Chapter 4 #2
My mom had one rule: Sumner couldn’t interrupt the makeup work Jared and I needed to complete.
Ivernia emailed us recorded lectures and homework and talked to my mom about rescheduling the final exams we’d missed, which we’d complete virtually with a proctor.
This was their way of understanding our situation while making sure we didn’t fall behind, especially Jared, who had to transform his incompletes into As to secure his spot at Columbia.
While I was in the deep end of my own thoughts, Sumner was there to force me out of oncoming spirals.
Every normal conversation was an opportunity to initiate a challenge.
We bickered over pizza toppings because once I’d ordered mushroom and pineapple and he informed me it was an abomination to society.
We debated over the correct way to tie shoes and how to write a lowercase a (I’m pro two-story, he’s pro single-story).
We even argued over who got control of Bluetooth in the car when Jared picked me up from my hostessing gig.
“He told me about Capture the Flag,” Jared’s saying. “You gotta respect his game, you know? You would have done the same thing.”
“I wouldn’t have announced it to the whole floor,” I counter.
“What, did you get in trouble?”
I press my lips into a firm line. Jared can’t know about my punishment.
If he finds out I had a rocky start to the year, he’ll tell Mom.
Then she’ll call the school to check in on me, and then she’ll find out I never took the anatomy and physiology placement exam.
After everything she’s been through, I can’t bring more concern into her life.
“No,” I lie. “And he’s fine. Befriended the guys on crew. Bet he barely misses you.”
Jared’s laugh sounds forced, and it gives me pause. I thought the sentiment would make him feel better. Sumner seems fine without his core group. I’d even say he’s claimed hero status after stopping me from swiping the trophy.
There’s silence on the other end of the line.
“Did you call Mads too?” I ask.
“Didn’t answer,” he tells me. “Typical.”
“Typical,” I agree.
Madelene’s a texter, and if she’s not texting, she’s leaving long voice notes.
A part of me is sad she never entertained the idea of attending high school at Ivernia, but her reasons made sense.
She’s a theater kid: loud, abrasive, always speaking her mind and sorting out the consequences later.
Working hard equals memorizing lines, not the periodic table.
Ivernia isn’t arts-focused, which sealed her decision.
“But Mom says she’s good,” he continues. “Already knows a ton of people at her high school because of that summer theater program.”
Mads kept busy last summer in order to stay out of the house as much as possible.
Since the program was free, pulled together by high school seniors, my mom didn’t mind dropping her off before her shifts at the library.
If there’s one thing Mads excels in, it’s making herself known.
She’s not a single star in the sky, but an entire comet—the kind that makes you stop and admire its bright display.
She was born for the stage, and performing gives her something to work toward.
I run my finger along the textured surface of Dad’s journal. “Jared?” I say, the sudden shift in my voice registering softer. “I miss him.”
“I know,” he says. “I do too.”
We let the weight of the sentiment hang there. I twist my dad’s copper ring around my thumb, a thick band engraved with delicate stars and a detailed sun. When I close my eyes, I can still picture him wearing it.
“You probably want to head over,” Jared tells me, but I can’t place his tone. He’s so tightly guarded, it’s hard to tell how he feels most of the time.
“Right.” I clear my throat. “Have fun at the party.”
“Yeah, I’ll try,” he says. “Love you.”
“Love you,” I echo.
I tap to end the call and set my phone aside. Attending Ivernia without Jared is like walking into class without shoes on—you feel what’s missing. Even though we had our separate lives here, I could go to him if I needed anything. This is the first year I’m truly on my own.
My gaze flits to the spines lining my built-in bookshelves.
Although most of the space is occupied by my textbooks, I’ve also tucked in the Sherlock Holmes mysteries.
They’re comforting and familiar and a bit of an escape.
My dad introduced me to them, an unpredictable choice for someone who made a career out of unraveling the secrets of the universe, but he liked that questioning led to discovery in the end.
The two of us read them so often the spines bear more cracks than his old leather chair. We set a goal to reread all four novels last summer, but we only made it halfway through the second.
I reach for one and remove an old photo of me, Mads, and Jared tucked between the pages, the three of us down by the lake as the sun crouched behind a stretch of lush pine trees.
My dad took it about four years ago. The more I stare, the more I don’t recognize myself.
My lips are tugged into a relaxed half grin.
Tendrils of light honeyed strands have escaped my ponytail and curl and twist around the curve of my jaw.
My hair’s always been a bit lighter than Jared’s but darker than Madelene’s. Line us up and we’re a gradient.
I don’t look drastically different. But I am.
A few years ago, my dad told me about the block universe theory.
Where everything that’s happened in your life—past, present, future—already exists.
Like a Sherlock novel, he used to say. The entire story is there, the events already played out in the pages, whether you flip to page twenty or two hundred.
From the beginning of time until the end of the world, everything is contained, but we’re only capable of experiencing the now.
This is what runs through my mind as I stare at this photo. Maybe this version of me still exists somewhere in space-time, moving through unchangeable events. I’ve allowed my life to barrel down a premeditated track because I trust everyone knows what’s best for me. Everyone except me.
It feels like, even though I fit in here, I don’t quite know my place anymore. Or my purpose. Or if any of it even matters.
And then there’s the bigger fear I’m terrified to admit.
I’m not sure if the path I’ve been unquestioningly following is the one I really want.