Dad comes with us or not,’ Meg said, ‘Grandpa will be glad to see you; he wants to show you around – “show her off”, that’s how he put it.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s his new home, the people there are his new neighbors – he wants them to see his beautiful offspring.’
‘Which would be you, or Aunt Beth,’ Savannah said. ‘Not me. I’m not beautiful; I got Dad’s big nose.’
Perhaps, Meg thought. Savannah’s nose did look something like Brian’s, and the shape of her face was similar, too; the broad forehead, the wide smile. Meg wouldn’t bet her life on a genetic connection, though. She said, ‘You are absolutely gorgeous. I’d give anything for that wavy hair.’ She wanted to reach over and touch Savannah’s long auburn hair, willed her tired arm to cooperate. Happily, it did, and she pushed some strands behind her daughter’s ear, letting her hand linger. Carson’s low, soulful voice sang one of his early ballads, a song about a pair of young lovers separated by a washed-out bridge.
‘Hey, two hands on the wheel,’ Savannah said.
In the darkness, Meg allowed herself a wistful smile.
Savannah passed the ninety minutes before her online ‘date’ by working on a new song. Her guitar, a fifteenth-birthday gift almost a year ago, made a good diversion most nights, especially now that her grandparents’ horse farm was sold. But last Sunday, while she was chatting online with her friends, she got a message from someone intriguing. A guy – no, a man – who wanted to get to know her. And at nine-thirty tonight he would be online to chat with her again … she hoped.
She sat on her fuzzy purple stool, trying to improve the final three bars of her song. The purple, the fuzz, annoyed her. Nothing in her bedroom suite felt like ‘her’ anymore; her life didn’t feel like ‘her’ anymore. She’d outgrown the lavender walls and spring-green carpet, the white dressers and desk. Her fuchsia curtains, with their bright appliquéd daisies, annoyed her. A lot of things annoyed her, in fact: most of her classmates, her dad’s refusal to let her get a dog even to keep outside, the stares of the creepy lawn-care guys, the way she still wasn’t allowed to stay home alone when her parents traveled, as if she couldn’t be trusted – just to name a few. It was all so irritating, like a cloud of gnats she couldn’t shoo away. Even this song, which she’d been so dedicated to at first, was getting on her nerves; she just couldn’t seem to get it to end the way she wanted it to.
Finally, at nine-twenty, she gave up trying to concentrate and propped the guitar against the wall, wishing there was some way to fast-forward to a time when she had her own life, her own place. Space that was decorated by her, not by some fussy designer who thought she knew ‘just what smart little girls like!’ Someplace like a park ranger’s cabin along the Chassahowitzka River, where she could do research on manatee populations – that would do her just fine. The gentle mammals were her main interest outside of music. If she could have music and manatees, that was all she needed. Well, music and manatees and a boyfriend who loved those things too. And maybe now she’d found him.
‘Ten minutes to Kyle,’ she said, nervous. Would he show? Would he be as interested in her as he’d seemed last time? She grabbed her laptop and settled onto her bed with purple velvet pillows propped behind her, facing the door like she always did – so that no parent could stroll in and read over her shoulder. Not that they would stroll in. Not that she ever had anything to hide, in particular … until this week.
She signed on and scanned her buddy list for Kyle’s screen name: still offline. Suppose he didn’t show? Suppose he found someone he liked better than her?
Her webpage, where he’d first discovered her, was as appealing as she could make it. She’d fudged a little on the facts, though, including posting photos specially selected to make the case that she was twenty, not a month shy of sixteen. One showed her by the pool, wearing a bikini and holding a highball glass filled with amber liquid meant to look like a cocktail. In reality she didn’t drink at all – she was smarter than that. But success in life was all about presentation, that’s what her dad always said. So her page presented the Savannah she thought would attract the kind of boyfriend she wanted: an older guy whose interests matched hers. Guys her age – the ones she knew, anyway – seemed to care only about sports or money or, like her friend Jonathan, were more into playing video games than having an actual life.
Her page was her portal to the real world. And she hoped – hoped so hard that it made her stomach hurt – that her strategy had worked, that Kyle would become her companion and guide.
She traded IMs with Rachel about the guy they’d met up with earlier at the library. Some senior from North Marion High. She’d gone to the library as moral support, though Rachel, who’d practically licked the guy’s ear while whispering to him, seemed to not need any kind of support at all. Now Rachel was saying he’d promised to call her, but she’d forgotten to give him her number before her mom arrived. In typical Rachel fashion she wrote,
OMG!! wat do i do???? i just no i will never c him agn!!!!!!!
chill, Savannah wrote. In her opinion, the guy was too skinny, and he hadn’t seemed that into Rachel anyway.
Savannah kept up her end of the conversation mindlessly, waiting, waiting, her heart seeming to stall, until the chime of Kyle messaging her jump-started it again:
hi babe, wassup?
To Rachel she wrote hurriedly, its him! gtg.
If what he’d said in their first chat was legitimate, he was twenty-three years old and had a bachelor’s degree in marine biology. He loved music, including some of her favorite bands: No Doubt, Evanescence, Nickelback, and Carson McKay. He sounded perfect.
Everything she’d posted on her page was accurate – well, except for her age: long wavy red-brown hair, 5´8´´ (too tall, she thought, but what could she do?), green eyes, 127 lb. She hadn’t revealed her whole name, just first and middle, wise to the risks of giving too much information. Savannah Rae. If she ever got into professional songwriting or performing in public, that was the name she planned to use.
i’m studying 4 bio quiz, she replied. She’d told him that first night that she was a student at the University of Florida – but only after making sure he hadn’t gone there.
ah, the good old days, he wrote. He was working on his PhD now, doing some kind of research for a professor at Harvard – fieldwork around the western Everglades, only a few hours south of Gainesville, he’d said. Gainesville, where she supposedly lived in an apartment with three girlfriends.
Kyle’s very first message included a picture of himself standing on some decrepit dock wearing only cargo shorts that hung low on his hips, and hiking boots with socks showing above the tops. He was trim and muscled like the Greek sculptures she studied in art history. She thought his body was amazing, but it was his face that really drew her in: his wide, long-lashed eyes looked kind. Caring. Dedicated to his passions – which would include her, she hoped. His dark, curly hair and café au lait complexion made her think he might be part Latino or black – something her dad wouldn’t approve of, but she didn’t really care.
wut r u up 2? she asked.
sos. waiting 4 the wkend. i really want 2 meet in person, he wrote, thrilling her. wut r u doing sat?
it’s my dad’s b-day, she wrote, adding a frowning-face icon. Another white lie, but it wouldn’t be good to sound too eager. She waited anxiously for his reply.
idea: meet 4 may day in miami?
Savannah perked up. wut’s in miami?
my bros. we meet every yr 4 beach party. got a bikini? duh.