Chapter 13 #2
“That’s because you don’t read the society pages,” I mutter, not wanting to throw my brother under the bus, but he’s had some headlines, even if they’re buried deep in the paper.
“The two of you make a fine pair.”
“The two of whom? My twin?” Mum calls us two peas in a pod, even though we couldn’t be more different.
“You and Chase, of course. I’m looking forward to walking you down the aisle.”
I tear the bag on my tea, spraying leaves everywhere. If I were the kind of person to read into that kind of thing, which I’m not, but if I were, I’d take it as a bad sign.
“What makes you say that?”
“The way he looked at you,” Dad says simply.
“Like he was plotting his next big prank?”
“Like he saw his future with you.”
“I highly doubt that. You were talking to Mr. Thompson all evening.”
Dad leans in like he’s about to tell a secret. “I was doing my best to get him to crack a smile. I even resorted to Dad Jokes.”
“Dad, all your jokes are Dad Jokes.”
Over his newspaper, he points at me, winks, and says, “Touché.”
Even though Thomas Thompson is the last person I’d go to for dating advice, I have the irrational desire to hear more about what he thought of Chase and me.
“Did I ever tell you about the time in college we went streaking?”
This time, I knock the spoon off my saucer. “You what?”
Gazing wistfully toward the window, Dad leans back and crosses his arms over his chest. “Spring of freshman year. We were young, wild, crazy...”
“And naked.” I wince, trying not to imagine the sight because the last thing I want is for him to regale me with stories of him racing across campus in the buff. Let’s just say my father and Dr. Gundry could both go to the same laser hair removal clinic.
“I met your mother that night.” Dad’s tone is the same as what I imagine mine might sound like if I were to say the name, Chase.
“And she still married you?” I ask, sitting down opposite him at the dinette.
“No. Well, yes, obviously, but not for five, or was it six more years? She said I needed to grow up. I was quite the scamp back then.” Dad chuckles at his memories.
“You were a prankster?”
I’ve never before seen this particular expression on my father’s face. I filter through my mental dictionary, trying to define it. Self-satisfied, entertained, gleeful? I can’t be sure.
“Let’s just say Phillip has nothing on me when I was in my prime.”
“You know about Freddie’s—?”
Dad taps his temple. “Parents know everything.”
My eyes widen because if that’s the case, I’m surprised my twin isn’t in jail with me in the neighboring cell for inadvertently aiding and abetting some of his minor crimes. There was the clothes hamper caper, the gymnasium aquarium, and I’ll never forget the joy ride in Cambria.
For all the times I overlooked Freddie’s—how should I put it? Occasions of mischief—it would’ve been nice had he come to my defense when I bit into a sponge, had chocolate in my back pocket, or saved me from the saucident.
“I also happen to know that you’ve liked Chase for a long time.”
“Dad!” I gasp, wondering exactly what grapevine he’s a part of. “Did Mum tell you? Phoebe?” They’re the only ones who ever knew about my crush. “Do you listen with a cup pressed against closed doors?”
Dad’s eyes wrinkle with laughter. “Heavens no. I’m your father. It’s my job to notice things.”
“What about Freddie? Why’d you let him take out the newspaper advert with Cousins for Sale—and a sister thrown in for an extra thirty pence?”
“Because I wasn’t interested in entertaining your mother’s family all weekend either. Let’s just say the banana doesn’t fall far from the tree, and I wouldn’t have let you go for thirty pence. Fifty at least.”
I cross my arms in front of my chest and sulk for half a minute. “I think the expression is apple. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
He nods slowly. “No, I meant banana.”
Even though I’d like to continue to correct him, in concert, Mum’s Black Forest cuckoo clock collection tells me I’d better get to the train station, otherwise, I’ll miss it.
I give Dad a peck on the cheek, tell him to hug Mum for me when she gets back from water aerobics and brunch, swipe a muffin from a plate on the counter, and hurry out through the garden, thankful to leave my father’s streaking story, my encounter with Marlow, and The Crush List behind.
Actually, I brought that, but I mean Chase.
Mum will forget about last night and we’ll all move on with our lives—me, thankfully, out of the country and far away from soirees and ballrooms.
Traveling back to Concordia takes the better part of the day, but I don’t mind as I transition from the frenetic hustle of the London underground, to stately and orderly St. Pancras station, to the train that’ll take me to Sunderland before I board the Concordian National Railroad with an underground trip north.
Alone within the spaciousness of my thoughts, I scroll through my memories of the evening at the Smythe’s, searching for a glitch in the Matrix or whether I wandered into a blue phone booth, aka Dr. Who’s TARDIS, and traveled to an alternate universe.
I finally get a hold of Phoebe and I fill her in on what transpired.
Phoebe: Lady Libby the Love Liaison strikes again!
Me: Again? Does that mean you hung out with Boxy last night? You know she approves of your union. If she can’t climb the social ladder with me, she’ll use you.
Phoebe: She does have outrageous aspirations.
Me: Then you don’t deny it?
