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“Really?” I ask eagerly.

“Oh yes.” She shakes her head, lost in thought. “Clarabelle always got what she wanted, be it grades or guys or . . .” She cocks her head, then carefully says, “Other things.”

Other things. That can refer to a lot.

“Anyway,” Jessica continues before I can ask her to elaborate. “She was a force.”

“You called her Clarabelle,” I point out.

“Oh yeah,” she says, waving her hand. “Some guys started calling her that as a joke in middle school, but Claire wouldn't put up with that, so she
owned
that nickname. She made sure everyone called her that. She got the last laugh there.”

“That's awesome,” I say, noting that her story matches up with Mr. Wayne's. I wish I had the same confidence as my mother, the ability to own up to insults. Celine is like that, and maybe that's why I like her. Maybe it's a part of me wishing I was more like that, and less shy and nervous. Maybe it's why I'm kind of jealous of Treena—not just because she's
hanging out with Trey, but because she's with him. She's figuring herself out and dropping her cocoon. I haven't yet, and I don't know how to. But here, doing all of this, is helping me. Maybe learning more about my mother will, too.

“What else can you tell me about her?” I ask.

“What else do you want to know?” She leans back, looking so at home in the café.

“Everything. Anything,” I say. “I don't know much at all. . . .”

“I could go on for hours. Claire was my best friend, you know.”

“Really?” I ask excitedly. And I immediately think of Treena. She was her Treena.

“Oh yeah, we did everything together. Man, I loved that girl so much. . . . It was really hard for me after, you know,” she says. “Really hard.”

“I'm sorry,” I say instinctively.

She wipes her eyes and shakes her head. “Not a day goes by that I don't think about her.”

I let her reflect, not wanting to ruin her moment, and then carefully ask, “How'd you meet?”

“Detention, actually. Funny, right?”

“Oh! Why were you there?”

“Oh, I don't remember.” She waves her hand, mood visibly changing for the better. “Probably skipping class, nothing huge. We got away with a lot more than we should have, I'll say. Your mom, she had a way with words.”

“How so?” I ask.

“Well, for one thing, that Mr. Wayne you met? She convinced him to start the Key Club for us. Neither of us were the best of students, you know, and we needed some extra credit to graduate, so we got him to put that together for us.”

I think about what she's saying, try to process it, and it seems so foreign. I never would have done something like that, and it's weird thinking my birth mother did. I didn't expect her to be like my mom, but I also didn't expect her to be the opposite.

“He tried so hard,” she sighs, “and, oh, he was cute. Is he still cute? Your mom had a big crush on him for a while.”

“He was okay,” I say, blushing, because he's more than twice my age.

“God, I miss her,” Jessica says. “We started hanging out after school, on the weekends,” she continues, resting her arms on her knees and kind of in a trance. “We'd say to study, but we usually just snuck out. Her mom was
never
home, so we'd bring friends over, or just stay out late. Oh, that girl got me into so much trouble with my mom.”

“Wait,” I say. “You say mom; did she not have a dad around? I was never sure. . . .”

“Oh,” she says. “How much do you know?”

“Not much at all. Nothing, really,” I admit. “Which is why I'm here. I don't know if I have grandparents, honestly. . . .”

“Oh, honey,” she says sadly. “I feel so guilty, knowing so much of her, and you knowing so little. . . . Okay, so she never knew her dad, from what I knew. So, I don't know any more about that, I'm afraid.”

Disappointed, I murmur, “Oh.” It's not that I expected to figure out who my grandparents were or anything, but I guess I kind of hoped I might. Maybe that's a main reason why she wanted to give me away—because she didn't want me to end up in a broken home like hers. The thought makes me sad—she gave me to perfect parents because she herself didn't have them.

“But she lived with her mom. I don't know what happened to her, honestly, but boy, we gave her a run when we were younger,” she laughs. “She was a great woman, and great second mom to me.”

