Page 32 of Caught in a Storm
Margot thinks. “He said if I’m ever in Baltimore again…”
“Wait,” says Poppy. Her mouth becomes a straight line. “Mum? Is that…Dad?”
“Where?”
Poppy points. “There. Behind you.”
Margot looks over her shoulder at the men scraping Lawson’s cheekbones from plaster, turning him into flakes of dust. “Yeah,” she says. “They’re taking him down.”
Chapter 17
Caleb stops at the mailbox on his way up the driveway. The previous owners built it to resemble the look and feel of his mom and Aaron’s house, complete with white shutters and a little matching roof. It’s cheesy and suburban, but actually kinda cool, too.
A few years ago, when his mom and Aaron decided to change the color of the house from beige to greenish, Caleb helped Aaron paint the mailbox to match. It was a Saturday afternoon. They drank sodas and chatted as they worked; an Orioles game played on the old-school radio Aaron found in the basement. Chatting always feels more forced with his stepdad than his dad dad, but Caleb has grown to appreciate the effort Aaron always makes.
Birds sometimes try to build nests between the mailbox door and roof in the spring, which can scare the living shit out of you if you’re not prepared. A UPS guy knocked the whole thing over a few years ago while backing up. He pinned a note to the tipped-over wreckage afterward: “My bad!—Travis.”
Caleb opens the mailbox door slowly, in case any sparrows have tried to set up shop, but it’s all clear. Generally, the mail is just catalogs and glossy ads for window cleaners and landscapers. Beginning earlier this year, though, things started arriving addressed to him.
He can’t imagine how stressful trips to the mailbox must’ve been back in the day, before universities started sending their acceptances and rejections via email. Every trip out to the curb must’ve felt like life or death.
The cadences from the University of Maryland and Johns Hopkins were identical: an acceptance email followed a few days later by a packet of pertinent information delivered by snail mail. Maryland’s packet had a cartoon terrapin on it. Johns Hopkins’s info was more formal-looking—serious blues and grays. Mr. Butler, one of the English teachers at school, had already told him he got into Hopkins, though, so the email and follow-up packets were just for show. Mr. Butler called Caleb into his office last week.
“Congrats,” he said. “If you accept, I have a blue jay stuffed animal for you. It’s cute.”
“Thanks.”
“You applied to Stanford, too, right?” asked Mr. Butler.
“Yeah.”
The English teacher rubbed his chin. He wears a corduroy blazer all year, even when it gets hot. “You don’t wanna go there,” he said. “California? You can’t study when it’s seventy-two and sunny every day. You’ll fail out in a month. Baltimore is perfect for academia. The weather is just bad enough.”
Caleb does a quick peek into the mailbox and finds that there’s nothing interesting: catalogs, a letter from AAA for Aaron. He hasn’t gotten his email from Stanford yet, so he wasn’t technically expecting a packet. But who knows? Maybe they do it differently.
His neighbors the Gundersons drive by and wave. Their chocolate Lab, Tessa, wags her tail from the backseat. Caleb waves back and tucks the junk mail under his arm.
He takes his phone out of the back of his uniform khakis as he walks toward the house. He hardly realizes he’s doing it, because checking his phone comes as naturally as blinking or breathing. TikTok, then Insta. When he opens his email and sees the message at the top of his inbox he stops walking. The letters he’s carrying fall to the pavement.
Stanford University Office of Undergraduate Admissions.
“Oh jeez,” he says.
His backpack feels heavy. His knees go weak, like he’s run here. But then he closes his email app and puts his phone back in his pocket, because he’s not ready to know. Not yet.
Chapter 18
Margot packs in her head as she walks. Underwear, socks, toothbrush.
What if it’s hot? What if it’s cold? What if it rains? It hardly matters, because all her clothes are basically the same: jeans, gray button downs, black T-shirts, the boots she’s wearing now. The best outfit she has is the one she wore to Charm City Rocks. Will Billy notice if she wears it again?
The idea is to keep moving, because if she stops, she’ll realize this is crazy. She’s an adult. Adults don’t just get on trains and show up at strange men’s doorsteps. Margot said these exact words to Poppy ten minutes ago.
“Says who?” Poppy asked.
“I don’t know, civilized society?”
“Whatever. And he’s not strange. You know him. Just keep walking.”
