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  “I got a response from Bee.”

  “What’s it say?” he asks eagerly, leaning forward.

  “Nothing good.” Before I know it, I’m showing him my phone and letting him read the terrible message.

  I watch him take in the words, and notice how his eyebrows immediately go up.

  “Wow. She hates your mother.”

  “So it seems,” I say, putting my phone down.

  “Like, seventeen years later still hates her,” he says, leaning back on his arms. “That’s some grudge she has.”

  “I know. I want to know what happened. It’s annoying that she won’t tell me anything.”

  “Yeah. You’d think she’d have some sympathy.”

  “Apparently not. I want to respond, but she doesn’t seem keen on hearing from me again.”

  “I think you should respond. The worst she could do is not answer. And the best is you can learn some more, even if it is all bad news.” He adds, “You don’t believe her, do you?”

  “That my mother ruined friendships and made someone hate her for my entire lifespan?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Do you think your mom . . . mom? Mother?”

  “Mother. Birth mother,” I explain. “My mom is the person who raised me. I like to differentiate between the two.”

  “Noted,” he says. “Anyway, do you think your mother was the kind of person who left people with scars, like Bee insinuated?”

  “No, not really. I mean, I don’t know. I guess she could have been. . . .”

  “But you’re not like that,” he points out.

  “Thanks.” I smile. “But I wasn’t raised by her, remember?”

  “True,” he says. “And I’m sure that affects things.”

  “You think?” I ask. “You don’t think certain traits run in the blood? Like, will a bully have a baby bully?” It’s exactly what I’ve been wondering, especially since starting this quest. And I know Bennett won’t have the answers, but his mom might have seen progress, his mom might have witnessed changes. And it feels good to kind of discuss this out loud. Am I who I am because of my mom? Would I be different if I was raised by my mother? It makes me wonder who I’m supposed to be, and if I went astray somewhere along the way.

  “Well,” he starts, “what if the baby bully is brought up in a loving, bully-free home?”

  “Like me?” I ask.

  “Like you.” He nods. “I think we’re getting into a nature versus nurture philosophical conversation.”

  “So you think it’s nurture, then. That no matter what genes I have, I can change. Everything can affect who I am, including my mom and, I guess, my own decisions?”

  “I guess,” he answers, massaging the back of his neck. “I haven’t thought much about it. But I’d like to think that we could change. Like prodigies—are they good at, like, piano because their parents are professional musicians and it’s in their blood? Or are they good because they practiced a lot? Or, look at me. I love animation, but my parents aren’t artistic at all. Not that I’m great, but you know.”

  It’s true; I don’t know what my mother liked, but my parents are bringing me up to like everything, to try everything and see what works out. Which is how I found photography. I wonder what my mother liked.

  I look at him, and he leans forward, touching my arm. “I think it’s up to you, to be who you want.”

  “Thanks,” I say, because it’s the most honest thing I’ve heard in a while. I look down, hiding my blush, and when I look up again, he’s staring at me.

  “So what should we do now?” I ask, going back to the task at hand. Realizing it’s easier talking about that than my personality.

  “Respond to her. And then, I don’t know, wait?”

  I nod and look back at the message. I shake my head, steady my shoulders, and right myself for the problem at hand.

  Bee, thanks for your message, and I’m sorry for the pain it seems to have brought up. I never knew my mother, like I said, so I don’t know what happened between the two of you. I would love to, though. Any information would be extremely helpful. But I understand if you’d rather not talk. Thanks, Maude.

  I reread it a few times, and then look back at Bennett. He leans forward to read it, then nods his head. With a deep breath, I press Send. I sit back and impatiently wait for a response, refreshing the page repeatedly.

  “She’ll get back to you,” he says reassuringly. “She can’t be heartless.”

  “I’m not so sure. . . .” I say, raising my eyebrows.

  “Hey, this may be obvious, but is your father’s name on your birth certificate?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “I’ve asked my mom before, and she didn’t know anything either.”

