Wishful Thinking (25 page)

But what if they didn’t remember her? Or what if they did? How would they feel, seeing somebody they’d known, so many years ago? Somebody who hadn’t changed a bit, while they had all grown older. While they’d moved on and lived their lives.

It would be confusing, to say the least.

And this wasn’t the time or the place to explain. It wasn’t
her night. This night was for Rosanna. Besides, there was a part of Hazel that didn’t want to know if somehow, what had happened for her and all that it had meant, hadn’t meant the same thing to everybody else.

She took one last look at Rosanna’s picture through the glass.

“Good-bye, Rosanna,” she whispered, and turned to walk away.

She was halfway to the bus when she realized she didn’t have her bag.

She ran back to the restaurant, thinking maybe she’d dropped it, but soon remembered that she hadn’t seen it since she’d emptied it upside down on the boat. She’d left it there, on the deck, with her thrift-store dress inside.

Hazel hurried back to the dock. The boat was still there, and she ran to it, willing her feet to go faster.

But just as she reached the ticket booth, the horn blew. The ropes were thrown and the boat pulled back, gliding out across the water.

Hazel’s heart sunk. She’d never see that dress again.

She was about to turn around when something caught her eye on the boat. It was a figure, a person holding a child, and at first Hazel thought it was the man and the little boy from the Vineyard, holding out bread to the gulls.

But the figure turned and Hazel could see that it was a woman with long, blond hair and a little girl. Hazel took a few steps closer, shielding her eyes from the bright lights of the dock, trying to get a better look.

The little girl was reaching both arms over the railing, and Hazel recognized the little sparkling flower clips in her
hair. The girl from the bathroom. The one she’d seen washing her hands. The wind picked up and Hazel could hear the girl squealing with delight, saying something over and over again. She was waving, and it sounded like she was saying, “Bye, bye. Bye, bye. Bye, bye.”

Without thinking, Hazel raised her hand, too, waving back to the little girl and her mother as the boat carried them away.

The woman balanced her daughter on one hip, shaking her arm free of her shawl and raising it to join in the waving. There was a quick flash of light, a reflection from lights on the harbor catching on a dangling piece of silver around the woman’s neck. Hazel felt her pulse speeding as she leaned over the wooden railing, squinting, her fingers frozen mid-wave.

It was a purple shell. The necklace. Her hand quickly traveled to her throat, and she felt the cool of the chain that Jaime had given her, the smoothness of the shell against her skin.

The woman Hazel had seen in the bathroom. The woman with the daughter.

Her hair was dyed blond, but it was still long and wavy, and the small, dark eyes were unmistakable.

Jaime.

Hazel lifted her hand again, waving, small at first and then bigger, making wide circles with her arm. She wanted to yell. To tell Jaime to come back. To beg the attendant to turn the boat around.

But no words would come.

The woman on the boat tucked her arm back inside her shawl and pulled her daughter close to her chest. They turned away and walked inside, the shape of their bodies huddled together, as they vanished into the soft, yellow light of the cabin.

T
he next morning, Hazel woke up slowly.

It took her a few moments to remember where she was. A bright, dappled square of light hit the floor by her bed, and she could see through the window that the sun was shining, breaking between the folds of the green and white curtains. She was in her bed, on her old, lumpy futon, back in San Rafael.

She was home. It was spring. And finally the rain had stopped.

She lay still and closed her eyes again, replaying the night before. Her bag on the boat. Billy at the bar. Rosanna’s picture in the frame.

Jaime.

She sat up with a start. Had she really seen Jaime on the boat? It had been so dark, and she was far away. It could have been any necklace.

But, no. It
had
to be her. She looked the same, except for her hair. Hazel smiled. Jaime was the Blondie now. She’d
looked older, of course, and happier. Exactly the way Hazel had seen her when she’d imagined what the future would bring. Full and assured of where she’d been and where she was going.

Where
was
she going? Hazel wondered. Did she live nearby? The ferry was the only boat to all of Marin County. She could have been traveling anywhere. But was it possible they had been neighbors all along?

Hazel remembered the little girl, the one she’d seen in the bathroom, and then again on the boat. Jaime’s other daughter. Hazel’s half sister.

