I didn’t leave the house again until Monday morning. The rest of my weekend was spent obsessively checking my email, telling myself that a potential client might reach out, but really, I knew I was waiting to see if Ashlyn would reply. She didn’t.
The first day of community service with the Arlington Parks Authority brought ninety-degree sunshine with it. I’d finally chosen to spend my summer days removing invasive plants from the city’s numerous parks because, let’s be honest, it was the activity I thought would invite the least amount of conversation from Belén. I also thought—very maturely, I might add, and maybe masochistically—that a little manual labor might be good for me. Builds character, as adults like to say when they really just want kids to do their dirty work. And, I also didn’t think it would hurt my college applications to say I’d “interned” with the park service on a “botany project.” I was nothing if not forward thinking.
I was the first one down to breakfast that day, since I had to be up at the crack of dawn, and was just finishing up my bowl of apples and cinnamon oatmeal when Tilly came down the stairs, practically skipping, brand-new toe shoes in hand. When she saw me sitting at the table, the tranquil smile that had graced her face slipped into a half frown. I could see her warring with herself over whether or not to be pleasant or frigid.
“Good morning,” I said loudly. She paused on her way to the cabinet and offered me a faint smile, but it didn’t make it to her eyes.
Tilly was tall and willowy, just like her mother. She had the same warm, glowing skin and the same thick black hair, though Tilly’s was shot through with red when the light hit just right. She seemed slight, but I knew that her frame packed a lot more muscle than was obvious to the casual observer. Though I’d never tell her out loud, I admired her for her grit. Dancing was not a sport for the weak. I’d seen her feet bruised, cracked, and bleeding on a regular basis, and yet she kept on going. Just as regularly, I was glad graphic design was an indoor, sedentary activity. As Tilly sat down at the table and began the grueling process of cutting and stretching her toe shoes to make them conform to her feet better, I wondered if I’d made a mistake by choosing to spend a whole one hundred hours hunched over, pulling plants out of the ground. Was I punishing myself even further?
“So,” I began, making an awkward attempt at conversation.
Tilly didn’t look up from her task or respond. I didn’t bother trying again.
Belén came clacking down the stairs in her three-inch heels and tailored skirt and blazer. White pearls, black hair, white blouse, black suit. She was a study in monochromatics. When she reached the table, she wordlessly handed me my car key, which looked naked without its usual partner. I instinctively stuck my hand in my shorts pocket—utilitarian khaki had seemed appropriate for cutting down vines in the jungle, which is how I pictured my day going—and came up empty. I patted my hips, but only felt skin and muscle beneath. My heart rate picked up as I glanced frantically around the kitchen. Where was my keychain?
Like a mind reader, Belén raised an eyebrow and put a hand on her hip, her pointy elbow ready to impale. “You lost your key?”
“I’m sure it’s here somewhere,” I said, rising to go search my room.
“You’ll have to look for it later, Tatum. You can’t add being late on top of everything else on your first day on the job.” The disappointment in her voice had turned to judgment, as she’d slowly extended the “everything else.”
I couldn’t look at her, and my ears started burning with shame.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” I grabbed my shoulder bag and slid my feet into my weathered sneakers. Belén fished a color-coded and labeled house key out of the spare key drawer (because why wouldn’t you have a drawer specifically for spare keys), handed it over, and nodded toward the garage door.
“Go.”
Tilly never once looked up from her toe shoes during the entire embarrassing exchange. And why would she? We weren’t the type of siblings to defend each other.
I opened the garage door and got into the car, shoving the key into the ignition. I racked my brain trying to think of where my missing keychain might be, retraced my steps to the last time I’d had it. I realized I hadn’t actually left my room, let alone the house, except for the bathroom and meals, since Friday night when we went to the showcase at McIntosh. I smacked my forehead in frustration, a little too hard. The keychain must have fallen out of my pocket when I was walking around the school. I closed my eyes and sat there, letting the car idle, willing myself not to cry.
That keychain was long gone now, probably picked up by a janitor after the event. I didn’t care about the house key, as it could be replaced easily, but that solid, unassuming strip of silver, stamped with its calming message, was breaking my heart. Salty tears pricked the corners of my eyes, and I rubbed them away furiously. No. I would not let this beat me. I told myself that it didn’t matter, it was just keychain that meant nothing, and backed out of the garage, my chest heaving and my lungs gasping for air.
The ten-minute drive to the park service headquarters did nothing to calm me. My heart raced and thoughts of crashing—accidentally—into trees and guardrails invaded my mind as I drove, fearing that without my little bit of luck on a chain, horrible things would happen. As I pulled into a place in front of the plain, brick building, I laughed. Why did I think a car accident was worse than alienating my friend, getting a criminal record, being on house arrest, and losing my father’s trust? The keychain hadn’t stopped those things from happening. My luck had already run out.
I focused on the green letters on the building, Arlington Parks Authority, wishing with all my might that this might be a chance to prove myself. To myself and no one else.
I followed the signs that said “Orientation” down a short hallway and into a large conference room, taking one of the twelve seats around an oval table. The only other person there was a guy I recognized from school. Hunter Hansen was in my grade at school, and was best known for being in a band. I’d had a class or two with him over the years, but we weren’t friends. He always seemed a little aloof in that “I’m a musician” way that’s both annoying and alluring. Hunter’s dark blond hair was on the long side, grazing the tops of his ears in a manner I knew Belén would never approve of, and he wore a Ramones T-shirt and black jeans. It was the stereotypical “boy in a band” uniform. I wondered why he was electing to pull plants on his summer vacation.
“Hey, Hunter,” I said, with a small wave. Might as well be friendly if we were going to be working together.