The Accidentals(39)

“Eh,” Jake says, choosing vanilla. “Lots of people like my brother. He plays lacrosse in the off season, and he’s the president of the Gentlemen Songsters.” He turns to me. “That’s the men’s a cappella group.” But I know that already. “My brother has many enviable qualities except for one.”

“What?” I ask.

“He is a total asshat.”

Aurora giggles. “What is asshat?”

“When you meet him, you’ll know.” Jake dumps a spoonful of Oreo crumbs on his ice cream.

When we look for seats, all the tables in the tent are full. So Jake leads us over to a stone wall where we sit three in a row. I’m in the middle. Taking small bites of my chocolate ice cream, I surreptitiously admire the curve of muscle at the top of Jake’s knee.

Did he have to be so cute? It’s making me self-conscious. I’d pegged Jake for an über-nerd, but I obviously got that wrong.

“So this year is weird for me,” Jake is saying. “Most of my friends graduated last year, which kind of sucks. But I thought I’d be rid of my brother…”

“The asshat,” I put in.

“Right. But he’s still here. What a rip-off. And it’s weird having my parents across the ocean on sabbatical,” Jake admits. “We’re renting a ski condo in Vermont for Christmas break, because our house is leased out until June.”

“Your father is a college professor?” Aurora asks.

“Yes, of physics. And my mother is too. Sociology.”

“Ah. My father is a banker,” Aurora says. “And Rachel’s father is a famous singer. Freddy Ricks.”

I put down my spoon in surprise.

Aurora grins. “I knew him immediately—I saw his concert in Barcelona two years ago.”

Jake stares at me. “No way.”

And here I thought it wouldn’t come up so soon.

“Sorry,” Aurora says. “I should let you tell it. But he seems nice, and I’m thinking—what if Rachel was there in Barcelona? Maybe we were in the same room already. Wouldn’t that be neat?”

“Well, uh…” I take another bite, stalling. Telling people my story is one of the things I’ve been dreading. I mean—I wish my father had ever taken me to Barcelona.

“What?” Jake asks. “Is your father an asshat?”

It really depends who you ask. “My story is kind of a conversation stopper. I’ve been wondering what I’ll say.”

They’re both smiling at me, and I have to make a quick decision about how much of my craziness I’m willing to drop in their laps. “I don’t usually live with my father,” I begin, as my throat inevitably tightens up. “But my mother died about two months ago.”

“Oh, sweetie,” Aurora breathes, laying her hand on my arm.

Great. Now I’m going to make everyone sad. “See? I should have gone with: ‘I’m from Orlando.’”

Behind his big spectacles, Jake’s blue eyes blink at me seriously. “You didn’t, uh, mention that before.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then Aurora jumps up. “My phone is ringing.” She walks away, leaving the two of us alone.

Jake scrubs a hand over his forehead. “I whined about my college applications. Kinda seems stupid now.”

“No,” I croak. “You were so nice and I didn’t know how to bring it up.”

He hangs his head. “You said your summer was stressful. I just didn’t think…”

“I know.” My real middle name ought to be Awkward. “Look—it was really nice to read letters that weren’t about people dying. I needed that.”

He lifts his chin and studies me.

“And—just so you know—I really am worried about puking during my audition. That was absolutely true.”

“You won’t.” The corners of his mouth twitch. “The universe owes you one.”

“Not sure it works that way.”

“It should, though.” He smiles, and it’s such a nice smile that I wish I could just climb inside it and live there.





That night Aurora and I lay in our extra-long twin beds, talking in the dark. I learn that Aurora is also an only child, and that her parents divorced when she was six.

“How did your mother die?” Aurora asks.

“Breast cancer. She beat it once when I was ten. But not this time.”

“That is horrible.”

The dark makes everything easier to talk about. “The end came suddenly. People tell me it could have been worse. She wasn’t in terrible pain.”

“Your papa is lovely.”

That’s a nice thing to say. But would her opinion change if I told her we met only a few weeks ago? I don’t tell her, because it’s just so shameful. And not just for Frederick. When you don’t meet your dad for seventeen years, a part of you believes that you’re the reason why.

I used to wonder what was so wrong with me that he didn’t want to meet me.

I still wonder it.

“What is he like?” Aurora asks. “What does he do for fun?”

What an excellent question. I rack my brain for details of all those puff pieces I’ve read about him over the years. “He likes the beach.” I’ve seen shots of him surfing in Australia. And walking at the edge of the Mediterranean in the South of France. “I never lived with him before this summer,” I add, feeling guilty about my deception. “My parents lived two thousand miles apart.” Lived. The past tense will never sound right to me.