Wild Swans - Jessica Spotswood Page 0,34
Abby and Claire exchange deeply dubious glances. Claire and I have been friends since we were toddlers. The English department and the history department are in the same building on campus, and her mom brought Claire to the office one afternoon when I was there with Granddad. We bonded over Granddad’s admin assistant’s special stash of lollipops. Our duo became a trio after Abby and I sat next to each other in fifth grade homeroom and we geeked out over comic books together. Granddad is kind of a genre snob, so I started borrowing from Abby’s amazing collection of graphic novels. We’ve been friends so long that Abby and Claire know when I’m lying. Or evading. Or trying to convince myself of something.
They are still watching me. Waiting for a real answer.
“Connor and I are going to be working together all summer,” I continue. “It’s too complicated. You know Granddad. He’s protective.”
“Patriarchal,” Claire says darkly. “Your body is not—”
“We know!” Abby interrupts, and Sunshine barks, startled.
“You could quit the job,” Claire suggests. “You can read Dorothea’s journals anytime. It’s not like you need the money.”
“Must be nice,” Abby says. She waitresses at the Crab Claw to save up for college, not because it looks good on a transcript. Her dad is a salesman down at the Ford dealership, her mom works part-time as a real estate agent, and with four kids, they have to stretch to make ends meet. Meanwhile, Claire’s parents are both professors, and Granddad and I are pretty well off between his salary and Dorothea’s estate. If I do end up staying in Cecil, my tuition will be free. That’s another reason that the prospect of leaving, of considering other colleges, makes me feel like an ungrateful brat.
“Why would she quit a job she likes for a boy she barely knows?” Abby scratches Sunshine’s ears to the rhythmic thump of the dog’s tail against the floor. “Aren’t you supposed to be the feminist here, Claire? Connor didn’t even protest when Ivy said they shouldn’t see each other again. She shouldn’t have to compete with her granddad and her dead great-grandmother for a guy’s attention.”
Jesus. Abby has a point, but…
“Alex, on the other hand, is totally devoted to her.”
“Stop pushing for her to get with Alex! She doesn’t want to be with Alex,” Claire says. “Besides, remember how he acted with Ginny West? Would you want him telling the whole baseball team about your sex life? Those guys are gross.”
Abby toys with her infinity necklace. “Not all the guys on the team are like that. Ty isn’t. And besides, Alex would never be like that with Ivy.”
I take a deep breath. Count to ten. Remind myself that my friends love me and want what’s best for me. “Could you two stop fighting, please? I’ve made up my mind, and I am not dating Alex or Connor. I’m going to work on this project and try to improve my butterfly and take a French class on Thursday nights—and try not to murder my mother. That’s it. That’s my summer.”
Claire leans forward. “Wait. What French class?”
“Ivy!” Abby groans. “No classes. You promised.”
“Wait,” Claire says. “Did you literally get stressed out because of your mom and sign up for a college course?”
I stuff two pretzel sticks in my mouth so I can’t answer. They both just stare at me till I finish chewing. “Uh, maybe? I like languages. I’m good at languages.”
“You’re good at lots of things,” Abby says, ever loyal.
“Not good enough.” I can’t keep the bitterness from my voice.
Claire waves her pretzel stick at me threateningly. “Do not even start with that.”
Mrs. Morris comes in, carrying a plate of freshly baked chocolate-chip cookies. “Girls? The cookies are ready! Want some?”
“Um, yes,” Claire says, and I nod as Mrs. Morris puts the plate down on the coffee table next to our iced teas. I love that she doesn’t worry about crumbs or calories or using coasters.
“Thanks, Mama,” Abby says.
“Don’t tell Luisa,” I whisper, “but your chocolate-chip cookies are my favorite.”
“It’ll be our secret.” Mrs. Morris smiles. Her straight, reddish-blond hair is pulled back into a ponytail, with little wisps escaping around her apple-cheeked face. She’s short, like Abby, but plump. And she loves her kids so much. She’s always in the stands cheering at the twins’ soccer matches, and she’s always in the front row with a bouquet of yellow roses—Abby’s favorites—during chorus concerts. She even cut her hours back to part-time last year when Eli started having trouble in