Flight Season Read online

  “How far is it to my internship?” I gnaw on a Twizzler, savoring the gummy sweetness and the way my teeth feel pressing against it.

  I bet common pigeons eat Twizzlers too. They probably root them out of garbage cans.

  “That’s the wonderful thing!” Mom’s voice is light again, buoyant. “It’s actually closer to the hospital than home. Your commute will be shorter.”

  It’s time to connect with my inner homing pigeon.

  Tomorrow I’m starting an internship at a university hospital about an hour from where we live. And this time I can’t screw up. It’s the reason I’m not chilling out with Gillian and a beer at a downtown music festival in Chicago.

  Well … it’s one of the reasons, at least.

  Getting this job required elaborate negotiations between me, an old family friend who works for the hospital, my resident college adviser, and Professor Stipleman. I begged, I cajoled, I even considered blackmailing Stipleman. The man must have been a child prodigy, because he looks like he’s about twenty-five—and he’s as mean as a snake. I’m convinced he would have taken great pleasure in failing me. But then my adviser stepped in and told him my sad, sad story. I guess Stipleman does have a heart, because he agreed to the plan: I successfully complete a summer internship at the university hospital, and he waives my final exam, allowing my semester grade to stand as it was before the exam period began.

  In other words, I earn another perfectly mediocre B-.

  “As long as I can get to the hospital,” I tell her, “I’ll live anywhere you want.” I’m trying hard to sound brave and focused, just like that pigeon, G.I. Joe. “Text me the address.”

  “Right away!” she says. “I can’t wait to see you!”

  When we hang up, I take two Twizzlers from the bag, feeling grateful that they’re king-sized, and shove them into my mouth.

  Tick-tick-tick-buzzzzzzzzzzzz.

  The sparrow hops toward me, lets out one last call, and then takes to the sky, heading due north.

  “That’s right, little guy,” I call out to him as he flaps his wings with purpose. “You head north; I’ll head south. Because you and I are pulling ourselves together. Starting right now!”

  Sure, I’m giving a pep talk to a migratory songbird who appears to be lost, but despite this small piece of evidence to the contrary, I’m great. I’m ready. I’m gonna give those doctors the best damn intern they’ve ever seen. They’ll be calling Stipleman to thank him for sending me. They’ll be falling all over themselves to write my recommendations for the premed track.

  I am getting back on course.

  I climb into the car with renewed purpose, ready to pull onto the interstate heading south. Before I can even start the car, my phone dings with an incoming text.

  82 A Street

  St. Augustine Beach, FL 32080

  St. Augustine. Oh god. My stomach does two quick flips. I swallow hard, and a gooey chunk of Twizzler lodges in my throat.

  There are so many memories that I’m hoping won’t fade. I cling to them all the time. But then there are the legendary disasters from the past few months, the ones I’m desperate to leave far behind. The disaster I most want to obliterate from my consciousness? It happened almost six months ago to the day in St. Augustine, Florida. And my mom, thank God, knows nothing about it.

  Of all the beaches in Florida, why does our next “great adventure” have to be there?

  I spend the rest of the drive alternately stressing out, pondering fate, and struggling to work out the mysterious ways of the universe. Before I’ve had time enough to come up with a plausible explanation for my new summer home, I’m off the interstate, driving due east through Anastasia Island.

  I travel a short stretch of A1A that’s flanked on either side by palmettos and oaks. It’s a welcome break from the miles of outlet malls and fast-food restaurants I had to navigate after leaving the interstate. Plus, I’m driving away from Old City, St. Augustine, which is a very good thing. Old City is the site of those memories I can’t bear, and it’s already behind me.

  The road makes a sharp right curve, and there it is.

  The beach.

  I roll down all the windows at once and let the salt air hit my face. I take in the sharp aroma of sand and sea oats. Up in New Haven, when I was hit with exhaust fumes or rotting garbage, I used to close my eyes and try to imagine the scent of the beach. It’s nearly impossible to imagine, so now I breathe in deep, almost grateful.

  Even though I’m going to a place I’ve never laid eyes on, smelling the ocean, feeling the warm briny air on my cheeks, makes me feel a little more at home.

