The Chosen One (9 page)

History is little more than the register of the crimes, follies, and misfortunes of mankind.

The message came from an unknown number again, but it wasn’t difficult to guess the sender. “Give it a rest, Susie!” I tossed the phone into the far corner of the couch.

***

Fiona’s phone buzzed forty-five minutes later. She tapped the e-mail app on her cell and quickly scanned Chuck’s message. “Yeah… okay… Dorchester… Mattapan?” Fiona covered half her mouth with a palm to hide her shock. She mumbled “Sorry” through her fingers.

Back in the nineties, Mattapan became infamous for its crime, and many referred to it as Murdapan. It had cleaned up some since then, but few visited the area unless absolutely necessary.

“How does being from Mattapan make a difference?” I mused out loud. Grover cocked his head, doing his best to follow the conversation. I tossed a tennis ball down the hallway, and he gave chase.

Fiona pushed a button, blackening the screen, but didn’t say anything.

“Tell me everything in the e-mail!” I shook her arm up and down.

She laughed. “Okay, but don’t get your hopes up. It seems your Maya Chandler is still a mystery for the most part. She and her mom moved into a house in Mattapan in 2003, and that’s the first bit of information Chuck could find. There are no birth records for Maya or her mother. It’s like they magically appeared in 2003 in Murdapan, of all places. Her mom is a waitress, according to her taxes.”

“Taxes?”

“I told you Chuck was good.”

“But how? If she filed taxes, she must have a social security number. Surely Maya does as well. Hard to believe La Creperie would hire her on the sly.”

“She does make the best coffee.”

“Fiona.” I flashed an admonishing glance to silence her. “Why isn’t there a record of them before 2003?” I sighed. “What does that mean? Witness protection?”

“Did she say anything about Wyoming?”

“All she said was that it was brown.”

“Brown?” Fiona scratched her chin.

“She said she was just a kid when they moved.”

“That’s not much to go on. Who is this chick?”

“So much for being like Dubya,” I said.

Fee lit another cigarette. “What?”

“You told me to follow my gut. Look where that got me‌—‌ditched in a cemetery by a girl who doesn’t seem to exist.”

Chapter Eight

At 7:55 a.m. on Monday morning, I briefly considered skipping class for the first time in my life. I was probably the only person in my high school who had never ditched a class‌—‌not one. Many people claimed I was too uptight; that wasn’t it, not entirely. I’d just never wanted to. Not all of my classes rocked my world, of course, but I didn’t loathe any either. The truth: ditching wasn’t in my genetic code. Carmichael’s never dodged a commitment‌—‌never ever.

Yet the mere thought of seeing Maya first thing made my stomach twist in knots, like that time I had
E. coli
after eating a salad in Mexico. When I woke this morning, the cramps in my belly screamed, “the squirts are coming, the squirts are coming” like a demented Paul Revere.

I placed the back of my hand on my forehead, and I swore my temperature hovered around one hundred or higher. Maybe I did have food poisoning; surely that was an acceptable excuse for missing class. Or was I simply worked up about seeing Maya?

Dr. Gingas wobbled down the corridor, conjuring an image of a wounded, two-legged rhinoceros. Wounded or not, she was still intent on going in for the kill.

There was no way in hell this woman would excuse any absence, no matter what. Even death wouldn’t be acceptable. According to the syllabus, we were allotted three absences. After that, each absence lowered our grade by one letter, but I suspected Dr. Gingas would consider failing someone for missing a single class.

“You feeling all right, Ms. Carmichael?”

“What? Yes, I’m fine.” I smoothed my V-neck T-shirt.

“Glad to hear it. Now stop your dillydallying and get your keister in your seat, pronto.” She stretched out a stubby finger and stabbed it at the door.

Did she sense I was acting like an attention-seeking prima donna, or did she just not give a damn enough to notice anything except that the class was about to start? More than likely, it was the latter.

Maya was in her usual seat, and I knew I had to sit next to her or Susie Q would take note. Most assuredly Maya would, too, and I didn’t want to give either that satisfaction.

Maya adjusted in her seat when I sat down, but she didn’t acknowledge my presence, not that I had time to opine. Our dictatorial professor started lecturing as soon as she was halfway into the classroom. She held her briefcase like she was guarding missile launch codes.

