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“Oh really?” Brewster said. “Then maybe you’ll be kind enough to identify a species of plant that’s dioecious.”

“The American holly,” Elise said.

“And what percent of angiosperms are dioecious?” she asked.

“A little under ten percent.”

Brewster was getting more and more frustrated. “And which researcher wrote a treatise on plant sexuality?”

“Christian Sprengel,” Elise said. “But his work was discredited because people didn’t understand how complex sexuality was. And that was back in 1793. Here we are over two hundred years later, and not much has changed.”

My respect for Elise shot up about a thousand points.

“No editorial comments will be necessary, Ms. Fairchild,” Brewster said. But I saw some foreign emotion on her face. She’d just been one-upped by her student, yet she wasn’t retaliating with her usual defensive tactic. Maybe she’d gained a little respect for Elise as well.

The day wore on in tedious fashion, with Overbrook starting his lecture on Reconstruction Era America and Gallagher continuing our Emily Dickinson unit. Afterward, Michelle and I left class together a few paces behind Jess and Elise. We were all heading to the dining hall, so I glanced at Michelle imploringly.

“Come on, let’s catch up with them,” I said. “We can eat lunch together and talk.”

“I can’t,” Michelle said. “Not yet.”

“It’s just lunch.”

“You don’t understand—” she started.

“No, you’re right,” I said. “That’s what everyone keeps telling me. And I really want to understand because you’re my best friend. But Jess is my friend, too.”

“Well, you can go eat with her, then. I’m going back to the dorms.”

I felt terrible letting her go back to a lunch of ramen noodles, but I knew that just like with Owen, I had to give her time. And I also had to move on with my life.

In the dining hall, I walked over to Jess and Elise, who were sitting at a quiet table in the back corner of the dining hall.

“Can I join you?” I asked.

“Sure,” Jess said, moving her bag over to make room for me. “How are you feeling?” she asked. I hadn’t really talked to her since the cave incident.

“Fine,” I said. “A little stupid, though.”

“For getting snowed inside a cave?” Elise said dryly. “We’ve all been there.”

“Shut up, Elise,” Jess said. Elise shrugged and continued eating her salad.

“How are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m okay.”

“I’m sorry everything went wrong the other night,” I said. “I shouldn’t have meddled.”

“Meddled in what?” Elise said.

“It’s fine,” Jess said, ignoring Elise. “It was bound to happen sometime.”

“What was bound to happen?” Elise said.

“Yeah, but I overstepped my bounds,” I said. “I rushed her.”

“No, no, it wasn’t your—”

“Excuse me,” Elise said loudly, “but does anyone want to fill me in on what’s going on?” Jess looked at me, then looked at Elise. When neither of us said anything, Elise’s eyes widened. “Oh my God,” she said.

“What?” Jess said.

“I’m such an idiot. I can’t believe I didn’t see it until now. I’m usually so intuitive.”

Jess shook her head. “Elise, it’s nothing.”

“No, it is something,” she said, looking at Jess. “And it’s so obvious now. It’s Michelle, isn’t it?”

“Elise, just drop it,” I said, knowing that we’d already dug ourselves into a crater-sized hole.

“It’s okay,” Jess said to me. “She can know.”

“Don’t worry,” Elise said. “I’m not going to say anything. I hope you believe that by now. But Michelle, huh? No wonder she never comes over when you’re around.”

“Yeah, I seem to have that repulsive effect on people,” Jess said.

“It’s not that,” I said, “and you know it.”

“But you guys would look so cute together,” Elise said.

“The strongest argument I can think of for getting two people together,” I said, rolling my eyes at Jess.

“So what’s the deal?” Elise said. “She in denial or something?”

Jess appealed to me for help. “No,” I said. “She’s just not ready to put herself through the gauntlet Jess has been through. She got enough of that last year.” I gave Elise a pointed look, and she bristled. But then her face softened.

“All right, you got me there,” she said. “I was a bitch to her last year. No doubt. And I used to play all the games Amber’s playing now. I was just immature. Sheltered. But my cousin Steve came out this summer, and that changed everything.”

