“My birthday’s on Tuesday,” I blurt. Agh! What? Why did I say that? There were a million other things I could have said in response. Like: Who was playing? Or the ever-reliable: Oh, cool. But noooo. I had to share unnecessary information about my birthday. I am a disaster.
Mercifully, Aunt Lydia chooses this moment to announce to the group that we can head into the exhibit. I let out a huge breath, and stride ahead, away from Hugh and Wren, hoping to spare myself further mortification. I also hope that, over the course of the day, Wren won’t reveal anything to Hugh about what I said on the train.
“Stick together,” Aunt Lydia says as she leads the fourteen of us out of the lobby. We climb a staircase to the exhibit hall, weaving around the other visitors who are milling about, holding maps and brochures. “Pretend you’re in elementary school.”
Some of the students laugh. The last time I was in this museum, I was in elementary school; I’d come with my parents. Pre-divorce. We’d seen the permanent collection: the incredible paintings by Chagall and Matisse, Picasso and Van Gogh. I’m almost surprised that a photography exhibit is on display here now—I’ve always thought of photographs as somehow separate from paintings, from “real art.”
But the exhibit, which is called Manhattan in Pictures, is as incredible as any collection of paintings. There are countless photographs, some in black and white, some in color, some old, some current. They all show different pieces of New York City—the skyscrapers, the crowds, the subways, the taxis. I think of the pictures I took earlier, and I’m eager to improve on them.
“Look closely,” Aunt Lydia instructs us, motioning to the framed pictures on the walls. “See how the photographers paid attention to angles and lines, shadows and light. To strange and interesting people. This is the work of Robert Frank and Richard Avedon, Alfred Eisenstaedt and Cindy Sherman. Learn these names. Learn from them. They had sharp eyes. You can make your eyes sharp, too.”
I listen to my aunt, and examine everything. I take notes on my phone. If only I were half as devoted a student in regular school! I’d probably have Hugh Tyson–level grades.
At one point, I find myself standing next to Aunt Lydia; we are both studying an old photograph of construction workers eating their lunches high above the city.
“Hey,” I say to her, feeling a rush of gratitude. “This trip is so great.” I mean it, I realize. I also realize that I miss talking to my aunt. And after my conversation with Wren on the train, I no longer feel such a desperate need to hide my niece-hood.
“I’m glad to hear it, kiddo,” Aunt Lydia replies.
Our eyes meet, and I remember what Wren said, about our expressions being similar. For a second, I think my aunt is going to say something else. Then she turns away, walking toward a photo of the Brooklyn Bridge across the room.
I watch her go, feeling a strange pit in my stomach. Maybe I’m being paranoid, but it almost seems like my aunt is avoiding me. Why?
On the train ride back to Hudsonville, I sit next to my aunt, wanting to test out my theory. And I fear I’m right: Immediately, she tells me she has to do some research and she spends the whole trip with her earbuds in, working on her iPad.
Wren and her elderly class partner, Maude, are sitting right behind us. I can hear the two of them discussing the merits of some vintage store near the mall, where Wren buys her clothes and Maude sells hers. I’m envious of their conversation.
Hugh stayed in the city to spend another night at his cousin’s. When he’d said good-bye to the class at Grand Central, he’d glanced at me and added a quick, “I’ll text you on Sunday.” He hadn’t sounded very excited about it. At lunch, Aunt Lydia had given us handouts listing everyone’s cell phone numbers so we could get in touch with our partners over the weekend. So now I have Hugh Tyson’s phone number burning a hole inside my bookbag.
The sun is a low red ball in the sky by the time we pull into the Hudsonville train station. It’s also gotten chillier out. When I step onto the platform, I reach into my bag for the cardigan, now grateful that Mom told me to bring one.
“Is your mom picking you up?” Aunt Lydia asks me—the first full sentence she’s spoken to me since we left Manhattan. We walk side by side up the station steps and toward the parking lot.
“Yeah, there she is,” I say, pointing to my mother’s waiting car. Mom blinks her headlights at me. I wonder if Aunt Lydia was going to offer to drive me home. I also wonder if she might stop by Mom’s car to say hello to her twin.
