Chasing Paris Page 2

  Miles doesn’t think it’s a good idea to come out here, either—not when I come by myself and stay until after dark. He worries about everything. All the time. But I don’t care. Where else can I go to get away from the silences in my life? I like to pretend that I’m sitting on an old porch swing with a dear friend who can name all the stars above—or at least point out Venus at dusk and Jupiter at dawn.

  Darker and darker shades of blue wove themselves into the violet sky as she wrote, and the orange streetlights brightened. Faces continued to pass by. Bits of people’s conversations floated around her. She kept writing, noticing none of it.

  I’ve been thinking about this Lizzie thing all day. What if it had been reversed? What if we grew up with Lizzie as a grandmother and never knew Nana? That would have been such a loss, and I wouldn’t have even known it. I wonder if missing out on Lizzie has been a loss—a loss I haven’t realized. I wish I could talk to Mom about this. Maybe I can talk to Nana. I just don’t understand, and I feel like I should understand.

  Amy dropped her pen against the paper and stared across the street. She remained there, still, staring, letting the minutes slip away. Not even the man walking in her direction broke her trance. He stopped a few paces away, waiting for her to look toward him. When his presence didn’t interrupt her train of thought, he sat down next to her.

  Amy nearly jumped. “Miles! You surprised me!” She clutched the notebook to her chest. Slowly she lowered it back to her lap, careful to place her hand over the top of the page.

  “I’m sorry.” Amy’s boyfriend smiled at her. “I didn’t mean to. April said that you were probably here, so I thought I’d join you. What do you have there?”

  “Oh nothing. Just thinking on paper.” She closed the cover and shifted to face him. “Guess what—I have a plan to figure out who exactly this Lizzie was—”

  “Amy, what are you doing?” Miles’ face darkened. “This morning you told me your mom didn’t want you involved—”

  “I know, but just listen—”

  “No, you can’t—”

  “I’m—”

  “No, you can’t.” He shook his head. “You’ve got to stay out of it.”

  Amy studied Miles’ furrowed eyebrows and felt a familiar frustration choking back her words.

  He continued, “Your mom doesn’t want you or anyone else making waves. Let it go. Just forget—”

  “Why? I’m not—”

  “You are. You’re just going to make it worse.”

  She pushed a curl behind her ear, feeling heat rising to her cheeks. “I’m not, Miles. I’m not going to make it worse.”

  “But you are, and—”

  “I haven’t even done anything yet.” Amy’s voice was low. “I haven’t hurt anything. I just want to know who this Lizzie person is. Who she was. I want to know more about where I came from. There’s this whole family history we didn’t know existed. What’s wrong with wanting to explore it?”

  “Why can’t you be content with what you know right now?”

  Amy’s face went blank. She blinked, and her stomach tightened. “I am content with what I know right now. Everything is fine. But what’s wrong with wanting to know more?”

  “You should do what your mom asks.” Miles looked around the park as though sensing something new in the air. “And what are you doing out here right now? It’s cold and dark.”

  Slowly, quietly, Amy slid her notebook back into her messenger bag and said, “I’m not a little girl. Don’t talk to me like I’m one.”

  “Yeah, but you still—”

  “Okay, stop it.” She stood up and slung her bag over her shoulder. “Let’s go.” She started walking away, forgetting the novel she had placed on the bench when looking for her notebook. She didn’t wait for Miles to stand up, and she didn’t look back to see if he followed.

  But, of course, he did—without noticing the book on the bench, either.

  THREE

  LOS ANGELES

  W

  ill Chase stood on the balcony of his Westwood apartment, grinning, looking down at the group of girls on the sidewalk. He leaned against the rusted railing and wondered if they would ever take no for an answer.

  “Why won’t you come out with us?” Sarah asked. She was clearly the ringleader. Clad in a black dress and red heels, she planted a hand on her jutted hip and shook waves of brown hair off her shoulders. The two girls flanking her adopted similar poses.

  Will continued grinning. “I wish I could, my friends. But finals are around the corner, and I’m way behind with studying. It’s time to buckle down.”

  “You went out with us last night,” Sarah countered.

  “Exactly. And that’s why I’m behind now.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Will saw his roommate step onto the balcony next to him.

  Chris leaned against the railing, his additional weight bending it outward an inch. “Ladies,” he said, releasing the railing with one hand to pat Will’s shoulder, “I’m sure you’d like nothing more than having the legendary Will Chase accompany you down to the bars of Westwood Village tonight, but alas, he is booked for the evening. That being said,” he let go of the railing with his other hand and held up a finger, “his replacements are headed downstairs right now. I promise they will take good care of you.”

  As if on cue, Will and Chris’ other two roommates walked out of the building and appeared next to the girls.

  Will looked down at the group standing on the sidewalk for a moment, then at Chris, and then back at the group below. He hadn’t expected this.

  Ralph, the short, bald roommate looked up to the balcony and called, “Don’t worry, buddy. We’ll drink a beer in your honor.”

  “And we’ll text you if you’re missing anything interesting,” Brian, the tall, blonde roommate added.

