Flirting with Fate, page 14
“I always do.”
As Ava got up to leave, she swung back. “Are you the priest who hears all the confessions?”
“There is a schedule online. I’m Father Gustavo.”
“Okay, I just wanted you to know I’ll be back six more times.”
* * *
The sun had slipped through the blue-gray clouds, forcing Ava to shield her eyes when she stepped outside. One down, six to go, Ava told herself as she nearly skipped down the steps into the courtyard. And then she remembered the call she had silenced. She glanced down at her phone.
Rion.
He hadn’t left a message, so she quickly dialed him back.
He answered with, “Hey.”
“Hey.”
“What are you doing?”
“You won’t believe me.”
“Try me.”
“I just finished confession.”
“Really?” His tone was light and easy. “Was hanging out with me so bad that you had to confess about it?”
Ava laughed. “You were not part of my confession.”
“Oh, good. So I called to see . . .”
A loud engine roared in the background, cutting him off.
Grinding gears. A barking dog. “Hang on,” he nearly shouted. He must have muted his phone because everything went silent and when Rion came back, Ava heard a door close before he said, “I called to see if you’re busy Thursday night.”
Ava felt a small jolt of surprise. Or was it triumph? She reminded herself that for this to work she had to be genuine and natural. No airs. No falsehoods. No pretending to be someone or something she wasn’t.
“Why?”
“Can you meet me at Travel Town at six?”
“That little outdoor museum with the old trains?” Why would he want to go there?
“That’s the one,” Rion said.
Ava was scheduled to work, but since her schedule changed each week according to what Grant and others needed, she had to check her phone calendar to be sure. “Hang on.” Quickly, she scanned the week. She breathed a sigh of relief. She’d be off in plenty of time to meet Rion. “Yeah, I can do that.”
“Good,” Rion said. “You won’t want to miss this.”
“Miss what?”
“It’s a surprise. Oh, and don’t forget the orange.”
“I forgot to tell you I really hate surprises.”
“Tell me that after you see this.”
Seventeen
Taking care of an orange like it’s a damn baby was fatiguing.
Ava named the thing Bloody Cara, and for the next three days, she left BC in the fridge with a sticky note that said poisonous. She couldn’t trust that her sisters wouldn’t screw everything up and accidentally eat the prized fruit. And then there was the dreaded surprise. Rion seemed to be full of them, like a walking, talking surprise factory. So, when Thursday finally came, Ava found herself at the Times counting down the hours instead of focusing on her work, which happened to be copyediting a story on how to grow succulents.
The two other interns, Anmol and Corbin, were gabbing in their nearby cubicles, but their voices were low enough that Ava couldn’t hear the details. And then there was Harold, a squatty grad student in need of a shave and haircut who also worked in archives, except that he got paid. He and Ava shared a cubicle wall, and if she didn’t wear earbuds, she could hear his breathing and woeful sniffling. The guy’s nose was a faucet.
Anmol rounded the corner, twisting her shiny dark ponytail over her shoulder. “Hey, Ava, do you think I should make up a life challenge for my Duke essay? Corbin says to lie, but I feel like—”
“I said to stretch the truth.” Corbin stood behind her, wearing a devilish grin. “I mean, what gives with the tell us about a challenge you’ve overcome? How should I know?”
Anmol sighed. “I just think it’s so invasive. How is it their business?”
“Totally agree,” Ava said.
“With the lie or the invasive?” Anmol asked.
“Um, I don’t think you should lie.”
Corbin groaned. “So, what do we say, our challenge is this horrible essay prompt?”
Ava hadn’t even started thinking about her college application essays yet. Mostly because she knew this was a popular question, and she didn’t see how it made her a better candidate to bare her heart and soul to a committee of strangers.
“Or maybe,” Anmol said, “we could talk about this boring internship. I file more than I read or write. Like, where’s the journalism part? Totally free labor.”
“Yeah,” Corbin said. “Ava got the good gig, copyediting real stories. I copyedit social media posts.”
“At least you edit,” Anmol argued.
Ava really wished they would keep their voices down. The last thing she wanted was for Grant to hear them and throw their ungrateful butts to the curb. But lucky for her, the office was buzzing with enough activity to keep their convo private.
Rerouting the subject, Ava leaned back in her chair and said, “Anmol, didn’t you tell us last week that you had to try out for the gymnastics team three times before you made it?”
“Are you trying to make me feel worse?”
