First, though, I needed to warm up. So I walked up to the closest place with an OPEN sign, a bakery with a picture of a muffin in the window, and went inside.

“Welcome to Frazier Bakery!” a cheerful voice called out the second I crossed the threshold. I looked over to see two people behind the counter, bustling around, while a few people waited in line. Clearly, this was one of those chain places that was supposed to look like a mom-and-pop joint: decorated to look small and homey, mandatory personal greeting, a crackling (fake) fireplace on one wall. I got in line, grabbing a couple of napkins to wipe my nose.

I was so tired from the walk, and still reeling from what had happened with my mom, that I just stood there, shuffling forward as needed until suddenly I was face-to-face with a pretty redhead wearing a striped apron and a jaunty paper cap. “Welcome to Frazier Bakery!” she said. “What can we do to make you feel at home today?”

God, I hated all this corporate crap, even before I’d heard my dad rail against it endlessly. I looked up at the menu board, scanning it. Coffee, muffins, breakfast paninis, smoothies, bagels. I looked back at the smoothie options, suddenly remembering something.

“Blueberry Banana Brain Freeze,” I told her.

“Coming right up!”

She turned, walking over to a row of blenders, and I took another look around me at this, the place where Dave’s downfall began. You could hardly imagine a place less likely to corrupt someone. There were needlepoint samplers on all the walls, for God’s sake. LIFE’S TROUBLES ARE OFTEN SOOTHED BY HOT, MILKY DRINKS, read one by the sugar, milk, and cream station. Another, over the recycling bins, proclaimed WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. I wondered where they’d ordered them, and if you could get anything mass-embroidered and framed. LEAVE ME ALONE, mine would say. I’d hang in on my door, a fair warning, cutely delivered.

Once I got my smoothie, I went over and took a seat on a faux-leather chair in front of the faux-roaring fire. Dave was right: after two sips on my straw, I had a headache so bad I could barely see straight. I put my hand to my forehead, as if that would warm things up, then closed my eyes, just as the front door bell chimed.

“Welcome to Frazier Bakery!” one of the counter people yelled.

“Thank you!” a voice yelled back, and someone laughed. I was still rubbing my forehead when I heard footsteps, then, “Mclean? ”

I opened my eyes, and there was Dave. Of course it was Dave. Who else would it be?

“Hi,” I said.

He peered at me a little more closely. “You okay? You look like you’ve been—”

“It’s just a brain freeze,” I said, holding up the cup as evidence. “I’m fine.”

I could tell he was not fully convinced, but thankfully, he didn’t push the issue. “What are you doing here? I didn’t know you were a Friend of Frazier.”

“A what?”

“That’s what we call the regulars.” He waved at the redhead, who waved back. “Hold on, I’m just grabbing a Freaking Everything and a Procrastinator’s Special. Be back in a sec.”

I took another tentative sip of my smoothie, watching as he headed over to the counter, ducking behind it. He said something to the redhead, who laughed, then reached around her to the bakery display and grabbed a muffin before pouring himself a big cup of coffee. Then he punched a few buttons on the register, slid in a five, and took out a dollar and some change, which he deposited in the tip jar.

“Thank you!” the redhead and other guy working sang out.

“You’re welcome!” Dave said. Then he started back over to me.

Good Lord I thought as he approached. I just don’t have the energy for this today. But it wasn’t like there was anything I could do. I was in a public place, not to mention one that he knew well. It was almost funny that I’d ended up there. Almost.

“So,” he said, standing over me now, muffin in hand. “You skipping out today or something?”

“No,” I said. “Just . . . needed some breakfast. I’m about to go catch the bus.”

“Bus?” He looked offended. “Why would you take public transport when I’m right here with my car?”

“Oh, that’s okay. I’m . . . I’m fine.”

“You’re also late,” he pointed out, nodding at the clock behind me. “Bus will make you later. There’s no pride in tardiness, Mclean.”

I looked around the room. “That sounds like something that should be needlepointed on one of these samplers.”

“You’re right!” He grinned. “Gonna have to take that up with management. Come on. I’m parked out back.”

I went, following him down the hallway, past the restrooms, and out a rear entrance. As we walked, he continued to eat his muffin, leaving a trail of crumbs behind him like someone out of a fairy tale. I said, “What did you call that again?”