  With that, Will’s roommates waved at him and then gestured toward the end of the street as if asking the girls to accompany them down toward the village center.

  “How easily I’m replaced,” Will muttered, watching the bar-hoppers walk down the street. “The girls didn’t give it a second thought.”

  Sarah turned around, wobbling slightly in her heels, and called, “The old Will would have come with us no matter what. Not even finals would have stopped him.” She turned back around, wobbled again, and threaded her arm through Brian’s as they continued toward Westwood Village.

  “She’s already had too much to drink,” Chris said. “Can’t even stand up straight.” He patted Will’s shoulder again. “You’re welcome, by the way.” He walked back into the apartment.

  Will thought about Sarah’s words. The old Will would have come with us no matter what. She was probably right. And the old Will would have bought beers for everyone. Or ended up in a fight. Or shown up at the wrong apartment at the end of the night. Or done a combination of those things.

  The new Will wanted to get back on track for graduation in a year. When his parents told him they would only pay for four years of school, he knew it wasn’t an empty threat. Paying for a fifth year on his own—due in large part to his immaturity rather than impacted classes—wasn’t an option he wanted to explore.

  He looked at the sky. A sprinkling of stars peeked through the Los Angeles smog. Not long now, he thought. One more week of class, and one week of finals. School will be over, I can relax, and I can go back home where smog doesn’t hold the night sky hostage.

  “Will, get in here,” Chris called. “When I said you were booked, I meant it. I need your help.”

  Will walked into the apartment and left the sliding glass door open behind him. He watched his roommate set a backpack on the kitchen table and crack open a beer. One swig later, the beer landed on the table next to the backpack.

  “I have an English paper,” Chris said. He unzipped his backpack and peered inside. “It’s due in nine hours.”

  Will looked at the clock. It was eleven. “You have a paper due at eight in the morning?”

  �
�Sure do.” Chris tossed a book to Will. “Time for you to work your magic.”

  Will walked to the hand-me-down futon they used as a couch, looking at the book.

  “I assume you haven’t started it.” Before Chris could answer, Will sat down and continued, “You know, when I agreed to help you with English papers, I didn’t expect you to spring them on me at the last minute.”

  Chris tossed Will a beer and took another swig of his own. “And when I agreed to help you with any class involving numbers, I thought you’d at least know how to add and subtract.” He walked toward the couch and placed a piece of paper on the coffee table. “Here’s the essay prompt.”

  “Go get my hat,” Will said. As Chris followed his orders and disappeared toward the back bedroom, Will held up the tattered book with the words USED—UCLA BOOKSTORE across its spine. “This book is for Professor Hollings’ class, isn’t it?”

  “Yep,” Chris answered from the bedroom.

  “Great professor.”

  “I know. You recommended him.”

  “We used this book when I had him. It was a different class, but the same time period.”

  “I know. You told me at the beginning of the quarter.” Chris emerged from the bedroom and threw a San Francisco Giants baseball cap at Will. “There’s your hat.”

  “Thanks.” Will slapped it over his head backward, covering his dark hair. “I can’t write a paper without it.” He picked up the paper prompt.

  “I know. You say that every time you help me with a paper.” Chris picked up a basketball left under a side table and tried spinning it on his finger. “Okay, so what should I write?”

  Will finished scanning the prompt and leaned back on the couch. “Where are your notes from class?”

  Chris cringed. The basketball fell to the ground and he kicked it back under the table. “I don’t really take notes. I figured I could borrow Janine’s notes since we were taking the class together.” He walked toward Will and sat down on the coffee table. “But then—”

  “She broke up with you,” Will finished.

  “Right.” Before Will could comment, Chris continued quickly, “Don’t think I was entirely irresponsible, though. I did ask her for the notes after we broke up. But she said no.”

  Will gave his roommate an annoyed look. “Chris, this assignment asks you to write about a really hard Shakespeare poem. And nothing on the internet will give you what Hollings is looking for. Go into my bottom desk drawer and get the notebook labeled English 151.”

  Chris walked back toward the bedroom.

  Will flipped to the index of the Renaissance poetry book to locate Shakespeare’s Sonnet 129. “Hey,” he called to his roommate. “While you’re back there, grab your laptop. Then you can start typing up the title page.”

  After finding the poem in the index, Will flipped to page 312 and saw Sonnet 129 staring at him. Next to those printed words were handwritten words, obviously written by the book’s previous owner. As he read the notes, Will’s eyebrows rose. He read the handwritten words again. And then again.

  “Hey,” he called toward the bedroom, “did you know that love is supposed to be like a midsummer night’s dream?”

  “What are you talking about?” Chris emerged from the hallway. “I can’t find that notebook. How about the notebook for English 164—will that do?”

  “No, dumbass. English 164 covers a completely different time period. Go find the right notebook.” Will turned his attention back to the handwritten words next to Sonnet 129.

  Why isn’t love always like a midsummer night’s dream?

  Strange. He flipped the page and saw more of the same handwriting in the margins. And on the page after that, he saw even more. Page after page he saw notes next to poems—notes that didn’t look anything like the notes he had ever taken on Professor Hollings’ lectures.

