“Ah,” he said, “but that’s the thing. I do. I’m compulsively friendly.”
Of course he was. And I’d noticed it first thing that night by the fence, because it, too, was something you couldn’t hide. Maybe I could have tried to explain myself more to Nate, that there was a reason I was this way, but he was already reaching forward, turning on the radio and flipping to WCOM, the local community station he listened to in the mornings. The DJ, some girl named Annabel, was announcing the time and temperature. Then she put on a song, something peppy with a bouncy beat. Nate turned it up, and we let it play all the way to school.
When we got out of the car, we walked together to the green, and then I peeled off to my locker, just like always, while he headed to the academic building. After I’d stuffed in a few books and taken out a couple of others, I shut the door, hoisting my bag back over my shoulder. Across the green, I could see Nate approaching his first-period class. Jake Bristol and two other guys were standing around outside. As he walked up, Jake reached out a hand for a high five, while the other two stepped back, waving him through. I was late myself, with other things to think about. But I stayed there and watched as Nate laughed and stepped through the door, and they all fell in, following along behind him, before I turned and walked away.
“All right, people,” Ms. Conyers said, clapping her hands. “Let’s get serious. You’ve got fifteen minutes. Start asking questions.”
The room got noisy, then noisier, as people left their seats and began to move around the room, notebooks in hand. After slogging my way through an extensive test on David Copperfield (ten IDs, two essays), all I wanted to do was collapse. Instead, to get us started on our “oral definition” projects, we were supposed to interview our classmates, getting their opinions on what our terms meant. This was good; I figured I needed all the help I could get, considering the way I defined my own family kept changing.
It had been almost two weeks since I’d come to Cora’s, and I was slowly getting adjusted. It wasn’t like things were perfect, but we had fallen into a routine, as well as an understanding. For my part, I’d accepted that leaving, at least right now, was not in my best interest. So I’d unpacked my bag, finally unloading my few possessions into the big, empty drawers and closet. I wasn’t ready to spread out farther into the house itself—I took my backpack upstairs with me as soon as I came home and stood by the dryer as my clothes finished, then folded them right away. It was a big place. God only knew how much could get lost there.
It was weird to be living in such sudden largess, especially after the yellow house. Instead of stretching a pack of pasta over a few days and scraping together change for groceries, I had access to a fully packed pantry, as well as a freezer stocked with just about every entrée imaginable. And that wasn’t even counting the “pocket money” Jamie was always trying to give me: twenty bucks for lunch here, another forty in case I needed school supplies there. Maybe someone else would have accepted all this easily, but I was still so wary, unsure of what would be expected of me in return, that at first I refused it. Over time, though, he wore me down and I gave in, although spending it was another matter entirely. I just felt better with it stashed away. After all, you never knew when something, or everything, might change.
Cora had compromised, as well. After much discussion—and some helpful lobbying from Jamie—it was decided I could work for Harriet through the holidays, at which point we’d “reconvene on the subject” and “evaluate its impact on my grades and school performance.” As part of the deal, I also had to agree to attend at least one therapy session, an idea I was not at all crazy about. I needed the money, though, so I’d bitten my tongue and acquiesced. Then we’d reached across the kitchen island, shaking on it, her hand small and cool, her strong grip surprising me more than it probably should have.
I’d been thinking about my mother a lot, even more than when she’d first left, which was weird. Like it took a while to really miss her, or let myself do so. Sometimes at night, I dreamed about her; afterward, I always woke up with the feeling that she’d just passed through the room, convinced I could smell lingering smoke or her perfume in the air. Other times, when I was half asleep, I was sure I could feel her sitting on the side of my bed, one hand stroking my hair, the way she’d sometimes done late at night or early in the morning. Back then, I’d always been irritated, wishing she’d go to sleep herself or leave me alone. Now, even when my conscious mind told me it was just a dream, I remained still, wanting it to last.
When I woke up, I always tried to keep this image in my head, but it never stayed. Instead, there was only how she’d looked the last time I’d seen her, the day before she’d left. I’d come home from school to find her both awake and alone, for once. By then, things hadn’t been good for a while, and I’d expected her to look bleary, the way she always did after a few beers, or sad or annoyed. But instead, as she turned her head, her expression had been one of surprise, and I remembered thinking maybe she’d forgotten about me, or hadn’t been expecting me to return. Like it was me who was leaving, and I just didn’t know it yet.
In daylight, I was more factual, wondering if she’d made it to Florida, or if she was still with Warner. Mostly, though, I wondered if she had tried to call the yellow house, made any effort to try and locate me. I wasn’t sure I even wanted to talk to her or see her, nor did I know if I ever would. But it was important to simply be sought, even if you didn’t ever want to be found.