This Golden State, page 18
“Hey, girls. Thought you might like a ride,” my dad said.
“We literally just got there,” Emma complained.
“That’s what happens when you walk so slowly,” I snapped. Both my dad and Emma stilled, unused to hearing me lose my cool. “Sorry,” I muttered.
The minivan pulled away from the library, my search interrupted. I tipped my head back against the seat and closed my eyes.
“Sorry, Em. I wanted to have lunch with you guys,” my dad was saying. We hadn’t seen him yet today. He’d left before dawn. But it wasn’t like he’d been away for a week.
My dad seemed to be holding me and Emma closer since my mom’s breakdown. My mom was behaving like she’d woken up and wanted to be with us again, as if my dad’s gentle comment about choosing us had been a slap across her face, snapping her out of it. She’d abruptly stopped leaving the house.
But I was in a totally different headspace than my parents were. All I kept thinking was if I could just untangle myself from them, from all of the restrictions, I could find Carol Gilbert. It was shocking seeing that information on Harry’s phone, but now I really wanted to know who she was. I wanted to know my family history. I’d been craving it my whole life. And now I potentially had a way to do it. Safely. From a distance.
I needed time and I needed access.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
On Monday, Harry dashed into the classroom late. “Sorry. I got pulled over,” he mumbled to Professor Alexiev. Possibly a made-up excuse to avoid me again. He was wearing a long-sleeved white T-shirt from a surfboard company, which made his shoulders look broad and his chest concave, like it hadn’t gotten the memo that it was time to fill out.
At the end of class, Professor Alexiev asked me to wait, then lifted a heavy book from her satchel. “I brought this for you,” she said. “Focus on Algebra Two for the test. Take care of it, okay? It’s my only copy.”
The heavy book bent back her palm. I took the book before she dropped it, but I tried to hand it right back. “I shouldn’t take it. We’re moving houses. I don’t want it to get lost in the shuffle.” There was always the chance we’d leave suddenly and I wouldn’t be able to return her book.
She looked at me steadily. “Take it.” Then, “Please.”
The book was worn. It might have been one of her own personal textbooks. I opened my mouth to say thank you, but Professor Alexiev was already heading to the front of the classroom.
For once, Harry was still seated next to me instead of exiting at the first opportunity. Even after helping me with the DNA website, he hadn’t said two words to me today, so I’d assumed we’d gone back to the new normal.
“You’re moving?” he asked.
“We move around a lot,” I said quickly, keeping it nonchalant.
“Out of town?” Harry seemed irritated. Or concerned. I couldn’t tell.
I shrugged. It was better than lying.
He nodded to himself a few times, like he was digesting this information. Harry didn’t say anything more. He just stood up from his desk and, all limbs, swiftly exited, easily parting the sea of genetics students.
As usual, I was disappointed when he was gone.
* * *
The computer screen reflected the fluorescent lighting. Two librarians sat on the floor of the ghost-town library, conducting a summer inventory. I wasn’t sure they’d seen me come in or if the school library was even open, but I’d realized it was another place I could get online. My parents thought I was babysitting.
With the doors closed, the library felt sealed up like a tomb, leaving me in cool privacy to search for Carol Gilbert.
Three Carol Gilberts lived in San Francisco, and the online white pages listed a mind-boggling amount of information: previous residences, relatives, ages. If you paid, you could see driving records, any court records or bankruptcy records.
There was so much information available I didn’t know where to start.
I clicked on the Carol Gilbert listed first. Age fifty-seven, she lived in South San Francisco. She had two traffic records, two cell-phone numbers. I searched “Carol Gilbert, South San Francisco.” There was a hit on Instagram.
This Carol Gilbert had a sandy-blond bob and was holding up a miniature poodle in her profile photo. Her job was listed as graphic designer.
I squinted at the screen. Did she look like my dad, maybe? If she was twenty years older than he was—I guessed since I didn’t really know his exact age—how could she be related to him?