“What?”

“Your breakfast.”

He glanced back at me. “Oh, right. The Freaking Everything and the Procrastinator’s Special.”

“I don’t remember seeing that on the menu.”

“Because it isn’t,” he replied, starting across the lot. “I kind of created my own lexicon here at FrayBake. Translated, that’s a muffin with everything under the sun, and a coffee that guarantees multiple bathroom breaks for the next few hours. It caught on, and now all the counter people use it.” He jangled his keys. “Here we are.”

I watched him walk around a Volvo pockmarked with dents. On the passenger seat was one of those beaded covers I associated with taxi drivers and grandmothers. “This is your car?”

“Yep,” he said proudly as we got in. “She’s been in lockdown, but I finally got her sprung last night.”

“Yeah? How’d you manage that?”

“I think it was the lives of cells that clinched it.” He turned the key, and the engine, after a bit of coaxing, came to life. “Oh, and I also agreed to work in my mom’s lab after the Austin trip, until I go to Brain Camp. But you do what you have to do for the ones you love. And I love this car.”

The Volvo, as if to test this, suddenly sputtered to a stop. Dave looked down at the console, then turned the key. Nothing happened. He tried again, and the car made a sighing noise, like it was tired.

“It’s okay,” Dave called out over the sound of the engine making ticking noises, like a bomb. “She just needs a little love sometimes.”

“I know all about that,” I said. “So did Super Shitty.”

This just came out, without me even really being aware of it. When Dave looked at me, though, eyebrows raised, I realized what I’d done. “Super Shitty?”

“My car,” I explained. “My old car, I guess I should say. I don’t know where it is now.”

“Did you crash into a guardhouse, too?”

“No, just left town and didn’t need it anymore.” I had a flash of my beat-up Toyota Camry, she of the constantly blown alternators, hissing radiator, and odometer that had topped 200,000 miles before it even came into my possession. The last I’d seen it, it had been parked in Peter’s huge garage, between his Lexus and SUV, as out of place there as I was. “She was a good car, too. Just kind of . . .”

“Shitty?”

I nodded, and he pumped the gas, then the brake. I could see a car behind us, turn signal on, waiting for the space. The person behind the wheel appeared to be cursing when the Volvo suddenly roared to life, a burst of smoke popping from the tailpipe.

“Nothing like driving in the snow,” Dave said, hardly fazed as we turned out of the lot and headed down the hill to a stop sign, flakes hitting the windshield. As he slowed, the Volvo’s brakes squealed in protest. He glanced over at me, then said, “Seat belt, please. Safety first.”

I pulled it on, grateful he’d reminded me. My door was rattling, and I was just hoping the seat belt would hold me in should it fly open at forty miles an hour. “So,” I said, once we’d gotten going, “thanks for the thyme.”

“No problem,” he replied. “I just hope you weren’t offended.”

“Why would I be offended?”

“Well, you don’t like clutter.”

“It’s one spice container,” I pointed out.

“Yes, but it’s a slippery slope. First you have thyme, then you get into rosemary and sage and basil, and the next thing you know, you have a problem.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” The car wheezed, and he hit the gas. The engine roared, attracting an alarmed look from a woman in a Lexus beside us.

“How long have you had this thing?”

“Little over a year,” he said. “I bought her myself. Took all my savings bonds, bar mitzvah money, and what I’d made working at FrayBake.”

The brakes squealed again. I said, “That much, huh?”

“What?” He glanced at me, then back at the road. “Hey, this is a great car. Sturdy, dependable. Has character. She might have a few issues, but I love her anyway.”

“Warts and all,” I said.

He looked over at me suddenly, surprised. “What did you say?”

“What?”

“You said ‘warts and all.’ Didn’t you?”

“Um, yeah,” I replied. “What, you don’t know that expression?”

“No, I do.” He eased us into the turn lane for school, then took his left hand off the steering wheel, turning it over to expose the black, tattooed circle there. “It’s where this comes from, actually.”

“That’s supposed to be a wart?” I asked.

“Sort of,” he said, downshifting. “See, when I was a kid, my mom and dad were both teaching full-time. So during the week, I stayed with this woman who kept a few kids at her house. Eva.”

