Ana of California Read online

  “Dillon.”

  “What did you think of the book?”

  “Is that the one with the kid who goes to the chocolate factory?”

  The room erupted in laughter. A couple of idiots and derps thrown in and the sound of a loud high five.

  “No, it is not, but Charlie and the Chocolate Factory is a wonderful story. Next up will be Jack Kerouac’s classic On the Road. Has anyone read it or any other Kerouac?”

  Ana and Cole both put up their hands.

  “Two of you, great!” Ms. Gregg said. “Cole, why don’t you tell me what you like or dislike about Kerouac.”

  “Well, I like his sentence structure and rambling way of thinking. But mostly, I like that he lived for travel and adventure, that he was all about climbing forbidden mountains, so to speak, and living life to the fullest on his own terms.”

  “Well said. What about you—it’s Anna, isn’t it?”

  “Close. It’s Ana,” she said to whispers in the back of the room. She took a breath. Manny popped into her head, reminding her to speak clearly. “Kerouac is one of those guys you either love or hate, I guess. I’d say that my dislike comes mainly from an inability to understand his chaotic logic. A lot of people find him to be sort of a jerky inebriated degenerate, which he apparently was at times. I don’t love all of his work, but what I like about him is his ability to champion the riot in people. Because we all have it inside of us, right? Some of us are just less afraid of letting it out. And Kerouac held those with fight in them, those who refused to be ignored, as the ones who were most interesting on the blank page of life. I think that’s rad.”

  “What an interesting way of looking at it,” said Ms. Gregg, nodding her head. She went around the room asking each person about their favorite novel. Ana was fascinated to hear revealing bits of background about each of her new classmates. There were more than a few mentions of Catcher in the Rye, and one of the guys in the back got a laugh when he said The Boxcar Children. Ana chose Kafka on the Shore, much to Ms. Gregg’s delight, and to Cole’s, who made a point of nodding at her when she said it. She noticed that Rye was uncharacteristically quiet through most of the class, her head down until it was time to choose a favorite book. She chose Breakfast at Tiffany’s before changing it to In Cold Blood. When the bell rang, Rye jumped up and catapulted herself out the door, stopping to turn around the moment she realized she hadn’t waited for Ana.

  “See you at lunch?” she said, looking like she was in a hurry to go.

  “Of course,” Ana said, making her way to the door. “Where shall we—” But Rye was already headed down the hall.

  • • •

  Abbie checked her reflection in the driver’s mirror. She pinched her cheeks to wake them up and put on the lipstick she found in the glove compartment.

  “What am I doing?” she asked herself as she fluffed out her hair.

  She carried a box of produce and a bundle of flowers across the street to Will’s café.

  “Great to see you again,” Will said as he opened the door. “You ran out before we had a chance to talk last time.”

  “Migraine,” Abbie lied. She followed him inside and set the box on the back counter. There were bistro tables and chairs filling the room and an oil painting of a sea captain on the far wall. “The place looks incredible,” she said.

  “So do you,” he responded.

  Abbie blushed and ignored the comment.

  “I’ve got all kinds of goodness for you today. You wanted tubers, right? I brought sweet potatoes and sunchokes, both of which are practically popping out of the ground on the farm.”

  Will smiled and inspected the produce. “Beautiful,” he said. “Still no fungi?”

  “Not really our specialty, but I can connect you with Alder Kinman, who grows chanterelles on his property.”

  “I’ll take you up on that. What else are you going to thrust upon me?” he asked.

  “Plenty,” she said, throwing him a smile, which he returned. “I think you’ll find our salsify and purslane are unparalleled. And we’re harvesting Asian pears and quinces. I brought both for you to try.”

  Will picked up a quince and sniffed it. “I can make a membrillo with this,” he said. “You into Spanish cooking?”