“No,” Ava said. “But there has to be a story there about how hard you trained, and I think it shows your determination.”
Anmol’s sullen expression brightened. “And I did break my ankle!”
“Do me,” Corbin said, muscling his way in front of Anmol. “What’s my challenge?”
Ava laughed. “I’ve only known you three weeks.”
Corbin twisted his face into an anguished expression. “I got into a fender bender once.”
“Don’t think that counts,” Ava said, while Anmol nodded her agreement.
He sighed. In the next instant his eyes went wide with an idea that Ava could see was blooming. “I got lost on a camping trip. Totally survivor mode, man.”
Ava sat up. “Really? For how long?”
“Days.”
Anmol crossed her arms tightly. “You don’t seem like someone who would survive for days, Corbin.”
He feigned shock. “Look, the point is I was out in the wilderness alone. No water. No food. Fighting off wild animals. I still have nightmares.”
“Really?” Ava asked.
Corbin smiled. “No, but it sounds better, right?”
“What are you going to write about?” Anmol asked Ava.
Ava blew out a long breath. “No idea.” And then she thought of the other question she was bound to have to answer: Why do you want to be a journalist? On the surface, it made sense. She was always good at English. But if she really thought about it, her goal had nothing to do with writing and everything to do with the field’s foundation of cold hard facts. Ava liked facts, not a world of make-believe. And what journalist ever fell apart reporting a story? None. Emotions were kept in check. Ava liked that too.
At 5:00 p.m. Grant stood in front of her desk. He wore a blazer, but underneath Ava spied a faded yellow Aerosmith T-shirt that looked like it had seen better days. The screenprinted letters were peeling off except for eros, which made Ava laugh inside, and she briefly wondered, Is he trying to be ironic?
She tugged out an earbud. “Hey.”
“You doing okay, kid?”
She nodded. “Thanks for coming to the funeral,” she said. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“It was a nice gathering.”
Oh. Ava was low-key impressed at how often Grant could surprise her with his words or attitude or sometimes even his expressions. If she had had an older brother, she thought maybe she would want him to be like Grant—except for the sloppy, stretched-out tees. Those were just tragic.
“And your speech was . . .” His mouth turned up into a half smile before he added, “Unforgettable.”
Ava wanted to bury her head under the files. An embarrassed bubble of laughter spilled out. “Grace under fire. That’s me.”
Grant frowned, suddenly serious. Was the chill moment over? “So, do you want to talk about anything?” he asked.
Ava felt her insides go sideways. And just like that the convo had turned super awkward. Grant who never ventured over to her desk, Grant who clearly didn’t want to be the intern supervisor, Grant who always sent the vibe he’d rather be alone than talk to a seventeen-year-old girl, that Grant was suddenly playing big bro?
Talk? Like a therapy session? Is he joking?
“I’ve got a lot to catch up on,” Ava said. “And, um . . . is my time off last week going to hurt my letter of rec?” She had to ask, to know where she stood. This prestigious high school internship was a first for the Times, sort of like a test run, and she felt grateful to have gotten the gig. But at the end of the day, it was Grant’s letter of recommendation that would be the difference between Columbia and, well, some other school.
“You already work more hours than you’re supposed to, and you deserved the time off.” Grant reached behind her and pulled a pink, sparkly folder from her shelf. The one with the word Dreams written on the cover. Viv had bought a stack of them for her when Ava landed the internship and now, in Grant’s hand, the thing looked flimsy and painfully immature. “I forgot to thank you for working on those photos that night.”
Ava could already imagine how his letter would read: strong work ethic, goes above and beyond. Her cartoon head was swelling at the thought of it.
“I found some photos on the floor when you took off,” he continued, handing the folder over. Someone called for Grant across the room. He merely held up a hand, signaling to wait.
“I wasn’t sure what you had already organized,” he went on, “so I didn’t want to put them back on the desk.”
“Oh, thanks,” Ava said.
“If you need anything, you know where I’ll be.”
After he left, Ava peeked inside the folder to find five photos. But only one was seared in her memory. Marry Me guy.
She turned it over, knowing she was going to find only the date, July 7, 1959. And the invisible message: I’m a mystery man. But here was the thing. Most photos around here had once appeared in the Times, which meant there had to be some information on this guy somewhere.
