Also Known as Rowan Pohi (12 page)

I turned to shake hands with Ms. Ryder, but she surprised me with a big hug.

"This is wonderful, Rowan," she gushed. "I'm thrilled for you!"

"Well, uh, th-thanks," I stammered. "So, but, does that mean—"

LeClerc made a fist and pumped it. "You hit the jackpot, Rowan. A full scholarship to Whitestone."

"Wow." I was flabbergasted.

"There will be some paperwork to fill out," LeClerc added, "but we can take care of that another time."

"Uh, thanks."

I didn't know what more to say, so I kept my mouth shut. I started to leave, but Ms. Ryder lightly touched me on the arm.

"Rowan, this scholarship does change things a bit. I've talked to your teachers and they all report that you're doing very well. Although your Spanish could use a bit of improvement."

"I'm working hard on that," I put in.

She smiled. "I'm sure you are. Anyway, don't sweat the transcripts from your last high school. I'm sure they'll send them eventually. This scholarship proves that you're a keeper at Whitestone. You're here to stay."

H
EATHER SUGGESTED WE WALK TO HER HOUSE. I KEPT MY
head down and stepped lively, hoping we wouldn't run into Robin, which would have been
very
awkward. It wasn't until we'd gotten five blocks from Whitestone that I started to relax.

It was one of those beautiful early fall days when there's just a hint of a chill in the air. I kicked an acorn, watched it skitter down the sidewalk and fall through a sewer grate.

"Did you remember to bring your suit?" Heather asked.

"I did."

"Bathing suit or birthday suit?"

"I brought both," I replied without missing a beat.

She grinned. "Well, well, Rowan, don't you just think of everything?"

Heather lived on the Heights in Royal Oaks, a gated community about three-quarters of a mile from Whitestone. She waved at the guard as we entered. The houses were enormous, each mansion bigger than the last, with sweeping lawns and manicured hedges.

"I smell money," I muttered. The first car I spotted was a Mercedes 500. The next one was a silver Jag. "I rest my case."

"It's true," she admitted, "but most of our neighbors are friendly."

"Do you have any brothers or sisters?" I asked.

"My brother, Bastian," she said, fiddling with the lock. "He's in fourth grade. How about you?"

"I've got a brother too. Cody. He's five."

She smiled. "They're cute at five; by ten they start growing devil's horns. Bastian's okay, I guess. He goes to the lower school at Whitestone. Luckily, they don't have early release today."

The first thing I noticed when we stepped through the front door was a tree. A real one. I gazed far up at the branches and the series of skylights beyond.

"That's a tree," I said stupidly.

"It is," she said, like it was no big deal. "A birch tree."

I touched the smooth white bark.

"Yeah, b-but how?" I stammered. "I've never seen a tree growing inside a house."

"My father believes that houses should bring in the natural world—what better way than with a living tree?" she said. "He designed this house himself; it's won a bunch of awards."

Heather gave me a quick tour of the house, which was immense. The ceilings soared twenty feet or higher. There was a gorgeous family room (huge stone fireplace, plush leather couches). Beyond that I noticed another room, smaller and cozier, with a second fireplace and a pretty table made entirely of tinted blue glass. A blue ceramic bowl filled with chocolates sat on top of it.

"What's that room for?"

She shrugged. "I dunno. We aren't supposed to go in there."

"But ... what about those chocolates? Don't you and your brother ever eat them?"

"It's off-limits. We can't touch it."

I was truly amazed. "Those chocolates wouldn't last long in my house."

The walls in the hallway featured photographs of horses, and Heather stopped to tell me about each one.

"That's Onyx," she said, pointing at a photograph. I'm no horse expert, but I could tell she was a beauty, jet-black with huge soulful eyes. And something else was becoming clear: Heather's family was
very
rich.

"Is that your father?" I asked, pointing to a man standing beside the horse.

"Yeah."

"Is he the horse person in the family?"

She shook her head. "Mom. Dad just sort of went along with it. Then one day he invited his assistant, Maggie, to saddle up. She was twenty-five. And the two of them sort of rode off into the sunset."