  My parents were wanderers. I didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. We took advantage of every spring break, summer vacation, winter holiday, and even random long weekends to work our way around the globe. No matter where we traveled—and we traveled just about everywhere—I drifted toward the lake, the river, the ocean, the stream. I loved to lie down next to the water and stare up, listening to the lapping or roaring or bubbling of water moving beside me, and watching the sky open wide above. My dad joked that when we finally made it to North Africa, I’d be the first one to find an oasis in the desert and lie down beside it.

  The only thing is, we never made it there.

  I rest one arm on the open window as I navigate along a crowded A1A, counting down.

  Fifth, Fourth, Third, Second, First.

  A Street.

  I turn left at the Blue Ocean Surf Shop and head down a cute beach lane, straight toward the ocean. Second house on the right.

  I’m looking for Mom’s silver coupe, but I don’t see her car anywhere. Still, the numbers are clearly marked on the mailbox, so I ease onto the empty parking pad in front of number eighty-two.

  Before I’m even out of the car, Mom bursts through the front door.

  “You’re here!” she calls, rushing to embrace me.

  We grasp each other tightly, not wanting to let go. I feel her dark curly hair wild against my neck, her thin arms wrapped around me. I take in that earthy scent that is so uniquely hers—woodsmoke and rosemary. I feel shaky, suddenly, and I’m forcing back tears.

  That can’t happen. The last thing my mother needs is to see me cry. And, for God’s sake, I’m not seven. I’m an adult. I can hold myself together for her.

  I pull back, letting my hand rest on her shoulder. I notice that she’s wearing a smock, which has the strange effect of making me feel like a kid again. I squeeze my eyes shut and turn away from her, so that when I open them again, I’m looking at the house.

  “Isn’t it so cute?” Mom exclaims.

  The house is one of those strange little A-frames that was popular in the seventies. It’s painted gray and the windows are trimmed in avocado green. Mom’s friend Anita must really be into alliteration, because just in case an A-frame on A Street in St. Augustine Beach isn’t enough, she decided to go ahead and build a little gate in the shape of an A on the porch that wraps around the front.

  It is cute, but maybe a little too cute.

  “When Anita brought me here, I knew this was the place for us, Viv. All these As reminded me of you!”

  I’m speechless. My stomach starts doing those crazy flips again, and I feel like I need to sit down.

  Mom looks at me, puzzled. “Perfect for a girl who hasn’t ever earned a B!” she says, clearly surprised by my reaction, worried that I didn’t get her joke.

  What she doesn’t know is that the joke is on me. I remember my first B very clearly—it was for my “unoriginal” interpretation of the relationship between the 1951 United Nations Refugee Convention and Alice Munro’s “A Red Dress—1946.”

  I thought it was good, and by comparison to most of my work during second semester, while I free-fell into such a deep depression that I couldn’t even drag myself to the dining hall for meals, the essay was awesome. By now, I’ve earned Cs and Ds and even one straight-up F, on a particularly abysmal calculus test. But Mom doesn’t know about any of th
is. And she doesn’t need to know—not yet, at least.

  “It’s really cute, Mom. I love it.” I smile and nod, but what I’m really thinking is: when my second semester grades show up, we’ll be calling an agent to help us find a C-frame house.

  CHAPTER TWO

  TJ

  IT’S 7:08 A.M., and this monster parking lot is already full. How is that even possible? I mean, how many sick people can there be in the middle of a Central Florida swamp?

  I’m late. Again. Prashanti is gonna murder me. Or fire me.

  At this point, I’m so desperate to keep my job that being fired and being murdered would have about the same effect on my life. This isn’t exactly my dream job, but it is my only way out of that restaurant. And I’ve gotta get out of there soon, before I lose my mind.

  I floor my piece-of-crap SUV and drive up onto the grass. I yank the keys out of the ignition, grab my backpack from the torn-up passenger seat, and take off running across the parking lot. I see an old man heading toward the revolving door, and I know I’m gonna have to find another way in. Not that I have anything against old people. Truth is, I love hanging out with old people. I just don’t have time to get behind one of them this morning.