Under the harsh fluorescent lights, Ava pushed aside the succulent article she had already marked up and pulled a magnifying glass from her desk drawer to peer closer. The white guy looked to be in his early twenties. He was handsome in a young Ben Affleck kind of way, but it was the hope and promise in his eyes that drew her to the photo. And then she saw the detail she had missed the other night—there in the background was a clock tower, faded and fuzzy with the exception of the conspicuous black hands pointing to 8:51.
Ava felt the ground tilt beneath her. No way. It’s a coincidence. Just like the bill the other night.
Coincidence.
The word pecked away at her resolve until she shoved the picture back in the folder and into the drawer, chastising herself for letting her brain jump down an absurd rabbit hole.
Get ahold of yourself. It’s just three harmless numbers.
Ava was very good at convincing herself of whatever reality suited her. One where destiny and fate and meant-to-bes didn’t exist. One where she was in control, like of being on time to see Rion.
More than ever, she felt the need to assert that control over her own life, starting now.
That’s when she caught a whiff of citrus. Her stomach plummeted.
Rushing around to Harold’s cubicle, she gasped. His thumbnail was jammed into Bloody Cara!
“Stop!” Ava screamed. Did he seriously swipe it off the desk when she went to the bathroom? She inspected the orange’s peel. Thankfully, there was only the one small puncture wound.
Harold jumped, dropping BC onto his desk with a miserable thud. “What’s your problem?”
“My problem?” Ava glowered, snatching the orange away. “This is my orange! It was on my desk!”
Anmol’s eyes floated over the cubicle wall. “Dude, that’s not cool.”
Harold pushed his glasses up his nose. “Well, it must have rolled off. Jesus, Ava. It’s just an orange.” He glanced around at the others in the office, who were too busy to look up from their computers or conversations or phones.
“Just like my pen and stapler and . . .” She scanned his jumbled space. One of her pink folders with the word Magic written across the front sat on his dented minifridge. “And this!” She grabbed the folder and stuffed it under her arm.
“I bet that’s where my bagels have been going!” Anmol accused.
“I’m gluten intolerant, Anmol!” Then, turning back to Ava, Harold threw his hands up in surrender, but he was wearing a stupid, painfully forced expression of mock innocence. “That folder was in the trash.”
“And it’s not just an orange,” Ava said, recalibrating, imagining her cartoon self growing devil horns with each word she spoke, improvising as she went. “It’s part of a story I’m working on, and this orange is a new variety that . . . that . . .”
“Repels all sorts of insects,” Anmol threw in with a convincing nod.
“And it isn’t safe to eat, Harold.” Then, with a straight face, Ava said with more conviction than a criminal defense lawyer, “You could have poisoned yourself.”
Anmol played the part with a gasp. Harold’s face went white. Quickly followed by a smirk. “You expect me to believe that bullshit?”
Ava shrugged, feeling the satisfaction expand in her chest like a balloon. “You should be thanking me for saving your life.” And then, with Bloody Cara in tow, she smiled at Anmol, grabbed her purse, and strolled off.
When she got to the Jeep, her phone vibrated. Once. Twice. Six times.
She had five texts from her sisters in their group chat named Brujasteria.
Carmen: Ava, did you take my new leather jacket? The tan one?
Viv: Are you there yet? Don’t be late.
Carmen: if you wore it I’m going to KILL you!
Viv: Text when you’re there.
Carmen: slowly. I’ll kill you slowly.
Ava texted back: no to jacket and yes I’m on my way. Stop texting me!
Then she turned her phone to silent.
Ava found parking in the lot adjacent to the locomotive museum, just like Rion had instructed. The evening air was cool and fresh and uncharacteristically clear.
A few stragglers milled about, coming and going as Ava made her way across the lot, her eyes scanning the area until she found him.
Rion stood at the edge of the road, wearing loose-fitting jeans and a backpack. He was holding a huge E.T. balloon. And he had shaved.
Ava stopped in her tracks.
Oh. My. God. Is that the surprise? A half-deflated alien balloon? Is he a total weirdo?
If it was possible to die and still breathe, Ava did it. Right there on the spot. Thankfully, she was still twenty feet away, and Rion hadn’t seen her yet. Should I leave? Pretend I got sick? Tell him I’m lost? That I’m going to be lost forever?
It would be honest. And genuine.
“Ava!”
Too late.
Rion stood there waving eagerly as if Ava could miss him and E.T. She forced a tight-lipped smile and practically dragged herself over. It’s just a balloon, she told herself as Viv’s words echoed back to her. Be nice. Be nice. BE NICE.