“Oh, are we telling this story now?” Jess said. “Let me get the popcorn.”

“What happened?” I asked.

Elise went on. “Steve’s in college now at Tufts, but he just graduated from high school last June, a star athlete, an A student, really good-looking kid. Half my friends were in love with him. Anyway, when he came out to his family, his dad freaked and tried to sign him up for this . . . straightening camp, or something like that. He refused and ended up staying with me and my dad for the summer. The night of my sweet sixteen, he was in the kitchen making my friends a pitcher of margaritas when I accidentally said something about him being gay. I thought my friends would be cool enough to handle it, but Chelsea got all weirded out and Amber flipped because apparently—news to me—she had hooked up with him a few times the summer before. So Amber starts telling me he’s going to hell, and Chelsea’s agreeing with everything Amber says, and I feel like vomiting, partly from drinking too many margaritas and partly because I’ve just realized my friends are complete assholes.”

“Present company excluded,” Jess said.

“Of course,” Elise said. “Because you . . . you didn’t say a thing. You just sat there the whole time looking pale and scared out of your mind. That’s when I started to suspect something.”

“And that’s when I panicked,” Jess said. “And picked a fight with you about God knows what just so I wouldn’t have to deal with it.”

“And then things really spiraled out of control, and I kicked everyone out of my house, and Steve and I got wasted on that pitcher of margaritas by ourselves.”

“Good times, good times,” Jess said, making us both laugh.

“So that’s the sordid story of the Fall of the Fairchild Empire,” Elise said. “And what’s sad is that now Amber’s become a mini-me. She learned from the best. But if she thinks she can go head-to-head with the master, she’s a fool.”

Jess shook her head. “Elise, don’t do anything. It’ll only encourage her.”

“What’s with all this passive resignation?” she said. “Do you remember standing up to me at the end of last year?” Jess dropped her head in her hands, embarrassed. “No, seriously, Emma, you wouldn’t believe how Jess rallied to your defense.”

“My defense?” I said. “When was this?”

“After I spread that nasty rumor about Gray and tried to ruin his life.”

“Oh, that,” I said.

“Yeah, well, your girl here totally called me out on my bullshit. And she was absolutely right. I did a horrible thing to you guys. I was just hurt and jealous, and Jess helped me see that.”

“Hello!” Jess said. “I’m right here. You can stop talking about me in the third person.”

“Sorry,” Elise said. “But that’s all in the past. And presently, we need to shut Amber down.”

Jess looked skeptical, but I felt oddly comforted knowing we had someone else in our corner. Especially someone like Elise.

Our fledgling alliance was put to the test almost immediately. By gym class, the rumors had morphed once again. Because we had eaten lunch together, all three of us were labeled lesbians now. And as Amber’s “public service announcements” posted all over the locker room said, “Dyke fever is catching.”

Loughlin took down the posters immediately, but a few days later, Amber and Chelsea told her they were uncomfortable getting changed in the locker room in front of lesbians. When Loughlin told them they were being ridiculous, they took the matter to Overbrook. Now a petition to ban us from gym class was floating around campus.

I wasn’t sure how many signatures they had actually acquired, but the fact that Overbrook had approved of this travesty was deeply disturbing. Even while all this drama was going on, I never said a word to Michelle or tried to involve her. Like Darlene had said, we were soul friends, and if she needed time, I’d give it to her. But for now, our differences drove a wedge between us.

When I got back to the dorm one afternoon, I saw something sitting in my slot in the cluster mailbox. I hardly ever got mail, so it was a surprise to pull out a hand-addressed letter and even more of a surprise when I recognized Gray’s handwriting—small and neat, a weird combination of lowercase and capital letters that I always made fun of. My heart squeezed like a fist.

I raced upstairs and into the room, relieved that Michelle wasn’t there for the moment. I wanted to read the letter alone, in case whatever was in it made me burst into tears or into a rage. Tearing through the flap, I pulled out the letter, the first I’d received from Gray since he’d left for the Coast Guard. I held it in my hands a few seconds before reading.

