11. Lilah #3
The two of them didn’t even know this coffee shop meeting was an interview or important.
For all they knew, I was having coffee with a grandmother.
Not my grandmother, since this timelessly styled sixty-year-old woman oozed wealth and class, and I couldn’t say anyone put those on the list when they looked at me.
Another deep breath.
Grace told me a little about her role, then took her first bite, giving me permission to start eating, but only as quickly as she did.
“So why this rigorous joint medical school program? And I’ve already read your essay, so tell me more than that.” She added one packet of sugar to her coffee.
Should I tell her how I found my mom’s medical school deferral letter in a box of her things after she died?
How she’d graduated top of her class in high school and college and gotten accepted to medical school only to get pregnant with me halfway through her first year.
Her high school yearbook showed that she’d been voted Most Likely to Succeed and all the messages from her friends talked about how excited they were for her to become a doctor.
Her senior quote was from Hippocrates himself—“Wherever the art of medicine is loved, there is also a love of humanity.”
She’d never talked about it. Never mentioned it once, not even toward the end when the pain meds made her less guarded with her words. But I’d sat with that letter for a long time. That dream had slipped away when she’d had me.
“There was a doctor who came by to speak to me and my mom almost every day for rounds.
Some of the attending and residents seemed like they were just reading off the chart and regurgitating it to us, but she stopped and checked to see how we were doing.
She even ordered me cookies and milk from a café a couple blocks away a few late nights at the hospital.
Even though it was her job to treat my mom, I felt like she cared about us.
“My mom wasn’t just a case or a diagnosis and stack of papers or readouts on the screen. She made me feel less confused, scared and alone and like there was someone doing all they could to make my mom comfortable. That’s when I decided I wanted to pursue medicine.”
Grace’s expression softened even more and her eyes got shimmery. “That must’ve been so hard for you. I think for a lot of people it would make them not want to be in a hospital setting again. Why do you think it was the opposite for you?”
“It wasn’t easy, and sometimes the smell still gets to me, but I also saw how hard everyone worked—the nurses, the doctors—to help her.
And then everyone at the hospice. If I could help one person, then I’d feel like all the hard work would be worth it.
” I fought back the flood of memories trying to break free.
I sipped on my still-too-hot coffee, careful not to spill any, to give myself a second.
She nodded and took a bite of her food. From there, we talked about things other than my intended major. My sewing lab work. Favorite subjects, ones I struggled with. What activities I was interested in at Bellevue. She asked if I had ever been to Washington before.
And when our drinks were empty and plates cleaned, she raised her chin in the direction of the window beside me.
“Do I get to see what’s in there?”
I jerked and turned to the sketchbook with pages close to dry now beside me. “This? It’s nothing.” I snatched it up from the ledge.
“It doesn’t look like nothing. The colors have been tempting me from the moment I sat down. May I see?”
I glanced around. Brooke and Morgan were gone. I was surprised I hadn’t felt the temperature rise a few degrees when they’d left. Or heard a cackle on their exit.
No one else had looked at this book other than Mason—not even Rye.
Well, it wasn’t like Grace Hall was going to take one look and start hip-checking me into lockers. I set the book between us.
She slipped on her glasses and opened my book. Taking her time, she looked over page after page.
My stomach flipped into the back of my throat. Her brows knitted together, then relaxed. Sometimes she tapped her lips or rubbed her chin. The whole time, I was seconds from puking up the delicious quiche and caramel coffee.
“These are lovely. Do you draw them or sew them as well?”
“I can sew, but I’ve never had the chance to make any of these.”
“Why not?”
Fabric is expensive and my time is limited. I would have loved to make a dress for myself, but it worked out better to use my time to make and sell whatever I could for others.
“I’m usually studying or tutoring during lunch and after school.” I shrugged. “They’re a fun exercise when I need a brain break.”
“That’s a shame. I’d love to see what they looked like in person. Maybe one day.” She closed the notebook with a headshake, patted it and handed it back.
I made a noncommittal noise. I didn’t see what possible rift in space and time would give me the time or money to pull off anything in there.
