Sorry I can’t text—my cell plan is crap. You’re just going to have to deal with e-mail or four-hundred-dollar phone calls—I’m thinking e-mail, yes?
Do you remember how I told you about that dream I had, where I got off the plane in London and kept saying, “My feet are on the ground in another country”? Well, MY FEET ARE ON THE GROUND IN ANOTHER COUNTRY! Matty and I got to London early Monday morning, and spent the day trying to catch up on sleep in our hostel. This morning, though, we wandered. Park, you would love it here. Everyone sounds like Mr. Darcy. It’s so easy to get around on the tube (what they call the subway), and today we got to see a cat mummy in the British Museum. I’m officially in love with this city—the voices and color and pace.
Tomorrow we’re taking a street-art tour, which makes me think of that weird message on the water tower. Who knew Cincinnati was on the cutting edge of street art (ha!).
Hope you and Charlie are talking again. How was your dad’s Memorial Day picnic? How is the internship?
Miss you, oxo, E
God, I miss her.
I wish she were here. I wish I could tell her about the internship. I wish she could tell me what to do.
My bottom right eyelid is twitching again.
I gaze at my bulletin board: my Harvard acceptance; a picture of Charlie and me when we were little—him with a toothy grin, me with a fierce scowl; the blue first-place ribbon I won in my fourth-grade science fair; formal pictures from junior-year prom—one of me and Em making faces and wearing terrible bridesmaids dresses we found at the Salvation Army. Another of us with Charlie and Matty—Em and Matty squeezed together in the middle, Charlie and me bookending them.
Maybe this summer is what happens when Em and Matty aren’t there to stand between us anymore.
Maybe this summer is what happens when Charlie and I aren’t even in the same picture anymore.
Like a whisper, I hear Finn’s words: Anything. Everything.
I try to steady my breathing, and on an impulse, I Google Image “street art.”
Color explodes on the screen.
There are tiled mosaics of old Pac-Man ghosts and small space invaders. Each one is totally different, and they’re placed on buildings all over the world—Paris, New York, Hong Kong—by an artist who keeps his identity secret, just like a superhero.
There are bright murals of yellow men and women in colorful clothes, dreamy and weird, like they walked out of a fairy tale, painted by Brazilian twins.
There are images of work from a guy named ESPO, sayings in bright letters: LETS ADORE AND ENDURE EACH OTHER. EUPHORIA IS FOR YOU AND ME. IF YOU WERE HERE ID BE HOME NOW. They remind me of Finn’s messages.
I go further down the rabbit hole, discovering even more artists: Ben Wilson, who paints tiny works of art on chewing gum stuck to the sidewalk in London. ROA, who creates detailed black-and-white illustrations of rats and squirrels. Olek, who does something called yarn bombing, where she crochets around trees and bikes.
It’s not the stuff of my high school art history lessons, works I had to memorize, movements I had to put into historical context.
This is on the edges, messy and uneven and rough. It makes me feel a weird sort of jangly, but not in a bad way.
Mustard wanders into the room and jumps up on my lap, and I absentmindedly pet him, clicking through more and more links.
Small figures casting shadows on curbs. A rendering of that famous wartime photo of the kiss in NYC, only with a rainbow behind it. A guy called Hanksy who paints Tom Hanks puns.
This is art that rises from hidden tunnels, that floats off walls and over bridges.
All this art where it shouldn’t be.
All this art not to make money, but just because.
My hand hovers over the mouse, frozen.
What would it be like to do something not because you had to, but just because you wanted to?
But I have the internship.
And right then, it’s not Dad’s words, or Charlie’s, or even Finn’s, that come to mind.
Instead it’s mine—one simple gorgeous word: No.
The sureness of it moves through my body, my bones settling into their joints, my thoughts slowing down.
What if I don’t go back to the internship?
I wait for something to happen, for my dad to rush into my room and tell me I’m out of my mind, for my mom to come in and talk me out of it, for Charlie to get an insta-bloody nose.
But nothing happens.
So carefully, one more small thought at a time, I begin to imagine what it would be like to quit.
I’d have to do it in a way that didn’t necessitate the program calling Mom and Dad, who, to put it mildly, would not be keen about my decision. And I’d have to make sure it wouldn’t jeopardize my Harvard acceptance in any way. I’m already in, but despite what I told Finn earlier, what if the director called Harvard, told them I was a big, selfish disappointment? I can’t risk that.
I scratch my arm.
Mono. I can tell the program director I have mono. It’s contagious. I can’t be around sick kids.
What else?
I’ll need to find a compelling reason Charlie doesn’t need to drive me to the internship I’m apparently still participating in. I’ll have to find a job to make up for losing the internship stipend, which I needed to buy textbooks for next year. And at some point, I’ll have to tell my parents.
This lie is going to need constant maintenance and nurturing, not just today but throughout the rest of the summer.
I don’t know how I’m going to manage any of this.
But when I think about not going back to the internship?
The breath in me changes.
This time, it’s not being snagged on thorns. It’s not scary.
Instead, it’s like earlier, at the Anchor Grill with Finn: breath arriving, the whisper of wings.
Behind it all, steady heartbeat: Anything. Everything.
Twenty-One
WHEN I WAKE UP the next morning, I’m lighter than I’ve been for ages.
I’m not going back to that internship.
By the time I’m dressed and eating cereal—a new box of Cheerios Charlie hasn’t plowed through yet—I’m mentally reviewing the plan that I came up with last night. And it’s weird to admit it, but it feels good. I haven’t felt this on top of things since I was preparing my early-decision application for Harvard. Back then, I had to make sure every piece of the application machine was ready to do its part: SATs, recommendations, extracurriculars. Now it’s making sure all my lies are in place.
From behind me, Dad is whistling at the coffeemaker, and I can hear the sounds of Mom getting ready upstairs.
My “no” is a life raft—I’m not letting go.
Charlie eases into the seat across from me, pouring yet again an obscene amount of Cheerios into an oversized bowl.
I steal a glance at him, wondering if he’s feeling even a little bad about our fight yesterday, but he looks disinterested, half asleep.
For a second I wish it were different, but then I remember Charlie has always been able to tell when I’m lying, so maybe us not talking right now is actually a good thing.
“Can one of you guys put the potatoes on the stove when you get home tonight?” Mom asks as she enters the kitchen.
“Sure,” I say.
She kisses me on the forehead, runs her hand over Charlie’s head, and grabs the cup of coffee Dad’s holding out before rushing out the door.
Dad dutifully grabs the stack of papers she’s accidentally left on the counter, then turns to us.
“Have fun changing the world today, Dr. McCullough!”
I feel a pang of guilt and shovel more cereal in my mouth.
“And, Charlie. Enjoy tutoring. Remember: ‘Any fool can know. The point is to understand,’?” he says, clearly quoting something.
Charlie gives an exaggerated grimace. “Are you calling me a fool?”
He automatically looks to me for confirmation that Dad is being corny, but then looks away quickly, like he just remembered he hates me.
Dad gives a goofy wave and leaves.
I poke at my cereal, not feeling very hungry. This is the first time I’ve been alone with Charlie since our fight at the hospital yesterday.