For now, the letter could be whatever I wanted it to be. There was something appealing about not knowing. But eventually, curiosity took over and I scanned the letter, my eyes dropping to the bottom to look for telltale clues. I spotted the phrases:
survive on my own, no good for anyone, I hope you understand.
This didn’t look good.

Unable to bear the suspense any longer, I began reading:

Dear Emma,

I know this letter is far overdue. I’m afraid I’m not very good at letter writing. When I think about all the letters you sent me last fall and how I never even wrote you back, it kills me. I’d do anything to take everything back and start all over. But what’s done is done. We can’t go back and change the past. We can only move forward and hope things will get better.

I am so sorry for my immature behavior on New Year’s Day. I had no right to say those things about you and Owen. What did I expect? That you’d wait for me? I specifically told you not to. Although for the life of me, I can’ t remember why. I’ve been thinking about you constantly, even dreaming about you, and the dreams feel so real. It’s like I’m there with you, talking to you. And it’s like you can hear me, too. But then I wake up, and you’re gone, and I regret everything all over again.

I’ve been trying to find a way to explain why I ended things last October. One of the skills we had to learn in boot camp was treading water. While we were all treading away in an eighty-degree pool, our instructor told us about a time when he had to tread water with a bunch of capsized fishermen for over an hour in the Bering Sea. When the water temperature is below forty and you’re trying to get injured people into a tiny basket suspended from a helicopter, it’s easy to panic and forget what’s most important. And that is keeping yourself alive. So he trained us to tread water for five minutes, then fifteen, then thirty minutes, until we could tread for an hour on our own. He said, “You have to be able to survive on your own before you can have any hope of saving someone else.”

I don’t know if that makes any sense, but that’s how I felt last fall. I had to know my life had meaning before I could give myself to you. I had to be strong enough on my own before I could be strong enough for both of us.

I’m so sorry I hurt you. I hope you understand what I did and that in time, you might be able to forgive me.

Yours always,

Gray

I sat on my bed, rereading the lines to decipher their meaning. Was he saying he regretted breaking up with me? Or was he just explaining why he had? I read the letter again—three times, a fourth.

He said he’d had vivid dreams about me. I’d sort of convinced myself that our psychic connection was a fluke. But something had definitely happened the night of the snowstorm. I had called out to Gray, and he had heard me.

It frustrated me that I still needed him, still loved him after all this time.

But the line that stuck in my head most was:
I had to be strong enough on my own before I could be strong enough for both of us.

What I’d never realized until now was how true that was for me as well.

C
HAPTER
20

I
went back to Hull’s Cove for spring break with a heavy heart. Fortunately, my dad kept me busy, taking me on college visits to Amherst and Hampshire, two schools that had made it onto the short list of my favorites. My dad let me drive, but kept pressing an imaginary brake pedal the entire way there.

First, we visited Amherst College. An upperclassman took us on a tour, culminating with the church tower, its round deck giving us a bird’s-eye view of the entire campus—green quads, stately buildings, students camped out on the lawn, shirtless guys playing lacrosse. We grabbed lunch at a vegetarian café in the quaint and bustling town center, then took a break from college hunting to visit the Emily Dickinson Museum, where we saw Dickinson’s headstone, etched with the haunting phrase
Called Back.

Afterward, we visited Hampshire College and talked to the head of the Arts and Social Action program. She told us that each course of study in the department was customized to align with the student’s particular talents and interests. If I wanted, I could merge my interest in writing with social activism, learning how to use my pen to root out political corruption, skewer big business, or shed light on the environmental effects of fossil fuels.

When we got back in the car to head home, my dad asked me what I’d thought of the schools. “Right now, I’m leaning toward Hampshire,” I said. “But if I decide to major in French, Amherst has the better language program.”

“You’re still thinking about majoring in French?” he said. He might as well have said,
You’re still thinking about going to clown college?