The snow was really picking up now, giving the wipers a workout. Just two small arcs of clarity, with everything blurry beyond.

“She had a granddaughter who was the same age as me and stayed there, too. She and I napped together, ate glue together. That was Riley.”

“Really?”

“Yep. I told you, we’ve known each other forever. Anyway, Eva was just, like, straight-up awesome. She was really tall and broad, with a huge belly laugh. She smelled like pancakes. And she had this wart. A huge one, like something you’d see on a witch or something. Right here.” He put his index finger in the center of the tattoo, pressing down. “We were, like, fascinated and grossed out by it at the same time. And she always made a point of letting us look at it. She wasn’t embarrassed at all. Said if we loved her, we loved it, too. It was part of the package.”

I thought of Riley’s wrist, that same black circle. The sad look on her face when Deb pointed it out.

“She got cancer last year,” he said. “Pancreatic. She died two months after the diagnosis.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. It pretty much sucked.” We were turning into the school parking lot, going past the guardhouse. “The day after her funeral, me and Riley went and got these.”

“That’s a pretty amazing tribute,” I said.

“Eva was pretty amazing.”

I watched him as we turned down a row of cars, slowing for a group of girls in track pants and heavy coats. “I like the sentiment. But it’s easier said than done, you know?”

“What is?”

I shrugged. “Accepting all the good and bad about someone. It’s a great thing to aspire to. The hard part is actually doing it.”

He found a spot and turned in, then cut the engine, which rattled gratefully to a stop. Never had a car seemed so exhausted. Then he looked at me. “You think so?”

I had a flash of my mom on the phone that morning, her wavering voice, the words I’d said. I swallowed. “I think that’s why I like moving around so much. Nobody gets to know me well enough to see any of the bad stuff.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. We both just sat there, listening as people passed by us. The ground was slippery, and everyone was struggling to stay upright, taking tentative steps and still busting here and there anyway.

“You say that,” Dave said finally, “but I’m not sure it’s actually true. I’ve only known you a month but I’m aware of plenty of bad stuff about you.”

“Oh, really,” I said. “Like what?”

“Well, you have no condiments or spices, for starters. Wled just plain weird. Also, you’re vicious with a basketball.”

“Those aren’t exactly warts.”

“Maybe not.” He grinned. “But seriously, it’s all relative, right?”

The bell rang then, its familiar tinny sound muffled by the snow on the roof and windows. We both got out, my door creaking loudly as I pushed it open. The ground was icy, immediately sliding a bit beneath me, and I grabbed on to the Volvo to support myself. “Whoa,” I said.

“No kidding,” Dave said, sliding up next to me and barely getting his balance at the last minute. “Watch your step.”

I started walking carefully, and he fell in beside me, pulling his bag over his shoulder. His head was ducked down, his hair falling across his forehead, and as I glanced at him, I thought of all the times I’d found myself with boys over the last two years, and how none of them came anywhere close to being like this. Because I wasn’t. I was Beth or Eliza or Lizbet, a mirage, like a piece of stage scenery that looked real from the front with nothing behind it. Here, though, despite my best efforts, I’d somehow ended up being myself again: Mclean Sweet, she of the messed-up parents and weird basketball connections, Super Shitty and a U-Haul’s worth of baggage. All those clean, fresh starts had made me forget what it was like, until now, to be messy and honest and out of control. To be real.

We were almost to the curb when I felt Dave begin to slip again beside me, his arms flailing. I tried to secure my own feet, with mixed results, as he tipped backward, then forward. “Uh-oh,” he said. “Going down!”

“Hold on,” I told him, sticking out my own hand to grab his. Instead of steadying him, however, this had the opposite effect, and then we were both stumbling across the ice, double the weight, double the impact if we fell.

It was the weirdest feeling. As my feet slid beneath me, my heart was lurching, pounding with that scary feeling of having no footing, no control. But then I looked over at Dave. He was laughing, his face flushed as he wavered this way, then that, pulling me along, equally clumsy behind him. Same situation, two totally different reactions.