I scrolled through her few Instagram posts quickly. I was unsure of what to look for. I saw photos of Carol Gilbert’s children, the family gathered around Carol, who held up a Mother’s Day card. There was one of Carol in front of a snowy mountain peak. Also, lots of food photography.
I decided to quickly cover my bases, so I moved on to the next Carol Gilbert, San Francisco, age twenty-nine, related to Honey Gilbert. Thinking Honey might be easier to find, I googled “Honey Gilbert.” A beekeeping business came up.
I sighed heavily, catching the attention of one of the librarians. For a moment, I wondered if they could help me if I had a specific research question, but I couldn’t ask. I wasn’t sure what my plan had been to begin with. I’d never had one.
“Sweetheart, the library’s closed for inventory.”
Both librarians watched me now, waiting for me to leave, forcing me to be done for today. I was suddenly, irrationally angry and wildly frustrated. “Oh. Okay. Sorry about that!” I said, ever polite. But for a moment I stared mutinously at the screen, at the link to the last Carol Gilbert, her white-pages phone number listed beside. I wished I’d moved a little faster.
“You on your way?”
“Yes. I’m going.”
I committed the phone number to memory and then I cleared the search.
* * *
I felt incomplete without a full search on the last Carol Gilbert, but what was I supposed to do? I moved through the school parking lot toward the opening in the fence, near the mailbox where this search had all started. What was I really going to find, anyway? For all the information at my fingertips, I didn’t even know what bread crumbs to follow. It would take hours of going down rabbit holes to find … what? How would I even recognize a clue?
I was almost next to Harry’s car before I noticed it.
His driver’s side door was ajar, and I saw one of his Van-clad feet resting on the floorboard. He must have seen me in his side mirror, because both feet dropped to the ground.
Harry closed the car door and leaned one shoulder against the paint. “Hey.”
“Hi?” I still hadn’t surfaced from the cloud of my search. I saw his cracked phone in his hand, and the idea left my mouth even as it was forming. “Do you mind if I borrow your phone? Just for a second.”
I’d knocked him off his game. Harry looked surprised, but he straightened and stretched long to wordlessly hand me his phone.
“Thanks. This will just take a second.” I couldn’t believe I’d asked Harry for this favor. I wandered a distance away. I wasn’t done with the third Carol Gilbert.
Harry had been on his Instagram account when I took his phone. I saw skateboarding photos. That was it. No captions. Nothing personal. Still, he had eight thousand followers.
I dialed the number I’d committed to memory, then brought the phone to my cheek.
“Hello?” It was a woman’s voice.
“Hi. I’m looking for Carol Gilbert?” What questions could I even ask her? If she was related to a criminal runaway from eighteen years ago? I just wanted to hear her voice, which was silly. I wouldn’t be able to tell a thing from the sound of someone’s voice.
“This is Carol.”
A pregnant pause stretched between us.
“Hello?” Carol said again.
I stayed silent. Hang up, Poppy.
“Hello?”
I was lowering the phone from my ear, about to end the call, when Carol Gilbert dropped her voice and whispered, “Are you still there?”
It was the conspiratorial tone of her voice. Hairs rose on the back of my neck. I stabbed at the phone to end the call.
Maybe she’d thought I was someone else. Maybe Carol had just wanted to know what the hell I wanted and that was why she’d stayed on the line.
Why had that felt strange?
Harry was watching me, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans.
I was still invisible, I reminded myself. Everything was okay.
I handed Harry his phone. “Thanks for that,” I said. My voice came out hoarse.
“You okay?”
“Yep. All good.” Why was Harry still at the school? Had he been waiting for me?
“You’re moving?” He stared at the ground before looking up and squinting at me.
“We always move.”
Harry crossed his arms over his chest almost defensively, fingertips tucked tightly beneath his armpits. “When did you say you moved to California?”
“Just recently.”
“Like when?”
