“She’s in meetings all day.” The receptionist flips through a leather-bound book. “I can make an appointment for you the day after tomorrow.”
“Sure.” I give her my name and number and watch as she jots down my information. I don’t plan on waiting two days to talk to Anna, but I figure a normal person would make an appointment, so that’s what I do. “Do you mind if I look around?” When she looks perplexed, I add, “I just have a lot of memories about being here.” Half of me is hoping she says no. The other half figures I might as well give the center a quick look-over, just in case I see something that clicks all the puzzle pieces into place.
“Guess it’d be okay,” she says. “But I’ll have to go with you.”
I fidget nervously as the receptionist takes her time shutting the appointment book and straightening the pens and pencils on her desk into a neat line. She pushes back her chair and motions for me to follow her.
The main floor hasn’t changed much except for the sunny new paint job. There’s the small hallway with offices for the director and social worker, the kitchen at the back of the house, and the living area with a TV and bookshelf. I used to hide behind the books people donated to us. I would pull them out at random and pretend to be reading, just so no one would talk to me. It worked pretty well too. People are reluctant to disturb someone lost in a story.
We pass a desk with an old computer on it that might even get the internet. That’s new.
“All the boys are at school right now,” the receptionist says.
I nod. I turn toward a creaky staircase and she follows me. Upstairs, I duck into one of the dorm rooms where the boys sleep. Four beds are arranged the same as I remember, so close to one another that if you happened to thrash around in your sleep you might accidentally slap the kid next to you. A Christmas stocking with a glittery name is pinned above each boy’s bed. I can’t stop myself from reading them, even though I know it’s ridiculous. Obviously, there’s no one named Preston. Or Henry. There are several more rooms, but wanting to look in each one will only make the receptionist suspicious. I rack my brain trying to remember all of the kids who were at Rosewood with me, but I was there for such a short time and never talked to any them, so they blur into a stream of faceless strangers.
I give up and let her lead me back downstairs. “Thanks for your time,” I say.
I head back out into the cool sunshine. My plan is to hang out in the truck and stalk the place until I see Anna leave at the end of the day. No need to sit around for hours, though. I kill time driving around town and grabbing some food at the diner on the corner. It’s decorated just as I remember it—stark white walls with vinyl records glued above each booth. Ben and Darla took me here while they were waiting for the adoption paperwork to be drawn up. I remember how they told me I could order anything I wanted. Of course I ordered way more food than I could eat, but Ben helped me eat some of it and the rest Darla had boxed up and sent back to the center with me. I hid it under my bed, even though I’m pretty sure it was eggs and biscuits and gravy, and should have been refrigerated. Henry snuck over to my bed after lights-out and ordered me to hand over the food. I did, and he punched me in the stomach anyway.
I hang out in a small city park for part of the afternoon, but I’m back in front of the center by three thirty, just in case Anna goes home early. I check my phone messages while I wait. There’s another voicemail and a text from Parvati, both of them begging me to call her. It takes all my willpower to focus on the task at hand instead.
“Whipped,” I mutter under my breath. But the sharp pain of her betrayal is starting to dull a little bit. It shouldn’t matter that much that she and Pres used to be together, should it? Parvati never cared about the girls I dated before her.
But I never lied about them.
I wish there were some way I could go back in time and never see those pictures. But I can’t, so I do my best to forget about them and focus on the Rosewood Center.
Just after four o’clock, a woman exits the front door and cuts across the grass. She’s got wide shoulders and frizzy hair that’s pulled back in a low ponytail. She doesn’t look much like the pretty social worker I remember, until she glances in my direction. Same blue eyes and round face. My heart starts slam dancing around in my chest. Questions flood my brain. Will she remember me? Will she run away like I’m a crazy person? Has she heard about my arrest? What, exactly, am I supposed to say to her?
She makes it to her car before I even get out of the truck, so I end up following her to a fish taco restaurant a couple of blocks away. Great. Now she’ll think I’m a stalker for sure. Oh well. Everyone else thinks I’m a murderer, so “stalker” feels like a promotion. I wait for her to order and then tap her on the shoulder while she’s gathering her napkins and salsa packets.
“Anna?” I say.
She turns around. “Yes?” Her brow furrows and I can almost see her mentally flipping through her group-home-kid Rolodex, trying to identify me.
“My name is—”
“Max Keller!” she blurts out. “Oh my God, look at you. Different body. Different face. Same messy hair.”
I freeze up for a second. No one has called me Max Keller in years. But then I smile. It feels good to be remembered.
She shakes her head in wonder. “I didn’t know if you’d ever talk,” she says. “You never spoke to anyone.”
“Yeah,” I say, once again at a loss for words. I want to tell her how she’s the one good memory I have of Rosewood. How if it weren’t for her I would have run away from the center, and who knows where I’d be. I don’t say anything, though. It’s like there’s a statute of limitations on thank-yous. Like I should have said all that stuff the day I left, but I didn’t, and to say it now would be weird.
“But I don’t remember the name of the people who adopted you,” she says.
“The Cantrells,” I say. “They’ve been great.”
“I’m glad.” The corners of her eyes crinkle up as she smiles. “I remember how Mrs. Cantrell instantly fell in love with you.”
“Can I ask you something?” I cut her off before she can tell the much-repeated story.
I pull the picture of Preston sitting on the Rosewood steps out of my pocket. “Do you know him?”
Anna’s jaw goes tight, like she’s grinding her molars together. “Yeah.” She squints. “Adam. Lyons. He was at Rosewood . . . after you, maybe? I can’t remember exactly.” She shakes her head. “Nice kid.”
“Are you sure about the name?” I don’t tell her I think it’s a picture of a young Preston DeWitt, and that he’s dead now.
“Yeah. He disappeared from Rosewood and the center got audited because of it.” She glances around. “We almost lost our state funding. Child Protective Services had to come and recertify us.”
“Do you know what happened to him? Or where he is now?”