  “What do you think about that?” he asks gently, and I wonder . . . what do I think about that? I’ve always speculated on why he wasn’t listed. Did he just split when he found out about me? Or did she honestly not know who my father was? Both options are bad in their own ways, but I still can’t help but wonder what he would have thought about me.

  I look over at Bennett and then think of another situation—what if I wasn’t just an accident? What if I was a product of something worse? I shake my head, not wanting to think about that. Not wanting to feel my own skin.

  “I don’t know,” I finally answer. “I guess she had her reasons. I mean, I want to know, but . . .”

  “But maybe you don’t?”

  “Yeah, maybe I don’t,” I answer, somewhat uncomfortably. I look down and realize I’m still in yesterday’s clothes. This is a good excuse to split before I start confessing and unearthing deep dark secrets that I haven’t even had time to realize. Also, I haven’t heard back from Tree and, despite everything, I worry. “Hey, I think I’m going to get ready for the day.”

  “Yeah, I should, too. I smell, don’t I? Be honest.”

  “You don’t smell,” I say.

  “I smell. You’re just nice. Anyway. What are we doing today?”

  My heart lifts at this question—he’s inviting himself along again. I like that he wants to spend time with me, despite my oddly philosophical questions and, more than likely, morning breath.

  “I don’t know—I guess I’m just waiting to hear from everyone. Maybe I’ll go to the school area again? I guess my mother lived over there, so maybe we could check the area out? See where she grew up?”

  “Sounds good,” he says. “I have classes from one to six, so I’m all yours this morning.” He smiles, and I smile back. “So, yeah, get ready. Then, breakfast.”

  “Deal,” I say, getting up. It’s odd, being this comfortable around him, when I’m not like that with any guys at my school, guys I’ve known for years. What is it about Bennett? Maybe today, as we continue my quest, I’ll find out.

  SIXTEEN

  Treena’s door is unlocked, but she’s gone. There’s a note on her desk.

  Early class. Chai and gossip later?

  Love, T

  I put it down and sigh. Short and to the point, with no mention of last night. Either she forgot what happened, or doesn’t want to address it. Probably the latter. She’s never been one for confrontation.

  After showering and getting ready, I call my mom to check in, not going into many details yet about what I’ve been up to, then meet Bennett outside his room.

  “How do you feel about bagels?” he asks, locking his door. The smell of soap rushes out, and his hair is still wet, hanging limply on his face. He’s back in his uniform of cargo shorts, red T-shirt, and hoodie.

  “I’m in full support of bagels,” I say, ready to start my day.

  “Great, I know a place,” he says, raising his eyebrows. I smile and follow him down the hall.

  “You are oddly excited about this place,” I say when we walk in. It’s not much, really, just . . . a bagel shop. Not a fancy one, either. There’s nothing on the walls; they’re just painted an off-white that looks like it hasn’t been repainted in years. Decades. There are a few small two-person tab
les, and a food counter, and that’s it.

  “It’s really good!” he says excitedly. “It’s been here for, like, a million years apparently. I don’t know, I just like it,” he ends with a shrug. I nod and follow him to the counter.

  I still have Treena’s bike key, so we rode bikes here, because why not? The weather was nice, and I kind of wanted to feel the movement under my feet again, especially now, when we’re at a standstill on my search. I need to know that I’m going somewhere.

  “I usually get the everything bagel, but it’s a bit . . . garlicky, so I’ll pass today,” he says, turning around to me.

  “Please, do not let me tear you away from the garlic,” I answer, looking at the baskets of bagels. I will agree with him—they do look good.

  “Nah,” he says, then turns back to the counter. “I’ll have one sesame seed bagel with cream cheese. And an orange juice.”

  “And you?” the guy behind the counter asks, not acting entirely polite. He has a thick black mustache that must have a story of its own.

  “Um, cinnamon bagel with cream cheese, and just a cup of water,” I answer.

  “I’ve got it,” Bennett says, taking his wallet out of his pocket.

  “What? No, it’s okay. I can pay.”

  “Maude, it’s, like, a dollar. Plus, you’re taking me on an awesome adventure, so I owe you,” he says, handing over a few bills to the mustached guy.

