“Yeah,” she said. “It just got approved. So my grandmother said we should go before they change their minds.”
“How long’s it been since you’ve seen her?” Micah asked.
She acted like she had to think about the answer, but really she knew to the day, almost to the minute: eighteen days. For some reason she didn’t want to say that. “Almost three weeks,” she said.
“One summer I spent a month away from my parents, but that’s as long as I’ve ever gone,” he said. He looked at her sympathetically. She didn’t want his pity, so she changed the subject.
“I’m going to ask her, if I can. About the list.” She knew he was thinking about the list but would never ask. She was starting to be able to tell what he was thinking, which was nice, but also scary. She didn’t want to know him like that if she couldn’t keep him.
“You don’t have to do that,” he started to argue. He’d told her several times they should just drop it. But she couldn’t. Not if there was a chance she could help him. And not if there was a chance she could help her mom, too. Or instead. She hadn’t yet decided what to do about that dilemma, either. She hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
“My grandmother said not to get my hopes up about being able to talk to her much, or for very long. She said they’ll be monitoring every word she says.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “But I’ve been thinking of ways to talk in code.”
He laughed. “So you’re James Bond now?”
She raised her eyebrows. “You shouldn’t underestimate me.”
His smile softened to an amused grin. “You’re a funny girl, Violet Ramsey,” he said for the second time in their short relationship.
“Funny how?” she asked, feeling bold because she knew she was about to leave. Still, her heart picked up speed as she said it. She was learning that sometimes love felt more like standing on a cliff and looking over the edge than feeling safe in someone’s arms.
He cocked his head, considering his answer before he spoke. Across the street she heard her grandmother call her name, but she stood still.
He shook his head. “You’re just different. From other girls. From any I’ve known.”
She wanted so badly to ask, Different good or different bad? But her bravery had nearly run out, and her grandmother was waiting for her. So instead, with the last scrap of bravery she had, she supplied an answer to her own question.
“Some people say different is good,” she said, and started walking away.
“Is that so?” he called after her.
She turned around and shrugged, grinning. “Just what I’ve heard.”
He picked up the basketball, spun it around in his hands as he grinned at the ball instead of her. “I’ll take that under advisement,” he said.
She started walking away again, wondering if this was flirting, and if she was any good at it.
“Call me and tell me how it went?” he called out one more time. She hadn’t expected that.
She turned around, gave him the thumbs-up sign, and hurried across the street that had once been the division between their two houses, a gap so wide no one dared cross it. No one would’ve thought it possible, least of all her.
On the drive over to the jail, she and her grandmother remained quiet. It was not unusual for Violet to be quiet, but it was uncharacteristic of Polly. Violet took it as a bad sign that Polly wasn’t talking, which made her feel even more nervous about the visit. With each mile they traveled, the butterflies in her stomach sprouted more butterflies, and the swarm of them beat their wings inside her until Violet nearly felt nauseous.
The jail was all the way uptown—a long way from their house in the suburbs. As they drove, Violet tried to imagine her mother riding in the back of the police car all this way, her hands cuffed. It must’ve been uncomfortable, not to mention humiliating. Violet was glad she had not been home when her mother was arrested. She would not have liked to witness that. She probably would have cried, and she did not like to cry in front of other people. She especially wouldn’t have liked to cry in front of that horrible detective. She hoped he wasn’t there for this visit, but knowing him, he would be. Lurking around, looking at them suspiciously like he always did, and just generally being annoying.
Finally, Polly spoke up, and, though she would not admit it willingly, Violet was relieved. She’d come to count on her grandmother prattling on about something. Her voice had started to feel familiar, comfortable. Sometimes she worried about Polly going away when her mother came home. Violet would admit willingly that she would be very sad if that happened. When the time was right, she planned to tell her mother just that. Though she feared what her mother would say, Violet had some opinions of her own. The most important one her mother couldn’t argue with: Polly had been there for her when literally no one else had. The thought brought tears to her eyes, but she blinked them away.
“Cat got your tongue?” Polly asked.
Violet realized she’d missed something Polly had asked. Just because she liked the sound of Polly’s voice did not mean she always listened to every word she said.
“Sorry,” Violet said, going with the truth, “I didn’t hear the question.”
Polly sighed like she was frustrated, then grinned to show that she wasn’t. “Off in the clouds, are you? Not paying your old grandmother a bit of attention. I bet you’re thinking about that boy across the street.”
“Micah?” Violet played dumb.
“As if there’s another boy across the street you spend all your time with.” If grandmothers said duh, Polly would’ve said it. “Yes. Micah. The cute one.”
“You think he’s cute?” Violet asked. She found herself wanting to talk about Micah. She’d not had anyone to talk about him with, longing to hash it all out like she would’ve if this had happened when she and Nicole were friends. But the truth was, if she and Nicole were friends, this probably wouldn’t have happened. Because she would’ve lived with Nicole while her mother was in jail. And then she never would’ve had occasion to talk to Micah Berg. She glanced over at Polly. Her grandmother never would’ve had to come to her house, either.
“Oh, he’s more than cute, Violet. He’s handsome. Movie-star handsome. He looks a little like Paul Newman. You know Paul Newman?” Violet shook her head. Polly glanced over at the movement and shrieked, her voice loud in the enclosed space. “You don’t know who Paul Newman is?”
Violet laughed at the outburst. “No,” she said.
Polly looked up toward the roof of the car. “Kids these days,” she said. “Well, you should look him up on your precious phone. Use the Google to find pictures of him, and you’ll find out what handsome really means. None of those girly men you see so much of nowadays.” Polly’s voice sounded wistful, like she was off in the clouds, too, thinking about Paul Newman.
Violet left her alone with her thoughts. They were getting close to the jail, the city skyline looming just ahead. Violet assumed they’d both be silent until they reached their destination. But then Polly spoke again. “He likes you, too, you know.”
Violet shook her head in denial even as a thrill raced through her entire body. It felt like the time she was on a roller coaster with her dad: the dropping sensation and the rising sensation all happening in tandem.