Page 40 of Yes No Maybe

What’s your favorite book of all time?

In turn, I ask about his former English classes—what he loved and hated—and his book history. Talking books with Jack helps conceptualize my teaching strategy. With the whoosh of an email, I send Dr. Evelyn my semester-long plan, glad to get back to my summer.

And Sara’s imminent arrival.

The neighborhood provides a wrought iron daybed (courtesy of the Mueller family), a tall wood dresser (thanks to Tom and Marcy), and a small desk with a wooden rolling chair (from Ed and Renita, who also gave me a basketful of free Mary Kay products as an apology). Vernon, Tom, and Jack supervise the deliveries, and though I could easily help move items into the house, they are insistent on doing the heavy lifting.

Men.

With the money I don’t have to spend on furniture, I splurge on a full-length mirror, a cute desk lamp, and a shag rug. I go with lavender curtains to compliment the sage walls and bed linens. A short bookshelf completes the room, which I stock with some of my favorites as a teenager.Little Women.Anne of Green Gables.Titles by John Greene, Kiera Cass, andThe Hunger Games. She’ll have plenty to read and a lovely room to retreat to.

Sara Sweet arrives on the last Tuesday of July. I greet them in the driveway, where Mira unloads an old, beach-blue bicycle with a basket and a single suitcase from her SUV.

“Oh, we can go on bike rides…once I get a bike, that is,” I say as I think it. “It’s a great neighborhood for it.”

“I know. I live here, too,” Sara says with an eye roll and a huff.

She is a head taller and thirty pounds heavier than me, wearing mostly black and donning long, lavender-colored hair that looks so thick and different I wonder if it’s real. A nose ring and brow stud tell me she’s brave, perhaps keen on attention, while the dark smudges on her right fingers suggest she’s an artist. I adore herinstantly.

“Right. I forgot that. I’m Rowan.” I extend my hand.

She keeps her arms folded and looks disgusted. “God, your face.”

Dropping my hand, I gape while cueing up the story I give my students. “Well—”

“I don’t care.” She steers her bike to the porch, propping it against a column.

Inside the house, I give her the full tour. Sara isn’t impressed by the snack-filled pantry or soda-lined fridge, though both are stocked with things teenagers love. She turns her nose up at my freshly baked chocolate chip cookies and sandwiches on the kitchen table.

She ignores the lavender-hued towels in her bathroom, which I point out are, coincidentally, the same color as her hair. The cozy vibe I created in her room with sage bedding, light green walls, twinkle lights around the window, and a soft desk lamp doesn’t impress her either.

Grunting, she eyes the Squishmallow on her bed—Danielito the Starry Cat—before tossing him into the trashcan by her desk. “I’m not five.”

“Sara, don’t be rude,” Mira says gently. “We talked about this.”

Rescuing Danielito, I shrug. “That’s fine. I’ll take him. He reminds me of Edgar.”

I force an indifferent smile, hugging the soft, stuffed cat. Whatever pride I have left in my work shrivels in her contempt.

Edgar saunters into her bedroom to see what’s happening. Animals make for excellent icebreakers, and he’s such an adorable cat.

But Sara scoffs again as if it’s her favorite reaction. “What’re you? A witch?”

I laugh like a dork struggling through a bad date. “No, of course not.”

In the living room, I perk up when she asks for the Wi-Fi password. But when I tell her it’s Nevermore99, as a nod to both Edgars, she groans. “You’re one of those sad nerds, aren’t you?”

I don’t know how to answer. Worse, her thumbs fly over her phone screen, like she’s sharing my sad nerdiness with the world. Or my Wi-Fi password. Or both, based on her satisfied smirk.

Mira bounces on her feet and releases a heavy sigh. “Sara, why don’t you take your bag to your room and get settled? Remember what we discussed about making the best of things, huh?”

After a mind-blowingly intricate eye roll that would cause an aneurysm in most people, Sara heaves her suitcase down the hall.

I lean against the back of the couch, pained. “I shouldn’t have bought the Squishmallow.”

“Yeah,that’sthe takeaway… You’re trying too hard. Just relax. Give her space, and she’ll warm up to you. Eventually.Maybe.”

“Sure she will,” I say, mustering my confidence. “She’ll love it here when she gives it a chance.”

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