When she reached Rion, he looked as if he might go in for a hug but then changed his mind last second. “You made it,” he said, like he was surprised she showed up.
Just as Ava began to respond, a little boy of maybe seven raced over, sweaty and panting. Rion high-fived him and handed him the balloon. “I took good care of your friend here.”
“ ’Kay, thanks,” the boy said before spinning away to return to his mom.
Ava felt a rush of relief, so much so that her chest nearly caved and her shoulders nearly sagged. Was it possible she wanted a better surprise than a balloon? That she didn’t want Rion to be so . . . typical? No, she reasoned. Why would I care if Rion is typical? And I hate surprises because they take away my control. But if E.T. wasn’t the surprise, then what is?
Wanting to keep the mood light, Ava said, “You’re . . . a balloon watcher.”
“He wanted to climb a tree with his mom,” Rion said with a shrug. “So, I offered.”
“You could have run away with it,” Ava teased.
Tilting his chin up, Rion said, “Look at this trustworthy face.”
Ava laughed. So did Rion. And for a moment they stood there like that, feeling the leftover effects of a good joke. Rion’s eyes darted to her mouth, then back up. A strange sense of gravity registered there, making Ava feel off-kilter. “You thought it was for you, didn’t you?” Rion said.
“The balloon?”
“Yeah, the balloon.”
“Um . . . no.”
“You totally did.” His honey eyes danced with amusement. “Admit it.”
“I’ve got nothing against E.T.”
“How could anyone? He’s amazing.”
“Exactly. But why are they selling E.T. balloons at a train museum?”
“He got it at the store yesterday. His mom said he’s been carrying it ever since,” Rion said. “Did you bring the orange?”
Ava patted her tote bag. “Yup.”
“Okay,” Rion said, clapping his hands together, “you ready for your surprise?”
“Please quit using that word. You’re making me nervous.”
“Okay, drama queen.” Rion laughed. “Don’t be nervous; I probably oversold it. You might not even like it.” A slow smile spread across his face. “Actually, I think you might be amazed.”
* * *
Caroline relaxed on a raft next to Ava’s as they floated across the pool. The limitless night sky embraced Ava like a warm hug. She loved these moments alone with her mom when she didn’t have to share her with her sisters, with the world.
As Ava got up to leave, she swung back. “Are you the priest who hears all the confessions?”
“There is a schedule online. I’m Father Gustavo.”
“Okay, I just wanted you to know I’ll be back six more times.”
* * *
The sun had slipped through the blue-gray clouds, forcing Ava to shield her eyes when she stepped outside. One down, six to go, Ava told herself as she nearly skipped down the steps into the courtyard. And then she remembered the call she had silenced. She glanced down at her phone.
Rion.
He hadn’t left a message, so she quickly dialed him back.
He answered with, “Hey.”
“Hey.”
“What are you doing?”
“You won’t believe me.”
“Try me.”
“I just finished confession.”
“Really?” His tone was light and easy. “Was hanging out with me so bad that you had to confess about it?”
Ava laughed. “You were not part of my confession.”
“Oh, good. So I called to see . . .”
A loud engine roared in the background, cutting him off.
Grinding gears. A barking dog. “Hang on,” he nearly shouted. He must have muted his phone because everything went silent and when Rion came back, Ava heard a door close before he said, “I called to see if you’re busy Thursday night.”
Ava felt a small jolt of surprise. Or was it triumph? She reminded herself that for this to work she had to be genuine and natural. No airs. No falsehoods. No pretending to be someone or something she wasn’t.
“Why?”
“Can you meet me at Travel Town at six?”
“That little outdoor museum with the old trains?” Why would he want to go there?
“That’s the one,” Rion said.
Ava was scheduled to work, but since her schedule changed each week according to what Grant and others needed, she had to check her phone calendar to be sure. “Hang on.” Quickly, she scanned the week. She breathed a sigh of relief. She’d be off in plenty of time to meet Rion. “Yeah, I can do that.”
“Good,” Rion said. “You won’t want to miss this.”
“Miss what?”
“It’s a surprise. Oh, and don’t forget the orange.”
“I forgot to tell you I really hate surprises.”
“Tell me that after you see this.”
Seventeen
Taking care of an orange like it’s a damn baby was fatiguing.