I didn’t own a sewing machine. And once I left Hawthorne Prep, I wouldn’t have access to a textile lab.
I shook off the little pang in my chest. There would be no time for anything other than studying once I got to college.
“You’re a multi-talented young lady and I’ll be telling the admissions committee exactly that.” She stood.
Relief bloomed in my chest. I followed, my chair scraping across the wood floor, and extended a hand as she brought me into a hug.
“They’d be lucky to have you,” she said with a sureness that almost made me believe it.
My chin quivered and I squeezed my lips tight, trying to keep myself together as the back of my nose burned with swelling emotions. That anywhere might feel lucky to have me there…I’d never felt like anyone was lucky to have me anywhere.
As soon as Grace left, I whipped out my phone, careful of the cracks on the screen, and texted Rye. I tapped on my dad’s name and hesitated.
He was working, maybe still driving. I shouldn’t interrupt him, but worse would be texting him and not even getting an acknowledgment.
Rye replying with a string of celebratory emojis saved me from the decision.
Rye: of course she loved you
Rye: ur my best friend so my aura has rubbed off on you
Rye: ur set by osmosis
Me: They should check your head before tonight’s game
Rye: for what?
Me: To make sure it’s not too big to fit through the arena tunnel
He sent me a middle finger. Not an emoji or a GIF, but a picture of his middle finger, although I couldn’t tell if it was a picture he kept on hand for occasions like this or if he’d taken it just now.
Me: Oh seems like maybe you don’t want me to come to your game then
He called. I declined and grinned even wider.
Letting Rye sweat for half my walk back to the house, I picked up on his fifth call.
“You promised.”
“I promised.”
We spoke at the same time.
“I said I’ll be there. I’ll be there.”
“Molly’s excited to meet you.”
“Why do I feel like you only want me to be there to meet her? I’m not doubting she’s real.”
“And tonight you’ll know for sure.” He ended the call.
I swung by the grocery store and lugged back two bags of groceries through the pedestrian gate of Willowcrest. Although the walk felt like a football field’s length on my extra tired days, when the breeze fluttered the leaves, light glittered through the gaps and the branches swayed, there was a magic to this place.
Closing my eyes, I raised my face to the sun and breathed in the earthy, fragrant smell. I took in deep lungfuls of air, trying to release all the tension built up from this morning.
As long as I maintained my class rank, the Windsor Award would be mine and all the money I saved would carry me through to graduation. Once I got back to the house, I texted Eliza, thanking her for the clothes and telling her how it went. A little star-eyed emoji popped up on my message.
After I put away the groceries, instead of sitting down to study, I walked to the bench, pulled out my sketchbook and let myself dream a little. Not realistic or restrained, but out there and outrageous.
The lighter-than-air feeling carried me through the day and into the night. At the arena, the echoing concrete tunnel opened to a flood of school colors that divided the crowd in two. Reverberations rumbled through the soles of my feet.
Intense cold penetrated my coat. I wrapped it tighter around myself when I saw all the Hawthorne Prep jerseys and pennants waving in the stands.
If I hadn’t promised Rye…
Stupid move, Lilah.
When the first period was halfway over, I emerged from the relative safety of the arena tunnel to driving music, screaming fans and steep concrete stairs. Earplugs were tucked into my purse in case a headache started.
I searched the stands for Rye’s mom. The arena seats were packed with people, an undulating sea of sports fans. I was already feeling the intense overwhelm of the situation.
Nora saw me first and stood, waving to get my attention. I hurried to their row and into the seat she’d saved beside herself. Molly wrapped me up in a big nice-to-meet-you hug. Rye’s younger brothers waved from their spots on the other side of Nora.
Introductions over, everyone else turned back to what I’d been avoiding—the ice and the other half of the arena, which included almost my entire class in Hawthorne Prep colors.
Holding my breath, I hoped I’d be another faceless Verona supporter.
I didn’t want to imagine what ridicule might follow me through the hallways tomorrow if Mason saw me supporting the enemy.