I gave him a look like What’s your problem?
“Can you tell me when you’re moving?”
“I don’t know. Soon, I’m sure.”
Harry exhaled loudly. Like he was frustrated.
“What?” I asked. Why do you care?
“Can I drive you to babysitting?” Harry shoved the long sleeves of his white T-shirt to his elbows.
“No—” I was about to say more but stopped, fascinated by Harry’s reaction. He widened his eyes and stared at the ground.
“No, you don’t want a ride?” Harry was maybe embarrassed but sounded pissed off. It took everything for him to raise his eyes to meet mine.
“No, babysitting is over,” I explained. “Their nanny came back.”
“You need to go straight home, then?” Harry squinted at me and shoved his hands deep in his pockets again, his shoulders lifting to his ears.
I hesitated. “I forgot to tell my parents. They think I’m still babysitting.”
“So, you have hours?” Harry said.
Was he asking me out? “I should help out with my sister.” It would be a joke to any other person I knew. They would choose what they wanted over their family and chores.
“How often do you get free time? Maybe I’m misunderstanding, but they won’t let you out except for babysitting and this class, right?”
Harry’s gaze dropped to my lips, and I realized I was biting my lower lip hard.
“Why are you suddenly talking to me now, Harry?”
“Just—” Harry stared over my shoulder. “Can I take you to the beach? I know you said you wanted to go…”
“What about your job?”
“I was supposed to be at a funeral today with my mom. But then I didn’t end up going. Come on. It’s your chance, Poppy. Why do I feel like you don’t get many of them?” he asked.
I really wanted to go to the beach. I also wanted to hear what the hell Harry could possibly have to say to me. I knew it was weak—I shouldn’t want that after he’d mostly ignored me for days.
I was torn. Choosing myself over my family never ended well. I’d never been that physically far away from them before. I was about to say no when Harry said, “Please?”
It was so vulnerable, so un-Harry. “It’s okay,” I said quietly, almost to myself.
Harry prompted, “Like, no, it’s okay, you’re not coming with me?”
“No. What I meant is, it’s okay. Just for today.” I sounded like I was reassuring myself. If I was honest with myself, I had started lying to my parents, bit by bit, when I’d accepted Harry’s rides and then a lot that day at Harry’s house and on the Fourth of July.
I saw Harry try not to smile. I’d just made him happy.
It was wrong and I was almost ashamed, but there was nothing I’d ever experienced like the rush I felt at the prospect of time with Harry—a clear stretch of it ahead.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
We drove up, up, up, on curvy switchback-style roads, entering a new dark and foggy microclimate enclosed by California redwoods. A motorcycle passed us, the woman on the back holding tightly to the driver, who wore a red bandana. Maggie Rogers was on the stereo—so Harry had told me when I’d asked.
He played the music loud enough that we couldn’t talk. It could end up being a field trip where we barely spoke. But I refused to be the one to open up first.
At one point, as we climbed the tight, curvy roads, Harry asked me if I felt okay, if I was getting carsick. I just shook my head, indicating I was fine. I wanted to tell him I was too busy to feel sick, that I was taking in the scenery. It looked straight out of a storybook.
There was a brief clearing in the woods allowing rays of sun to slant through. Just as we passed a rundown café teeming with motorcycles parked out front, Harry abruptly turned off the music.
“I just wanted to make sure you know my dad isn’t physically abusive.”
I looked over at him in surprise. Was this why he’d asked me to come with him, so he could clear things up? Was he worried about what I thought? Or just about what information might get out?
“These bruises are from skateboarding, not him. Skateboarding is where I can pound it out. Sometimes I go overboard, I know.”
I remembered watching Harry skate, and a moment when he seemed to leave his body and not react to pain.
Harry kept his eyes on the road. “I’m sorry for the way I’ve acted. I got a lecture from my dad about not embarrassing him or my mother this summer. I’m supposed to work and go to school. It’s just a tense time. Obviously, it’s not worth it to fuck it up. You saw that,” he added.