  “It’s you who I owe. You’re the one showing me around.”

  “Let’s just say we’re even,” he says, putting his change into the tip jar and picking up our bagels.

  We walk to an open table and sit down. There are a few other people here, but not many. I guess it’s not packed at 10:00 a.m. on a weekday.

  “It’s usually more crowded on the weekends,” Bennett says, as if reading my mind.

  “I’d imagine,” I say, and take a bite of the bagel. It’s just the right mixture of crisp and bready, with the perfect amount of cream cheese. “This is good!”

  “See? Told you. Best bagels.” He smiles, taking a bite of his. “Especially for hangovers. How’re you feeling?”

  “Better.” I shrug. “It really wasn’t that bad.”

  “You really weren’t that drunk,” he points out.

  “Uh-huh,” I say, not really able to agree or disagree. “How’d you find this place, anyway?”

  “Know how I used to help out with the computers at the school? I was in this area, so I just dropped in. I like trying the local places.”

  “Has it really been here for a long time? I wonder if my mother ever came here.”

  “Who knows? It’s been here for almost fifty years, though,” he says, pointing to a small plaque that says it was opened on April 14, 1968.

  “Very cool.”

  We eat our bagels and quietly laugh when someone asks for a venti coffee, as if Starbucks lingo is the norm.

  “So what do you want to see on this side of town?” he asks, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

  “I don’t know. I guess we can bike around until we find something that might be cool?”

  “Yeah. Okay. Later, we can go around campus again, too, if you’d like.”

  “Oh, that’d be awesome. My mom asked me if I’ve seen much of it yet, and I, um, haven’t,” I admit.

  “You saw the FAB,” he offers.

  “I told her that!”

  We finish up our bagels and are walking outside toward the bike rack when my phone buzzes.

  “A new message?” Bennett asks, getting on his bike and seeing my phone in my hand.

  “Yes, from Bee. Oh god.” I open it and Bennett jumps behind me to read along.

  Maude, I really would rather not talk about Claire. It’s been too long, and in this case, absence does not make the heart grow fonder. Just know that our problems, like many others, stemmed from a boy named Chad. They started and ended there.

  “Oh,” I say. I put my phone in my bag and sit back on the bike’s seat.

  “So, Chad—” Bennett starts. “The guy in the picture . . .”

  “I’m guessing he dumped Bee for Claire? Or cheated on her with Claire,” I say, and Bennett flinches. “Still, why hold a grudge so many years later?”

  “Maybe there’s more to it?”

  “Well, it doesn’t look like she’s going to tell.”

  “Maybe we can track her down?” Bennett says. He’s fiddling with the handlebars on his bike. His fingers are long, and they snap the gears back and forth distractedly.

  “Maybe,” I say.

  “No, come on,” he says. “Pull up her message again.”

  “Okay,” I say, getting my phone out. “Here.”

  “Let’s see how public her profile is,” he says, taking my phone. He clicks her profile and scans down. “Look, it says she works at the capitol, in the museum area.”

  “We can’t just go and track her down at work,” I say.

  “Who says we can’t? Like everything else with your quest, the worst that can happen is she won’t talk to us. And the best . . .”

  “Yeah, I know, but it’s very clear that she hates my mother. How thrilled would she be at me turning up at her job? At the capitol?”

  “Are you more worried about seeing Bee or the phallic monstrosity that is the capitol?” he asks, grinning.

  “Shut up,” I say, but still smile. I reason with myself that this is a terrible idea, that we’ll probably have the cops called on us, but, really, they can’t do anything that bad. We’re not going to be arrested or thrown in jail. If anything, they’ll just escort us out, and Bee will have another reason to hate my family. But maybe she won’t freak out; maybe she’ll talk to me. I do want to see her, now that I know the connection. “Okay.” I nod. “Yeah, okay, let’s go.”

  “Bennett Holmes and Maude Watson are on the case!” he says, hopping onto his bike.

  “Hey, why do I have to be the sidekick?” I complain.