So much had happened that morning. Yet it was this image, this moment, that I kept going back to hours later, after we’d made it safely to the walkway and gone our separate ways to classes. How it felt to have the world moving beneath me, a hand gripping mine, knowing if I fell, at least I wouldn’t do it alone.

The snow kept coming down, piling up into drifts, leading to school being cancelled a little bit before lunchtime. As I pushed out the front door with everyone else, all I could think was that I had a whole free afternoon, a ton of laundry that needed doing, and a paper to hand in the next day. But instead of taking the bus straight home like I planned, I got off two stops early, right across the street from Luna Blu.

The snow had killed the lunch rush, so the restaurant was mostly empty, which made it easier to hear my dad, Chuckles, and Opal, who were in the party-and-event room just off the bar area. I could see them all gathered at a table, coffee mugs and papers spread out all around them. My dad looked tired, Opal tense. Clearly, the magic wand hadn’t materialized.

I walked through the dining room, to the door that led to the stairs. As soon as I opened it, I heard voices.

“. . . totally doable,” Dave was saying as he came into view. Deb, still in her coat, scarf, and mittens, was standing beside him, both of them studying the boxes of model parts. “Complicated, yes. But doable.”

“All that counts is the doable part,” she said, glancing around the room. When she saw me, her face brightened. “Hey! I didn’t know you were coming!”

Neither did I, I thought. “I had a hankering to serve my community,” I told her, just as Dave turned around to look at me as well. “What are we doing?”

“Just getting together a game plan,” Deb said, pulling off her mittens. “Did you have any ideas about the best way to proceed? ”

I walked over, standing beside her, feeling Dave watching me. I thought of that morning again, the solid circle on his wrist, the same one I’d been holding on to for dear life as we slid across the ice. He’s not my type, some voice in my head said, but it had been so long, I didn’t even know what that meant anymore. Or if this girl, the one I was now, even had a type at all.

“Nope,” I said, glancing at him. “Let’s just start and see what happens.”

Fifteen minutes later, a meeting was called.

“Okay, look.” Deb’s face was dead serious. “I know I just joined this project, and I don’t want to offend anyone. But I’m going to be honest. I think you’ve been going about this all wrong.”

“I’m offended,” Dave told her flatly.

Her eyes widened. “Oh, no. Really? I’m so—”

“I’m also joking,” he said.

“Oh, okay. Whew!” She smiled, her cheeks flushing. “Let me start by just saying that I’m so glad you invited me here. I love this kind of stuff. When I was a kid, I was crazy for miniatures.”

“Miniatures?” I asked.

“You know, dollhouses and such. I especially loved historical stuff. Tiny re-creations of Revolutionary War cottages, Victorian orphanages. That kind of thing.”

“Orphanages?” Dave said.

“Sure.” She blinked. “What? Anyone can have a dollhouse. I was more creative with my play.”

“Dave was, too,” I told her. “He was into model trains.”

“It was not trains,” Dave said, annoyed. “It was war staging, and very serious.”

“Oh, I loved war staging!” Deb told him. “That’s how I ended up with all my orphans.”

I just looked at both of them. “What kind of childhood did you people have?”

“The bad kind,” Deb replied, simply, matter-of-factly. She slid off her jacket, folded it neatly, and put it with her purse on a nearby table. “We were always broke, Mom and Dad didn’t get along. My world was messed up. So I liked being able to make other ones.”

I looked at her, realizing this was the most she’d ever volunteered about her home life. “Wow,” I said.

Dave shrugged. “I just liked battles.”

“Who doesn’t?” Deb replied, already moving on. “Anyway, I really feel, from my experience with large model and miniature structures, that the best approach in construction is the pinwheel method. And what you have going here is total chessboard.”

We both just looked at her. “Right,” Dave said finally. “Well, of course.”

“So honestly,” she continued as I shot him a look, trying not to laugh, “I think we need a total re-approach to the entire project. Are those the directions?”

“Yeah,” I told her, picking up the thick manual by my feet.

“Great! Can I see?”

I handed them over, and she immediately took them to the table, spreading them out. Within seconds, she was bent over the pages, deep in thought, drumming on her lip with one finger.

“Can I tell you something?” Dave whispered to me. “I love Deb. She’s a total freak. And I mean that in a good way.”

