10
“How’s Jamie?” I asked, sitting across from Kyle at a picnic table outside the dining hall. I was an absolute mess after a very sweaty breakfast shift in the still-sweltering temperatures, and I was feeling a bit awkward after what he had said to me the previous night in the emergency room, but I knew I needed to check in about Jamie. Plus, avoiding him at Rockwood would be pointless. It was small, I saw almost everyone on campus daily, and he was my only real friend there. I pushed past it all and tried to be an adult.
“He’s good,” he replied, taking a last bite of his cinnamon roll. “We got back around eight. No serious head injury, luckily. I honestly wasn’t prepared for ninety-plus degrees in October, but I should’ve been better about pushing the fluids with these guys. I think it’s going to cool down this weekend.” He took a sip out of his Yeti mug. “The cinnamon rolls are killer, Dev. Anything else on your mind this morning?” he probed.
I couldn’t escape it. Despite my attempts to shove it all out of my mind, there was plenty I was still thinking about. “When I got back to Norwell senior year that fall, I tried to look for you. I walked by soccer practice, assuming you’d be there. Senior year, you’re the goalie, presumably a team captain. I never thought you would have stayed in London. I got to the field, and I saw Ragnar running after a ball. You remember him?”
“Of course. He was a defensive back.”
“He was my next-door neighbor freshman year, so I knew him well. Anyway, I called out to him, and he ran over. He asked how DC was, and I said it was enlightening.”
Kyle chuckled. I had told him plenty in the past few weeks about my forays into avoiding classes and instead running around shadowing event chefs all around town.
“Then I asked if you were there. He told me that you never came back. That you met a girl in London and were staying.” Kyle looked down and nodded. We had already talked through all of this, but I hadn’t shared with him how I had found out that he wouldn’t be returning for senior year. Or possibly ever. “And that’s it. That’s how I knew I had to move on from you.”
“Did Ragnar say anything else?”
I felt a small smile drift onto my lips, remembering it. “Yeah, he said something along the lines of that you were really fucking them over by not coming back and that the freshman goalie sucked balls. His words, not mine.”
“It’s true. I did hear that the dude was terrible. Those guys were so pissed at me.” He looked around, and most students had gone to class, leaving the outdoor area empty except for us. “What would you have said to me? If I had been there that day at practice?”
“I would have probably ignored you for a while.” I forced myself to look at Kyle. It wasn’t easy because I felt such a strong bond with him. It was something that spanned years, even if for so many of those years, I didn’t see him or talk to him. And now, it was confusing as hell.
“After you looked for me?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes.”
He smiled and kicked my foot softly. “And then when a while was over? Would you have let me try to explain?”
“Eventually, I think. It was a small school. It gets a little crowded to avoid people.”
“But then, maybe? Something more?” Although he was supposed to be talking about over fifteen years ago, I think he was really talking about the present.
“Look, you weren’t here—or, um, at Norwell—anyway. I didn’t see you again until, well, now.”
He sighed. “I need to go to class. I don’t want to. I’d rather stay here and talk to you. I’m teaching Calvin Coolidge’s presidency today. They called him Silent Cal for a reason. It’s not that exciting.”
“I’m going to go on a date with the paramedic,” I blurted out. “I want you to know that. It’s just a date; it might turn out to be nothing, but I owe it to myself. I don’t know what the future holds for you and me, but sitting in my apartment alone watching rom-coms probably isn’t doing me any good. I need to get out there a little. I’m sorry if this makes things awkward or anything.” There. I said it. “And I’m sure you have a way of making Calvin Coolidge’s presidency interesting. I’ll be overhearing all kinds of chatter from the students later about some great story you told them.”
Kyle stood up. “He rode a mechanical horse in the White House for exercise. He had a pet raccoon named Rebecca. Those are my greatest hits for Cal.” He started walking but turned around. “Considering everything that has transpired between us, I get it. I’m really sorry. I messed up a long time ago. I hope you can forgive me one of these days. It’s been fifteen years.”
“I’ve forgiven you, Kyle, I promise. But for fifteen years, I didn’t see or hear from you. So, for me, it’s more like it’s only been a few months if that makes any sense. It feels very fresh still. I just don’t think I’m totally past it yet.”
“Okay. Have a good time with the paramedic. That guy’s, like, way too good-looking. I don’t feel insecure or threatened at all,” he said, trying to make a joke out of the situation. I had to give him credit for that. “Oh, and there was a bear.”
“What bear? Here?” I knew there were bears in New Hampshire, but the idea of one on the Rockwood campus was terrifying. How did it get there? Did it really walk across the bridge onto the island? Could it climb all the way up my fire escape?
