Page 31 of Charm City Rocks
Poppy answers. “Did you watch it? Tell me you watched it.”
“Okay, yeah,” she says. “I get it.”
Poppy emits a delighted squeal. “See? I don’t mean to sound like an old man here, but you really are pretty when you smile.”
“Shut up.”
“Youshut up.” Poppy is at her workstation. She looks around, draws her face closer to her phone. “Also, there’s this. I’m sending you an image.Us Weeklyjust posted it.”
“Oh Jesus,” she says.
Her phone vibrates. Margot clicks on Poppy’s text and immediately sees herself twice: two images side by side. On the left is the picture she’s been avoiding for years: Lawson carrying her. On the right is a still frame from the video taken seconds after high-fiving Billy. Margot as a young rock star in a dress, as happy as she’d ever been. Middle-aged Margot in a dive bar beside Billy. Her smiles are identical—two moments of joy divided by decades.Us Weekly’s caption reads: “Good for You, Margot Hammer.”
“This guy, Mum,” says Poppy. “You should go see him. In Baltimore. Surprise him.”
Margot walks a few steps, stops again. “You mean just go there? Like, show up? I shouldn’t call him first?”
“Nobody calls anyone anymore. Just go. He’ll be thrilled.”
Margot doesn’t have his number anyway, and there’s something exciting about the thought of the look on his face when he seesher, exciting in a way that makes her feel a little sick to her stomach.
“Oh, by the way,” says Poppy. “You’re trending on Twitter.”
“I don’t even know what that means. I just—”
“What did he say the last time you saw him?”
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.”
Chapter17
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 hisdaddad, 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.”
