The Chosen One (7 page)

I smiled back, unsure how to respond.

Another silence descended, and I turned up the volume on the radio. I bobbed my head to Taylor Swift’s song, “Wildest Dreams.” Maya didn’t react. Something told me she wasn’t a Swiftie.

“Bang Bang” came on next. I almost laughed. Maya raked a hand through her spiky hair, obviously disliking the song, and when Ed Sheeran’s “Don’t” started, I switched radio stations.

Her head bobbed slightly to Florence + The Machine’s “Dog Days are Over”‌—‌one of my absolute favorite songs‌—‌and when I started to sing along, she arched one eyebrow, impressed. Maya the Gray got into the song, swaying in her seat. Her shoulders relaxed. Those wonderful gray eyes beamed. By the end of the song, both of us were belting out the lyrics, drowning out Florence. I didn’t want the magical experience to end.

“I didn’t know you were a Florence fan,” I said. I suspected she’d reply with a nod, so I hit the button on the steering wheel to stream, “Shake it Out.” Maya knew all the words. I only knew the chorus, but when it was time, I sang my heart out. Maya laughed. She actually laughed. If it weren’t uber-creepy, I’d have silenced the music to listen to her melodious laugh. Usually, she was controlled, but not when she laughed.

We listened to Florence’s ghostly vocals in the next song “What the Water Gave Me” in quiet contemplation. I hadn’t planned the song, but given it was about the loss of loved ones and overwhelming struggles in life, it fit the mood.

***

Walden Pond was the first stop of the day. Maya led the way on the dirt path that skirted the water’s edge.

She glanced back over her shoulder at me, right as I tripped over a tree branch and toppled into the brush headfirst.

“You okay?” She helped me to my feet.

“Totally fine, unless you count my ego.” I brushed off my jeans.

“Tell you what, I won’t tell anyone.” She removed a sprig from my hair.

“How much will your silence cost?” I joked.

She shook her head, amused. “Free this time. But if you keep it up, I may have to start charging you. Whitlock ain’t cheap.” She winked, and I sensed a frisson of excitement. Was I the cause? Maya turned to the water. “This pond is a wonderful example of a kettle hole. Do you know what that is?”

I shook my head.

“Thousands of years ago, when the glaciers were retreating, meltwater drained here.” She formed her hands into a cone shape. “It’s fifty to sixty feet deep.”

Maya glanced back at me, and we shared another moment before she motioned for us to continue down the path.

On the far side of the pond, away from the parking lot and road, we stumbled upon the site of Thoreau’s cabin. Not much remained. A reconstruction stood near the visitor center, but the demarcation of the real thing had a bigger impact on Maya. She stood reverently, soaking in the quiet, her eyes scanning the trees. Slowly, she turned and studied the water. Across the way, a lone man paddled a canoe. Reflections of the foliage rippled along the water’s surface, compounding the sensation of green all around us.

“Can you imagine?” she asked.

“What?” I whispered, fearful I’d ruin the serenity or the growing connection between us.

“Living here, away from it all. No Google, no advertisements, no tourists…” She sat on a log.

I glanced at my watch. “It’s not even nine. I imagine busloads of tourists will be arriving soon.”

She grinned at me like I was a child who missed the big picture. “I know. I was trying to envision it during his time.”

My cheeks prickled with warmth. “Of course. I for one wouldn’t miss the likes of Susie Q.”

She laughed. “You really don’t like her.”

“She makes my life hell.”

Maya straddled the log and placed a hand on each of her knees. “How?”

“Do you know what it’s like to have everything you do splashed for all the world to see?”

Maya shook her head. “I stick to myself, mostly.”

“You’re lucky. I feel like a zoo creature ninety percent of the time.” I sighed. “It wouldn’t be so bad if Susie Q stuck to the facts, but‌—‌”

“I saw the bit about the… fart.” She stared at an ant crawling along the log.

“You read her blog?” I placed a hand on my heart.

“Only that one article. I was curious after you mentioned her last time.” She hitched up an apologetic shoulder.

“I didn’t fart.” I tore a leaf in half.

“I know. It was the chair.”