  “Not as much as I probably should be, but I’ve been making Mexican dishes at home. Ana seems to enjoy it. She also enjoys critiquing my recipes.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” He laughed. “From what I’ve heard, you’re pretty fantastic in the kitchen. Not that I didn’t guess that already.”

  “I brought a variety of dahlias this time too,” Abbie said, changing the subject. “Thought the color palette would go with the dark grays of the restaurant.”

  Will crossed his arms and nodded his head. “No tomatoes? Eggplants?”

  “Not at the moment, I’m afraid.”

  “No other types of nightshade?” he asked, looking straight at Abbie, whose body stiffened.

  “No, um, can’t say we have any other types of . . . of that.”

  He continued staring at her as she fumbled for her keys.

  “I should probably get going,” she said.

  “C’mon . . . ,” he said, leaning forward from behind the counter. “I can’t just stand here without acknowledging that you are who I think you are.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the year 1988 and the release of Nightshade’s seminal album Midnight Angel. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you’re the angel.”

  Abbie knew there was no way to lie or hide her way out of this. It wasn’t as if anyone stopped her on the street. She was certain no one in Hadley was even aware of her brief fame, however short lived. Heavy metal wasn’t something on anyone’s radar anymore.

  “Yes, that was me,” she said, deciding to own up to it. “It’s not something I’m proud of or acknowledge at this time in my life, though.”

  “Why not? You’re one of the most iconic album cover babes in the history of heavy metal! I had you on my wall!”

  “Wow. I feel naked all of a sudden.”

  “That’s what I loved about that cover. You weren’t. Nightshade got so much heat for that, remember? Just you in that white dress floating against a black background . . . it’s the only album my mother let me hang on the wall. Man! If I could go back and tell my younger self that I’d one day be standing—”

  “How old were you when the album came out?”

  “Technically, I was eleven,” Will said, which made Abbie cough. “It was my older brother’s, but it was my favorite. I was obsessed with it all through my teenage years onward.”

  Will continued staring and shaking his head. “This is so surreal.”

  “You’re telling me,” Abbie said. “It was a darker period in my life, one I don’t care to remember.”

  “Sorry if I kicked up—”

  “No, it’s fine,” Abbie said, waving her hand. “I was young and on my own in L.A., running from boredom like every other groupie. I happened to be in the right nightclub at the right time, I guess, and I was up for any kind of adventure, so . . . I used to call them my ‘yes’ years, not that they didn’t devolve into a gigantic no.”

  They were both quiet for a moment.

  “So, we’ll have parsnips and persimmons soon,” she said. “I should have batches of cider next time too. Same time, next week?”

  “Absolutely. Yes.”

  • • •

  Ana followed the crowd of people heading out the back doors for lunch. She had no idea where Rye’s locker was, so she looked for her outside. There were crowded picnic tables strewn along the back of the building as well as people tucked into the bleachers above the football field. Most of the tables were occupied or seemed reserved for previously established groups. Quite a few kids were wearing Lions jackets and T-shirts, A
na noticed. She’d thought that school pride was a thing Hollywood had invented. At the far end of the row, near several trash cans, Rye Moon sat in the middle of an empty table. She waved Ana over.

  “Roar,” said a voice.

  “How goes it, Big B?” Ana said to Brady, who was carrying a brown paper lunch bag significantly smaller and emptier than her own. “Shall we have lunch together on our first day?”

  “Been waiting all morning.”

  “How did it go?” Ana asked, walking them slowly toward the far table.

  “Pretty awesome. My math teacher made a big deal about me, but everyone was nice about it. Science is going to be a snap, but English was weird. The school is bigger than I thought. Did you get lost?”

  “No, but I got stared at a lot.”

  “Me too. It’s ’cause we’ve got it going on.”

  They approached the table. Rye was eating an apple and flipping through a fashion magazine.

  “Mind if we join?” Ana asked.

  “Please. I’ve been waiting for you forevs,” Rye said. “Who’s your friend with the boots?”