"They fell in love?"

"Love, or lust."

"Ouch. Sorry."

"That was four years ago. For a while things were rough around here. Mom had your classic breakdown, but she pulled herself together and now things are okay. Mom and Maggie get along fine now, believe it or not."

Light steam drifted up from the surface of the pool, which was rectangular and tucked behind a thick hedge. The pool area had lots of hanging plants, which made it feel as lush as a garden and very private.

"Swim?" she offered.

"Okay. The water isn't cold, is it?"

"Nope. Mom heats it through the middle of October. You can change in the pool house. I'll grab some towels."

When I emerged, Heather was already standing waist-deep in the water, wearing a black two-piece bathing suit. She looked sensational.

There was a mischievous gleam in her eyes. "Did I tell you that I'm half mermaid and half girl?"

"I don't think you mentioned that."

"Well, I am," she said solemnly.

I dipped my right foot into the water. "Which half is which?"

She grinned provocatively. "Why don't you come in and find out?"

So I jumped in. She moved toward me until we were touching, and the fronts of her feet were resting on mine. Or on Rowan's. Rowan the Romancer! Unbelievable to find myself alone in this fabulous house with a girl like Heather Reardon. To have such treasure just fall into my/Rowan's lap! Marcus and Poobs would never have believed it. I could barely believe it myself.

"I almost didn't recognize you without your school uniform," I teased. "I—"

She shut me up with a kiss.

"Glad we got that out of the way," she murmured.

"I had a dream about kissing you in the planetarium." We were both speaking in low voices, just above a whisper.

"Yeah? Was it as good as this?"

We kissed again. I was aware of a dozen sensations: the silky water, her warm mouth, her arms crossing my spine and pulling me tight against her.

"Almost," I said.

"Almost isn't good enough. Not nearly."

This time I could feel sparks jumping from every point of contact—mouth, chest, belly, thighs, and feet—where her body touched mine.

We stayed in the pool for almost forty-five minutes. As it turned out, we didn't swim a lick that day. Not that it was boring; oh, far from it. And I kept thinking: How could my life be so absurdly wonderful—and so terrible—all at the same time?

On Tuesday afternoon I almost skipped football. Then I realized that this might well be my last practice, so I finally decided to go. Throckmorton met with eight of us who were trying out for wide receiver. For the first half-hour he walked us through the basic pass routes: screen, slant, quick out, deep out, curl, and fly. I could see that making the team would not be automatic; there were three or four other players who were big and rangy. I had a speed advantage, maybe, but would that get me on the team?

"It's not enough to be fast," Throckmorton warned. "To be a good receiver you've got to be elusive too. You have to get separation between yourself and whoever is covering you.
Get separation.
I want you to say those words ten times every night before you fall asleep.
Get separation.
Make that your personal mantra."

It hadn't been a strenuous workout, so that evening I went out for my regular run. While I ran I repeated that phrase:
Get separation.
I must have repeated those words a thousand times. I broke the phrase into four parts to create a nice regular rhythm:

 

get separ aaaaa shun
bum bum-dee bum bum
get separ aaaaa shun
bum bum-dee bum bum

 

I ran five miles that night, and then did an extra loop to make it six, trying to exhaust myself so I could sleep. When I had finished, I stopped outside our building, taking a few minutes to cool down and catch my breath before I went inside.

The moment I entered our apartment, something seemed wrong. I detected an ominous odor, a smell both strange and familiar. My heart started banging in my chest. I rushed into the kitchen.

My father.

Holding a hot iron in his right hand.

Cody standing less than two feet away.

My eyes flew open wide.

My father caught the meaning of my look.

Carefully, he put the iron down on the ironing board, where a small white shirt was stretched out.

"What is your problem?" he demanded.

"Nothing," I mumbled.

"Nothing?"

"No." I shook my head.

"Tomorrow's school picture day, and I thought it would be a good idea if somebody ironed your brother's goddamn shirt." He practically bit off each word. "Do you have a problem with that?"

"No."

"
Do
you?" He sounded pissed.

"No."

