Infinite in Between (21 page)

Mia,

Do you remember me from IMLI two summers ago? I was the guy from Kansas. Just wanted to say hey and see where you're applying.

Jeremiah

Jeremiah,

Hey there! I can't believe you remember me. I've changed a lot since California. Or maybe I was possessed that summer and now I'm back to my regular self. Okay, shut up, Mia. MIA is in JereMIAh. See, I remember you! You had blue hair and vintage shirts. I'm applying to Swarthmore early decision. The fall option. What about you?

Mia

Mia,

Swarthmore, early decision. Fall option.

Jeremiah

PS My hair is now regular brown.

Jeremiah,

No way!!!

(About Swarthmore, not your newly brown hair.)

Mia

PS My hair is now partially pink.

Mia,

I can't picture you with pink hair! I toured Swarthmore last month and loved it. I'm writing my essay about growing up a dorky punk-music-loving guy on a farm in Kansas. Either that, or about the (formerly blond) girl I met one summer in California and how I was too chicken to tell her my feelings.

Jeremiah

TWENTY MINUTES INTO
senior lit, a bunch of girls started whispering and checking their phones. Gregor looked around, trying to figure out what was going on. Ms. Hewitt had stepped out for a few minutes, and they were supposed to be reading a chapter from
The Namesake
.

“Did you hear?” asked the girl behind him. Her name was Kyra. Her dad was the principal, and she was always at the center of the girl dramas.

“Hear what?” Gregor asked.

“Laurel went into labor!” She shoved her tablet in her purse. “That's my best friend. I'm out of here!”

As soon as Kyra left, two other girls dashed after her. Laurel was the one who Russell had gotten pregnant. Good old Russell. Back in September, Gregor had seen Laurel wobbling down the hall in her stretchy maternity top, and he thought about what he'd said to his sister.
At least it wasn't you
.

“Do you know what she's naming the baby?” a voice whispered behind him.

Gregor whipped his head around. Whitney had moved into
Kyra's desk. She usually sat over by the window.

“No . . . what?” Gregor asked.

“Hunter.”

“No way.”

“I know,” Whitney said. “I don't want to be negative . . .”

Gregor grinned. “But who names a kid Hunter?”

“Exactly.” Whitney nodded. “Like, is he going to hunt?”

“It's like naming him Gatherer.”

Whitney giggled. “Or Fisherman.”

“Exactly.”

Gregor and Whitney smiled at each other, and there it was, this sudden flash of understanding. They
got
each other. Gregor felt something in his stomach, something low and deep and surprisingly happy. All those years when he was lusting after Whitney, he never realized that he might simply
like
her as well.

“FUCK,” ZOE SAID,
dropping her phone on the kitchen counter.

“Zoe! I really don't think that's—” Aunt Jane froze when she saw Zoe's face. “What? What happened?”

“My mom's doing it again,” Zoe said, her voice flat. “You know, drinking. Like she was a few years ago.”

It was the Monday before Thanksgiving, and the house was sweet with stewing pumpkins. Aunt Jane had a smudge of flour on her cheek.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

Zoe nodded. She didn't feel like crying. She barely felt much. Two days ago she'd broken up with Dinky. She said they should stay friends, but now he wasn't talking to her. Anna was pissed at her for hurting Dinky, especially since Zoe couldn't even explain why she dumped him. How could she say that she was upset about what she'd overheard between Aunt Jane and her mom that night in California? She didn't even know what they'd been talking about or why it was making her so monumentally upset. Whatever it was, though, it made her not want anything happy or good in her life right now.

“Should I call Max?” Aunt Jane asked.

“He already knows. He was in the background, trying to get my mom off the phone.”

Aunt Jane sank into a chair and massaged her temples with her thumbs. She was going gray around her part. “What about Al-Anon? I know you stopped going, but I'm sure we can find you a meeting tonight. Maybe Anna will go with you?”

Zoe shook her head. She hadn't been to Al-Anon in two years. She'd thought that was over. “I'm going up to my room.”

“Can you at least call Anna?”

Zoe pointed to the stove. “Your pumpkins need more water. They've stopped steaming.”

As Aunt Jane hurried to the sink, Zoe walked slowly up the stairs.

WHITNEY COULDN'T BELIEVE
the stuff that was coming up in therapy. After she and Alicia had that fight and then she'd run away from Oberlin, her mom had suggested she talk to someone. Her mom found Jude, and so far she was exactly what Whitney needed.

Every Monday afternoon, now that soccer was over, she hopped in the spare car and drove to Darien Coffee Company. She'd buy tea and then go to Jude's office, which was in a tall brick building along the canal.