He’d finally referred to what happened.
“I’m fucking it up?”
“You’re a girl. I don’t have a good track record lately.”
“Is it because I’m a girl who’s not from a good family? Who’s already approved?”
“I don’t care about that,” Harry scoffed.
“You do, Harry.”
“Look, I’m supposed to stay quiet this summer. If my dad’s not happy, it’s not quiet.”
“Okay, then.” The hugest lump filled my throat. I looked out my side of the car.
“Poppy.”
“What?”
Harry hesitated for so long, I didn’t think he would say more. Then words began pouring out.
“Only my cousin has seen the worst once. He saw me on my hands and knees picking through the carpet to clean it, per my dad’s orders.” Harry kept his voice neutral. “But my cousin was a witness on the inside. You’re the first real outsider. My dad usually hides his psychosis in front of strangers. But it’s why I don’t like to invite friends over.”
Harry drew a breath and tightened one hand on the steering wheel, dropping the other to his lap. “I’ve heard all the excuses: It’s only when he’s off his medication. He’s the son of an alcoholic drill sergeant. And the worst one: But he’s brilliant. Well, he might be a genius, but he is for sure a miserable dick.”
It was true. All I’d ever seen online was great press—Robert Addison’s company, his philanthropy. Even Professor Alexiev seemed to have a good impression and had referred to him deferentially as her “boss.”
“Your mom knows?” I asked evenly. I wanted to let him know I was listening closely and I wasn’t scared or judgmental, but I didn’t want him to think I felt sorry for him. Even though I did.
Harry nodded. “My mom moved us out in the middle of the night when I was five, because his”—Harry held up one hand in an air quote—“‘control issues’ got out of hand. But sometimes, when I was younger, she’d give in to needing his help and she’d send me back to the lion’s den. I tried to forgive her for it. This summer I was all too willing to accept the punishment of living with him. My mom said she wasn’t mad at me for the bad press and embarrassment, but she wasn’t that convincing. And she was grateful to my dad for quickly settling the lawsuit. He always asks for me. So, she gave him back his son for the summer.”
“Ugh, Harry. I’m sorry.” I couldn’t help it. I had to say it. I was sorry for him.
Harry gave a small shake of his head. “I’m okay. I just want to explain.”
I didn’t want to scare him off. I pretended to adjust the knot on my blouse above the top of my jeans. “How often is he like that?”
“He’s been bad this summer. Like maybe he’s gone off some medication. He finds ways to catch up with me and tell me my faults, how I’ve earned nothing. But, I mean, he’s right. When my shitty friends clapped me on the back because of those naked photos, deep down I was so sorry it had happened and that I’d upset my mom. I was suddenly—maybe I’ve always been—sick of myself. I knew I could have anything I wanted—drugs, girlfriends, vacations, admission to any school. Maybe when I was fourteen, fifteen, that was exciting, but now it’s just…” Harry shrugged and trailed off.
“So, this summer, I’ve tried to stay in my lane, keep my head down, take this math class because my dad thought it would give me that extra edge for Stanford, just in case his name doesn’t do the trick. Then I walked in and took a seat next to you, who, like everyone else, stared too hard and too long. I was like, Who is this girl who won’t stop looking at me? Do I have something on my face?”
I laughed. “I didn’t stare!”
For a second, his eyes sparkled. “Yes, you did. But pretty soon I began to think of you as my ally in the back of the class. It was us and then everyone else. Me and the freckled girl with French braids who I couldn’t place.” Harry’s smile fell away. “First, it was easy to tell you were genuinely nice. And brilliant. It’s pretty heartbreaking to watch how your brain works. You’re so quick and you don’t miss a moment of what’s being taught, but then you get lost. I see you going inward, being so hard on yourself, and thinking Why don’t I know this?”
Now my smile fell and I wanted to melt away into the redwood forest.