I whipped out my notebook and got down to business.

The fifty minutes flew by, and before I had settled into a groove, everyone was cramming their belongings into book bags. Maya continued to jot down notes. Before I had the chance to stand, the scratch of her pen stopped. Curious, I turned to her.

She paled when we locked eyes, and I wondered whether the entire school was infected with
E. coli.
Her usual bright gray eyes looked more like three-day-old snow in the gutter.

“Would you like to grab a cup of coffee?” she asked.

I scrutinized her face, trying to determine whether I was experiencing fever-induced delusions and hearing voices. Maya’s lips had moved, but still. She was talking to me… on campus. And after the incident.

“Uh, sure.”

“If you don’t have time…” She stopped without any interruption on my part.

I laughed awkwardly, sounding a bit like a hyena who didn’t understand the punch line.

Maya actually smiled at that and seemed to recover her usual composure: paradoxically cocky, scared, and alluring. Who was Maya the Gray? What was she? And why couldn’t I know?

Several other students stared at me as if I was a special case or something. A brilliant autistic student, perhaps, who knew a million and one facts about Massachusetts but not how to interact with humans. People exiting the room gave me a wide berth, which was a feat, considering I blocked most of the pathway to freedom. Every single person wore a sympathetic smile that suggested, “I think it’s great the institution lets you out for classes.”

Maya nudged my arm. “You ready?”

I didn’t think she was really asking, just forcing me to get my hiney moving and out of everyone’s way.

I blew out some air, and a loose strand of hair from my ponytail poked me in the eye. I yelped. Why had that hurt so much? Like a razor blade slicing through an eyeball?

Maya suppressed a smile, put a hand on my arm, and asked, “Are you okay?”

I glanced down at her hand, and she promptly yanked it away.

“Yeah, just determined to make a spectacle out of myself in front of you every chance I get,” I said, not caring how she or anyone else took it. I was sick and tired of living in a fishbowl.

“You do have a knack for it.” Her smile was genuine, which irked me.

“Like you can talk,” I snapped. I slugged my bag over my shoulder and headed toward the exit.

Screw coffee. I wanted to be alone.

I didn’t get ten yards from the building before someone tugged on my arm. Whipping around ready for a fight, I found Maya with mournful, downcast eyes.

“At least let me buy you a cup of coffee, after…” Words failed her again.

“Fine. I have time before English,” I said, much more brusquely than intended. She looked miserable, and I didn’t understand why I couldn’t tell her it was okay. I was being that girl I despised: the overly dramatic and insufferable scorned teenage girl‌—‌the type in movies. So we kissed and then she shot me down.
Not the end of the world, Ainsley
.

So why did I feel that way? I hated her for it. And I hated myself for letting it happen. Again.

We trudged to a coffee cart inside the entrance of the Student Union. Was she as uncomfortable as I was? Her slumped shoulders said yes. Could everyone read on my face that Maya had rejected me after rocking my world with her lips? I didn’t need a scarlet A, just a big, fat, cherry-red L for Loser. Or LL for Lesbian Loser. I was waiting for Maya to deliver the breakup
coup de grace
: it’s not you, it’s me.

Coffees in hand, neither of us knew what to do.

Maya motioned to the glass door etched with the university’s initials, WU, and its sunray logo. “Would you like to find a quiet spot?”

I nodded like a child who had just recovered from a tantrum, minus the snot-smeared face.

Several large trees surrounded a bench on the side of the building. It was a lovers’ paradise.
Flipping fantastic!

Maya sat with her legs slightly open, elbows on each thigh, and fiddled with the plastic lid on her coffee. I noticed she wasn’t wearing her work clothes.

Perched in the corner with my legs primly crossed, I kept my eyes forward.

“I’m really sorry about‌—‌”

“Don’t worry about it.” I cut her off. “It happens…” What was I going to say? It happens to me all the time? Could I be any more awkward?

“No, please. Let me explain.” She shuffled her feet in the dirt. “I like you. I do. The kiss… and you’re absolutely adorable, even when you’re trying to be tough, but… it’s just that, well, what kind of future could we have?” She peered into the distance.

“What do you mean?”

“Your mom is a senator.”

“Huh?” I still wasn’t getting it.

