As my fourteenth birthday approached, I could tell that Dad wasn’t sure what to do. For as long as I could remember, we’d always done the same thing: he would make aebleskivers for breakfast, we’d all see a movie in the afternoon, and then I would pig out on a giant sundae for dinner and go to bed swearing I would never do that again.
After Mom died, the routine didn’t change. The constancy was important to me, a small reminder that she’d really been here. But this was the first year we’d had the weekend house, and the first year I had a close friend like Elliot.
“Can we go to the house this weekend?”
Dad’s coffee cup paused in mid-air, his eyes meeting mine over the thread of steam. He blew over the top before taking a sip, swallowing, and setting it back on the table. Picking up his fork, he speared a piece of scrambled egg, doing his best to act casual, as if there was nothing that particularly thrilled or disappointed him about my request.
It was the first time I’d asked to go up there, and I knew him well enough to know how relieved he was to be able to continually rely on the perfect predictions in Mom’s list.
“Is that what you’d like to do this year? For your birthday?”
I looked down at my own eggs before nodding. “Yeah.”
“Would you also like a party? We could bring a few friends up to the house? You could show them your library?”
“No . . . my friends here wouldn’t get it.”
“Not like Elliot.”
I took a bite and shrugged casually. “Yeah.”
“He’s a good friend?”
I nodded, staring at my plate as I speared another bite.
“You know you’re too young to date,” Dad said.
My head shot up, eyes wide in horror. “Dad!”
He laughed. “Just making sure you understand the rules.”
Blinking back down to my food, I mumbled, “Don’t be gross. I just like it up there, okay?”
My dad wasn’t a big smiler, not one of those people you think of and immediately picture with a big grin on his face, but right now, when I looked back up, he was smiling. Really smiling.
“Of course we can go to the house, Macy.”
We drove up early Saturday morning, the first day of my spring break. There were two things Dad wanted to check off the list this week, including items forty-four and fifty-three: planting a tree that I could watch grow for many years, and teaching me to chop firewood.
Before I could run off into my book wonderland, Dad pulled a tiny sapling from the back of the car and hauled it into the side yard.
“Grab the shovel from the back,” he said, kneeling to cut the plastic container away from the apple tree using a razor blade. “Bring the work gloves.”
In some ways I always assumed I was my mother’s child: I liked the color and clutter of our Berkeley house. I liked lively music and warm days, and danced when I washed dishes. But up at the cabin, I realized I was my dad’s kid, too. In the chill of the March wind snaking through the trees, we dug a deep pit in easy silence, communicating with the point of a finger or the tilt of a chin. When we’d finished, and a proud little Gravenstein tree was firmly planted in our side yard, instead of enthusiastically wrapping his arms around me and gushing his love in my ear, Dad cupped my face and bent, pressing a kiss to my forehead.
“Good work, min lille blomst.” He smiled down at me. “I’m going to town for groceries.”
With this permission, I took off. My shoes pounded on the ground as I moved in a straight path from the end of our driveway to the top of Elliot’s. The doorbell rang throughout the house, carrying back to me from the open windows overhead. A loud bark reached my ears, followed by the clumsy scratch of a dog’s nails against wooden floors.
“Shut it, Darcy,” a sleepy voice said, and the dog fell silent, only to release a few small apologetic whines.
It occurred to me that in the nearly six months we’d had the cabin, I hadn’t been inside Elliot’s house. Miss Dina had invited us, of course, but Dad seemed to feel it was wrong to intrude. I think he also liked the solitude of our house on the weekends—Elliot’s presence excepted, of course. Dad liked not having to come out of his shell.
I took a step back, nerves rising, when the door opened and a yawning, shaggy-haired Andreas stood in front of me.
The second-oldest Petropoulos brother had clearly just climbed out of bed—messy brown hair, sleep lines on his face, no shirt, and basketball shorts that defied gravity by barely clinging low on his hips. He had the kind of body I hadn’t been entirely sure until that moment actually existed.
Is this what Elliot would look like in a couple of years? My mind could barely handle the idea.
“Hey, Macy,” he said. It sounded like a growl, like a sin. He stood back, holding open the door and waiting for me to follow. “You coming in or not?”
I willed my eyebrows to inch back down my forehead. “Oh, sure.”
It did smell like cookies inside. Cookies and boy. Andreas smiled and lazily scratched his stomach. “You guys are up for the weekend?”
I nodded and his smile widened. “And very talkative, I see.”
“Sorry,” I said, and then stood there, arms at my sides, fingers pulling at the hem of my shorts, still not sure what to say. “Is Elliot home?”