Before, the idea of her birth mother having another child—and keeping her—probably would have made Hazel angry, filled her with the burning jealousy she felt whenever she thought about all she’d missed out on.

But now, as she pulled herself out of bed, ready to start her day, she didn’t feel any of that. She’d been exactly where she needed to be, done all of the things she’d needed to do. And she was her own person because of it. She hadn’t missed out on anything.

Hazel got dressed. She wondered what Jaime was doing at this very moment. She knew it wouldn’t be impossible to find her. She imagined herself at the computer at school. All she’d have to do was type in Jaime’s name, Marin County, maybe try each of the different towns. With a few quick searches and the press of a button, Hazel could be reunited with her mother by the end of the day.

But it didn’t feel right. She didn’t know what it was, and she couldn’t say how long it would last, but she felt, deep down, she wasn’t supposed to find Jaime again. Not yet.

Maybe, later on, Hazel would want to search for her mother. Or maybe their summer together would be all they’d ever have.

Either way, Hazel knew she’d be okay. She knew that things had a way of working out, even if it wasn’t how, or when, she thought they might.

Hazel got dressed and went into the bathroom to brush her teeth. She pulled her hair out of the ponytail she’d stuck it in before bed. It hadn’t grown an inch, and was still dyed platinum blond. She couldn’t wait for it to grow out.

As she turned to leave the room, her eyes fell on the Polaroid in the corner. The picture of Wendy holding her on her hip. She’d never noticed how happy Wendy had looked. She’d wanted to be a mother, and she’d been able to make that dream come true, even if it was only for a little while.

She heard the familiar voices of Roy’s favorite sportscasters on the TV downstairs. He’d been sleeping when she got in last night. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to handle any kind of small talk when she’d walked in the door, and was relieved she hadn’t had to.

But there was something almost like a smile on her face as she rounded the corner into the living room. There he was, as always, leaning against one corner of the couch, eyes fixed on the television and a bowl of cereal on his knee.

“Morning,” he said, wiping the corner of his mouth and checking his beard for drops of stray milk. He scrambled for the remote and turned the volume down.

“Good morning,” she said back. She couldn’t believe it, but she kind of wanted to hug him. And if she’d been able to
think of a single good excuse, or acceptable thing to say afterward, she probably would have done just that.

Instead, she smiled and made her way to the kitchen. The box of Cheerios was waiting for her on the table, next to a bowl and a spoon. She found the milk and fixed herself a bowl, hovering for a minute by the sink, before taking her breakfast back into the living room and settling onto the other side of the couch.

She could feel Roy watching her as she ate. He looked afraid to say anything, afraid to make her leave. Her eyes were frozen on the flashing screen, meaningless statistics scrolling across the bottom, over disconnected images of the weekend’s Top Ten.

“Supposed to be nice out today,” Roy said, glancing up at the window and squinting at the sun. “You think the rain will ever stop for good?”

Hazel followed his gaze out to the street and nodded. “I have a feeling we’ve seen the worst of it,” she said, and took another soupy bite. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d said so many words to him at once.

If he noticed, he did his best not to let on, just slurped the rest of his cereal and patted the arm of the sofa. “All righty then,” he said, heaving himself up and dropping his bowl in the sink.

Hazel searched for the remote and flipped off the TV as Roy put on his hat and stood by the door.

“Guess you don’t want a ride,” he said, but it sounded like a question.

“No, thanks.” She shrugged. “I’ll just take the bus.”

She tried to say it through a smile and hoped he knew it
wasn’t about him. She had some things to sort out before she got to school. It had been one long weekend.

“All righty.” Roy nodded, turning the knob and starting outside.

“Hey, Roy.” Hazel stood up, knocking her leg against the coffee table.

Roy stopped and turned back over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

Hazel tugged the sleeves of her sweater over her thumbs. “I just wanted to say, you know,” she stuttered, her heart skipping, her palms growing damp. There were all kinds of things she wanted to say, only they were piling up on top of each other and she wasn’t sure she’d be able to separate them into coherent, speakable thoughts.

“I just wanted to tell you,” she started again, taking a deep breath and sighing it out. “Keep the beard. I like it.”