“And I’m a poor kid from Mattapan.”

Chuck was dead-on with that one. “And?”

“Oh, come on, Ainsley. You know what I mean?”

I shook my head.

“We both have ancestors who were slaves, but you don’t look it, and I do,” she whispered. “Not to mention you’re filthy rich and I’m poorer than poor.”

I tapped the top of the plastic coffee lid. “You think I’m elitist and racist.”

“What? No! It’s not that. It’s just…”

“It’s just what?” I pushed. There was so much more to this story. Like how come there wasn’t a record of Maya or her mom before 2003?

“My own family doesn’t talk to me…”

“Because you’re not white or because you’re poor?”

Was her father white? Rich? I was desperate to fill in the blanks.

She nodded halfheartedly, not confirming which. Maybe both reasons mattered somehow.

Ostracized by her family, being a minority and gay in Wyoming, moving to Mattapan under suspicious circumstances‌—‌she had life experiences I would never be able to relate to. Maya wouldn’t be able to relate to mine either. Did that matter, though? Taylor Swift’s “Love Story” started to play in my head.

“And then I kissed a prominent white senator’s daughter.” She smirked. “Back home, I’d get shot for that.” Her expression showed she wasn’t teasing.

I let out a slow breath, trying to take everything in.

“It’s not like that here.” I nearly choked on the untruth. Massachusetts was a lot more liberal than the rest of the US, but only certain chunks of it. Ignorance and hate lurked in every corner of America.

“Okay, it’s not perfect here, but it has to be better than Wyoming. I mean, nothing against your home state; it’s just you don’t have to be so afraid here.”

“Says the girl who’s never had to deal with discrimination. Ever hear of Ferguson, Sandra Bland, Trayvon Martin, Oscar Grant, or Freddie Gray…?” She motioned she could go on.

“And you think that’ll happen if you’re seen with me?” I placed a hand on my heart.

“Because you plan on being seen with me all the time? Out in the open?” She motioned to the safety provided by the trees.

“Hey, that’s not fair!
You
suggested this place.”

“But you tend to drift to secluded places. You hardly talk to anyone in class.”

“Neither do you! That’s one of the things I like about you.”

“That I know my place?”

I blinked. “I would never say or think such a thing. What I meant is that you’re one of the few people I’ve met who seems real, not someone who’s filling space on social media to show how cool and important they are. I love your authenticity. What happened to being cynics together?” I tried to spark the feelings we’d shared at Walden Pond.

“And how can I maintain my authenticity if I’m with one of the most recognizable girls on campus? I don’t want my picture splashed all over the Internet, or to appear in the social pages.”

I groaned. “You can’t have it both ways, Maya. First you say I want to keep you hidden, and now you’re saying you don’t want to be seen with me. Which is it?”

She covered her eyes with both hands. “I don’t know. I just don’t know if this”‌—‌she motioned to us‌—‌“can work. Ever. We’re so different.”

“But we aren’t‌—‌not inside. We both just want to be left alone.”

The tightness in her facial muscles confused me. Was she angry? Or about to give in?

“You have no idea what it’s like being from Mattapan and attending Whitlock. Being a minority, fatherless, struggling to keep a roof over my head, and alone.”

“You have no idea what it’s like to be me. Everyone has treated me differently because of my last name. I thought you were different,” I said without thinking. “I’m not a person; I’m a Carmichael. That’s all anyone sees.”

She flinched but quickly recovered. “Must be such a hardship. How do you get out of bed every day?”

The conversation had taken a massive wrong turn. “I can’t change who I am,” I said through gritted teeth. “I’m sorry you had it so rough while I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth, but you aren’t the only one who’s fatherless.” I stood up in a huff, but I didn’t rush off. I wanted her to stop me. I wanted her to say she was sorry, to say “to hell with it; let’s give it a go.”

She didn’t. Maya continued to stare at her feet. Clearly she had no intention of continuing the conversation. That was that. I was the rich white girl. She was the poor minority. And in her world, that still mattered. I knew it mattered in my world, too, but at least I was willing to give us a chance.

***

“And that’s all she said?” Fiona rubbed one of her earlobes. “No major bomb, just that she’s poor and her mother was born in Puerto Rico?”

“Thank you!” I slapped the kitchen table.