“I’ll grab him.” Andreas grinned and walked toward the staircase. “Hey, Ell! Your girlfriend is here!” His voice echoed in the wooden entryway as my body exploded into a scorching blush.
Before I could answer, there was the sound of feet pounding on the floor above us.
“You’re such a douche!” Elliot said, barreling down the stairs and into his brother. Andreas grunted with the blow and grabbed Elliot, putting him in a headlock. Andreas was taller and pretty muscular, but Elliot seemed to have the desire to avoid public humiliation on his side.
The two boys wrestled, came dangerously close to knocking over a lamp, said a bunch of words I wasn’t even supposed to think, and then finally broke apart, panting.
“Sorry,” Elliot said to me, still glaring at Andreas. He adjusted his glasses and straightened his clothes. “My brother thinks he’s funny and apparently can’t dress himself.” He motioned to Andreas’s bare chest.
Andreas messed up Elliot’s hair even more and rolled his eyes. “It’s barely noon, prick.”
“I think Mom should have you tested for narcolepsy.”
With a dull punch to Elliot’s shoulder, Andreas turned toward the stairs. “I’m heading to Amie’s. Nice seeing you, Macy.”
“You, too,” I said lamely.
Andreas winked over his shoulder. “Oh, and Elliot?” he called.
“Yeah?”
“Door open.”
His booming laugh filled the upstairs hall before finally disappearing behind the click of a closed door.
Elliot started toward the stairs but then stopped, turning around to frown at me. “Let’s go to your house.”
“You don’t want to show me around?”
With a groan, he turned and pointed around us. “Living room, dining room, kitchen through there.” He pivoted in place, indicating each room with a jab of his index finger. He walked up the stairs and I followed him as he mumbled, “Stairs,” and “Hallway,” and “Bathroom,” and “Parents’ room,” and a list of other monotone labels until we stood in front of a closed white door with a periodic table taped to it.
“This one’s mine.”
“Wow, that’s . . . expected,” I said with a laugh. I was so happy to see his space, I felt a little dizzy.
“I didn’t put that there, Andreas did.” His voice took on an edge of defensiveness, as if he could only stand to be seen as ninety-eight percent nerd.
“But you haven’t taken it down,” I pointed out.
“It’s a good poster. He got it at a science fair.” He turned to me and shrugged, dropping his eyes. “It would be a waste to get rid of it, and he’d give me endless crap if I put it inside my room.”
He opened the door and said nothing, only stepping back to let me move past him into his bedroom. Anxiety and thrill hit me in a blast: I was entering a boy’s bedroom.
I was entering Elliot’s bedroom.
It was sparse and immaculate: bed made, only a few dirty laundry items in a basket in the corner, drawers of his dresser neatly closed. The only disorder was in a pile of books stacked on his desk, and a box of books in the corner.
I sensed Elliot’s tense presence behind me, could hear the jerky cadence of his breathing. I knew he wanted to get away from the chaos of his house and into the solitude of the closet, but I couldn’t tear myself away. Behind his desk was a bulletin board, with a few ribbons pinned there, a photograph, and a postcard with a picture of Maui.
Moving closer, I leaned in, studying.
“Just some science fairs,” he mumbled behind me, explaining the ribbons.
First place in his category at the Sonoma County science fair, three years in a row.
“Wow.” I looked over my shoulder at him. “You’re smart.”
His smile came out crooked, his cheeks popped with color. “Nah.”
I turned back, examining the photograph tacked in the corner. In it were three boys, including Elliot, and a girl on the far left. It looked like it had been taken a few years ago.
Discomfort itched in my chest. “Who’re they?”
Elliot cleared his throat and then leaned in, pointing. He brought with him a burst of deodorant—mildly acidic and piney—and something else, a scent that was completely boy and made my stomach drop. “Um, that’s Christian, me, Brandon, and Emma.”
I’d heard these names in passing: casual stories about a class or a bike ride in the woods. With a sharp pang of jealousy, I realized that although Elliot was becoming my person, my safe place, and the only human other than Dad who I could truly trust, I didn’t know his life very well at all. What side of him did these friends see? Did they get the smile that started out as a raised eyebrow and slowly spread to an amused twist of his lips? Did they get the laugh that overrode his tendency to be self-conscious and shot out in a loud haha-haha-haha?
“They look nice.” I leaned back, and felt him quickly step away behind me.
“Yeah.” He went quiet and the silence seemed to grow into a shimmering bubble around us. My ears started to ring, heart thudding as I imagined this Emma sitting on the floor in the corner, reading with him. His voice came in a whisper from behind me: “But you’re nicer.”