Roy tugged at his chin, smoothing the rusty hair along his jaw. “You think?”

Hazel nodded once, all business. “Definitely.”

Roy flashed a quick smile, rapping his knuckles against the side of the door. “All righty,” he said again, and pulled the door shut.

Hazel finished the last of her cereal and washed her bowl first, then Roy’s, and put them both in the rack. She grabbed one of her old backpacks from the closet, found her books by the steps, and hurried outside for the bus.

She rushed to the end of her block, her shoulders falling as she watched the bus snake three blocks ahead, dusty red brake lights disappearing into traffic.

“Hey,” she heard a voice call from behind her. “Wait up!”

Hazel stopped at the curb and turned to find Jasper Greene starting down the sidewalk. “Jasper?”

He slowed before he reached her, his crooked, heartshaped smile twitching in place. “Trying to ditch me already?” he asked.

“Ditch you?” Hazel repeated. Like a flash, she remembered seeing him in the city. The books. The picture. She even remembered he’d said something to make her blush. What was it?

“It’s Monday, isn’t it?” Jasper asked. He was wearing dark jeans and an old cowboy shirt, with shiny buttons and inside-out stitching on the pocket. Hazel looked at him, his big brown eyes and funny hair, and realized she hadn’t really seen him before.

“Isn’t it?” he asked again, and this time it sounded like he could be wrong. She watched as his smile faded just slightly, the corners of his lips tightening, just the way Luke’s had when she’d suddenly done or said something to make him nervous. “I thought we could ride together on the bus.”

Hazel took a deep breath and tucked a piece of hair behind one ear. She looked up and down the street. She’d missed the first bus, and if they waited for the next one, they’d be late for homeroom.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. Jasper looked at the sidewalk and kicked his leather shoe against the curb. He let out a long, heavy sigh, and Hazel realized what she’d said.

“No, I mean, no, we can’t take the bus!” She laughed. “We missed it. We have to walk.”

Jasper laughed, too, his smile back in place. “That’s cool,” he said. “I don’t mind walking.”

Hazel felt a familiar tug at her heart and realized that she didn’t mind, either.

They stood at the crosswalk, looking up at the red flashing signal. When it turned green, Jasper looked at her sideways.

“Ready?” he asked.

“I’m ready,” Hazel answered, and together they stepped down off the curb and into the street.

T
he boat to the city slipped away from Marin, shuttling commuters to work, students to their classes.

In the corner, by the door, a black canvas tote slumped against one wall. Spilling out of the bag was a dress: swirling, bright circles on slippery satin. Along the seam was a single, stubborn tear, and attached to the collar, a tag:

MARIPOSA OF THE MISSION

It was a dress that had been lost by those who no longer needed it, and it waited to be found by a girl who did. A girl in need of a second chance, or the courage to make her dreams come true. A girl with a wish in her heart.

Many thanks to many people:

To the ladies of Alloy, especially Sara Shandler and Joelle Hobeika, who have been, from the beginning, the most incredible editors, teachers, and friends. Also to Kristin Marang, who patiently introduced me to the Internet. It’s an honor to have you all in my corner.

To the ladies of Scholastic, especially Aimee Friedman, Abby McAden, and Sheila Marie Everett, for your brilliant guidance and overwhelming support. (And for the coaching, talking-down-from-ledges, and reminders not to lose my conference badges. I’ll try harder, I promise.)

To the remarkable David Levithan and his wonderful community of Young Adult writers, for welcoming me into the YA family. Most especially to Francisco X. Stork, for his beautiful books, and for showing me the ropes.

To the people of Martha’s Vineyard: Setting this book on your island was a privilege. Special thanks to Madi and Bob Coutts, Erin Haggerty, Dana Inglehart, Nelia Decker and
the West Tisbury library, Kristin Maloney and the Chilmark library, Cynthia Wolfson, and Zoe at Riley’s Reads.

To my family of friends, Courtney Messinger and Alex Epton (for being my Brooklyn B&B), Hannah Kim, Katie Greisch, Jenna Bonistalli, Leah Tepper-Byrne, and Lauren O’Rourke. Thanks for keeping me around so long.