Ava named the thing Bloody Cara, and for the next three days, she left BC in the fridge with a sticky note that said poisonous. She couldn’t trust that her sisters wouldn’t screw everything up and accidentally eat the prized fruit. And then there was the dreaded surprise. Rion seemed to be full of them, like a walking, talking surprise factory. So, when Thursday finally came, Ava found herself at the Times counting down the hours instead of focusing on her work, which happened to be copyediting a story on how to grow succulents.
The two other interns, Anmol and Corbin, were gabbing in their nearby cubicles, but their voices were low enough that Ava couldn’t hear the details. And then there was Harold, a squatty grad student in need of a shave and haircut who also worked in archives, except that he got paid. He and Ava shared a cubicle wall, and if she didn’t wear earbuds, she could hear his breathing and woeful sniffling. The guy’s nose was a faucet.
Anmol rounded the corner, twisting her shiny dark ponytail over her shoulder. “Hey, Ava, do you think I should make up a life challenge for my Duke essay? Corbin says to lie, but I feel like—”
“I said to stretch the truth.” Corbin stood behind her, wearing a devilish grin. “I mean, what gives with the tell us about a challenge you’ve overcome? How should I know?”
Anmol sighed. “I just think it’s so invasive. How is it their business?”
“Totally agree,” Ava said.
“With the lie or the invasive?” Anmol asked.
“Um, I don’t think you should lie.”
Corbin groaned. “So, what do we say, our challenge is this horrible essay prompt?”
Ava hadn’t even started thinking about her college application essays yet. Mostly because she knew this was a popular question, and she didn’t see how it made her a better candidate to bare her heart and soul to a committee of strangers.
“Or maybe,” Anmol said, “we could talk about this boring internship. I file more than I read or write. Like, where’s the journalism part? Totally free labor.”
“Yeah,” Corbin said. “Ava got the good gig, copyediting real stories. I copyedit social media posts.”
“At least you edit,” Anmol argued.
Ava really wished they would keep their voices down. The last thing she wanted was for Grant to hear them and throw their ungrateful butts to the curb. But lucky for her, the office was buzzing with enough activity to keep their convo private.
Rerouting the subject, Ava leaned back in her chair and said, “Anmol, didn’t you tell us last week that you had to try out for the gymnastics team three times before you made it?”
“Are you trying to make me feel worse?”
“No,” Ava said. “But there has to be a story there about how hard you trained, and I think it shows your determination.”
Anmol’s sullen expression brightened. “And I did break my ankle!”
“Do me,” Corbin said, muscling his way in front of Anmol. “What’s my challenge?”
Ava laughed. “I’ve only known you three weeks.”
Corbin twisted his face into an anguished expression. “I got into a fender bender once.”
“Don’t think that counts,” Ava said, while Anmol nodded her agreement.
He sighed. In the next instant his eyes went wide with an idea that Ava could see was blooming. “I got lost on a camping trip. Totally survivor mode, man.”
Ava sat up. “Really? For how long?”
“Days.”
Anmol crossed her arms tightly. “You don’t seem like someone who would survive for days, Corbin.”
He feigned shock. “Look, the point is I was out in the wilderness alone. No water. No food. Fighting off wild animals. I still have nightmares.”
“Really?” Ava asked.
Corbin smiled. “No, but it sounds better, right?”
“What are you going to write about?” Anmol asked Ava.
Ava blew out a long breath. “No idea.” And then she thought of the other question she was bound to have to answer: Why do you want to be a journalist? On the surface, it made sense. She was always good at English. But if she really thought about it, her goal had nothing to do with writing and everything to do with the field’s foundation of cold hard facts. Ava liked facts, not a world of make-believe. And what journalist ever fell apart reporting a story? None. Emotions were kept in check. Ava liked that too.
At 5:00 p.m. Grant stood in front of her desk. He wore a blazer, but underneath Ava spied a faded yellow Aerosmith T-shirt that looked like it had seen better days. The screenprinted letters were peeling off except for eros, which made Ava laugh inside, and she briefly wondered, Is he trying to be ironic?
She tugged out an earbud. “Hey.”
“You doing okay, kid?”
She nodded. “Thanks for coming to the funeral,” she said. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“It was a nice gathering.”
Oh. Ava was low-key impressed at how often Grant could surprise her with his words or attitude or sometimes even his expressions. If she had had an older brother, she thought maybe she would want him to be like Grant—except for the sloppy, stretched-out tees. Those were just tragic.
“And your speech was . . .” His mouth turned up into a half smile before he added, “Unforgettable.”
