Teddy’s old bedroom had been completely redecorated and was now a guest room with tan walls and Target-sourced artwork on the walls. Teddy supposed this was probably more soothing to her mom’s guests than the giant Titanic poster she’d hung above her bed in elementary school so she could sleep under the watchful gaze of Leo and Kate.
The closet, however, was where most of Teddy’s things lived. Boxes of old grade cards, stories she’d scribbled when she didn’t know how to spell much of anything, reports she’d written on elephants. She knew if she dug around enough, she’d find Shaq in all his slightly misshapen glory.
“What are you looking for, again?” her mother asked from the bedroom doorway, where she leaned against the frame with her arms crossed.
“Just . . . an old picture I made when I was a kid,” Teddy said from the closet. “It’s kind of hard to explain, but I need to see it.”
“Ooooh-kay,” her mom said in a singsong voice. “So how are things going?”
“Good,” Teddy said, riffling through a box of poetry from fourth grade. Wow, she’d written a lot of haiku about pandas.
“What’s happening on the job front?” Her mom’s voice carried into the closet, slightly muffled.
Teddy paused, elbow deep in a bin full of papers. “Uh . . . not much,” she said, glancing at an eighth-grade report card. Teddy is clever and extraordinarily bright, but reluctant to speak up in class. Some things never changed, apparently.
“Did you check out the links I sent you?” her mom asked eagerly. “You can take classes online or at night, so you don’t have to quit your job to get an MBA.”
“Mmm,” Teddy said noncommittally.
“There’s always law school like Sophia.”
Teddy frowned.
Her mother’s voice grew wistful. “I’m so glad she’s a lawyer. That was my dream job when you two were little. I wanted to be Ally McBeal, wearing those tiny skirts, surrounded by drama.”
“Yes!” Teddy hissed.
“So you do want to be a lawyer?”
Teddy emerged from the closet, a drawing in hand. “I found it! This is the portrait I made of Shaquille O’Neal!”
Her mom tilted her head, studying it. “Is that who that is? Huh. I figured that was one of your teachers.”
Teddy held the picture protectively to her chest. “He’s wearing a jersey, Mom. I know it doesn’t look much like Shaq—”
“It sure doesn’t.”
“But,” Teddy continued with an edge to her voice, “I wanted to show it to a friend.”
Her mom shrugged. “Okay. I made you a sandwich. You want some lemonade?”
Teddy smiled. “Sure, Mom.”
“You know,” her mom said, looking around, “if you get tired of living with your friends, you can always move back here. We can fix up your room, and don’t make that face.”
Teddy realized she was wrinkling her nose. “No, sorry. I don’t mean—”
Her mom rolled her eyes. “Come eat your sandwich and I’ll show you the website for the online college program I think you’ll like.”
As Teddy followed her mother downstairs, she couldn’t help but smile. Yes, her mom was kind of a control freak who didn’t seem to understand that Teddy had her own life, but she did everything out of love and an attempt to make Teddy happy. It might have been a misguided and overblown attempt, but it was an attempt all the same. But this time, Teddy knew she couldn’t simply go along with someone else’s plan—she had to figure things out herself.
But a sandwich? Well, she could at least let her mother do that much for her.
29
Dear Everett,
Thank you for the kind words in your last email. We may be mere pen pals, but that pep talk made my whole day. I was nervous about the sewing class, but it was actually . . . kind of great? Better than great, even. I made a functional pillowcase and no one told me it was terrible, so I consider that a victory. My friend and I ended up buying a sewing machine and we spent last night making more pillowcases, so many that our third roommate asked what we were planning on doing with all the pillows, so I guess it’s time to learn to make something else.
I spent so long thinking that making things wasn’t for me. Sure, I know how to cook some basics, but that was always utilitarian. I make something. Then I eat it. Sewing isn’t necessary for me. It’s probably cheaper to go to Target and buy a pillowcase than it is for me to make one, but it’s fun. Even more than that, my brain shuts off when I’m doing it. It’s like sewing puts me in a meditative trance, the way that real meditation doesn’t. I’m not great at it (clearly; I’ve made a few pillowcases, not my own wardrobe), but it’s fun. It’s been so long since I did something purely because it was enjoyable.
It actually does make me feel better to know that your life hasn’t been a straight line toward success. It’s easy to look at someone like you and think, “Well, Everett St. James has always known what he wanted to do and nothing has ever thrown him off course.” I bet you’re so glad you stayed home to see your sister grow up. She’s probably a wonderful young woman now, having you as an example/big brother.
At your request, I’ve included my Shaquille O’Neal portrait. Don’t laugh. I know I can’t see you through the computer screen, but I’ll be able to feel it if you do.
Wearing thimbles on my fingers,
Theodora
Theodora might have told him not to laugh, but Everett hadn’t signed a contract. As soon as he opened the attachment, his tiny chuckle turned into a full-blown laugh attack. Shaq, if you could call him that, stared back at him with uneven eyes and a grimace that was surely meant to be a smile. He looked absolutely nothing like the famous basketball player.
“Oh, my God, I love this woman,” he muttered, wiping a tear off his face. Then, even though he was in his apartment alone, he corrected himself. “I mean, I don’t know her. The ‘love’ was hyperbolic. I think she’s wonderful and hilarious.”
He wondered, not for the first time, what Theodora looked like. With such an old-fashioned name, he imagined her with big curly hair and sunglasses that took up half her face, like a seventies singer-songwriter. But when he really tried to imagine her face, he couldn’t see anything. She was a blank, a blinking cursor in his mind. He spent so much time wondering about her, and he didn’t even know what color her eyes were.
Before he could stop himself, Everett typed out a quick email.
Theodora,