“Yeah?”
“You got a good ending, okay? You got Simon. Don’t forget that. Even when we thought it was too late, even when it felt like it didn’t matter anymore, you got a father. You have somewhere to call home, somewhere to go during breaks and summers. Just because he showed up late doesn’t mean that he doesn’t matter. You defied some crazy odds by getting adopted in high school.”
“It’s not fair.” I cannot stand when Steffi says this, because my guilt is uncontrollable. I cup a hand over my mouth to stifle the sobs that threaten to come through, and it takes me a moment until I can speak without emotion. I wait until my voice is flat. Factual. “But you didn’t get adopted.”
“I didn’t need to. I was a sick little kid, Allison. Nobody wanted a kid who’d had cancer. And then, years later, even when I was better, I didn’t need them.” The them she refers to are Joan and Cal Kantor. Steffi moved into their house around the same time I moved in with Simon. Simon adopted me, but Joan and Cal did not adopt Steffi, instead letting her turn eighteen and go off on her own. No support, no family, no sense of safe haven.
As hardened and independent as Steffi was, even she was shaken when they politely let her know that their time as foster parents was done. It was not a happy graduation from high school.
I will never forgive them.
I’ll never know what to say about Joan and Cal. What to say about how they discarded the most tremendous girl. A could-be daughter.
As always, Steffi steps in to fill the void I create. “Look, Allison, I was a dud, okay? A risk. And why would I want to settle down with a nice family and their three dogs when I have you, right?”
“Right.” But I’m not sure.
“Hey! Snap out of it!” she says sharply. “I got you! What do I always say?”
My head is spinning. “I don’t know . . .”
“Hold on to your one. Remember? I have you, and you have me. And when you’re lucky enough to find one—just one—person in this unforgiving life who makes everything worth it, who you love and trust and would kill for, then you hold on damn tight, because that’s probably all you get. We got this,” Steffi says with conviction.
“Okay.”
“It’s going to hurt until it doesn’t anymore.”
“Okay.”
“Say it.”
“It’s going to hurt until it doesn’t anymore.” I repeat her words, but I’m not sure I believe them. I’m not as strong as Steffi, and my past does still hurt. Even though the worst should be over, it all still hurts with a relentless, enduring power that I cannot match.
It’s possible that I’m too broken.
“Steffi? You’re not a dud. You never were. You are more perfect than any parents could handle. That’s all.”
CHAPTER 3
MOTIVATION
I learn a troubling thing during the first week of school: it’s harder to find upperclassmen courses that are jam-packed with students. I’m a big fan of lecture halls and classes that facilitate anonymity. As much as I avoid people, certain types of crowds are ironically my friend.
On Friday morning, I spend thirty-five minutes in the campus registration office, going over the course options with an eye for the best chance at being able to blend in. I refuse to drop my Hundred Words for Snow: Language and Nature class, because it’s all about how language influences the way we see the world, and I find that irresistibly intriguing. Plus, the course seems to involve a lot of listening, with minimal class participation, and I’m totally on board with that. I do, however, give up Cultures of Neoliberalism, because it meets in a conference room in the library, and there is no way I am going to discuss “the relative autonomy of the economic sphere” with only six other students and a professor. Instead, I swap that out for the very popular Social Psychology. Between those classes and the Eating for Change? Food, Media, and Environment in US Consumer Culture, as well as Probability and Mathematical Statistics, I should have a perfect balance between being safe from too much interaction and having really interesting classes that I’ll enjoy.
With my schedule in place, the next few weeks go smoothly. I settle into a pleasing routine of studying, visiting the library, and reading during meals in the cafeteria. I suppose I come off as a quiet, nerdy girl, but that’s nothing terrifically unusual at Andrews College.
I’m in a surprisingly good mood one late-September Friday as I move fluidly through the crowded student union and outside to the quad. I only have psych class left today, and the upcoming weekend means less pressure to interact. The union’s café makes a good iced coffee, and I suck the straw hard as I walk to the sunny lawn area and find a spot to myself under a large oak tree. I have a half hour before class, so I lean against the knotty trunk and retrieve a library book from my backpack.
I’m probably the only person alive who still prefers print books over e-books, and overall, I’m not much into technology. Obviously, I use e-mail and the Internet for research and news, and I have a cell phone, but that’s about it. Steffi has been hounding me to get on Facebook and Twitter and such for years, but the mere thought makes me want to hurl. As someone who stays on top of celebrity gossip, Steffi can’t understand my desire to avoid social platforms. While she doesn’t have any particularly close friends in Los Angeles, she’s well entrenched in UCLA’s superficial social scene, and she’s always busy going out with groups of party acquaintances.
My iced coffee is the right amount of both strong and sweet, and I draw another big taste as I kill time before class. The air has begun to cool a bit, and it finally feels more like autumn. I look up and watch the oak leaves flutter in the slight breeze, letting sun and shadow flicker across my face. There’s a feeling of peace. It’s so quiet here.