“The rest of that day, wherever I went, I swore people were staring at me or laughing. I know it sounds silly, but you have no idea what it’s like being famous because your mother is the senior senator of Massachusetts. I’ve seen people in classes, coffee shops, or wherever, googling me. One person asked me to sign his iPad. Some assume they know me because they’ve read my Wikipedia page.” I sucked in some air. “Susie made high school hell.” I locked eyes on Maya. “Please, don’t ever read or watch her reports from high school. I wouldn’t be able to stand it.”

“If I were to read your Wiki page, what would I find?” She leaned back, gripping the log.

“You haven’t googled me?” I was dumbfounded.

She shook her head, amused. “Why would I? You’re right here.”

“Just the Carmichael highlights. We’ve had a member in the Senate and House since the founding of the US. Two governors of Massachusetts. Three mayors of Boston.” I ticked each one off on a finger.

“Any mention of your father?” She lowered her eyes.

“It briefly mentions his death and how my mother was elected to his senate seat.”

“Anything about you?”

I scrunched my face. “Not much. Just the schools I attended, my charity work, and I think it’s been updated to say I’m currently enrolled in Whitlock.”

She whistled. “Do you update the page?”

“Oh no. We have people.”

“Right. People. Well, Miss Carmichael, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get to know the real you. Not the created you.”

“Not the created me‌—‌I like that.”

“Thoreau wrote, ‘The language of friendship is not words, but meanings.’ I’ve always liked how he put it. Sometimes I wonder whether friendships can exist in today’s meaningless world.”

I laughed. “You have a worse opinion of society than I have.”

“Is that good or bad?” She smirked.

“It’s good in my book.” I stared up at her with hooded eyes.

“Did you know Thoreau used to take children on hikes through the woods here? One day, he pointed out a cobweb to a young Louisa May Alcott and told her it wasn’t a cobweb but a handkerchief left by a fairy.”

“Oh, that’s sweet, but…”

“But what?” Maya’s soft eyes were alluring.

“I’m not sure I would have believed it. Not even as a child.”

“And I’m the cynic.” She hooted.

“We can be cynics together.”

A chipmunk scrounged through fallen leaves nearby, unafraid. Maya watched with a wisp of a smile. “Maybe we should move here. Get away from it all. You can escape the family dynasty, and I can…” Sadness made her shoulders sag. I wondered what she wanted to escape, but I feared asking.
Quid pro quo
was a bitch. “Maybe then, we’d believe in fairies.”

“It might take years to get to that point.”

“I’m game. Can you live in a tent?” she teased.

I scrunched my face. “Uh, maybe.”

Her knowing smile made it crystal clear I hadn’t been convincing about my “roughing it” abilities. I was not Teddy Roosevelt. A wicked glint appeared in her eyes. “What would Thoreau say about Susie Q?”

Relieved that she let me off the camping hook, I snorted. “God, I think he would hate her.”

“That settles it.” She put a palm on my thigh. “I won’t ever read anything by Susie Q.”

“You promise?”

“I promise, Ainsley.” She nudged my foot with hers. “I can’t stand people like Susie: the type who use others to make a name for themselves. Private lives are just that, private. Although, it’s getting harder and harder for people to maintain them, even nobodies like me.”

“You aren’t a nobody.” I smacked her arm.

“Hey, I want to be a nobody. I strive to be a nobody.” She put both palms in the air and smiled. “It makes me free.”

“That may be the case, but you aren’t a nobody to me.”

She seemed to study me quite frankly, and I thought I detected a glimmer of longing in her eyes. I wanted to lean in, but I couldn’t‌—‌Cassidy and Susie Q had ruined that for me.

“What’s our next stop?” I hopped up.

***

We wandered along the brick pathway leading to Bronson Alcott’s Concord School of Philosophy. We’d just completed the tour of Orchard House, and the school, while on the property, wasn’t officially part of the tour. The ugly, dirty-brown building surrounded by grass and trees looked out of place.

Maya peered through the window. “Did you know Louisa helped pay for the school? Bronson was brilliant‌—‌a true idealist‌—‌but he could never channel his ideas into making money, not like his daughter.”

I glanced over my shoulder at Orchard House. “It’s really beautiful here. So quiet.”

Maya laughed. “Too quiet for Louisa. She loved city life. The theater. She acted some.” Maya turned back to the school. “Emerson said when Bronson sat down to write, his intellect left him.”

“I feel like that sometimes when I have to write a paper.”

She nudged my side. “Does that mean I’ll write the paper and you’ll do the presentation in class?”