She says it offhand, like it means nothing, but it's shocking how much that hurts me. This woman who's my grandmother was practically a parent to Jessica, but wouldn't even talk to me when I tried calling her a few years back, during my stint in calling everyone with the last name of Fullman. I know it was her on the phone; I know she answered and hung up on me. I just don't know why.

“So, yeah, she was out a lot and, you know, Claire loved the freedom. She had these amazing parties at her house, oh my gosh, they were the best. I mean, she did most of her art at her parties. She'd make people come over and then draw them.”

“Wait, really?” I exclaim. I take a breath and everything. “She was an artist?”

“Oh yeah, paintings, mostly. She made these abstract drawings of people and animals. Like, a human body with a boar head, or vice versa.
So
insane, but so . . . inspired. I always loved her stuff.”

“That's amazing,” I say, thinking about my photography, and how we have that in common. How we could have shared that passion. How maybe I got it from her. I can't help but grin.

“We took painting together in twelfth grade. Teacher
hated
us because we never followed the rules. But, I mean, who wants to paint an orange when you can paint the sky? Or something wild like a two-headed dog? That was your mom—she loved painting the bizarre. So she'd turn our friends into beasts and dragons and it always amused us.”

“That's so cool,” I murmur, picturing her controlling a party. Having everyone sit down so she could concentrate, and then, within seconds, creating an amazing work of art. Maybe that's why she wasn't a great student—her mind was always on something else. Maybe it just needed to be let free. My fingers twitch and I know I want to take a photo of this moment, but I can't. Not yet.

“Oh, it really was.” She smiles. “Everyone came. Let me ask, are you an artist, too?” She leans back, playing with her scarf.

“Kind of, I mean, I want to be. I'm a photographer,” I explain.

“A visual medium. I'm into that, too. I use photos as an inspiration for my pieces.” She pauses, then smiles. “I bet you're just like her. Let me guess, mind always wandering? Fingers itching to create?” she asks, leaning forward and staring at me, as if she's trying to really see me.

“Yes.” I nod, because that's exactly like me. Maybe I'm more like her than I thought.

“And how often are
you
in detention?” she asks with a slight laugh.

“Ha,” I say. “Um . . . that part I'm not like at all.”

“Uh-huh, sure,” she says with a smile. “I could never have imagined Claire's daughter ending up boring.”

She says it offhandedly, but I feel her words deep down. I think of my life in Orlando. Celine has an exciting life there, flirting with guys at Starbucks and having inside jokes with them. I'm behind my camera. I go to school and come home.

Am I boring?

Would my mother have considered me boring, or a disappointment? And if I was still with her, would I have turned out more like her?

“Tell me a fun, unboring story about my mother,” I say, because I have to know what I'm missing out on.

“There are so many. Hmm. Well, there was this one time,” Jessica continues, overriding my thoughts, “that Claire and I got drunk, then went streaking across her neighborhood. Oh my god, you should have seen the boys' reactions! I mean, they were all there, of course, all her boys. My lord, that girl attracted the guys.”

“Really,” I more say than ask.

“Oh, the guys loved her. She was so . . . passionate and engaging. I had a boyfriend at the time—god, I haven't thought about him in years—but your mom? She had a few. They were always coming over after school. . . .” She stops, then looks at my face, really looks at it. “But I guess I shouldn't be telling you any of that stuff.”

“No, please, I want to hear everything,” I say quickly. I want her to keep talking, even though I don't know what to say, how to take it. It's a strange feeling, knowing more about her. I saw her as this dominant force, this aura who lured people in with her dramatic speeches and personality, and that wasn't her, not really. She did do those things, she was strong and proud, it seems, but she was also young and reckless. She made mistakes and went crazy. I can't be upset about what she did back then, but it still feels off connecting the pieces and drawing out a new image of her. She was this wild and daring person who I can't even imagine.

“I mean, you can probably guess some of the stuff that went on—you were a product and all,” Jessica says, motioning to me and emitting a high-pitched, single-syllable laugh.

“Can I ask . . . how'd she react? When she found out about me?”

“She was pretty devastated.”

