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  “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 devas
tated.”

  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?

  The realization saddens me, so I look at her, nod, and smile.

  “Not sure, I guess we’ll see. I, um, I just realized what time it is, and I have to . . . go meet my friend. But, hey, thank you so much for talking to me, really. It was . . . something, really. It was . . . great,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say.

  “Oh, I’m so sad you’re leaving! But I understand.” She looks sad, but also maybe relieved? Maybe this was weird for her, too. “Please let me know if you have any more questions, I’d love to talk. It was so nice going back in time. I don’t do it nearly enough!” Jessica says, handing me a business card that’s also collaged, just like her art.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I say, standing up. “Thank you, really.”

  “Keep in touch!” Jessica says, bringing me in for a hug. She smells like cigarette smoke and when she pulls away I see a wonderful, crazy artist, but I also see her wrinkles and scars. I see that this is her, daily, painting in a café. This is the life my mother could have had, would have had. This could have been her. And, maybe, me.

  “Oh! One last thing. While you’re here, you need to visit Lichgate. Your mom absolutely adored that place. It’s not far from here. Be sure to see it.”

  I nod and turn around, filing the information away for later. I take a picture before I leave, of Jessica going back to her canvas. She broke the image I had of my mother, shattered it into a million pieces and reformed it into something new and not yet understood. I need time to get to know this mother, this version of her.

  EIGHTEEN

  I walk outside and am surprised to see Bennett on the sidewalk, scrolling through his phone. I slump down next to him and simply say, “Hi,” because I don’t think I can process more words.

  “Hey,” he says, putting his phone down. “Class was canceled.”

  “Was it really?” I ask.

  His cheeks turn a tint of red and he shakes his head. “Okay, no, I just didn’t want to leave you with Crazy Redhead in there.”

  I nod, too exhausted to say anything.

  “What happened?”

  My throat fills with angst and my eyes overflow with tears. I try to hold it in, but I can’t.

  “Oh, crap, okay,” he says as I silently weep in front of him, tears spilling from my eyes into my hands cradling my face. I cry for what I didn’t know, and what I thought I did. I cry for the mother I never knew and am so different from. I cry because it all makes sense, even though I don’t want it to. I cry because this complete trip was an utter failure. I shouldn’t have found all of this out. I shouldn’t have known. It would have been better for me to keep my pristine picture of my mother—for her to be the scared girl who bravely gave me up. Not a partier who made a, to her, devastating mistake.

  I feel Bennett’s arm go around my shoulder to keep me together, but it makes me cry more. He turns me to him, and I rest my forehead on his shoulder, aware of the tears seeping through his shirt. But I can’t turn them off. They’ve been held in for so long. Both his arms are around me now, rubbing my back, and I try to concentrate on that movement, on their rhythm, and not the fact that my mother maybe never cared about me. She was too young to; she didn’t want me in the first place, of course. I should have known that, realized it, but it never really hit. The thing is, th
ere’s no hope of making her proud, because I was never a part of her life.

  The nicest and bravest thing she ever did was give me up. She gave me the life she herself didn’t have. And the thought of her life, and what wasn’t lived, fills me with tears again.

  Once I have calmed down a little, I tell Bennett some of the stuff I learned, and he nods and shakes his head along the way. When I’m done, he says, “I get why you’re upset, but it’s okay.” I look at him sadly and shake my head.

  “But what—?” I start.

  “Let me ask you something. What’s your mom like at home?”

  “My mom?” I ask, confused. “She’s . . . a mom. She’s nice and protective and smart. She’s a teacher, so I have pretty good grammar because of her. And she’s always moaning about her students, but I know she actually likes them.”

  “Right. So that’s who you’re around all the time. You’re surrounded by that, by her, not by your mother. What were you doing before this trip?”

  “Going to school and working on my photography.”

  “You weren’t going to wild keggers or anything?”

  “No!”

  “Right, so you’re not like your mother at all. If you never found out about it, things wouldn’t change, right? And now that you did . . . they still shouldn’t change.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. You know your parents.”

  “And you know yours.”

  “It’s different,” I say.

  He looks down, then says, “So there was this kid who used to come by our house every now and then—one of the kids my mom was trying to get adopted. He was, like, four, and kind of messed up, so my mom wanted him to see a solid, ‘normal’ family, I guess. I never liked him because he pushed my younger sister. But anyway, he got adopted and we ended up going to the same high school. And he’s kind of cool now. So, I don’t know; how I see it, he’s not like the mother who left him when he was a baby. He’s like the mom who has him now. Nature versus nurture, you know.”