But Aunt Lydia just squeezes my arm and says, “See you Monday, kiddo.” Then she speed-walks over to her own car, parked a few feet away.
I frown as I climb into Mom’s car and shut the passenger side door. Out the window, I see Wren getting into her parents’ Volvo; as if she can sense me watching, she glances over her shoulder, smirks, and waves. I wave back, marveling anew at our unexpected … is it a friendship? I’m not sure I’d call it that yet.
“So let me guess,” Mom says brightly, checking the rearview mirror and pulling out of the parking lot. If she’s at all offended that Aunt Lydia didn’t come over to greet her, she doesn’t show it. “New York was noisy, overcrowded, and didn’t smell great. But you survived it okay?”
I smile, setting my bookbag down between my feet. “Actually I … liked it,” I tell her. “A lot.” I realize then that I’m no longer afraid of the city the way I used to be.
“Well,” Mom says, sounding surprised, her eyes on the highway. She reaches up to adjust her glasses. “How about that.”
I study Mom; she hadn’t been too happy when I’d gone to Manhattan with Ruby over winter break. And she’d protested this field trip, too, asking me twice if I was sure Aunt Lydia would be chaperoning at all times. I wonder if Mom herself, with her poor sense of direction, finds the city a bit daunting. Or maybe she only wants to protect me from whatever dangers she thinks it harbors. Was that how she’d felt about France, too?
“You must be tired, though,” Mom says as we drive past the Shell gas station. “And hungry. I prepared meat loaf, so you don’t need to eat any more leftover takeout tonight. You’ll find it in the fridge, and you can warm it up in the microwave.”
I hold my belly. “I am still so full from lunch,” I reply, laughing. “After the museum, we took the subway down to Lombardi’s, which I guess is the oldest pizzeria in the country? Anyway, Aunt Lydia ordered all these delicious pies … ” I trail off as I digest the rest of Mom’s words. “Hang on,” I add. “You’re going out again tonight?” Disappointment rises in me.
Mom nods and tightens her grip on the steering wheel. Also, it’s the strangest thing—she appears to be blushing. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this phenomenon before, but there it is: an undeniable pinkness creeping across her fair cheeks. I also notice then that she’s wearing a pretty black dress, heels, and lipstick.
“Where are you going?” I ask, uneasiness mingling with my disappointment.
We exit the highway, approaching College Avenue. Mom lets out a cough and slows at a stoplight, even though it’s distinctly yellow.
“I figure now is as good a time as any to tell you,” she begins.
My heartbeat speeds up. Don’t tell me, I want to say. I am increasingly certain that whatever Mom will say will change things.
“I’ve … well, I’ve started seeing someone,” Mom says, her cheeks becoming pinker. “It’s very early days, nothing too serious,” she goes on in a rush. “I wasn’t even planning to see him again this evening, but he got us tickets to the philharmonic in Albany, so … ” Mom looks over at me. I’m silent. “I thought you should know. I didn’t want it to be a—secret.” She clears her throat.
The light changes from red to green but Mom doesn’t move. All the pizza seems to be churning in my stomach.
“You—you have a boyfriend?” I stutter in disbelief. It’s the second time today I’ve posed this question. Randomly, I think of Will, grinning and green-haired on Wren’s phone. “Is that who you had dinner with last
night?” I ask, searching my mind for clues. When Mom came home, she’d been wearing lipstick then, too. “I thought you were with a friend from work!” I add, my tone accusatory.
Someone behind us honks and Mom finally accelerates. “Well, it’s funny,” she says, glancing over at me. Then she gives the kind of forced chuckle that never precedes anything truly funny. “I sort of was. You know Max?”
Max? I can’t summon up anyone named Max. I stare out the window. We are driving down College Avenue, past the campus. Something clicks in my mind.
“Max the security guard?” I burst out. “He’s your boyfriend?”
“Now, now,” Mom says calmly as she turns onto Rip Van Winkle Road. “I wouldn’t call him a ‘boyfriend’ yet, per se. But yes, I’ve known Max for many years, as have you, and he’s just a lovely guy.”
I’m speechless. I think of Max sitting in the security booth behind the gate, wearing his light-blue uniform and sipping his coffee.
“How long has this been going on?” I demand, feeling a sense of betrayal. I wrap my cardigan tighter around myself.