My brother was leaning against the couch, working a yo-yo. He sent it down and up, down and up, making a whirring sound that broke the silence.

"I'm sorry," I managed.

My father stared. I don't even have words for what I saw in his eyes—something heartbreaking and wounded. Or worse.

Then he blinked; the spell was broken. He went back to ironing Cody's shirt. He did it clumsily, like he had never done it before, which he probably hadn't. My brother stood nearby, working his yo-yo, as silent as my father. I went into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

That night the algebra homework was hard—solving quadratic equations—and I was too upset to concentrate. The strings of numbers and variables seemed pointless. I closed the textbook and shut my eyes. When I did, all I could picture was my father holding that iron in his big hand.

What should I do, Mom?

Okay, so maybe I did overreact. I was still mad at my father. I couldn't help it. Not so much because he'd hurt my mother, but because he'd chased her away from the family. Because he'd made her feel like she had to leave.

Cody wanted a story before bed, so I got up from my desk and went to his bedroom. His white shirt, freshly ironed, hung on his doorknob like a silent rebuke to me. I read him a few chapters from Captain Underpants (always a big favorite), shut off his light, and went back to my room. I could hear the TV in the den, a baseball game.

At ten o'clock I went into the den, determined to make one final attempt to apologize. But the TV had been turned off; Turf was sleeping on the couch. My father had gone to bed, and the door to his room was closed.

F
OR SOME REASON MY FIVE SENSES WERE UNUSUALLY
alert on Wednesday morning. From my bedroom, even with the door shut, I could hear Cody in the bathroom humming the Spider-Man song while he brushed his teeth.

I took the bus to school. When I swiped my card and entered Whitestone, I could feel its particular odor wash over me, a smell quite different from Riverview's. Maybe it was the expensive wax they used to polish the floors. Maybe it was the antique wooden bookcases and sculptures breathing out exotic odors from faraway places.

Whap!

Whirling around, I encountered Derrick, who had unloaded on my right arm. It started to throb, but I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me rub it, so I jabbed him back.

"We get our helmets and pads today," he told me. "There's a full-contact practice after that."

"I'll be ready."

"Friendly warning," Derrick said. "If you go to catch a pass, I will hit you."

"If you can keep up with me," I countered as I headed off in the direction of the sophomore corridor.

I stowed the books I would need for the afternoon in my locker.

"Hi, Rowan." Heather Reardon came over and moved two inches closer to me than was absolutely necessary.

I grinned. "Hey there."

She touched the sleeve of my Whitestone shirt. "I think you look better when you're not wearing this."

"Uh, thanks."

"So how did you like the pool?"

"Great, except for one pesky mermaid I ran into." I closed my locker and spun the dial. "Seriously, Heather, that house of yours is phenomenal."

"I'd love to see yours." She leaned her head against my locker. "Why don't you invite me over sometime?"

I laughed nervously. "There's not much to see. I bet our entire apartment could fit in your family room."

She shrugged. "So what? If it's where you live, then I'm interested."

"Well, I guess so." I couldn't picture Heather there.

Talking with Heather, I felt like I was surrounded by a magical ring of protection, like nothing could harm me. But as the day began, I had to fight off several spasms of dread. I couldn't avoid the fact that this might well be my final day at Whitestone.

Robin was waiting for me outside of Spanish class.

"You smell ... different," I said.

"I'm wearing a tiny bit of perfume," Robin admitted with a worried expression. "I figured what the heck, you know? It can't hurt. I hope it's not too loud or anything."

"Stop apologizing for yourself," I gently scolded. "It's not too strong. It smells nice."

Señor
Backman tried to bring me down in Spanish. He singled me out and peppered me with difficult questions. But I had studied my verbs; I was ready for him. I handled the responses flawlessly, making sure to answer in the same verb tense he used.

 

¿Usted irá al partido?
Sí, iré al partido.
¿Usted iba a venir?
Sí, iba a venir,
I replied.

 

Señor
Backman tested me like this several more times. Finally he gave me a grudging nod of approval and backed off. I could feel Robin smiling from across the room.