“Destiny.” Gillian closes her biology textbook. She has the best smile in the world, Kylie will certainly grant her that. “Fate.”
Kylie thinks about destiny all night long. She thinks about her father, whom she remembers only from a single photograph. She thinks about Gideon Barnes, because she could fall in love with him if she let herself, and she knows he could fall in love with her, too. But Kylie’s not so certain that’s what she wants. She’s not sure if she’s ready yet, or if she’ll ever be. Lately, she’s so sensitive and tuned in she can pick up Gillian’s dreams as she sleeps in the next bed, dreams so scandalous and hot that Kylie wakes up aroused, and then she’s more embarrassed and confused than ever.
Being thirteen is not what she hoped it would be. It’s lonely and not any fun whatsoever. Sometimes she feels she’s stumbled onto a whole secret world she doesn’t understand. When she stares at herself in the mirror she just can’t decide who she is. If she ever does figure it out, she’ll know whether she should dye her hair blond or brown, but for now, she’s in the middle. She’s in the middle about everything. She misses Gideon; she goes to the basement and takes out her chessboard, which always reminds her of him, but she can’t bring herself to call him. When she runs into any of the girls she goes to school with and they invite her to go swimming or to the mall, Kylie isn’t interested. It’s not that she dislikes them; it’s just that she doesn’t want them to see who she really is, when she herself doesn’t know.
What she does know is that awful things can happen if you don’t watch out. The man in the garden has taught her this, and it’s a lesson she won’t soon forget. Grief is all around; it’s just invisible to most people. Most people will figure out a way to stop themselves from being aware of agony—they’ll have a good stiff drink, or swim a hundred laps, or not eat anything all day, except for a small polished apple and a head of lettuce—but Kylie isn’t like that. She’s too sensitive, and her ability to feel others’ pain is getting stronger. If she passes a baby in his stroller, and he’s wailing until he’s bright red with frustration and neglect, Kylie herself is grumpy for the rest of the day. If a dog limps by with a stone embedded in its paw, or a woman buying fruit in the supermarket closes her eyes and stops to recall a boy who drowned fifteen years ago, the one she loved so much, Kylie starts to feel as if she’s going to pass out.
Sally watches her daughter and worries. She knows what happens when you bottle up your sorrow, she knows what she’s done to herself, the walls she’s built, the tower she’s made, stone by stone. But they’re walls of grief, and the tower is drenched in a thousand tears, and that’s no protection; it will all fall to the ground with one touch. When she sees Kylie climb the stairs to her bedroom Sally senses another tower being built, a single stone perhaps, yet it’s enough to chill her. She tries to talk to Kylie, but each time she approaches her, Kylie runs from the room, slamming the door behind her.
“Can’t I have any privacy?” is what Kylie answers to almost any question Sally asks. “Can’t you just leave me alone?”
The mothers of other thirteen-year-old girls assure Sally such behavior is normal. Linda Bennett, next door, insists this adolescent gloom is temporary, even though her daughter, Jessie—whom Kylie has always avoided, describing her as a loser and a nerd—recently changed her name to Isabella and has pierced her navel and her nose. But Sally hasn’t expected to go through this with Kylie, who’s always been so open and good-natured. Thirteen with Antonia was no great shock, since she’d always been selfish and rude. Even Gillian didn’t go wild until high school, when the boys realized how beautiful she was, and Sally never gave herself permission to be moody and disrespectful. She didn’t think she had the luxury to talk back; as far as she knew, nothing was legal. The aunts didn’t have to keep her. They had every right to cast her out, and she wasn’t about to give them a reason to do so. At thirteen, Sally cooked dinner and washed the clothes and went to bed on time. She never thought about whether or not she had privacy or happiness or anything else. She never dared to.
Now, with Kylie, Sally holds herself back, but it isn’t easy to do. She keeps her mouth closed, and all her opinions and good advice to herself. She flinches when Kylie slams doors; she weeps to see her pain. Sometimes Sally listens outside her daughter’s bedroom, but Kylie no longer bothers to confide in Gillian. Even that would be a relief, but Kylie has pulled away from everyone. The most Sally can do is watch as Kylie’s isolation becomes a circle: the lonelier you are, the more you pull away, until humans seem an alien race, with customs and a language you can’t begin to understand. This Sally knows better than most. She knows it late at night, when Gillian is at Ben Frye’s, and the moths tap against the window screens, and she feels so separated from the summer night that those screens might as well be stones.
It appears that Kylie will spend her whole summer alone in her room, serving time just as certainly as if she were in prison. July is ending with temperatures in the nineties, day in and day out. The heat has caused white spots to appear behind Kylie’s eyelids whenever she blinks. The spots become clouds, and the clouds rise high, and the only way to get rid of them is to do something. Quite suddenly she knows this. If she doesn’t do something, she could get stuck here. Other girls will continue, they’ll go on and have boyfriends and make mistakes, and she will be exactly the same, frozen. If she doesn’t make a move soon, they’re all going to pass her by and she’ll still be a child, afraid to leave her room, afraid to grow up.
At the end of the week, when the heat and humidity make it impossible to close windows or doors, Kylie decides to bake a cake. It is a small concession, a tiny step back into the world. Kylie goes out to buy the ingredients, and when she gets home it’s ninety-six in the shade, but that doesn’t stop her. She’s driven about this project of hers, almost as if she believes she’ll be saved by this one cake. She turns the oven to four hundred degrees and gets to work, but it’s not until the batter is ready and the pans are greased that she realizes she’s about to bake Gideon’s favorite cake.
All afternoon the cake sits on the kitchen counter, frosted and untouched, on a blue platter. When evening falls, Kylie still doesn’t know what to do. Gillian is at Ben’s, but no one answers the phone when Kylie calls to ask Gillian if she thinks it’s foolish for her to go to Gideon’s. Why does she even want to? What does she care? He was the one who was rude; shouldn’t he be the one to make the first move? He should be bringing her the damn cake, as a matter of fact—a chocolate chip pound cake with maple frosting, or mocha if that’s the best he can do.