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“How come Dad’s not in here?” I ask, hoping they’re too distracted to think much of the question.
“He didn’t go to FHS for long,” Fred says, finally relenting and letting Seamus have the yearbook. He points to the shelf where the dozens of yearbooks remain. “Grab one from Willow Heights. He graduated from there.”
A funny little dip happens in my stomach, like when you go over a hill too fast in the car.
“He did?” I blurt out. “Why?”
I immediately wish I hadn’t asked. I don’t want to know if Preston Darling is right, if there’s some history between our families I don’t know about. I already know Lindsey is the only Darling to attend FHS in a long time. She’s told me as much, though her reasons for going to public school are still a little murky to me. She said it was so she could be closer to Chase, who wanted to play football at Faulkner High. But her family doesn’t seem like the type to base decisions about her future on a boy. Is there something she’s not telling me?
That thought corkscrews through my chest and recalls the images of their families on the slopes in Colorado. I’m not one of them. I will never be one of them. Just because Lindsey goes to our school, she’s not really one of us. She’s royalty, Queen Lindsey Darling. I’m basically one of her admirers, maybe a lady in waiting if I’m being generous.
Uncle Fred rolls his chair over and pulls out a Willow Heights yearbook, flipping through and sparing me the confrontation of eye contact. “Dad got promoted and got a big pay raise around the time they started high school,” he says,referring to Dad and Aunt Diana, who are a few years older than him. “Diana wanted to stay. Believe it or not, she was a cheerleader. She had a lot of friends. Your dad had a harder time fitting in, got in trouble some. So they moved him to Willow Heights.”
“Sounds right,” I mutter, my throat tight.
Frederick spins the yearbook around and hands it back, open to a page with row after row of photos. They’re in color, but otherwise the same as any high school yearbook. I find the picture of Dad looking the same but younger and less Dad-like, his hair in the longish, 90s style that curls at the back of his neck and around his ears. I can’t stop staring at it.
Dad didn’t really talk about high school a lot, and when he did, it sounded like he had friends. So I’m glad he went somewhere that he fit in better, even if it stings to realize how little I know about his life even then. It’s not like I asked and he lied about it, though. I just never thought to ask. I didn’t know it would ever matter, that the past would be important. Most people probably don’t know the names of their parents’ high school buddies unless they stay in the small town where they grew up or they’re the annoying type to bore everyone with endless stories of their glory days. Dad didn’t do either.
If he’d stayed here, he’d probably still have the same friends, still go drinking with Jim Bob from high school and Joe from work. Or… A shiver goes through me. Was he friends with Lindsey’s dad in high school? If they had a falling out, that would explain Preston’s weird obsession with my family history.
“You okay?” Uncle Frederick’s giant paw strokes over the top of my head, like he’s petting a dog.
“Yeah, fine,” I say, slamming the yearbook shut. I quickly replace the others without looking at my uncles, then tuck the Willow Heights one under my arm and hurry down the stairs to my room. My heart is hammering like I just shopliftedsomething from a store instead of borrowing a yearbook that’s basically community property. I sink onto the edge of the bed and flip through again, this time skipping the pages of yearbook portraits and clubs and sports. At the end, I find a huge section of casual shots of everyone else.
I scan through a dozen pages before my eye catches on a familiar face. Just then, Mom yells up the stairs that dinner’s ready. Ignoring her, I run a trembling finger across the caption.
The Fab 4 hanging in the quad.
My eyes return to the four guys in the picture, all with their arms around each other’s shoulders, grinning into the camera. A couple of the guys look vaguely familiar, though I can’t place them. None of them look anything like Mr. Darling, though. My eyes return to the face I know so well, the ends of his hair curling from under the edges of his beanie, his eyes squinted halfway shut against the sun. A lump forms in my throat as I stare at his familiar face for the first time in over a year. He looks... Happy.
I slam the book shut and shove it onto the shelf of the bedside table. My ears are ringing, and I sway on my feet for a second. I don’t want to go down to dinner and face my family and act like I’m fine. But I don’t want to stay in the room with that picture, either, so I walk out of the room on stiff legs and make my way down to the dining room. Uncle Frederick gives me a sympathetic smile, but he spares me the questions in his eyes. Maybe he understands. He lost his dad when he was pretty young too.
*
After dinner, I ask if Meghan and Lily want to camp out on the living room floor like we did on Thanksgiving. We can’t watch a horror flick since Mom thinks they’ll give Lily nightmares, butmy sister thinks it’s the best idea she’s ever heard. It’s hard to say no to her, so Meghan agrees. I feel a little guilty for the manipulation, but I can’t face my room yet. I’d just lie awake, haunted by the yearbook that’s scarier than any movie.
After a while of lying around watchingBarbiewith my sister, I’m reminded about what she said about Chase. I can’t help myself from creeping on his social media, even though it’ll only torture me more. He’s posted one picture during the whole trip, a photo of a snowboard stuck into the snow with the sunset in the background.
I know I shouldn’t comment. Lindsey will see it, and she’ll wonder why I commented on his pic and not one of the dozens she’s posted.
I glance over at Lily, who’s engrossed in the magical land of pink, and Meghan, who’s also on her phone. Lily said I needed to be nicer to Chase, and maybe she’s right. Just because I’m getting over him, that doesn’t mean I can’t be his friend. Just because I’ve sworn I’ll be immune to his charms, that doesn’t mean I should be cruel.
I write a text, erase, rewrite, repeat. My heart is pounding when I finally hit send five minutes later, and I shove my phone under the sleeping bag, determined not to pine while I wait for a response.
BlueSky: Sorry about ur hand. I didn’t kno I hrt u. R u having fun in CO?
Five minutes later my phone buzzes, and I snatch it up, my pulse racing.
“Who you talking to?” Megan asks from her sleeping bag on the other side of Lily.
“No one,” I say quickly.
She shakes her head and goes back to her phone. “You’re funny.”
ChaseLondonSuperStar: Ur family fixed me up. But that was cold. I’ll let u make it up 2 me l8r.
I can’t keep the dopey grin off my face. I should delete his contact and stay strong, but after the day I’ve had, I need to talk to someone safe. Weird as that sounds, Chase is safer than Meghan. He’s six states away, after all. Besides, it’s not like we’re flirting. He’s with his girlfriend.