  I jog past the revolving glass doors at the hospital’s main entrance and enter through the east wing. I shove a heavy door open and head into the emergency stairwell. I’m running up the stairs, digging into my backpack to find the top half of my scrubs.

  I should have brought Prashanti some of my great-aunt’s pão de queijo. She can’t get enough of my tia’s little cheese buns. I regularly bribe her to forgive my tardiness with a bag full of them. It’s Tuesday, which means there would have been a bunch cooling on wire racks in the kitchen, next to the coffeepot. But since I woke up a half hour after my alarm, I didn’t make it to the kitchen. I didn’t even get my morning coffee. I barely had time to yank on the bottom half of my scrubs, brush my teeth, and slap on some deodorant. I bet my hair is sticking up in twelve directions.

  I really need a haircut. And a shave. But who has time? Not me. That’s for damn sure.

  When I get to the third-floor landing, I drop my backpack and pull off the T-shirt I slept in. The same shirt I wore last night under my work uniform. It smells like picanha and cordeiro.

  Great start to the workweek: I’ve got an itchy three-day beard, my too-long hair is flying every which way, and I smell like a walking grilled meat kebab.

  I really need to find a way to cut back on my shifts at the restaurant, or at least stop working holidays.

  I don’t mean to sound judgmental, but it’s a simple fact that people act like total idiots on holidays. Since my uncle built that bar last Thanksgiving and set up the little stage in the corner with the karaoke machine, tourists think they’re supposed to get wasted on caipirinhas, sing bad seventies music at the top of their lungs, and do incredibly stupid stuff.

  I get it. They’re on vacation and they want to cut loose, relax a little. But who has to stay there until four A.M., scrubbing puke from the toilets and fixing broken chairs? Me. That’s who.

  I miss the old place, the hole-in-the wall with mismatched tablecloths—the place that locals came to because the food was great and they all loved chatting with my ótima tia.

  Enough. It’s pointless to dwell on the past. We all worked our asses off back then, too. It’s not like we were living the dream or anything.

  Maybe I’m just jealous. Maybe I wish I could spend every holiday singing classic rock ballads and getting wasted with my friends.

  Or maybe not.

  I don’t even like Journey. Plus, the only “friends” I ever actually see are my cousins, and none of us drink. We’ve seen way too many drunk people doing way too many stupid things they’d regret.

  In my family, we don’t have time for regrets. Christ, I don’t even have time to get dressed for work.

  I throw the T-shirt into my backpack and pull out the top half of my blue scrubs. I’m backing through the stairwell door and I can’t see a thing, because I’m wrestling to pull the stupid scrubs over my head.

  I push through the door and head into the hallway, cold air prickling my skin and the smell of antiseptic hitting me hard. When my scrubs finally make it down over my face, I see that I’m inches from colliding with a huge paper cup of Starbucks coffee.

  I stumble back. “Sorry,” I say to the hands holding the giant coffee. Then I take off in a full sprint toward my unit.

  “Hey!” a girl’s voice calls out. “Can you tell me where ICU-3H is?”

  I don’t turn around. “Yeah,” I say. “Follow me.”

  I slow to a jog and take two corners, fast. I push through the double doors of the heart ICU and hold them open for the girl, who’s still trailing behind me.

  “Sorry.” I turn back to look at her. “I’m late for—”

  Wait. Do I know this girl? She looks familiar, but …

  “This is it,” I say, studying her face. It’s strangely familiar—the deep-set hazel eyes, the light smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her lips are thick and naturally rosy, set against her fair skin and dark brown hair, which falls in loose waves halfway down her back.

  “What?” she asks, swiping her chin. “Did I dribble coffee or something?”

  Oh Christ. Those freckles across her nose. Is this why I recognize her? Or is it the eyes?

  I know those eyes. I know that face.

  “I gotta go clock in.” I let go of the door and it swings fast, practically knocking her down.

  She stumbles to block the door as I head down the hall to find Prashanti.