It was freezing cold today, a few weeks before Christmas. Whitney got a cup of chai with steamed milk. As she walked toward Jude's, she ran her free hand up and down her thighs. She was wearing thick corduroys and tall boots, but her legs still felt like blocks of ice.

“You said you wanted to talk about death?” Jude asked. It was the beginning of the session. At the end of last Monday's appointment, Whitney had dropped
that
bomb just as she was walking out the door.

Whitney liked how Jude always remembered her stories. Jude
was probably fifty, and she was also biracial, black and white. Whitney liked that, too. There was so much she didn't have to explain about having a black parent and a white parent, about being neither and both. In one of their first sessions, she told her how her sister said Whitney didn't know how to be black. Jude said that there wasn't necessarily
one
way to be black. Also, she reassured Whitney that no one expected her to be fully cooked about racial identity at seventeen, especially since she'd grown up in a mostly white community. As Jude talked, Whitney found herself nodding constantly.

“It's just—” Whitney paused. Her mouth felt dry, so she reached for her chai. “I never really talk about this, but when I was in ninth grade, there was a car accident at the end of my driveway. It was on New Year's Eve, and I was in my dad's car with Kyra and Laurel. We didn't know Autumn yet.”

“Was that when your dad lived in the house?”

Whitney nodded. “It was right after my parents split up. It was a head-on collision. Sometimes I still think about how Kyra and Laurel and I were all holding hands and crying. I thought we'd be close forever.”

Jude nodded. She knew Whitney didn't hang out with them anymore. They talked about that a lot.

“The guy died,” Whitney said, swallowing back tears. “The driver of one of the cars. His name was James. He was a junior.”

Jude gestured toward the tissues. “Did you know him?”

“Alicia did, a little. She went to the memorial. Everyone did. It was the thing to do.”

Jude sipped her water. She always had a glass on the table next to her. “Did you go?”

“No, that's what I'm saying.” Whitney crossed her legs and uncrossed them again. “Anything having to do with death terrifies me. There's this guy at school, Gregor. His dad died a few summers ago, and here's how lame I am. I couldn't even tell him I was sorry.”

Jude took another sip of water. “You said his name was Gregor?”

“Yeah. Gregor.” Whitney wiped her nose with her hand. “It's horrible, right? I feel so horrible about myself.”

“Well, that's why you're here. It's normal to be scared of death. Let's talk more about why you feel so bad about yourself.”

Whitney exhaled slowly. She'd never had someone ask her so many questions, or listen to what she had to say. She'd never talked about herself for so long. She'd never had so much hope that things could be better.

JAKE CLUTCHED HIS
plastic cup of Sprite and looked around the crowded gallery. He was combusting in his button-down shirt. Why hadn't he just worn a T-shirt?
Smile.
Why did he have to smile? His face was exhausted.

Allegra skipped over and put her arm around him. “Hey, sweaty boy,” she said. “Your painting is amazing. You deserved the prize.”

“Thanks.” Jake tried not to jerk away. He and Allegra were in art together again, but he was careful to keep his distance. He was keeping his distance with everyone. Mona Lisa had recently texted him for the first time in months, and he hadn't even written back. “Yours was great too.”

“Yeah, well.” Allegra adjusted her bra and then dug around in her purse. “It's not like I was quoting
Peter Pan
. The literary thing scored you points.”

“Not
Peter Pan
,” Jake said. “
Winnie-the-Pooh
.”

“That's what I meant.” Allegra slid on red lipstick and then bounced over to the refreshment table.

Jake studied his canvas. He'd painted it last winter in art class. It was supposed to be a self-portrait, but one afternoon he was in
the library when he saw a Winnie-the-Pooh poster that said, “You're braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.” The next day in art he'd scrawled
You're braver than you believe
in black letters across his portrait.

Last spring Ted had come by the art room and seen the painting. He thought it was crazy good and told Jake to send in a photo to the Anacorte Emerging Artists contest. The winners would receive a cash prize. Also, the winning paintings would be part of a month-long show at the Anacorte Gallery in Darien Shoppes.

That had been back in June. In September the Anacorte Gallery contacted Jake to arrange a viewing of the actual painting. Ted had just broken up with him. Jake barely even remembered putting them in touch with his art teacher. And then Jake had gotten the news two weeks ago that he was the grand-prize winner. His painting would be featured at the show. A couple was even interested in buying it.

The only thing Jake wanted to do was call Ted. But he couldn't. Ted had said they should stay friends. Screw that. Jake didn't want to be
buddies
with the guy he loved. He wanted to be
with
him, holding him, kissing him, being held by him.

