She hugs the Incubus 2007 World Tour T-shirt to her chest. “I love them,” she says. “Thank you.”
Mom tries to pass me this plate of sticky-looking pastries for the third time, and once again, I hold my hand up to block them. She tips her chin down and gives me her concerned parent look. I haven’t eaten much over the last few days and Mom’s starting to notice, so I grab the plainest-looking thing on the plate.
“Well, I think that’s everything,” Dad says, taking one last look around the base of the tree. He stands up, straightens his back, and transfers the fluffy ball on his Santa hat from one shoulder to the other like it’s a mortarboard tassel. “Christmas gift exchange 2012, officially complete,” he says with his hands on his hips. Brooke tosses a wrapping paper ball at him and it bounces off his forehead.
“I’m going to go buy some music,” I say, holding up my new iTunes gift card as evidence, and Brooke gives me a knowing look. She’s already agreed to cover for me if she needs to, but that doesn’t mean she’s happy about it.
I start gathering up my gifts as Mom heads for the kitchen with a handful of plates and Dad follows her carrying a trash bag filled with used wrapping paper. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Brooke staring at me from the other side of the couch. As soon as I have everything, I head for the staircase. I’m at the first step when I hear her say my name, but I shake my head and keep climbing without turning around. What’s the point? She’ll just try to talk me out of this again.
When I’m showered and dressed, I dig around in the back of my closet, feeling for my backpack, and do one last round of inventory. There are water bottles, coffee shots, and Red Bulls; Kleenex and a spare T-shirt, just in case; and down on the bottom, Anna’s photo album. I pull it out and thumb through it, feeling sick when I think about giving it back to her. But I can’t keep it here.
I stuff the album back inside and toss the pack over my shoulders. There’s no reason to stall any longer, so I picture the side of Anna’s house, where the yellow paint is peeling and flaking off, and I close my eyes. But before I can leave, they spring open again.
And there it is, this ridiculously stupid thought. Not only is it stupid, it’s also risky and more than a little bit pathetic. But this is my last trip for who knows how long, and I haven’t been able to stop wondering about the guy she was with that night. And knowing who he is might give me some peace. I could use a little peace.
I squeeze my lids tight and before I can talk myself out of it, I open them to a view of a house painted gray with white trim.
After a quick look around to be sure I’m alone, I peer through the kitchen window. Inside, Mrs. Greene is in the exact spot, wearing the exact same thing, making the same meal she was making last time I showed up here in 2005 and shouldn’t have.
I’ll stay five minutes. Ten tops. Just long enough to catch a glimpse of him.
I check the driveway and find it covered in a layer of snow but otherwise empty. When I return to the window, Anna’s mom is still standing at the stove, and I watch as Mr. Greene sneaks up behind her and wraps his arms around her waist. He gives her a quick kiss on the cheek, and she smiles and squirms away, swatting his hand with her wooden spoon. He laughs and kisses her again. Then he walks over to the sink and looks out the window that faces the street, like he’s waiting for someone to arrive.
She should be here any second now. I listen to the sounds of the neighborhood, but there’s nothing. It’s totally silent.
“You need something to do.” Unlike last time, the window is open a crack and I can hear everything the two of them are saying. Mrs. Greene walks to the drawer by the refrigerator and removes some silverware. “Here,” she says, handing it to him. “Set the table. My goodness, you’re like a little kid.”
“Leave me alone, I’m excited.” He walks into the dining room and he’s out of my sight for a good minute or two. He returns empty-handed.
“Did you get the glasses, too?” she asks.
“Not yet, but I will.” He pulls four water glasses down from one of the upper cabinets, and returns for four wineglasses. “Don’t you think it’s fundamentally wrong to have to take a plane to visit your family?”
Anna’s mom laughs loudly. “Yeah, you should have thought about that when you hung a map of the world on her wall and gave her a box of pins to mark all the places she’d go.” He shrugs and carries the glasses to the table, and I watch Mrs. Greene stir whatever she’s got in the stockpot. “You should have known she’d never stay put,” she says, more to herself than to him.
I picture the map that hung on Anna’s wall, briefly wonder if it’s still there, and before I know it I’m closing my eyes and opening them in her bedroom. Her room is dark and I have to blink a few times as my eyes adjust, but then I spin slowly in place, taking everything in.
The dimensions are the same, but nothing else is. Anna’s shelves are gone, and with them, the trophies and CDs they held back in 1995. There are no more race photos or numbers, and no more travel guides peppering the surfaces of her furniture. The map is gone and so is the box of pins. All the things that mattered in Anna’s sixteen-year-old life aren’t important in her twenty-six-year-old one, at least not in this house.
The bed has been moved to a different wall and it’s covered with a different bedspread. I slowly walk over to it and sit down, running my hand across the surface, wondering if they share this room when they visit. He probably doesn’t have to sleep on the couch like I did. I bet he gets to linger here with her in the morning, not sneak out before the sun comes up. Do they unpack their clothes and hang them side by side in the closet? Does Mr. Greene pour him coffee in the morning?
Coming to this room was a bad idea.
I stand up and close my eyes, returning to my spot under the kitchen window. I wonder why it’s taking so long for them to get here.
As soon as I open them, I hear tires slowly crunching their way through the snow, so I peek around the corner and then creep over to the tree, just like I did last time.
The headlights are still a few houses away, but Mr. Greene must have heard the car too, because the front door suddenly opens and he steps out onto the porch. He heads down the front stairs and waits at the edge of the driveway, fidgeting with the buttons on his sport coat.
My pulse is racing as the front of the car comes around the hedge and two streams of light illuminate the snow-covered lawn.
I think I yell.
I feel my stomach knot up tight and my head feels like it’s going to explode. My eyes are burning, and without even thinking about it, I squeeze them shut. And when I finally peel them open, I’m standing right where I was when I left—smack in the middle of my bedroom in San Francisco.
I stumble over to the bed and sit down. I’m shaking and sweating, but when I look around and realize what just happened, I start laughing loudly and uncontrollably. It makes the headache a hell of a lot worse, but I can’t seem to stop.
I’m back.
I’m shaking and sweating and laughing and…back.
I stand up, touching my face, my legs. I stomp the Evanston snow off my feet and watch it collect on my San Francisco carpet. I turn a three-sixty in place.
I’m back.
I was knocked back.
And there’s only one reason that would happen.
Anna is part of my future and I’m part of hers. And that’s all I needed to know, even if there are a million big and little things that could go wrong between now and then.
My backpack lands on the bed with a bounce, and I rip open the zipper, down a bottle of water as quickly as I can, and then dig to the bottom. When I find Anna’s photo album, I toss it on top of my bedspread where Mom or Dad could easily find it if they happen to come in while I’m gone. There’s no reason to hide it because Anna won’t be a secret here anymore. I’ll keep most of the promises I made to my parents—no more sneaking around, no more lies—but that “no more traveling” one isn’t going to stick after all.