“I know,” I said. “Every day she kind of blows my mind.”

It was true. Deb might have been a spazzer freak, speed-metal drummer, tattoo expert, and constructor of orphanages. What she wasn’t was timid. When she took something over, she took it over.

“Think wheel,” she kept saying to me as I stood over the model, holding a house in one hand. “We start in the middle, at the hub, then work our way out from the center, around and around.”

“We were just kind of putting things in as we pulled them out of the boxes,” I told her.

“I know. I could tell the first moment I saw this thing.” She gave me a sympathetic look. “But don’t feel bad, okay? That’s a beginner’s mistake. If you kept it up, though, you’d end up climbing over things, houses piercing your knees, kicking fire hydrants off accidentally. It would be a serious mess. Trust me.”

I did, so I followed her direction. Gone were the pick-apiece, put-it-together, find-its-place days. Already, she’d developed her own system and fetched a red pen from her purse to adapt the directions accordingly, and by an hour in, she had us running like a machine. She gathered the pieces for each area of the pinwheel—she termed them “sectors”—which Dave then assembled, and I attached to their proper spot. Create, Assemble, Attach. Or, as Deb called it, CAA. I fully expected her to make up T-shirts or hats with this slogan by our next meeting.

“You have to admit,” I said to Dave when she was across the room on her cell phone, calling the toll-free-questions line at Model Community Ventures for the second time for clarification on one of the directions, “she’s good at this.”

“Good?” he replied, snapping a roof on a building. “More like destined. She makes us look like a bunch of fumbling idiots.”

“Speak for yourself,” I said. “She said my approach was promising, for a beginner.”

“Oh, don’t kid yourself.She’s just being nice.” He picked up another piece of plastic. “When you were in the bathroom, she told me your sectors are sadly lacking.”

“That is not true! My sectors are perfect.”

“You call that perfect? It’s total chessboard.”

I made a face, then poked him, and he poked me back. He was laughing as I walked back to the model, bending down to inspect my sector. Which looked just fine. I thought.

“. . . of course! No, thank you. I’m sure we’ll talk again. Okay! Bye!” Deb snapped her phone shut, then sighed. “I swear, Marion is so nice.”

“Marion? ”

“The woman at Model Community Ventures who answers the help line,” she said. “She’s just been a godsend.”

“You made friends,” I said, “with the help line lady?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say we’re friends,” she replied. “But she’s really been great. Usually, they just put those numbers on there but nobody answers. I can’t tell you how many hours I’ve spent on hold, waiting for someone to tell me how to glue an eave properly.”

I just looked at her. From across the room, Dave snorted.

“Hey, is Gus up there?” someone called up the stairs.

I walked over to see Tracey on the landing below. “Nope. He’s in a meeting in the event room with Opal.”

“Still? God, what are they doing in there?”

I had a flash of the pad with all those numbers, how her name had been awfully close to the top. “I don’t know,” I said.

“Well, when he finally emerges,” she said, pulling a pen out from her hair and sticking it back in with her free hand, “tell him that councilwoman called again. I don’t know how much longer I can put her off. Clearly, she’s undersexed and highly motivated.”

“What?”

“She’s hot for your dad,” she said, speaking slowly for my benefit. “And he is not getting the message. Literally. So tell him, would you?”

I nodded and she turned, walking back to the dining room, the downstairs door banging shut behind her. It wasn’t like I should have been surprised. This was the pattern. We landed somewhere, got settled, and eventually he’d start dating someone. But usually, it was not until he knew he had an end date that he’d take that plunge. Sort of like someone else I knew.

“Mclean?” I heard Deb call out from behind me. “Can I have a quick discussion with you about your approach in this area here by the planetarium?”

I turned around. Dave, who was carrying a structure past, said cheerfully, “And you said your sectors were perfect.”

I smiled at this, but as I walked over to take her critique, I was distracted. I didn’t even know why. It was just a phone call, some messages. Nothing that hadn’t happened before. And it wasn’t like he’d called her back. Yet.

At five o’clock, with three sectors done that had passed Deb’s rigorous inspection, we decided to knock off for the night. When we came downstairs, the restaurant had just opened. It was warm and lit up, and my dad and Opal were sitting at the bar, a bottle of red wine open between them. Opal’s face was flushed, and she was smiling, happier than I’d ever seen her.

