56. Jace
Jace
“The others are coming,” I say.
She smiles, doesn’t ask questions.
I drag the two coffee tables and the rattan chairs in front of the big windows, into a lopsided half-circle. Flip lies down behind one of the chairs, rolls onto his side, closes his eyes.
Miles shows up first, his apron knotted at his waist.
“I’ve got you covered,” Yumi says, nodding toward the deck.
Miles thanks her, gives me a wave, and goes to sit down.
Avery and Mom follow. My sister throws her backpack on the floor and sits cross-legged in a chair.
Then Luke, with a platter of ten or so golden arancini, still warm. Sierra, a book under her arm. Evan in plain clothes, his aviators pushed up on his head. Maya, hair thrown up in a hurry. Kai, hands in his pockets.
Noah comes in through the service hallway, in Crocs and coveralls, his lighter in his hand. He leans against the wall, off to the side. He doesn’t say hi to anyone.
We settle in however we can—Maya on an armrest, Evan against the wall, the others in the seats. I stay standing, in the middle.
I tell them everything. Fast. The bare minimum.
When I’m done, my sister’s the first to speak.
“I don’t have a comp for two weeks. I’ll take over your lessons.”
“You need to train, Avy,” I say.
“It’s fine, I’ve got it.”
Mom nods.
“Go get her,” my sister adds.
Noah steps forward. Avery shakes her head, shoots him a hard look. He drops his eyes.
“I’ll help Mom run the school,” he says.
He offers without really believing it. He’s never wanted anything to do with the school, doesn’t know the first thing about the gear or the schedules. He offers anyway.
Coming from Noah, that means something.
“We’ve got it handled, love,” Mom says, very calm. “You need to go.”
She’s got a voice that carries without her ever raising it—twenty years of beaches, wind, kids you have to hush from thirty feet away.
“But even if she believes you,” she adds, “you’re not going there to bring her back. You’re going to tell her the truth. What she does with it is her choice. She has a life out there. Her career. What she’s built. Don’t go wrecking that.”
I nod. I already knew it, but it hurts to hear.
“I’ll pack you something to eat on the plane,” Luke says. “Sandwich, snacks... I’ll bring it all before you leave.”
Miles pulls a set of keys out of his pocket, tosses them to me. I catch them midair.
“Take the Jeep. She guzzles gas, but at least she won’t leave you stranded.”
I close my fist around the keys. The VW bus has to stay at the school. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.
Evan takes out his phone, opens the United app.
“I’ve got miles,” he says. “We’ll find you a flight.”
He starts tapping. Mom steps closer, looks over his shoulder.
“I’ll cover the rest.”
Sierra holds out her book—blue-and-pink cover, two guys kissing on it, big title in gold letters.
“Here. Something to read on the plane.”
“Seriously?”
I grimace, but I take the book and tuck it under my arm. She bursts out laughing.
“For Summer, idiot.”
“Don’t worry about the school, jefe,” Maya says. “And Kai and I will take good care of Flip.”
Kai nods, jaw tight.
My shoulders loosen. Everything here will hold without me for as long as it takes.
“There,” Evan says. “Flight’s at 9:30 a.m. out of SFO. You land at JFK at 5:40 p.m. I got you a window seat.”
“Thanks, man.”
He sends me the confirmation. My phone buzzes in my pocket.
It’s done.
Nobody makes a speech. Nobody tells me it’s going to be okay—because none of us knows, and that’s not the point.
Miles takes an arancino, bites into it. Maya grabs one too, then Sierra, then Avery. Luke slides the dish to the middle of the coffee table.
Mom puts her hand on my shoulder.
“Go get some sleep, love.”
I head back to the trailer, Flip on my heels. The sky’s black, heavy with clouds. The wind’s picked up. It carries the music from the lodge bar, conversations from the bungalows. For everyone else, it’s an ordinary night.
I push the door open. Flip jumps onto the bed, turns around twice, lies down. I set the Jeep keys on the counter, next to my phone and my passport.
I pull my backpack out of the closet. Three T-shirts, a sweatshirt, a pair of jeans, two extra pairs of boxers, a toiletry kit. I do it fast, without thinking. I tuck Sierra’s book into the front pocket. When the bag’s full, I leave it by the door.
I take a quick shower, just so I don’t smell like sweat on the plane. Then I crouch down and open the drawer under my bed.
The little cherry-red wooden board is right where I left it. Sun, palm tree, California stenciled in white. I turn it over.
Future Olympic Champion
My handwriting from six years ago.
I grab a marker from the drawer, uncap it. I draw a thick line through Future, then through Olympic.
I leave Champion.
I set the board on the bed, cap the marker.
I sit down on the step, the door open to the night. Flip’s already snoring on the mattress.
My dad never asked my mom to choose between him and her career. After me, after Noah, he helped her get back to where she was. He never told her, “Stay. Forget what you wanted to become.”
That’s what he taught me. I’m not going to New York to tear down what Summer’s built—even if it means coming home alone.
I go back inside and slide the board into the backpack, the nose sticking out.
Then I lie down, my fingers in Flip’s fur. Sleep takes me.