  “I’m Brady. The boots used to be my dad’s, and they’ve been to a rodeo. Once.”

  “How old are you?” she asked.

  “Old enough for sophomore-level algebra even though they’re keeping me in freshman. Almost old enough for you.”

  “I see.”

  “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he said, causing Rye’s maroon lips to smirk upward. “I would say the same about Ana, but we have an understanding.”

  “Do you?”

  “We’re friends, kind of like life support for the first day and everything.”

  “Why aren’t you sitting with the rest of the freshies in the cafeteria?”

  “Because he’s fine out here,” Ana interjected with a wink.

  “Of course, I just thought he might like to be around the rest of the kids in his class. They have their own weirdo table too.”

  “Wait, is this the official weirdo table?” Ana asked, making a joke and not realizing Rye was serious.

  “Sorry to break it to you, but we’re not part of the bouncy ponytail, milk and shortbread cookies crowd.”

  Brady gleefully sat next to Rye. Ana squeezed in across the table. She could tell something was bothering Rye and that she didn’t want to talk about it.

  “What’s for lunch?” Rye asked.

  Ana pulled out the parchment-wrapped sandwich. It was a two-handed situation, as usual, and noticing Brady’s measly lunch of peanut butter and jelly with carrot sticks and a juice box, Ana handed him half her sandwich.

  “Like I said, Abbie’s zee best of zee best. What’d you get?” Rye asked.

  “Mozzarella and roasted vegetable.”

  “I got a dull hummus sandwich, an apple, and some spelt cookies. Moms love to make lunches for the first day, huh? I mean—sorry.”

  “No biggie,” Ana said, pretending, just for a moment, that it was true. She continued to chew, sliding the bag of kale chips in Brady’s and Rye’s direction.

  “I don’t eat anything green,” he said.

  Rye pulled them in front of her. “Do you mind?” she asked, dipping into the bag.

  “Go for it,” Ana said.

  She popped a chip into her mouth before pushing the bag away and abruptly looking down at the table.

  “Hey, Ryan . . . I mean Rye,” a guy in a Lions T-shirt called as he walked to the trash cans with a group of friends. “Like the haircut. That your new girlfriend?”

  Rye didn’t say anything.

  “And who’s this little dude?” the guy continued, to which his friends laughed. “Your plaything?”

  “We haven’t played yet, no,” Brady said.

  “Be careful, little bro,” the guy said, leaning in to whisper. “I bet these two like it rough.”

  “What’s your problem?” Ana said.

  “What’s your problem,” he answered to another round of laughter. “You’re the new girl from Hell-A, right?”

  Ana hoped her look alone would silence the topic, but she could feel Rye’s anger and Brady’s confusion, and no one else was saying anything.

  “Yeah, so what?”

  “So, welcome to Hadley, bitch. Or is that ‘Butch’?”

  The group walked away, but not without making rude gestures. Brady looked terrified, and Rye’s gaze was locked on the table.

  “Unbelievable,” Ana said.

  “See what I mean about needing to get the hell out of here?” Rye mumbled. “It’s the milkiest, most backward place in the universe. I say that literally and metaphorically with deliberate shade thrown at the amount of dairies in this town.”

  “My dad has a dairy farm,” Brady said.

  “Your dad is excluded,” Ana said.

  “This town practically killed off both my parents’ ancestors. Why they stay here remains a mystery, especially when San Francisco seems like a much better option—I admit that selfishly—but it isn’t like it hasn’t changed in one hundred fifty years. None of us has ever been welcome and we were born here.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” Ana said.

  “You wouldn’t understand. You grew up in a sprawling metropolis full of diversity and Disneyland, and it isn’t like you advertise your serape on your sleeve. Honestly, with your smattering of freckles and doe eyes, it’s no wonder you’re already palsy with Cole Brannan. You fit in better than anyone at this table.”

  “What about me?” Brady said. “I’m awesome!”