“Mclean!” she said when she spotted me. “I didn’t even know you were here!”

“We were working on the model,” I told her.

“Really?” She shook her head. “And on your snow day, to boot. That’s some serious dedication.”

“We got three sectors done,” Dave told her.

She look confused. “Three what?”

“Sectors.” Nope, still lost. I didn’t even know how to explain, so I just said, “It looks really good. Serious progress.”

“That’s great.” She smiled again. “You guys are the best.”

“It’s mostly Deb,” I said. Beside me, Deb blushed, clearly pleased. “Turns out she has a lot of model experience.”

“Thank God somebody does,” Opal replied. “Maybe now Lindsay will relax about this whole thing. Do you know she keeps calling here? It’s like she’s suddenly obsessed with this project.”

I glanced at my Dad, who picked up his wineglass, taking a sip as he looked out the window. “Well,” I said, “she should be happy next time she stops by.”

“That,” Opal said, pointing at me, “is what I love to hear. She’s happy. I’m happy. Everybody’s happy.”

“Oh my goodness,” Deb said, her eyes widening as Tracey came toward us with a heaping plate of fried pickles, placing it right in front of Opal. “Are those—”

“Fried pickles,” Opal told her. “The best in town. Try one.”

“Really?”

“Of course! You too, Dave. It’s the least we can do for all your hard work.” She pushed the plate down, and they both went over to help themselves.

“Wow,” Dave said. “These are amazing.”

“Aren’t they?” Opal replied. “They’re our signature appetizer.”

Wow, indeed, I thought, looking at her as she helped herself to a pickle, popping it into her mouth. My dad was still looking out the window. “So the meeting went well?” I asked.

“Better than well,” Opal said. She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “Nobody’s getting fired. I mean, we presented our arguments, and he just . . . he got it. He understood. It was amazing.”

“That’s great.”

“Oh, I feel so relieved!” She sighed, shaking her head. “It’s like the best I could hope for. I might actually sleep tonight. And it’s all because of your dad.”

She turned, squeezing his arm, and he finally turned his attention to us. “I didn’t do anything,” he said.

“Oh, he’s just being modest,” Opal told me. “He totally went to bat for our staff. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he actually didn’t want anyone to get fired either.”

I looked at my dad. This time, he gave me a shrug. “It’s over,” he said. “That’s all that matters.”

“Is that Mclean I see?” I heard a voice boom from the back of the restaurant. I turned, and there was Chuckles, huge and hulking and striding right toward us. As usual, he had on an expensive suit, shiny shoes, and his two NBA championship rings, one on each hand. Chuckles was not a believer in casual wear.

“Hi, Charles,” I said as he gathered me in a big hug, squeezing tight. He towered over me: I was about level with his abs. “How are you?”

“I’ll be better once we tuck into that buffalo,” he said. Dave and Deb, standing at the bar, watched him, both wide-eyed, as he reached over with his impressive arm span to pluck a pickle from the plate in front of them.

“Chuckles just invested in a bison ranch,” my dad explained to me. “He brought ten pounds of steaks with him.”

“Which your dad is going to cook up as only he can,” Chuckles said, gesturing to Tracey, who was behind the bar, for a wineglass. “You’re joining us, right?”

“Sure,” I said. “But I need to go home first and change. I’ve got model dust all over me.”

“Do it,” Chuckles said, easing his huge frame onto a bar stool next to Opal as Tracey reached over with the wine bottle, filling his glass. “I’m just going to hang here with these gorgeous women until my food’s ready.”

My dad rolled his eyes, just as Jason stuck his head out of the kitchen. “Gus,” he called. “Phone call.”

“I’ll see you in a half hour or so?” he said to me as he got up. I nodded, and he walked back to Jason, taking the phone from him. I watched him say hello, and a grimace come across his face. Then he turned, and walked back toward his office, the door swinging shut behind him.

“I should go, too,” Deb said, zipping up her jacket. “I want to get home and whiteboard my ideas for the model while they’re still fresh.”

“Whiteboard?” Opal said.

“I have one in my room,” she explained. “I like to be ready when inspiration strikes.”

