He carries it to the dining table, where there are three Post-its labeling the piles. Hers, His, and Goodwill. The Goodwill pile has expanded, taking up the entire table.
“You guys aren’t keeping anything?” I ask.
“Oh,” Dad says. “Hi, Flora.”
Mom waves from across the room. “I didn’t even know you were here!” she says.
In my room, I open the textbook and begin the homework that, as an auditor, I don’t technically need to do. Mr. Trout assigned only the odd-numbered problems, but I decide to do them all. Halfway through, just as I’m drawing a perfect cyclic with my protractor, a knock comes at my door.
It creaks open, even though I haven’t said to come in.
“How’s it going?” Mom asks.
“Fine. Just doing homework.”
“Is the class challenging?”
I shrug.
“What is it again?”
“Geometry.”
She nods, cocks her head. “For some reason I thought you already took geometry.”
I don’t respond, but it doesn’t seem to matter. She’s already scanning my room. My chest constricts, and my stomach clenches, and I can practically hear Jessica telling me to give these feelings a voice.
“Any thoughts yet on what you want to keep?”
“Everything,” I say.
“We could get you a nicer desk. Something more modern.”
“I only have a year left at home anyway.”
“Well. Let’s see how it looks in your new room, and we can decide then.”
“I was just getting into this,” I say, pointing at my textbook.
“Oops! I’ll leave you alone. I’m looking forward to Saturday. A friend told me about a new shop in Berkeley that I thought we could check out.”
“Are you sure you want to go curtain shopping before you know where we’re living?”
“I already know the style I want. Turkish-inspired. We can see what’s out there.”
“Okay,” I say.
“Fantastic. Back to work for you. Dad and I are tackling the hall closet next. You know, we’re having a really good time through all of this.” She flashes me a smile as though to prove it. “Closure is so important, and we keep reminiscing and laughing. We’re getting rid of so much stuff, and it just feels great.”
My vision tilts and then rights itself. There’s a beehive in my body, swarming and dangerous, but I tamp it down and say, “That’s great for you. I really need to get back to this.”
I turn back to the book, but I can’t even see what I’m looking at anymore. I sit very still until I hear the door close. Mom’s footsteps fade down the hallway. I turn to a new page in my notebook and pick up the protractor, but I press too hard on the curve and the lead breaks.
I set my homework aside and open my laptop. I search for Turkish textiles and start a new Pinterest board. I collect patterns and colors, pictures of Turkish tiles for inspiration. I learn about the different traditional motifs—animals and flowers and trees—until I get very tired and give in to the comfort of my bed.
* * *
In the midst of a lecture on the Pythagorean theorem, Mr. Trout sees something out the window. His whole face transforms; a smile takes over. I turn to find out what he’s seeing. It’s a woman, carrying a picnic basket.
“Flora,” he says. “Do me a favor and finish this proof, will you? And then move on to the next one.” On his way out the door, he turns. “And then the one after that.”
So I go up to the whiteboard and take the marker. I turn back around to see Mr. Trout embracing the woman. When they let go, she takes a picnic blanket from where it was tucked under her arm and spreads it out, right there on the grass outside the classroom.
I finish Mr. Trout’s drawing and explain what I’m doing, and then I turn back. Everyone is watching as the woman removes two sandwiches from the picnic basket, both wrapped in parchment paper and tied up in bows. Next comes a dish of strawberries and two champagne flutes. She reveals a bottle of sparkling water with a flourish, says something, and they both laugh, their heads thrown back.
I feel awkward standing here, not doing anything, so I check his notes for what I’m supposed to be working on next, erase the drawing I just did, and start the next one.
“Okay, so this is the algebraic proof,” I say. “A squared plus b squared equals c squared.”
I draw the big square with a smaller square tilted inside of it and label all the parts. I don’t even turn around, because I know no one is paying any attention. When I’m finished, I set down the marker and look out the window. Mr. Trout and the woman are relaxed on the blanket, eating and talking as though they are in the middle of a park on a Saturday afternoon. Everyone in the room is turned toward the window, taking in the sight.
Everyone except Mimi, who is looking at me.
All at once, it comes back: the first time I saw her, when I was waiting for Blake by the oak tree, and she was passing out flyers for the Gay-Straight Alliance. “Do you go here?” she asked. I shook my head no. “I didn’t think so,” she said. “Too bad.” And then she handed me a flyer anyway.
A couple weeks later, under that same tree, my heart beating hard at the sight of her. “How’s the club going?” I asked.
She shrugged. “It isn’t, really. Too much Straight, too little Gay, which kind of defeats the purpose.”
Travis and Hope were there, beside her.
“Don’t blame us,” Travis said. “We’re just being supportive.”
“I don’t think I’m really a club person anyway,” Mimi said.
Now, almost three years later, with our teacher picnicking outside and the rest of the class engrossed in it, she raises her hand.
“Yes?” I say.
“Why are you taking this class?”
And maybe it’s because of the bizarreness of the moment. Or because, in the midst of the twenty other students facing away from us, it feels like Mimi and I are alone in this classroom. Whatever the reason, I decide to answer honestly.
“I needed to get out of the house.”
* * *
“We’re going camping,” Mimi says, two hours later. “Want to come?”
We’re in the spot where Mr. Trout and his lady friend had their picnic, but the evidence has been cleared away. He came back into the room as though nothing had happened and told us all to head to lunch.
“When?” I ask her.
“Tomorrow morning, just up to Muir Beach for a couple of nights.”
“I don’t think I can,” I say. “I want to, but I have plans.”
“Fourth of July party?”
“Not quite. It’s, like, a decorating thing. With my mom.”
“That’s too bad, because we could all use some help with geometry.”
“Oh,” I say. “You’re just in the market for some free tutoring?”
“Not just,” Mimi says.
“Break’s over!” Mr. Trout calls from the classroom. “I shouldn’t have to be telling you this! You all have cell phones with the time!”
“Pretty bold for someone who just had a picnic during their workday,” Travis calls back.
“That’s fair,” Mr. Trout says. “But I’m still in charge.”
I pivot and head back to the classroom.
At the end of the day, on her way out of class, Mimi hands me a note. Across the span of our history, it’s the second piece of paper she’s given me. This one is bigger than the GSA flyer, on graph paper, folded into a little square. In case your plans fall through, it says. Then, under it, a drawing of a tent, a couple trees, the moon and stars, and a fire. Beneath, she’s written, Muir Beach, site 12.
* * *
“Lattes first,” Mom says. “Then the curtain shop!”
She wants to drive separately because she has more errands to run afterward. While she’s ordering at our usual café, I choose a table and open up my laptop to show her the board I’ve created.