All These Things I've Done (Birthright #1)(80)

‘Funny. That’s the exact same thing Natty once said about you. Except you’re only four years apart from her.’

‘Does Natty have a crush on me?’ Win asked.

I rolled my eyes. ‘Can’t you tell? She’s sort of obsessed with you.’

Win shook his head. ‘That’s cute.’

The doorbell rang, and I went to answer it. I looked through the peephole. A man I’d never seen before carried a cardboard box wrapped in clear cellophane (the expensive kind that you didn’t see much in those days because it wasn’t recyclable). He was shorter than me with thin limbs that seemed suspicious in contrast with his round belly. I wondered if he was really fat or if all that padding concealed something nefarious: i.e. a weapon.

‘Delivery for Anya Balanchine,’ he called.

‘Who’s it from?’ I asked without opening the door.

‘Didn’t say,’ the supposed delivery man replied.

‘One minute,’ I called back. I went to Nana’s closet to retrieve Daddy’s gun. I tucked it into the waistband of my skirt and returned to the foyer. I left the chain on and opened the door a crack.

‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘If I told you, it’d spoil the surprise,’ the delivery man replied.

‘I don’t like surprises,’ I said.

‘Come on, all girls like surprises,’ said the delivery man.

‘Not me.’ I moved to close the door.

‘Wait! It’s flowers!’ he said. ‘Just take them, will you? You’re my last stop of the night.’

‘I’m not expecting any flowers,’ I told him.

‘Well, that’s how it works. People don’t usually expect flowers.’

He had a point.

‘Sign here.’ The man held out the cardboard box and then gave me an electronic device to sign.

I told him that I’d rather not.

‘Come on, kid. Stop making my life so hard. Sign here, will ya?’

‘Why don’t you do it for me?’ I asked.

‘Fine,’ he said. Then he muttered, ‘Kids these days ain’t got no manners.’

I took the surprisingly heavy box into the kitchen. I cut open the cellophane with a knife. Twenty-four yellow roses cut short sat in neat rows in a shallow square vase. They were the nicest flowers I’d ever been sent. I tore open the cream paper envelope with my name on it and read the message:

In order to fit all of that on the card, the writer had had to make his letters small and precise. Though I couldn’t be sure, I thought it was Yuji’s own handwriting – he could have stopped at the florist on the way to the airport – and this, along with the formal wording, was a very great sign of respect to me. Beyond that, there was the gift of hearing something my father had said. I could hold on to that long after the flowers had died. I bent down to smell the roses. The scent was clean and peaceful, suggesting a place I had never been but should very much like to visit some day. I did not particularly care for flowers, but these were . . . I had to admit, these were lovely. I had just slipped the card into my pocket when Win came into the kitchen. He asked me who had sent me the flowers, and without knowing why, I lied.

‘One of my relatives couldn’t make it to Nana’s wake,’ I explained.

‘They look expensive,’ he commented. ‘I should go,’ he said. ‘I’m meeting up with some guys from the non-band.’

‘So soon?’ I felt like I’d barely seen him.

‘Anya, I’ve been here eight hours!’

After Win was gone, I sat down at the kitchen table across from my roses, and I read the card again. I wondered why Yuji had been in the depths of despair. Had it been the death of his father? Or had it been before that? I remembered that he had been kidnapped as a boy. That was how he had lost his finger, though I wasn’t sure of the specifics.

I read the card yet again. Is it going too far to say that his card made me feel seen? I had spent so much of my life trying to keep us unseen: i.e. alive and well. And yet someone had guessed. Someone had seen. Someone had apologized to me. And not just anyone, but someone uniquely positioned to know how things stood, who knew the game from the player side. Someone who had suffered as I had.

I was not alone.

I slipped the card back into my pocket and then I went to Nana’s room to return the gun to her closet.

X V I I. i make plans for the summer

THE FIRST THING I DID WHEN I got back to school was go to see Natty’s teacher. While I was convalescing, I had come to a decision about the genius camp: namely, that Natty should go to it and that I should do everything in my power to make this happen. Upon hearing the news, Miss Bellevoir behaved in an expectedly ludicrous manner – hugging and kissing me, then loading me down with instructions and phone numbers and deadlines and costs. ‘We are now joined together in this noble quest,’ she said to me as I left. I did not want to be joined to her. I had more than my share of obligations as it was.

My conversation with Miss Bellevoir took longer than I had anticipated so I was five minutes late to Dr Lau’s FS II class. In general, Dr Lau was relaxed about tardiness, especially mine, but on this day she lowered her glasses and said in a cement voice, ‘Ms Balanchine, I’d like to have a word with you after class.’ Her tone was such that it made my classmates ooh. I took my seat next to Win and waited for the hour to end so that I could receive my punishment. I liked Dr Lau and I was a good student, but this had certainly not been my strongest year academically. I’d missed nearly a month of school in total, and FS II was an especially hard class to make up, having as much of a lab component as it did.