  “Honestly,” Ana began, taking a second to think before speaking. “Those guys will be jerks regardless of their background or yours. Ignorance can be mean. I’ve dodged bullets like that all my life, and it never gets easier. I’ve dodged real ones too.”

  The table behind them turned toward her. Ana hadn’t realized their conversation had other listeners.

  “They’re just words,” Ana continued. “Those idiots have no idea that the weirdo table is the most interesting one, and that’s their loss. Personally, I’m glad to even have a table.”

  The bell rang.

  “Gotta run to gym,” Brady said, easing out of the table quickly. “Thanks for lunch! See you after school!” He crumpled his lunch bag and scampered toward the doors, along with everyone else sitting nearby.

  “What they said . . . ,” Rye said before stopping herself.

  “Who cares? Let it roll off your amazing new hair, but don’t come anywhere near mine.”

  “We should get to class,” Rye said. “We can go together.”

  “To independent study?”

  “My mom said you were supposed to be in my art class. . . .”

  “They switched me out of it.”

  “Typical.”

  “Bastardos.”

  “Bastardos.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Abbie Garber hung up the telephone and leaned against the kitchen counter.

  “Hell on a hot plate!” she shouted to the various jars and bowls taking over the counter space. “Two hours? Who does she think she is?”

  She went to the stove with her tongs and lifted the jars of peach preserves out of their boiling bath, then set them on a towel to cool. She’d dealt with last-minute orders before, but never one in such a short amount of time. Still, surprised as she was to get the call, new clients were a necessity, even if the client was Nadine Brannan. Abbie wondered if there was a motive behind it. The Brannans had never been friendly, even though they owned part of the forest behind Garber Farm, but their recent history—more specifically, the unfortunate ties binding Nadine and Emmett—gave Abbie pause. She’d said yes to the order partially because she couldn’t say no, but also because she was curious as to why she’d been asked in the first place.

  “Right,” she said t
o the cupboards. “Zucchini bread, Earl Grey peach preserves, which I already have, and a pickle sampler. Easy enough.”

  She rushed around the kitchen simultaneously cleaning up and gathering her baking ingredients. And though it had been a while, she switched on the stereo and cranked the sound to energize her less-than-pleased mood.

  Abbie smiled at the song, however bittersweet the sound. She hadn’t realized how long it had been since she’d listened to music in the house, but hearing Josie’s mix CD brought her back to the last time she ever saw her best friend. They’d been up late drinking red wine and baking, laughing about Emmett—who was in the barn watching a baseball game—and talking about their best kisses. Embarrassed at the memory, Abbie recounted a clandestine moment drunk at a hotel on the Sunset Strip. Josie was particularly wrapped up in her own story, which remained vague in location but rapturous in the description of “a week-long kiss.” Abbie gagged at what she could only imagine was Emmett in his much younger years.

  Abbie turned the music up, cracked a few eggs into the mixing bowl, and began whisking away. She wondered how long it had been since she’d had a kiss like that. She hadn’t been on a proper date in years. “Probably not since ‘Barracuda’ was on the radio. Jesus,” she thought to herself. And though she’d already blocked this particular daydream more than a few times before, her mind wandered all the way down the road and through the open doors of Will Carson’s café. She wished Josie were sitting in the kitchen with her so they could dish about the new chef in town, dissecting his looks and gasping at his age, while swooning at the prospect of his availability. And because she knew her friend hadn’t meant to destroy their friendship the way she did, Abbie indulged her imagination for a moment, pretending Josie was at the table listening anyway.

  “You gonna burn, burn, burn, burn it to the wick, aren’t you, Barracuda?”

  She sang along while sifting her dry ingredients into the egg mixture, dancing around while beating it all together, enjoying the release. When she turned around to grab the grated zucchini, she screamed—there was someone sitting at the table. Minerva Shaw smiled and put up her hands as if to say, “Please continue.” Abbie dropped the zucchini and turned off the mixer.