“Your painting is extraordinary,” a middle-aged woman said to Jake. She had short auburn hair and rimless glasses. “It makes the viewer want to be brave.”

“Thanks,” Jake said. The muscles in his cheeks were aching.

“I'm Lydia Montaine.” She reached out to shake Jake's hand. “You might know my daughter Whitney. She goes to Hankinson too.”

“Yeah, I know Whitney. She's great.” Whitney was on student
council with Jake. She was the one who'd helped him get elected a few years ago, which Jake was eternally grateful for. He hadn't realized her mom was white. They didn't look anything alike.

“I agree,” Whitney's mom said, “but I happen to be biased.”

Jake glanced over her shoulder. Where was
his
mom? His face was flushed and his underarms were leaking.

“How's your college search going?” Whitney's mom asked. “Do you know where you're applying?”

Jake nodded. That was all anyone asked about these days. “A bunch of SUNYs with strong fine arts programs.”

“Is there just one application for all of them?”

“Yeah.”

“Thank goodness,” she said. “I know it can be overwhelming.”

After Whitney's mom wandered off, Jake wiped his face with a napkin. He spotted his mom and waved desperately to her.

“Ready?” she asked, walking over and tucking his damp hair behind his ears.

“Yes . . . please.”

It was freezing out. On the walk to the car, Jake started shivering.

“Your dad and I hate book parties,” his mom said. “For us it's about the writing and the art. But talking about it? It's the opposite of what we do. We'd much rather be loners.”

Jake burrowed his chin into his scarf. Snow was swirling around the parking lot, and his sweat was turning to ice. Honestly, he didn't want to be a loner. He actually liked people. He'd been elected senior class president, and there had even been buzz that he and Ted would be voted homecoming kings for the first time in Hankinson history.
That was before Ted dumped him.

“Want to drive?” Jake's mom held out her keys.

“No, thanks,” Jake said.

“It'll get better. You'll slowly start feeling better about what happened with Ted. I promise you will.”

“It doesn't feel like it,” Jake said as he climbed into the passenger seat.

Jake's mom turned the heat to high. “It never does.”

Jake leaned back in his seat. When he and Ted had gotten together, he dove headfirst into the relationship. He let himself free-fall because he thought it would never end. Well, he messed up big time, and now he was paying for it.

ON DECEMBER 15
at 2:59, Mia blasted the Clash and logged on to Swarthmore's admissions site. She kept hitting refresh until it showed up.

She'd gotten in.

Mia clutched her chest.

She was going to Swarthmore!

Last year it was ranked number one in
U.S. News and World Report
. At least five Swarthmore alumni were Nobel laureates, one in math. It was outside of Philadelphia, about three hundred miles from Hankinson. But in Mia's mind she was rocketing to another planet.

She reached for her phone but then set it down again. Her parents would lecture her about the expense of a private college. They'd say how they went to state schools and that worked out fine for them.

Mia texted Jeremiah from IMLI instead.

So . . . I got in. You? PS Listening to “Welcome to Paradise.”

They'd been texting every few weeks, and they promised to check in with each other today. As Mia waited to hear from him, she
thought about calling Brock. She and Brock didn't hang out in person, but they had this phone thing going on. Sometimes Mia would get a text from Brock in the middle of the night saying
Are you awake?
She'd text him back, and they'd stay up talking for hours.

Mia's phone pinged. Jeremiah had written,
Greetings from Kansas. I'm listening to the Suicidal Tendencies.

Oh no,
Mia wrote.

I got the big W. Waitlist. You rock. I'll roll with it.

Mia was about to write back to Jeremiah when her phone rang. It wasn't a number she recognized.

“Hello?”

“Oh . . . hey,” a girl's voice said. “Mia, right? It's Whitney . . . you know . . . from school.”

As if she had to clarify.

“What's up?” Mia asked. She tried to sound like it was normal for Whitney Montaine to be calling her.

“I was talking to Brock, and he gave me your number.”

Mia's breath caught in her throat. She didn't even know where to begin. Whitney and Brock were talking about her? Never in a million years would she have imagined that.

“Maybe this sounds weird,” Whitney said, “but remember that time you told me you were applying early decision to Swarthmore?”

“Yeah,” Mia said. It had been in the pharmacy line at PriceRite, the day before senior year started.

“It made me want to apply early to NYU.”

Mia smiled. Now
this
was a subject she could talk about. “So did you hear?”

“Did you?”

Mia's face erupted into a smile. “Yeah. I just got into Swarthmore!”

“And I got into NYU!”

Before Mia could stop herself, she shrieked into the phone. Whitney shrieked too, which made Mia shriek even louder. If all that prep work was college porn, then this was definitely a huge college orgasm.