“No, in the Coolidge White House. Briefly. Someone sent him a black bear. Two lion cubs, too.”
“See, you’re all set for class today,” I said, trying to keep things light despite the heaviness I felt.
...
Ward Connelly and his crew were working on their creation up on scaffolds under a giant canopy, presumably putting the final touches on their work, given that the unveiling was the next day. Rockwood security was stationed by the installation and its equipment twenty-four hours a day, as Andrea was concerned that The Underground Stallion would send an intrepid photographer to the scene to get a sneak peek.
“Don’t we have an actual student newspaper?” I had asked her. “All I ever hear about or see is the underground paper.”
“Yes, but they’re way too timid and weak. And their advisor left last year, so they are a bit rudderless at the moment. Oh, it was Cora! You know, Kyle’s ex-wife. I think she was so distracted by her emotional affair or whatever you want to call it with Ryland that she didn’t do much advising. But you never heard that from me.”
I was working with the facilities team to set up tables and chairs and get everything ready for the event the next day. It was grueling work, but it was the kind of thing I had spent my DC semester so many years ago watching people do and helping when they would let me, and it’s what had ultimately drawn me into the culinary world. It was my first love when it came to cooking and all that came with it, so there was something that felt good and nostalgic about the plans and the tasks. As I was pushing a podium into place, I noticed a teenage girl watching me from a distance, standing alone. Adrienne.
“Hi, Adrienne! Your hair looks different. I like the pink.” Her dark, almost black, hair was shiny and straight and hung halfway down her back, but now she had a thick, bright pink streak running down the right side. Not a look I would have chosen for myself, but for a sixteen-year-old girl who had been kicked out of multiple schools and who seemed to hate her parents? Perhaps perfect.
“My roommate helped me with it,” she said.
“How’s everything going?” I asked. “We haven’t talked since that focus group.”
“Pretty good,” she said. “I like it better here than at the other schools. I mean, school kinda sucks, but I like my history teacher. Mr. Holling. He’s funny.”
Of course. “He is funny. I always found if I had one teacher I liked, it made all the difference, and I could tolerate the others.”
“Yeah, something like that. So, what are you doing here?” she asked, gesturing at the tent and everything that was under it.
“Getting ready for the unveiling of the artwork tomorrow,” I said, thinking back to my meeting with Ward and his mention of his daughter. I studied Adrienne’s face without making it seem intentional. It was tough to tell. Maybe. I thought back to what she had told me about the money being her mother’s. It would make sense.
“Oh yeah, The Stallion,” she said, shrugging.
“I thought the name of it was a secret?” I posed, wondering how she may have heard about it.
“My stupid English teacher told us,” she mumbled. “He’s one of the teachers I need to try to tolerate.”
“Mr. Dennis, I presume?” Typical of Ryland to tell a class of students privileged information. He probably wanted to try to make himself look cool and important to a bunch of sixteen-year-olds.
“Yep, the one and only,” she grumbled. “Can I ask you a favor? It’s a weird one.”
I had visions of Adrienne asking me to intercede with her father on some issue or something horrible like that. I could just hear it; “Since you know him so well…” The last thing I needed to do was interact with Bentley Preston right then. My life was complicated enough. And what could Adrienne even want me to talk to him about? A tattoo? A piercing? Some kind of outlandish trip? I shuddered. “Okay, what can I help you with?” I held my breath.
“I want to learn how to cook.”
Oh. “Really?”
“Yeah, I’m addicted to the Food Network, to the cooking shows on Netflix, you know, Sugar Rush and things like that. All kinds of YouTube content. And I want to try to do it myself. I always liked your food. Would you be able to help me? I can probably pay you. I just need to tell my parents it’s for something else. Because, well, you know.”
I certainly did, and there was no way in hell I was going to accept another dime from the Prestons either. “No money needed,” I said. “But yes, I’d love to work with you. Why don’t you come by next week when you don’t have class? We’ll make a schedule.” As odd as it seemed to spend time with Adrienne, part of me felt like it was penance for what I had put her through. Her mother was awful, but no kid deserved to walk in on what she had.
“Okay, good,” she said. “I’ll see you later.” She started to walk away before I stopped her.
“I have a weird question for you now, Adrienne.”
“Sure.”
“Do you actually know Ward Connelly? The artist of The Stallion?”
She looked pensive. “I mean, I know of him. But I don’t know him personally.”
“You’ve never talked to him.”
“No,” she said, and I was satisfied with the answer. “But,” she continued. “I think he might be my father.”