  He whispers and he sighs

  And softly, so softly come his goodbyes

  that I know tomorrow

  is only a moment away

  His eyes jumped to the handwritten words on opposite side of the page.

  Sleeping silently,

  He lies.

  “This is really weird.” He fanned through the pages and stopped at the next random page with blue ink in the margin.

  I still remember—I fell in love with you on a Wednesday.

  Chris walked back into the living room with his laptop and a notebook.

  “I found the right one,” he said. “How’s the paper coming? Do you have my thesis statement done yet?” He sat down on the couch and slid the notebook across the coffee table toward his roommate.

  “Have you noticed the margin notes in this book?” Will asked. “The notes made by the previous owner?”

  “I haven’t actually opened the book.” Before Will could react, Chris added, “Professor Hollings’ lectures are so interesting. There doesn’t seem to be a need for the book.” He opened his laptop and started typing, avoiding eye contact with his roommate.

  Will said, “The person who owned this book before you used the margins sort of like a journal. She wrote things like, ‘I still remember—I fell in love with you on a Wednesday’ and ‘Why isn’t love always like a midsummer night’s dream?’” He flipped the page. “‘Slipping through the fingers of concern, he lets me go.’” He looked up at Chris. “Strange, huh?”

  Chris looked over from his laptop. “Yeah, strange. Do you think any of those notes will help me write my paper?”

  Will flipped back to page 312 and looked at the sonnet Chris was supposed to analyze. Next to the poem, the blue handwriting in the margin stared at him. He shook his head. “Whoever wrote in here was right. Sonnet 129 is nothing like a midsummer night’s dream, but that’s not going to get you very far.” Will turned on the lamp next to the couch for the additional light needed during intense concentration. He repositioned his hat and reached for the notebook on the table. He tossed it to Chris. “Okay, here we go. Find my notes on this poem. We’ll start there.”

  “And what are you going to do while I look up your notes in your notebook?”

  “I’m going to look through here.” Will held up the textbook. “And find some inspiration.”

  “This is going to be a long night,” Chris said. “How did I end up with the only roommate in the world who would get distracted by comments written in the margins of a used textbook?”

  “You’re what’s distracting me. Just be quiet so I can think.” Will stood up and walked toward the balcony. “Good papers need inspiration. I’ll be back in five minutes with an idea for you.” Once on the balcony, he closed the screen door behind him and sat in his favorite fraying patio chair. He flipped the page and read the note in the margin.

  How am I supposed to talk if I have nothing to say?

  Do you want to see how empty I really am?

  FOUR

  LOS GATOS

  A

  my leaned against the counter in Eva’s kitchen, watching her mother wash vegetables at the sink. “Can I help, Mom?” she asked.

  “Oh no, honey, that’s okay,” Debbie said over her shoulder. “I’m almost done here, and Nana’s lasagna is almost ready, too.”

  Amy smiled. She loved that her family had dinner together every Sunday. She had been sad to miss last Sunday’s dinner but understood why her mother and Nana probably needed some time to themselves after the news of Lizzie’s passing. She was relieved that this Sunday’s dinner resumed as normal.

  “You know your mom and her salad,” Eva said, crossing from the counter to the oven. “It’s an—”

  “Art form,” Amy and Debbie finished together.

  Amy watched her mom and Eva move about the kitchen. She had never given much thought to family resemblance, but since learning of Lizzie, she found herself examining what she had never examined before. Debbie’s skin was fair, her hair was light and curly, and her face was round. Eva was much darker and more angular. Though her hair was gray, it had once been nearly black, complim
enting her green eyes and olive skin. It also had always been long and straight, almost an extension of her angular facial features. Debbie looked nothing like Eva—and come to think of it, she didn’t look like Grandpa, either.

  A roar erupted from down the hall, carrying into the kitchen and catching the three women off-guard. The rest of the family and Miles were watching a baseball game in the family room. From the sound of their cheers, Amy surmised that the Giants had scored.

  “My goodness,” Debbie said, slicing through a tomato. “You’d think they were watching the World Series out there.”

  Eva opened the oven and peered at the lasagna. “They think every game is the World Series.” She closed the oven and looked at Amy. “Is Miles as passionate about the Giants as the rest of them?”

  Amy rested her forearms on the counter and leaned on them. “I don’t know. He’ll watch a game, but I don’t think he cares quite as much. But when given the choice between watching a game or helping in the kitchen, he’ll always choose the game.”

  “Then he’s a good sport for putting up with those three,” Debbie said.

  Amy nodded and shrugged at the salad bowl.

  “Honey, I know what you can do to help,” Eva said. “Upstairs, on my dresser, there’s a jewelry box. Right inside is a small, black box with earrings in it. Grandpa gave them to me for our anniversary last week. Will you run up and grab them? I want to show you and your mother.”

  Amy followed Eva’s directions, stopping only for a moment in the family room to get the game’s score. Her sister, dad, and grandpa sat on the edge of the couch, hunched forward with eyes glued to the television. Miles sat on the recliner, feet up, paging through a magazine. He waved at Amy as she paused in the doorway.