“Babe, are you really going to act like this right now?” he asked, trying to pull her back into the pool.
Erin shook his hand off. “Until you starting acting like my boyfriend, don’t call me that. I’m leaving.” She plucked a purse off one of the pool chairs and stomped down the deck steps into the backyard before disappearing around the side of the house.
There was silence again, and in that moment, I realized that Nathan might be wrong about some of the girls at Valley View High. Erin didn’t seem very accepting of Cole’s player behavior. Maybe I stood a chance after all.
Cole slapped the surface of the water before raking his fingers through his hair. Even from a distance I could see his lips curl in anger, and as if sensing me, he looked up at my window. I barely ducked in time, and with my heart racing against my chest, I retreated toward my bed and out of view.
***
Peering down into the box, I discovered that I was finally done unpacking. There was only one item left inside to give a new home to, and I knew exactly where to put it. The picture frame was a shimmery gold, and the metal edges swirled like lace around the photo of my mother and me. I positioned the picture of us on top of my dresser next to all the other frames I’d set up—and took a step back.
Ever since I was young, people had said how similar we looked, even if I couldn’t see it. It’s the hair, I would tell them. We have the same hair. My mother laughed at the comparison, not because she didn’t think we looked similar, but because to her, we were nothing alike.
And we weren’t.
Growing up, it didn’t take long for me to realize how incredibly different my life was compared to the rest of the world. Most people had one house, not four vacation homes in different locations around the world, two beach properties—one on the East Coast and the other on the West—and one luxury penthouse on the Upper East Side of Manhattan.
In the first grade, I visited a classmate’s house to work on a science project and was shocked to find out that she did chores. I always had maids to clean up after me, to fold my clothes and put away my dishes. Chauffeurs didn’t drive every car on the road—most people drove their own. And owning a private jet? That wasn’t normal either. My dad was the definition of successful, and it was a lot, maybe even too much, to live up to.
I tried anyway. I had to for my mom. In school, not only did I have the highest GPA in my year, but I also became the student council president and head of the yearbook committee as a freshman. During the summers, I interned at my dad’s company, while at the same time helping my mother plan her autumn charity ball.
My life was busy, but never in a hectic, out-of-control way. I organized my time, every minute of every day, within the confines of a little black day planner. What drove my mother crazy were the lists. Every task I ever needed to complete—whether redecorating my room or doing my nightly homework—was tackled using an orderly to-do list. The most important business went on the top, and by the time I reached the bottom, I could be safe in knowing that I hadn’t forgotten anything. Because after all, those were the worst surprises, weren’t they? The stuff you didn’t plan for—or didn’t plan enough for—that made everything less…perfect.
So where I was cautious, aiming for perfection, some impossible abstraction, my mother was the opposite: wild, spontaneous, carefree. There was a reason why Designs by Jole & Howard was one of Manhattan’s most popular fashion houses—Angeline Howard was willing to take chances, to leap without looking. Jackie, she would say, you can’t control everything. Roadblocks, little unexpected bumps, they’re all part of living.
I disagreed. Everything could be accounted for. All it took was some preparation. Why would anyone choose chaos when they could live in control?
“Hey, Jackie?” someone asked, interrupting my thoughts. The door opened a sliver, just enough for me to make out Alex in the hallway.
“Yes?” I asked, pulling it open all the way.
“Um, my mom wants to know what type of dressing you like on your salad.”
“I’m fine with whatever.”
“Okay, thanks. Dinner should be ready in ten,” he said, turning away.
“Wait. Before you go!” I spun around and grabbed the Shakespeare play off my bed. “Here,” I said, handing it to him. “Take it.”
“What’s this?” he asked, looking down at the cover.
“A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Remember? I read yours and you read mine?”
“Right,” he said, grinning up at me. “Book swap.”
***