  Could she possibly be the same girl who showed up at the restaurant out-of-control drunk last Thanksgiving? The one whose tangled hair I pushed out of the way when I had to stop the blood gushing from her nose?

  If it really is that girl—and I think it is—what is she doing in the ICU at seven in the morning? (Seven fifteen by now. Damn.) Maybe we got a new patient overnight. I’m really hoping it’s a valve repair, or something else fast and easy. Because whoever that girl is visiting needs to get the hell out of my ICU as soon as possible. I don’t need any more complications in my life.

  Prashanti is heading straight for me, clipboard clutched tight to her chest, lips pursed and head wobbling from side to side. She’s pissed.

  I give her a weak smile and shrug. “I’m really sorry, Prashanti,” I mumble. “Late night at the restaurant. Long holiday weekend, you know?”

  But instead of launching into a painful scolding, Prashanti looks right past me and her face breaks into a huge smile.

  “Richard! Bertrand!” she calls out to the other staff on the hall. “Sharon!” She grabs me by the forearm and turns me around so that I’m facing the girl directly. “I’m so glad you haven’t left yet,” she says to Bertrand, the night-shift charge nurse. “Come meet our new intern!”

  New intern? I guess this is just more proof that the universe doesn’t give a crap what I need.

  Richard and Sharon rush over from their workstation, while Bertrand wraps the new intern in a hug.

  Prashanti leans forward to whisper into my ear, “You and I will have a conversation about tardiness later.” She’s practically hissing. “Don’t you doubt it for a moment.”

  Then she drops my forearm and turns back to face the girl, who everyone on the unit is gathering around to greet, all bright smiles and sparkling eyes.

  I’m looking directly at the new intern’s chest and my head is starting to spin. I don’t make a habit of staring at girls there. The problem is, I’ve seen that chest before.

  Up close.

  Without the clothes.

  In public.

  I’m sure of it now. This is the girl—the pretty-faced hot mess from Thanksgiving. The one who went home with those asshole frat boys even though we insisted that she get a cab.

  Of all the drunk tourists, of all the long nights. Why is this the one I can never get out of my head?

  I sho
uldn’t have let her go home with those idiots. But Christ, it’s not my job to babysit every person who comes into the restaurant. I’ve got enough to worry about. More than enough.

  She’s talking about how happy she is to be here, but I’m too busy staring at my shoes, the wall, the mobile monitor—anything but her, our new intern.

  “Vivi has come all the way from Yale University to spend the summer with us!” Prashanti is practically bubbling over with enthusiasm.

  “Yale!” Richard exclaims. “We’ve got a smarty-pants on our hands.”

  Smarty-pants. Who says that? And I don’t care where she goes to college; I’ve seen this Vivi person do some incredibly stupid things. I clench my jaw tight.

  “Yes, she’s very intelligent,” Prashanti says. “Valedictorian of Holy Innocents!”

  This girl is no holy innocent.

  “And she wants to be a doctor!”

  Of course she wants to be a doctor. Who doesn’t?

  Prashanti nudges me. “Where are your manners, TJ? Aren’t you going to introduce yourself?”

  I drag my gaze up to Prashanti, who is giving me the do-it-now-or-else look.

  “We met already,” I tell her.

  And then, worried that the new intern might think I’m talking about that night at the restaurant, I stumble into a clarification. “Back in the hall, I mean. Uh, by the stairwell. A minute ago.”

  I offer the girl a quick glance. She looks confused but definitely not sorry. If she remembered me, she would be. I mean, I hope she would. I’m guessing that she doesn’t remember any of it at all.

  She thrusts out her hand, all formal. “I’m Vivi,” she says.

  I look down at her hand, knowing I have to take it.

  “TJ,” I say, shaking her hand once and then dropping it. “I’m a nurse’s aide.” And then I add, “I don’t want to be a doctor.”

  She looks right at me with her big hazel eyes opened wide. Maybe she’s pissed off or embarrassed about the whole “very intelligent” thing, because her cheeks turn pink.

  “While it might appear that Mr. Five-O’clock Shadow and a Bed Head is working toward becoming a cologne model,” Richard says, “he actually aspires to be a registered nurse—like me!”