fire. She was ice. Bewitching, one of them had called her. Your mother, she casts a spell on men. We dance.
Pearl didn’t see it.
Her mother just seemed tired, ground down by the consequences of her bad choices. If Stella could cast a spell, Pearl thought, surely she’d have done better than to conjure herself a bookstore teetering on bankruptcy, their run-down two-bedroom ranch house, a string of loser boyfriends, and the thankless life of a single, working mother.
Tonight, Pearl had set the table. She’d filled a pitcher with filtered water and placed it on the table. Then she settled into a chair, opened her notebook.
Charlie moved with ease around the kitchen, as if he lived there. He seemed to know where things were without asking. Pearl doubted that even her mother would be so at home in their cabinets. She couldn’t even remember the last time Stella had cooked anything other than scrambled eggs and toast on Sundays when she was feeling jovial for any reason.
“What are you reading these days, Pearl?” Charlie asked, startling Pearl, who had drifted into thought.
On the stove, chicken sizzled in some kind of sauce, there was bread baking in the oven. A colorful salad sat tossed in a bowl she didn’t even know they had. Pearl’s stomach was rumbling; she hadn’t eaten all day.
“Jane Eyre,” she said.
None of the men her mother knew had ever asked such a thing.
“For school?”
“No. In school we’re reading The Giver.”
“Very different books,” he said, moving the chicken around the pan. “Any common themes?”
What a question. Something fired off in Pearl’s brain, the kind of joy she could only achieve when thinking about fiction—the words of others, or the stories that she herself wove, alone in her bed at night. Stories about herself, about who she could become, about the father she didn’t know, people she would meet and places she would go.
She thought about it, doodling in the notebook she had open in front of her. Classic literature versus modern dystopian young adult. She hadn’t considered making comparisons between the two. But there were similarities if you dug for them. She glanced up at Charlie, whose glasses were as thick as her own. Was he hiding behind those big frames, too?
“Both characters are asked to believe something about themselves that turns out not to be true,” she said.
He raised his eyebrows at her, smiled, ground some pepper into the pan. “Expound.”
She felt a strange thrill deep in her center. It was the thrill of being seen. Of inquiry.
“Jane is raised to believe that she’s worthless, a burden, less than the other members of the family,” she said. “And in The Giver, Jonas is raised in a society that has eliminated all the pain and strife of human history. Neither of them understands themselves until they’ve struck out on their own.”
Charlie nodded thoughtfully. There was a stillness to his face, an intensity to his gaze. She’d walked over and stood by the counter without realizing it.
“That’s a deep observation,” he said. “They’re both coming-of-age stories. Worlds apart, more than a century. And yet, the story of the young person breaking from the strictures of family and society to forge his or her own path is a timeless one. Why do you think that is?”
He dropped her gaze, moved with fluidity—whisking the bread from the oven, dressing the salad. It was as if he’d always been there.
“Because we all have to find our own way,” said Pearl.
“Exactly,” he said. “Society doesn’t always know what’s right. Our families tell us stories about ourselves that often aren’t true. Sometimes we have to follow our hearts.”
He handed her the salad bowl and she carried it to the table.
“Mom should be pulling in the driveway any minute,” he said.
Mom. Not your mom. Something intimate, possessive about the turn of phrase, wasn’t there? And so it was. The glow from the headlights slid across the back wall.
“Stella said you were smart,” said Charlie, handing her the warm basket of bread. “I wonder if she knows how smart. Sometimes we don’t see what’s right in front of us.”
Pearl didn’t know what to say, felt her cheeks go hot. This was not the kind of conversation she was used to having with anyone but her English teacher.
And then her mom was there, blustering about the store—so busy today!
“That coupon you ran, Charlie, amazing. And twenty-five people bought tickets for that open mic night. You’re a genius.”
“It was your idea, Stella,” he said. “I just nudged you to