Ava wanted to bury her head under the files. An embarrassed bubble of laughter spilled out. “Grace under fire. That’s me.”
Grant frowned, suddenly serious. Was the chill moment over? “So, do you want to talk about anything?” he asked.
Ava felt her insides go sideways. And just like that the convo had turned super awkward. Grant who never ventured over to her desk, Grant who clearly didn’t want to be the intern supervisor, Grant who always sent the vibe he’d rather be alone than talk to a seventeen-year-old girl, that Grant was suddenly playing big bro?
Talk? Like a therapy session? Is he joking?
“I’ve got a lot to catch up on,” Ava said. “And, um . . . is my time off last week going to hurt my letter of rec?” She had to ask, to know where she stood. This prestigious high school internship was a first for the Times, sort of like a test run, and she felt grateful to have gotten the gig. But at the end of the day, it was Grant’s letter of recommendation that would be the difference between Columbia and, well, some other school.
“You already work more hours than you’re supposed to, and you deserved the time off.” Grant reached behind her and pulled a pink, sparkly folder from her shelf. The one with the word Dreams written on the cover. Viv had bought a stack of them for her when Ava landed the internship and now, in Grant’s hand, the thing looked flimsy and painfully immature. “I forgot to thank you for working on those photos that night.”
Ava could already imagine how his letter would read: strong work ethic, goes above and beyond. Her cartoon head was swelling at the thought of it.
“I found some photos on the floor when you took off,” he continued, handing the folder over. Someone called for Grant across the room. He merely held up a hand, signaling to wait.
“I wasn’t sure what you had already organized,” he went on, “so I didn’t want to put them back on the desk.”
“Oh, thanks,” Ava said.
“If you need anything, you know where I’ll be.”
After he left, Ava peeked inside the folder to find five photos. But only one was seared in her memory. Marry Me guy.
She turned it over, knowing she was going to find only the date, July 7, 1959. And the invisible message: I’m a mystery man. But here was the thing. Most photos around here had once appeared in the Times, which meant there had to be some information on this guy somewhere.
Under the harsh fluorescent lights, Ava pushed aside the succulent article she had already marked up and pulled a magnifying glass from her desk drawer to peer closer. The white guy looked to be in his early twenties. He was handsome in a young Ben Affleck kind of way, but it was the hope and promise in his eyes that drew her to the photo. And then she saw the detail she had missed the other night—there in the background was a clock tower, faded and fuzzy with the exception of the conspicuous black hands pointing to 8:51.
Ava felt the ground tilt beneath her. No way. It’s a coincidence. Just like the bill the other night.
Coincidence.
The word pecked away at her resolve until she shoved the picture back in the folder and into the drawer, chastising herself for letting her brain jump down an absurd rabbit hole.
Get ahold of yourself. It’s just three harmless numbers.
Ava was very good at convincing herself of whatever reality suited her. One where destiny and fate and meant-to-bes didn’t exist. One where she was in control, like of being on time to see Rion.
More than ever, she felt the need to assert that control over her own life, starting now.
That’s when she caught a whiff of citrus. Her stomach plummeted.
Rushing around to Harold’s cubicle, she gasped. His thumbnail was jammed into Bloody Cara!
“Stop!” Ava screamed. Did he seriously swipe it off the desk when she went to the bathroom? She inspected the orange’s peel. Thankfully, there was only the one small puncture wound.
Harold jumped, dropping BC onto his desk with a miserable thud. “What’s your problem?”
“My problem?” Ava glowered, snatching the orange away. “This is my orange! It was on my desk!”
Anmol’s eyes floated over the cubicle wall. “Dude, that’s not cool.”
Harold pushed his glasses up his nose. “Well, it must have rolled off. Jesus, Ava. It’s just an orange.” He glanced around at the others in the office, who were too busy to look up from their computers or conversations or phones.
“Just like my pen and stapler and . . .” She scanned his jumbled space. One of her pink folders with the word Magic written across the front sat on his dented minifridge. “And this!” She grabbed the folder and stuffed it under her arm.
“I bet that’s where my bagels have been going!” Anmol accused.
“I’m gluten intolerant, Anmol!” Then, turning back to Ava, Harold threw his hands up in surrender, but he was wearing a stupid, painfully forced expression of mock innocence. “That folder was in the trash.”
“And it’s not just an orange,” Ava said, recalibrating, imagining her cartoon self growing devil horns with each word she spoke, improvising as she went. “It’s part of a story I’m working on, and this orange is a new variety that . . . that . . .”