Opal looked at me, and I shrugged. Knowing Deb like I did, this made total sense to me. She slid on her earmuffs, then pulled her quilted purse over her shoulder. “I’ll see you guys.”

“Drive safe,” I told her, and she nodded, ducking her head as she stepped out into the snow and walked away. Even her footprints were neat and tidy.

“These pickles are really good,” Chuckles said to Opal as I gathered up my own stuff from the bar. “But what happened to those rolls you used to give out here?”

“The rolls?”

He nodded.

“Actually, we, um, decided to do away with them.”

“Huh,” Chuckles said. “That’s too bad. They were really something,from what I remember.”

“Have another pickle,” she said, pushing the plate closer to him. “Believe me. Pretty soon those rolls will be a distant memory.”

I glanced at her as she lifted her wineglass again to her mouth, and she smiled at me. My dad had been right. Thirty days, give or take, and she’d come around.

Dave and I said our goodbyes, then walked down the corridor to the back entrance. We were just passing the kitchen door when we saw Jason, rummaging around on a shelf for some pans. “Be careful out there,” he said. “It’s still really coming down.”

“Will do,” I said.

“Hey,” Dave said to him, as he stood up, the pan in hand. “Did I see your name on the Brain Camp Listserv the other day?”

“I don’t know,” Jason said. “If it’s there, it’s not my doing. I haven’t been in touch with them in ages.”

“You went to Brain Camp, too?” I said.

“He didn’t just go there,” Dave told me. “He’s, like, a Brain Camp legend. They pretty much genuflect to his IQ scores.”

“Not true,” Jason said.

“Order up!” I heard Tracey call. “Salad for the big boss, so make it good!”

“Duty calls,” Jason said, then smiled, walking back toward the prep table. Dave watched him go as I pushed open the back door, a bit of snow blowing in.

“So Jason was a big geek deal, huh?” I asked as I pulled on my gloves.

“More like a rock star,” he replied. “He went to Kiffney-Brown and took U classes, just like me and Gervais, but he was a couple of years ahead. He went off to Harvard when I was a sophomore.”

“Harvard?” I glanced back at Jason, who was pulling a pan out of the walk-in. “It’s a long way from there to prep cook. What happened?”

He shrugged, walking out the door and pulling his hood up. “Don’t know. I thought he was still there until I saw him upstairs the other day.”

Strange, I thought as we passed by the half-open door to my dad’s office. I could see him inside, leaning back in his chair, one foot on the desk.

“. . . been pretty busy, with the new menu and some corporate meetings,” he was saying. I heard his chair creak. “No, no. I’m not, Lindsay. I promise. And lunch . . . would be good. Let’s do it.”

I looked out at the snow. Dave had his head tipped back, looking up, the outside light hitting the flakes as they fell down on him.

“Your office, city hall, eleven thirty,” my dad continued. “No, you pick. I’m sure you know the best places . . . yeah. All right. I’ll see you then.”

The door at the other end of the hallway, which led to the restaurant, suddenly opened. Opal was standing there, her wineglass in one hand. “Hey,” she said, “is your dad still on the phone?” she asked.

I nodded. “Think so.”

“Well, when he’s done, remind him we’re waing for him to join us. Tell him Chuckles is insisting on it.” She smiled. “And, um, so am I.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Thanks!” She lifted her glass to me, then disappeared back through the doorway, letting it swing shut behind her.

For a moment, I just stood there, right in the middle of the hallway, alone. In the kitchen, some bouncy dance music was playing, and over it I could hear the clanging of utensils, the squeaking of shoes on the damp floor, and the grill sizzling, the soundtrack to the beginning of a rush. All things I knew well. Almost as well as the tone in my dad’s voice just now, finally accepting the councilwoman’s offer. It was as familiar as the set of his jaw as he sat next to Opal earlier, even as she celebrated unknowingly beside him. Something had shifted, changed. Or, actually, not changed at all.

“Hey, Mclean,” Dave called out through the screen door. I looked over to see him surrounded by white: on the ground at his feet, blown onto the wall behind him, and flakes still falling. “You ready to go?”

I looked back at my dad’s door, now all quiet behind it. No, I thought. I’m not.

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