“I told you—it’s recent,” Mom says as our house comes into view. “He asked me out about a month ago. I was reluctant at first. And then … ”
“What changed your mind?” I ask numbly.
“Well.” Mom clears her throat and pulls into our driveway. “Actually … it was your France trip.”
“It was?” I ask, whipping my head toward her in surprise. “How? I thought you didn’t even want me to go!”
Mom shrugs, putting the car in park. “It just made me realize that … you know, you won’t stay at home forever. Someday you’ll be going off to college.” Her voice has a note of sadness. She reaches for my hand, but I shift away from her, closer to the car door. “I thought it couldn’t hurt to … try something different for myself.” Mom gives me a tentative smile. “As your aunt likes to remind me, I’ve been divorced for a while now.”
I stare ahead at our dark house. So Mom wouldn’t have been lonely with me in France. That should make me feel glad for her, but … it doesn’t.
“Max is divorced, too,” Mom goes on. “We have a lot in common—he loves to read, we both enjoy classical music. We sort of … discovered each other.”
“Ew, Mom,” I groan. I bend forward, covering my face with my hands. “Please stop.” It’s true that Max isn’t bad-looking for, like, a parent-age person. But still. Ew.
“Summer.” Mom sighs. “You’re overreacting.”
“What if you wind up getting married?” I cry, looking over at Mom, my imagination whirring. “What if you end up having a kid? Then I’ll have a half sibling, which would be so weird—”
Mom’s face tightens. “Enough with the ‘what ifs,’ ” she tells me, her voice growing sharper. “We’ll discuss this at greater length another time. Why don’t you head inside and relax? I don’t think I’ll be home too late.”
My stomach falls. “I didn’t realize you were going to Albany now,” I say sourly. I look back at the house. I can see Ro curled up in the front window, his eyes little slits, no doubt in a sour mood, too. Faintly, I hear Mom explaining that she’s going to drive to Max’s house first and leave her car there, and then he’ll drive them to Albany …
“Can you drop me off at Better Latte?” I interrupt. I know Ruby is still working at this hour. And suddenly she is the only person I want to see, regardless of how strained things have felt between us. I can only hope that Austin—or Skye—won’t be there.
Mom seems like she’s about to argue, but then, thankfully, she presses her lips together and takes the car out of park. We don’t speak as she makes a U-turn. She zooms up our street and down Deer Hill, driving faster than she normally would.
To my knowledge, Mom hasn’t dated anyone since she and Dad got divorced. And selfishly, I liked it that way: It kept things safe and steady; it kept Mom always around. I assumed that Dad wasn’t dating anyone, either. So maybe, on some tiny, childish level, I hoped that he and Mom would one day get back together. Or, at least, with both of them single on either side of the Atlantic, things felt … even.
“Listen, Summer,” Mom says when we reach Better Latte. I have my hand on the car door handle, and I glance back at her. “There’s still a lot you don’t—understand.” She coughs again. “Not about Max—just, you know.”
“No, Mom, I don’t know,” I snap, opening the car door. I feel a wave of déjà vu, reminded of our fight before I left for the airport. It’s like my mother and I are repeating the same dance, over and over. I grab my bookbag and spring out of the car.
“Summer!” Mom calls out after me, but I’m already storming up onto the curb and into the coffee shop.
“Summer!” Ruby says, like an echo of Mom. She looks up from where she stands behind the counter, texting on her phone.
Aside from Ruby and one other barista, Better Latte is empty. It’s almost twilight, on the cusp of dinnertime, so people are either heading to PJ’s Pub or Szechuan Kitchen, or, if they’re feeling fancy, Orologio’s. Or they’re preparing meat loaf at home for their kids. No one is getting coffee. The cheerful scents of vanilla and coffee beans linger in the air, but there’s also a hollow, melancholy feeling. Or maybe that’s just me.
“What’s wrong?” Ruby asks as I trudge over to her. I drop my bookbag on the floor with a thunk and lean my elbows on the counter.
“Got an hour?” I sigh.
“Is half an hour okay?” Ruby asks. She tucks her phone into the pocket of her brown apron. “Austin is coming to pick me up because—how sweet is this? He wants to plan out our two-week anniversary celebration ahead of time.” She grins at me.