I turned and met his eyes as he did his quick wince-nose scrunch maneuver to get his glasses up higher.
“You don’t have to say that just because—”
“My mom’s pregnant,” he blurted.
And the bubble popped. I heard the stomping of feet along the hallway, the barking of the dog.
My eyes went wide as his words sank in. “What?”
“Yeah, they told us last night.” He shoved his hair off his forehead. “Apparently she’s due in August.”
“Holy crap. You’re fourteen. It’s going to be, like, fifteen years younger than you.”
“I know.”
“Elliot, that’s crazy.”
“I know.” He bent down, retying his shoe. “Seriously though, I don’t really want to talk about it. Can we go to your place? Mom has been queasy for a few weeks, Dad is acting insane. My brothers are dicks.” Nodding to the box of books, he added, “And I have some classics to add to your library.”
Dad gave us a knowing glance as we tromped inside and up the stairs.
“Isn’t your birthday on Tuesday?” Elliot asked, following me down the hallway. His shoes were falling apart—his favorite pair of checkered Vans—and one sole made a flapping sound every step.
I looked back over my shoulder at him. “I told you that once, like, five months ago.”
“Shouldn’t you only have to tell me once?”
I turned back, leading us into my room and all the way back into the closet. Since we’d moved in, the space had slowly taken on a life of its own, and was now complete: of course there were the shelves along one entire wall, the beanbag chair in the far corner, and the futon couch on the wall opposite the bookcase. But only a couple of weeks before, Dad had painted the walls and ceiling a midnight blue, with silver and yellow stars dotted in constellations overhead. Two small lamps illuminated the space—one near each of the seating options. In the middle of the floor were blankets and more pillows. It was the perfect fort.
Elliot curled up on the floor, pulling a fleece blanket onto his lap. “And you’re on spring break?”
I chewed my lip, nodding. “Yeah.”
He fell quiet, and then asked, “Are you bummed you won’t be with friends?”
“I am with a friend.” I looked at him, widening my eyes meaningfully.
“I mean your girlfriends,” he said, but I didn’t miss the way he blushed.
“Oh,” I said. “No, it’s okay. Nikki is going to Peru to visit family.”
Elliot didn’t say anything. He watched me choose a book and rearrange my own pillows before getting comfortable. Thinking of how I felt looking at a picture of him with his friends—and how much more I wanted to know about his life outside of this closet—I considered my next words, letting them tumble around in my head before speaking. “I stopped hanging out with most of my friends for a while when Mom got sick, so I could spend time with her.”
He nodded, and though his eyes stayed fixed on the notebook in front of him, I could tell his attention was solely on me.
I scanned the first page, turning to the chapter I’d just started. “And then when she was gone, I didn’t really feel like going to sleepovers and talking about boys. It’s kind of like they all grew up while I put myself back together. Nikki and I are still good, but I think it’s because she doesn’t really hang out outside of school, either. She has an enormous family she sees a lot.”
I could feel him watching me now, but I didn’t turn, knowing I’d never be able to finish if I did. The words seemed to bubble up in my chest, things I’d never talked about with anyone.
“Dad tried to get me to hang out more,” I continued. “He even arranged for me to go to this kids’ club thing down by his work?” I glanced quickly up at Elliot and then back down. “He said it was to socialize and make friends, but it wasn’t. It was a group for grieving children.”
“Oh.”
“We all knew what we were doing there, though,” I told him. “I remember walking into this huge white room. The walls were covered in things I think were supposed to be teen-related: boy band posters, pink and purple graffiti on bulletin boards, fuzzy beanbags and baskets of magazines.” I picked at a stray thread on my jeans. “It was like someone’s mom had come in and put up all this random stuff they thought teenage girls should have in their room.
“I remember looking around that first day,” I continued, pulling my thick ponytail over my shoulder and fidgeting with the ends, “thinking how weird it was that we were all there to just hang out. After a few days I noticed that all the girls had almost the same haircut. Like seven girls, all around my age with these chin-length bobs. A few weeks later I found out that all those girls were like me, they had all lost their moms. Most of them just got these simple, easy haircuts.” I paused and began twisting the ends of my hair around my finger. “But my dad learned how to put my hair in ponytails, what kind of shampoo to buy, he even had someone teach him how to braid and use the curling iron for special occasions. He could have done what was easiest for him and just cut it all off. But he didn’t.”
For the first time I looked up to see Elliot watching me. His eyes were wide with understanding and he reached over and took one of my hands.
“Did I ever tell you that I have my mom’s hair?” I said.
He shook his head but gave me a real smile. “I think you have the prettiest hair I’ve ever seen.”