  “Because it was my absolutely brilliant idea,” he says, pushing off the ground triumphantly and heading toward the capitol.

  The neighborhood is empty, so I move my bike next to his in the middle of the street. We’re off the main roads and ride for about twenty minutes through the streets. Houses are stacked close to one another on both sides like dominoes. There are tires scattered about on front yards, and multiple cars in the driveways, each crappier-looking than the last. Some people are sitting outside, just resting and following us with suspicious eyes.

  I wonder if my mother lived here, among the crowded front yards and discarded bicycles. I wonder if this is why she was so free-spirited, so rebellious—because she always dreamt of leaving it. Flying away from cars backfiring and the glares of the neighbors. From the broken fences and clusters of crows. It all feels like a home, but not one I’m used to.

  “There’s a park over there,” Bennett says, nodding toward the right. “Take a break?”

  I’m eager to get to the capitol before my nerves catch up with me, but I’m also tired from pedaling, so I nod and follow him down a side street, past more run-down houses, and at the end find a small swing set and slide. When I check my phone again, I see that we’ve been biking for over half an hour.

  I walk over to the swing and he follows, sitting on the one next to me. I hold my phone and take some pictures of the slide, the houses. Of the neighborhood that feels more forced than friendly. I quickly post one to my blog without a caption.

  “It’s kind of insane,” I say, moving the swing with my feet. “Being here.”

  “Yeah. I’d imagine. I mean, she could have sat in that swing, right?”

  “Right,” I say, thinking about the possibility. “Do you think she liked it here?”

  “Don’t know. I guess if this is where you grow up, it’s all you know, so you just deal with it, right? It becomes home.”

  “Yeah.”

  He adds, “I mean, it could have been nicer back then?”

  “Maybe.” I pause. “What’s Miami like?�
�

  He starts pumping his swing, pushing and emphasizing his words. “Miami is crazy loud. I think that’s the best way to describe it. Just, so loud and bright. I mean, depending on where you are, you could walk down an entire row of neon buildings.”

  “That is bright.”

  “Yeah. And it’s huge. I live in the outskirts, like, away from the craziness and beaches, but still.”

  “Same here.”

  “You live in the outskirts of Miami, too?” He eyes me jokingly.

  “No, no, the outskirts of Orlando. There’s Disney and the parks, but they’re, like, forty-five minutes away. I live away from that and the beaches and stuff.”

  “Suburbia at its best.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You graduate this year, right? Are you going to stay in Orlando for college?”

  I shake my head. “No, I’d rather go somewhere else. I mean, I like Orlando and all, but I want a new experience. So, I’m looking here, among other places,” I say, pushing a little harder on the swing, and letting my feet leave the ground. “What brought you here?”

  “Animation scholarship. Also, it wasn’t too far away, but wasn’t too close. Like, I could go home if I needed something, but didn’t have to if I didn’t want to.”

  “And your girlfriend was there, right?”

  He doesn’t answer, just stares out ahead of us.

  “Sorry, I shouldn’t have . . .”

  He skids his feet and stops his swing, turning to me with a weary look. “No, it’s okay,” he says. “But yeah, that was a consideration when I came here. She stayed in Miami, so it wasn’t extremely hard for us to visit each other.”

  “And it still didn’t work out?”

  “She cheated on me within the first two weeks, so, no, not really,” he says, with a slight laugh.

  “Seriously?” I ask, surprised.

  “Seriously.” His hands grab the metal chains and hold on tight. “So . . . that was that.”

  My heart falters for him, and I want to reach out, comfort him, after all the times he’s helped me, but I’m still unsure if I can or should, or if he even wants me to. So I simply say, “I’m sorry.”

  He shrugs, and then continues. “It sucked, but better I learned who she was sooner than later, right?” He looks at me with questions in his eyes. “I guess I kind of hoped that when I’d see her back at home for Thanksgiving we’d magically make everything right again,” he says with a flourish of his hand. “But . . . it turns out she’s on guy number four or something, so, yeah, that’s not happening.” I watch the emotions wash across his face, from disappointment to embarrassment to acceptance.