The Accidentals(68)

“That’s not fair.” His face flushes red, startling me. “I really like this woman. And it’s been hard to find a way to tell her that I’m a founding member of Assholes Anonymous.” He stands up. “But that’s what I’ll be doing now.”

I look up at him, still shocked. “So…nice of you to drop by.”

He scoops his hat off the table, a look of defeat on his face. “Right. I’m going to go now, and apologize to Norah for being an ass. And then later I’ll call you and do the same. It’s what I do. Stay warm.” And he strides away from our table.

I turn to watch him go. The woman has stopped halfway down Main Street. She and her friend watch Frederick approach.

Standing up, I turn my back on all of them. Tossing my coffee cup into a trash barrel, I walk back toward campus.





Chapter Twenty-Two





I hold the book in my hands, but I can’t concentrate on Chaucer’s poetry. Instead, I keep replaying my combustible hour with Frederick. For weeks I’ve felt guilty about not seeing him, and he probably hadn’t even cared. He’d been too busy shacking up with his girlfriend.

When I went to meet Frederick today, I’d carried my report card along in my coat pocket. I’d meant to show him that I’d received two As and two A-minuses last semester.

I’m eighteen and a half years old, and still desperate for my father’s approval.

Still pathetic.

On the sofa next to me, Jake groans. “Help me out here,” he says. “‘He thakked her about the lendes weel?’ Am I supposed to know what that means?”

“I think he pinched her on the backside.”

Jake rolls his eyes. “This Old English is killing me. It makes even fun things dull.” One of his hands snakes over to give me a quick pinch on the rear.

I shrug off Jake’s arm and squirm farther into the corner of the couch. I turn the page and try to read on.

“What did I do?”

“Nothing.” I sigh. “I’m mad at my father.”

“Okay. I asked you how that went, and you said ‘fine.’ But it wasn’t?”

“It was…just typical Frederick. He doesn’t think about other people.”

Jake closes his book. “What did he do now?”

“He has this girlfriend…” I stop, because it probably won’t make sense to Jake. She doesn’t know about me. Said aloud, the complaint will only sound self-centered. “He didn’t tell me about her,” I say instead. Which was also true.

“Why, is she, like, twenty-one?”

“No, he just…” I shake my head.

“It sounds like… Isn’t it better for both of you if he’s happy here?”

I look up sharply. “It sounds like you don’t know a thing about it.”

“But I would if you told me,” he says softly.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “I know.”

Then I feel even worse. I raise my stupid book and hide behind it. Jake and I are both reading The Miller’s Tale in preparation for tomorrow’s English class, which we have together this semester. But I’m not in the mood for the carpenter, his cheating wife, and the musician who cuckolded him. It’s slow-going.

“Do I ever get to meet him?” Jake asks after a time.

“Who, Frederick? No.”

“So…that wasn’t the right time to ask that question, was it?”

“Bingo.”

He puts his book down. “I didn’t mean it like I want to be his groupie. I just like you, is all. If my parents lived in town, I’d show you off immediately. ‘This is Rachel. She likes me even though I don’t understand Chaucer.’”

I close my book too, still feeling brittle. “I have rehearsal in fifteen minutes.”

Aurora’s voice comes out of the bedroom. “Jake, you’re not getting any of the good stuff tonight, honey. Better luck tomorrow.”

Jake lifts his book with a sigh.





The temperature has dropped along with the sun, so I run all the way to rehearsal. The chill stings my face, but it feels good to move, to shake off the day’s disappointments. I’ll soon be warm, anyway. The Belle Choir practices in an overheated classroom.

I’m only one minute late, and the others are still unwinding their scarves and shucking off their jackets.

“Let’s go, people!” Jessica calls. “We have only four rehearsals left before the jam. And Rachel and Daria still don’t have solos. Lots to do here!”

I take my place on the alto side of the horseshoe formation.

“Actually, I’m taking ‘Blackbird,’” Daria says.

“Oh, good.” Jessica makes a note on her clipboard. “That leaves Rachel.” Jessica fixes me with a stare. Lately I’m getting a weird vibe from her, as if I’ve done something wrong.

“Well,” I begin. “I can take whatever solo you want me to. But I had an idea for something new—if you don’t think it’s too weird.”

“Weird can be interesting,” Daria pipes up.

“It’s not the song that’s weird,” I say quickly. “In fact, it makes a great vocal piece. The only weird thing is that my father wrote it.”