“Repels all sorts of insects,” Anmol threw in with a convincing nod.
“And it isn’t safe to eat, Harold.” Then, with a straight face, Ava said with more conviction than a criminal defense lawyer, “You could have poisoned yourself.”
Anmol played the part with a gasp. Harold’s face went white. Quickly followed by a smirk. “You expect me to believe that bullshit?”
Ava shrugged, feeling the satisfaction expand in her chest like a balloon. “You should be thanking me for saving your life.” And then, with Bloody Cara in tow, she smiled at Anmol, grabbed her purse, and strolled off.
When she got to the Jeep, her phone vibrated. Once. Twice. Six times.
She had five texts from her sisters in their group chat named Brujasteria.
Carmen: Ava, did you take my new leather jacket? The tan one?
Viv: Are you there yet? Don’t be late.
Carmen: if you wore it I’m going to KILL you!
Viv: Text when you’re there.
Carmen: slowly. I’ll kill you slowly.
Ava texted back: no to jacket and yes I’m on my way. Stop texting me!
Then she turned her phone to silent.
Ava found parking in the lot adjacent to the locomotive museum, just like Rion had instructed. The evening air was cool and fresh and uncharacteristically clear.
A few stragglers milled about, coming and going as Ava made her way across the lot, her eyes scanning the area until she found him.
Rion stood at the edge of the road, wearing loose-fitting jeans and a backpack. He was holding a huge E.T. balloon. And he had shaved.
Ava stopped in her tracks.
Oh. My. God. Is that the surprise? A half-deflated alien balloon? Is he a total weirdo?
If it was possible to die and still breathe, Ava did it. Right there on the spot. Thankfully, she was still twenty feet away, and Rion hadn’t seen her yet. Should I leave? Pretend I got sick? Tell him I’m lost? That I’m going to be lost forever?
It would be honest. And genuine.
“Ava!”
Too late.
Rion stood there waving eagerly as if Ava could miss him and E.T. She forced a tight-lipped smile and practically dragged herself over. It’s just a balloon, she told herself as Viv’s words echoed back to her. Be nice. Be nice. BE NICE.
When she reached Rion, he looked as if he might go in for a hug but then changed his mind last second. “You made it,” he said, like he was surprised she showed up.
Just as Ava began to respond, a little boy of maybe seven raced over, sweaty and panting. Rion high-fived him and handed him the balloon. “I took good care of your friend here.”
“ ’Kay, thanks,” the boy said before spinning away to return to his mom.
Ava felt a rush of relief, so much so that her chest nearly caved and her shoulders nearly sagged. Was it possible she wanted a better surprise than a balloon? That she didn’t want Rion to be so . . . typical? No, she reasoned. Why would I care if Rion is typical? And I hate surprises because they take away my control. But if E.T. wasn’t the surprise, then what is?
Wanting to keep the mood light, Ava said, “You’re . . . a balloon watcher.”
“He wanted to climb a tree with his mom,” Rion said with a shrug. “So, I offered.”
“You could have run away with it,” Ava teased.
Tilting his chin up, Rion said, “Look at this trustworthy face.”
Ava laughed. So did Rion. And for a moment they stood there like that, feeling the leftover effects of a good joke. Rion’s eyes darted to her mouth, then back up. A strange sense of gravity registered there, making Ava feel off-kilter. “You thought it was for you, didn’t you?” Rion said.
“The balloon?”
“Yeah, the balloon.”
“Um . . . no.”
“You totally did.” His honey eyes danced with amusement. “Admit it.”
“I’ve got nothing against E.T.”
“How could anyone? He’s amazing.”
“Exactly. But why are they selling E.T. balloons at a train museum?”
“He got it at the store yesterday. His mom said he’s been carrying it ever since,” Rion said. “Did you bring the orange?”
Ava patted her tote bag. “Yup.”
“Okay,” Rion said, clapping his hands together, “you ready for your surprise?”
“Please quit using that word. You’re making me nervous.”
“Okay, drama queen.” Rion laughed. “Don’t be nervous; I probably oversold it. You might not even like it.” A slow smile spread across his face. “Actually, I think you might be amazed.”
* * *
Caroline relaxed on a raft next to Ava’s as they floated across the pool. The limitless night sky embraced Ava like a warm hug. She loved these moments alone with her mom when she didn’t have to share her with her sisters, with the world.
