Page 38 of Something in Between

“There you are,” he says, beaming. He doesn’t look any worse for wear. His eyes are a little hooded, maybe, but they just serve to make him look mysterious rather than tired. “Hey.” He gives me a sly smile, like we share a secret. Images from the night before begin to flash: Royce kissing my forehead, tracing kisses from my nose down to my lips and my neck, Royce putting his arms around me, and how good he smelled, so clean and boyish. It hurts.

My heart rate is going up again, but I try not to let it show. I nod hello but don’t return the smile.

“Those are the first female US senators,” he says, meaning the paintings. “Rebecca Latimer Felton and Hattie Caraway.”

“Interesting,” I say, even though I try to make myself sound bored. My skin feels electric at the sight of him, which makes me madder. I thought I knew what last night was all about, but this morning, I’m not so sure. He moves in that circle of rich, connected kids and speaks their language. I’m not part of that world; I’m just a visitor for the weekend. I walk away from him.

“Hey. Where’re you going?”

I don’t turn around.

He catches up. “Is something wrong?” he asks. “I came to the tour to see you. I’m sorry I’m late.”

Royce is only on the tour because he wanted to see me.But I’m too upset about what Carrie said and how chummy he was with them. I can’t look him in the eye. “It’s nothing. Look, I have to catch up to my group. Let’s talk later.”

“Okay.” He sounds hurt.

I don’t look back, but I can imagine him standing there with his hands in his pockets, like when he was waiting to talk to his dad the night before. I’m mad at myself too. Sure, I’m a National Scholar, but it just occurred to me that Royce is from one of those families that probably funds scholarships in their name. Why didn’t I think of that to begin with? What’s he doing with me? Shouldn’t he be with Carrie and those kinds of girls? It’s obvious he should.

Still. It’s hard to walk away from him.

* * *

The group of honorees gathers at the Washington Monument before lunch. I try to stop thinking about Royce. I convince myself it was just a one-night thing. People make out all the time—it didn’t mean anything to him, and it sure doesn’t mean anything to me. As if.

Oh my God, I need to stop lying to myself. I can’t stop thinking about him. I like him so much, and if he doesn’t feel the same, I don’t know what I’ll do.

I try to concentrate on the docent who’s giving us all the juicy details. These are the facts: It’s an obelisk. It commemorates George, who is up there with the gods in the rotunda. It’s due east of the reflecting pool. It’s made of marble, granite, and some kind of blue metamorphic rock called gneiss, which is related to the German wordgneist, which meansto spark. I walk up to the Washington Monument while the docent is still talking and put a hand to the marble. It feels softer than I imagined. I run my hand along the bumpy texture, then pull out my phone and text Mom.

I’m touching the Washington Monument. It’s bumpier than I thought.

She doesn’t answer for a little while. I picture her putting her phone down and yelling to everyone in the house. “Can you believe it? Our baby is touching the Washington Monument!” This thought makes me smile along with the idea that Dad is probably saying something stupid like, “Tell her not to bring it home. It’s too big for the yard.”

Finally I get a text.

I’m so proud of you. Your father wants to know if you’ve met the President yet and if so, see if he will pass a bill to keep the neighbor’s cat off the lawn.

Whatever, Mom. I love you,I write, smiling.

We walk along a semicircle path, cross a street, and pass through the World War Two Memorial, where I see Royce again.

His dark eyes meet mine, but I turn away as soon as he starts walking toward me. I pretend to be interested in what Suzanne is saying.

How can everything change so fast?

Because he’s not for you, I tell myself.You’re not from his world, and he wouldn’t understand yours.

It’s not just that he’s rich. It’s everything. Carrie is just one example. What did his brother say?You’re not his usual type. So what was he doing with me, then? Slumming?A booty call?I wish I had more experience with boys so I could figure it out.

I follow close behind Suzanne past the Reflecting Pool and toward the Lincoln Memorial. I look back at the water and see the monument perfectly reflected upside down. I think it looks like a great sword in the earth and wonder why anyone would put it there. Suzanne reminds us of the 1963 March on Washington, when a quarter of a million people gathered around the pool for one of the greatest speeches in modern history.

Suzanne has part of the speech memorized and recites it as we walk. “I still have a dream, a dream deeply rooted in the American dream—one day this nation will rise up and live up to its creed, ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal.’”

I’ve always loved that speech, was so proud to be from a country that produced Martin Luther King, Jr. But now I know better.

We’re not all created equal. There are the Carries and Royces of the world, high up in their gated mansions and their fancy schools, and then there’s me and my family, who are just struggling to keep our footing. Though our paths may cross momentarily, maybe it’s better to stick to our own circle, so we don’t get hurt when we crash into each other.

Because that’s what’s happening here, isn’t it? I’ve crashed into Royce, and I’m bound to get hurt.

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