“Next Friday.”
“What? We can’t get the tickets day of. How do you never know their schedule?”
“They’re journalists. They go where the story is and they go when it’s happening.” The journalist thing was their new cover. My dad was supposed to be a photographer, my mother a writer, for the Associated Press. Saying they worked for the AP made it plausible for them to have to leave at a moment’s notice, be gone for long periods of time, and never have a byline in the Columbus Dispatch. It was a great cover. CIA operations officers usually pose as diplomats while out on assignment, but anyone in the Special Activities Division, especially Black Angels, gets the best and most detailed cover stories. Because unlike CIA officers, who really only collect information from foreign agents, Black Angels are the ones who are in true danger on a daily basis, even on American soil. They’re the group the government pretends doesn’t exist and the president doesn’t even know about. Well, he probably knows something. He’s the president, after all. But there’s sort of a don’t-ask, don’t-tell policy with the Black Angels. He knows there is an underground group the CIA calls on to handle the messy stuff the government doesn’t want to lay claim to, but he doesn’t want to know any details. It’s the knowing that could get him in trouble and get Black Angels killed.
“How’s your NYU application going?” I ask. Harper wants to go to one school and one school only so she’s applying early decision.
“Almost done. God, I hope I get in. I’m so freaking excited to get out of this cow town,” Harper answers, coming to a stop to let a golf cart full of forty-something men cross in front of her to reach the next hole. The driver gives us a polite wave with his golf-gloved hand.
“Come on, it’s not that bad,” I reply, suddenly defensive of New Albany. I must admit: I thought of Columbus as a cow town before I moved here, but it’s really grown on me. I’ve lived in so many different places. Big cities like Los Angeles, Philadelphia, and Chicago and small border towns like Derby Line, Vermont, and Laredo, Texas. Columbus has been a perfect happy medium for me.
“There’s no culture here. No art, no diversity,” Harper says, sticking her left arm out her open window and letting her hand ride the wave of the wind.
“What about the Short North? You can’t walk down a block of High Street without running into three art galleries.”
“Well, there’s no outlet here for someone like me who’s interested in filmmaking. Maybe after I finish film school and make a few hit indie films, I’ll come back and shoot one here or something. Culture this place up a bit,” Harper replies. The song changes and Louis Armstrong serenades us.
Harper has her whole life figured out. NYU film school, then move to LA and become the next Sofia Coppola. She knows exactly what she wants to do and she’s so excited about it. She beams every time she talks about the future. Luke too. He’s wanted to follow in his dad’s military-boot-size footsteps and go to West Point since he was a kid. I think if they both had it their way, they’d fast-forward through senior year and get on with the next chapter of their lives. I envy that. Their hopefulness. The fact that their futures are theirs to create. I’m so jealous of it sometimes my body aches. My life has never felt like my own. And my future certainly doesn’t belong to me.
Harper pulls off the main artery of the country club community and onto Landon Lane. Enormous oak trees create a canopy of crisscrossed branches and bright red leaves. Each Georgian brick house is more stunning than the next. Everything in New Albany is brick. No exceptions. It’s very Pleasantville. All my friends complain about it but I secretly like the order and perfection—the manicured lawns, beautifully kept flower beds, and miles of white picket fences.
Our New Albany house is by far my favorite of all the homes I’ve ever lived in. The brick is a rustic red-and-white wash; it makes the house look like it’s been standing since the 1700s even though it’s less than a decade old. Two white columns hold up the roof over the small front porch and black shutters frame every window.
“Still on for eight at Luke’s to study AP bio?” Harper asks as she pulls into my driveway. I pop open the door handle.
“Yup. I’ve got to ace this one if I want to get an A in the class, so no fooling around this time, Harper,” I say, grabbing my messenger bag and waving my finger at her. If procrastination was an Olympic sport, Harper would win the gold medal. Last time we all studied together, we spent the first ninety minutes watching YouTube videos and flipping through Instagram.