I might have grinned back, if not for the ridiculous phrase two-week anniversary.
“So … ” Ruby nods toward the espresso machine. “Want anything? Iced mocha?”
I shake my head.
“Bastille Day Special?” she offers, gesturing up to the chalkboard.
“What is that?” I ask, momentarily distracted from my gloom. I read the words written in blue, white, and red chalk: Bastille Day Special! Iced French vanilla coffee topped with whipped cream and a blueberry/raspberry crisscross drizzle. Ooh là là!
“July fourteenth is France’s Independence Day,” Ruby explains by rote, clearly having made this speech to many a customer today. Then she notices my stricken expression. “Oh God, Summer.” She slaps her forehead, her woven bracelets sliding up her arm. “I’m so sorry. You probably don’t want anything French right now.”
“You know what?” I shrug. A kind of recklessness is rising in me. “I’ll have one. It sounds gross, but I already feel sick, so why not pile it on?”
“Uh, okay,” Ruby says, looking at me worriedly. She picks up a plastic cup.
“Hey, Ruby,” the other barista calls from the opposite end of the counter. It’s the bearded guy who eavesdropped on our conversation on Monday. “I got this. You go chill with your friend. Seriously. I’m all out of lives on Candy Crush, so I need something to do.” He waves his phone sadly and comes over to take the cup from Ruby’s hand.
“Really? Thank you, Brian!” Ruby gushes, widening her dark-brown eyes winningly. I know Ruby doesn’t have a crush on this Brian, but I also know she can’t help herself: Flirting with guys comes as naturally to her as breathing.
As Brian graciously starts on my drink, Ruby ducks out from under the counter and the two of us sit down in a booth.
“Tell me,” Ruby orders. She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand.
It’s been so long since we’ve talked one-on-one (I mean, if we ignore Brian the barista), and my best friend’s presence feels so familiar and comforting, that tears immediately well up in my eyes. Trying not to full-on sob, I fill her in on Mom and Max.
“Apparently I’m the only person not having a summer of love,” I finish, oh-so-attractively wiping my nose on the sleeve of my cardigan.
Brian comes over and deposits my Bastille Day drink down in f
ront of me. It’s a monstrosity, a trembling tower of cream and syrups. Brian must notice my sniffling because he beats a hasty retreat back to the counter.
“I can’t believe it,” Ruby murmurs. “Your mom is dating?” She picks up the unopened straw Brian put next to my drink and twirls it. “Good for her,” she adds.
For a moment, I’m so stunned I don’t know how to respond.
Ugh, poor you, I’d hoped to hear. Or That’s bad and crazy! Or Come spend the weekend at my house so you can avoid your mother for forty-eight hours.
Not Good for her.
“Excuse me?” I finally spit out, staring across the table.
“I said, good for her,” Ruby repeats, lifting her chin. “I wish my mom would date. All she does is work and worry about me and Raj. Meanwhile, my dad has been remarried for a year!”
“Yeah, except—” I reach across the table to snatch the straw from my best friend. I rip off the paper and shove the straw into my drink. “That’s your family. Mine is different. Our homes aren’t broken in the same way, Ruby.”
“Fine,” Ruby says, holding up her hands like I was attacking her. “Look, I get that you and your mom are close. Like, Gilmore Girls–close—”
“I wouldn’t say that,” I protest, even though I’m a little pleased.
“Oh, come on,” Ruby scoffs, running a hand through her shiny black hair. “With your stargazing and snacking and deep talks about outer space and stuff?” She pauses, and I wonder, for the first time, if she’s ever felt jealous of Mom and me. “But,” she continues, looking right at me, “sometimes you need to let people go a little.”
I feel my whole face get hot. Ruby isn’t simply referring to the Mom situation anymore, is she?
To avoid Ruby’s gaze, I glance down at my drink. It would make an interesting photograph—a kind of companion to the iced mocha picture. I reflect on how much Ruby doesn’t know about me now. She doesn’t know I was at a photography exhibit in New York City today, with Hugh and with Wren. I remember being here, in Better Latte, on Monday, when I’d defended Wren to Skye. That was before I even knew Wren at all.