My face falls when I hear her words, and my heart thumps.

“Oh, honey, no offense!” she says quickly, noticing my
reaction. “I mean, she just wasn't ready to have a kid, you know? She was eighteen. Who's ready to be a mother then?”

I nod because I guess it's true. If I found out I was pregnant, I'd be devastated, too. But it doesn't hurt any less.

Jessica continues, “She thought about . . .
you know
. . .” Oh, I know. If she had gone through with
you know
,
I wouldn't be here. I feel my heart race with the realization. “But she didn't think she could go through with it. So she contacted the adoption agency and heard she'd make some money . . . and you probably know the rest from there.”

“Yeah . . .” I nod. “Wait. Do you know who my father was, then?” I ask this quickly, before I even realize what I said.

“She never told me, not that I didn't ask a bunch. She was dating a few guys at the time, so . . .” Not only does she not know who my father is, there could be multiple suspects. Which makes me feel . . . uncomfortable. She registers my face, and adds, “She liked one of them, this guy Chad, better than the others, and was with him longer. So you never know.”

Chad was in the photo; Bee mentioned a Chad. We were right in suspecting they were dating. At least that's something.

“Do you know where Chad is now?” I ask, and she eyes me.

“Here in Tallahassee. I haven't kept up with him, but I think he's a car mechanic. But don't go thinking he's your father or anything,” she warns quickly. “He was always kind of a strange guy. Very clingy to her. Followed her around like a puppy dog.”

“Do you know a girl named Bee Trenton?” I ask, moving forward.

“Bee! How do you know Bee? Ahh, I guess she was in that photo, too. Oh, Bee . . .”

“What about her?” I ask.

“She was a friend of ours for a while, but then things got messy, you know how they do. She and your mom got into a huge fight and that was it.”

“Do you know what they fought about?” I ask. “And why?”

“Oh, honey, I don't remember. It was a long time ago. She was more friends with Claire than me. They knew each other before I came into the picture.”

“It's okay,” I say, disappointed. “I'm sure it was about a guy or something.”

“You know, yes, that might have been it. Bee was with Chad before Claire was. God, I forgot all about that. Anyway, I don't have all the details. Your mom . . . she was always a bit secretive about things, so you never know.”

“Like what?” I ask, wondering what a girl who was okay with streaking was truly private about.

“Oh, she had guys, but she never kissed and told. She didn't talk about her mom much. The only time she really opened up was when she was drinking or high, you know?”

“Of course,” I say, my heart faltering again from this roller coaster of a conversation. Because, again, I'm finding out more information that pushes her farther and farther away from me. I don't know what to make of it all, and Jessica
says it all so casually, as if it means nothing. The image I had of my mother keeps changing, morphing into something new, and I don't know what, or who, to picture anymore. I knew she was different, but if I'm part of her, how am I not more like her? What does her lifestyle say about me? About what I will become when I'm away at college? Will I become someone I won't even recognize? Treena pops into my head, and I think about how much she's changed since going away. She wanted to create this new version of herself, and she did.

The thoughts are tangling through my mind, and I can't grasp any of them. I don't want to. I want to go back to this clean, pure image I had of my mother, when everything was still unknown and innocent. I want
that
to be her. I want to still have hope that I'm like her, that there is part of her in me. That I'm not alone.

She wasn't bad, but she wasn't what I wanted. I wanted perfect, and it's only now that I realize I never could have had that. It's irrational to think so.

“But enough about her! I want to know more about you!” Jessica says, snapping me out of my thoughts, and I look up, unsure of where I am, who I am. I don't want to be here anymore; I can't.

“I, um, I live in Orlando. And I'm here, at FSU, staying with my friend,” I say slowly, carefully.

“How fun! What're your plans for tonight?” she asks, and it clicks in a way. She is two people—she's the Jessica from high school and the Jessica now. She's the Jessica who was
best friends with my mother, and the Jessica who lost her so many years ago. And I wonder what would have happened if she hadn't died. Would they be here together, launching exhibits and talking about old times?