There’s a long pause, giving me time to speculate about Phoebe and Oliver Boxworth, soon-to-be Lord—or was it Baron? Earl? I’m a terrible anglophile and can never keep straight the ranking of the gentry.
Phoebe: We’re talking about you and #BruiserButt.
Me: Can we not talk about his bum?
Phoebe: His buns? His biscuits? What about his biceps? How were those?
My cheeks heat at the thought of his arms around me while we danced...for what must have been over an hour.
Me: You can stop there. Let me be clear, I’ve had a crush on Chase since I was sixteen. But I’m an adult now and Chase doesn’t make the cut.
Phoebe: But he made The Swoon List. Anyway, I’m well aware of the timeline.
Me: I’m processing, Phoebs. Last night took me on an emotional rollercoaster and you know that I tolerate them about as well as chocolate.
Phoebe: And yet anytime we go to a theme park, you’re the first in line.
Me: They’re thrilling.
Phoebe: So is love, or so I hear.
I send her the emoji of the little yellow head sticking out its tongue.
Phoebe: Alright, alright. I’m listening. Er, reading. Go ahead, process.
Me: There was a hopeful period during senior year when I thought there might be a little chemistry between us, most notably when we were partners in Mr. Halverson’s labs.
Phoebe: But Jerk Face Freddie made sure to keep his little sister and his best friend separate.
I audibly gasp. He wouldn’t do that, would he?
Me: Little sister? I’m Freddie’s twin.
Phoebe: A minute makes a difference in most athletic events.
Me: Are you saying we competed to see who’d be born first?
Phoebe: I’m merely speculating that he saw the writing on the wall with Chase and wanted to preserve his best friend status.
Me: By writing on the wall, do you mean reading my diary?
Phoebe: That’s a hefty accusation.
But we’re talking about Freddie. Who, if he were a banana, didn’t fall far from the tree. Did Dad read my diary? No. He wouldn’t have done that, but there are new holes in my version of the story that I’m not sure how to fill.
Me: Moving on. If my crush on Chase were a seed, it took root in chemistry.
Phoebe: Nothing like questionable, noxious fumes to make things grow.
Mr. Halverson did have quite a reputation as being a mad scientist. I wouldn’t be surprised if he concocted a love potion.
Me: On little more than smiles exchanged in the corridors and hope, it sprouted. Then Chase asked me to sit with him at lunch.
Phoebe: This is a very poetic account. Don’t kill the sprout. You’ll make me cry.
Me: We both know the sprout didn’t die. It struggled, but somehow it persevered through harsh conditions (pranks, teasing, and disappointment).
Phoebe: Are you going to say that after ten years it finally bloomed?
I pause because I have to think about this.
Was last night the fruition of a long-term crush?
No. It was random. Chance. Chase and I danced.
It was fun. Our mothers thought we’d make a good match.
He’s polite and suggested we go on a date.
But we won’t and that’s for the best. All the same, I have an item to add to The Crush List. Chase said I’m adorable.
If the way my body zings with heart fluffies is any indication, the crush is alive and well.
Me: I’m not sure if there are flowers, but...
Phoebe: And that’s what I call a love story.
Me: Did Mum tell you she and Mrs. Collins want us to get married?
Phoebe: Scratch that, it’s a tragedy. Everyone knows arranged marriages don’t work.
Me: Maybe not for you and Boxy.
Phoebe: You’re giving me whiplash, sis. You have an undying crush on the guy, yet he made the latter half of senior year miserable for you. Even so, you’ve never let him go and measure everyone you’ve dated against him.
Me: I can count the number of guys I’ve dated on one hand.
But Phoebe has a point. It doesn’t make sense. But neither did my dad’s comment about the banana, Phoebe’s caginess about her feelings for Boxy, or the secret ingredient in Concordia’s chocolate cake that makes it so rich and creamy, yet dense and fudgy. Not that I’d know, but boy, I’d like to.
I suppose some things remain a mystery, especially things closest to the heart. I can’t claim to understand why my crush on Chase has endured, only that it has. That must mean something.
The train rolls into the station at Intherness, the capital of Concordia. The flags are raised high, blowing gently in the wind. The brass is polished as it always is. The blue sky is as deep as ever. The clocks are synced and on time. Everyone moves in an orderly fashion.
I can finally breathe.
Nothing has changed. Perhaps I did step into an alternate dimension and am only now returning to reality.
If that’s the case, it’s fine. I’ve endured the crush for over ten years. No matter what my mother has in mind, my life is here. Chase is in London or Boston or somewhere that isn’t this small island nation.
The weekend was a fantasy, an escape from my regular, mostly normal life.
A tourist stops me to ask for directions on the corner of Ruby Strasse and Broadview Boulevard.
I gesture east toward the train station when I whack someone in the head, er, in the balloons.
Someone was walking by with a balloon bouquet and I hit one.
The string tangles around my arm and then floats loose.
The others follow as I make my apologies, quickly realizing that my weird luck followed me home.