“Maybe. I’m good at research, though.” I leaned against the building, somewhat surprised the worn boards held my weight. “Did they get along?”

“Bronson and Louisa?”

I nodded.

“Yes and no. They were a lot alike, so naturally they butted heads. There were differences, important differences. His principles ranked higher than taking care of his family.” Maya crossed her arms and rested a shoulder on the wall. “That must have rankled Louisa some. She had to work so hard to pay off the family’s debt, and her father… well, he always had his head in the clouds. The father was supposed to be the breadwinner, not the daughter. I admire that she was.”

Maya stared at the horizon, lost in thought, and I wondered whether she was thinking of her father. Was he like Bronson? Too self-involved? Idealistic? Yet Louisa was able to overcome the obstacles and make a name for herself. Where Bronson failed, his daughter succeeded. Is that the narrative Maya wanted for herself?

“I don’t agree with her, though. I’d love to live here.” She spread out both arms, twirling. “Away from the city.”

“It’s so green here.” My eyes scanned all four directions. “Green, green, green, green.”

“Exactly.” She seemed pleased I’d remembered her comment from the car. “Can you imagine living here when she did, surrounded by so many great minds, the thinkers of the time? It’s hard for me to believe she wasn’t happy here.”

“Sometimes you don’t know what you have until it’s too late.”

Maya nodded thoughtfully. “Too true. And sometimes we covet things we can’t have. Ever.”

***

After visiting many of the sites, we popped into a tavern in downtown Lexington for a late lunch. The restaurant was new but was situated in a building that dated back centuries. Only a half-dozen tables filled the open floor plan, set up family style with old-fashioned wooden chairs. A roaring fire in the corner combated the damp air. A storm brewed outside, reflected within Maya’s eyes.

“How come you haven’t visited Concord much?” Maya dipped a spoon into a bowl of clam chowder.

“I think when you live here, you take a lot for granted. I remember visiting on a school trip, but my main memory consists of John Briggs pantsing Kevin Spade in the Walden Pond parking lot, shouting ‘How do you like them apples, Thoreau?’”

Maya laughed, and the tension in her shoulder’s eased.

“Did your school visit?” I asked, cracking pepper over my chowder.

She looked down at her soup. “I could never afford school trips. They never cost much, but…”

I nodded. I’d never considered that.

“That’s why I waited two years to apply to Whitlock, and then deferred a year when I was accepted. My momma always told me paying one’s own way is the greatest gift I can give myself.”

I quickly did the math. It meant Maya was at least twenty-one. “Have you applied for scholarships? My mother‌—‌”

She tsked playfully. “Remember, I’m not Susie. I like you, Ainsley. Half the time I forget your last name.”

“Only half the time?”

“It’s hard to forget when the tour guide at the Alcott house kept saying, ‘Miss Carmichael, you might find this interesting.’”

My face sizzled at egg-frying temperature. “That was so embarrassing,” I whispered.

“You’re very recognizable, your face and your hair.” She smiled bashfully. “A lot of women would kill for your hair.”

“Not you?”

“Not sure it would suit my complexion.” She rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “Besides, it looks way better on you.”

I smiled.

“To answer your question, though, I did score a couple of small scholarships. Also, I’ve held so many part-time jobs I don’t think I’ve slept much since high school. Started my first business when I was nine.”

“What business?” I dumped more crackers into my soup.

“Dog walking.” She reached into her canvas bag and pulled out a business card.

“You still walk dogs?”

“Not as much, but I have some steady clients. I house-sit as well. My goal is to line up enough house-sitting jobs next year that I don’t have to pay rent at all.”

“Give me some cards. I know people who are always in need.” I put a palm out.

She hesitated, but her stiffness melted. “Really? That’d be great.” She handed me three.

I laughed. “More.”

Maya fished out an additional five. “Let me know if you need more.”

“I might.” I deposited the stack in my wallet. “What’s been the craziest part-time job?”

“Craziest?” She buttered a piece of roll. “Not sure it was the craziest, but I worked at a call center that cold-called people for opinion polls. You learn a lot about human nature when you interrupt people during the dinner hour to ask what they think about the current state of the economy.” She popped the roll into her mouth.

“I bet.”

Maya washed the bread down with water. “One lady described miniature aliens that were climbing out of her kitchen cupboard.”