Note: Set sometime following #2.09 'Leaky Faucets'.
When it went over 60mph, Brandon's car rattled. It rattled ominously, like the doors might fall off, or the seats might drop through the floor and end up stationary in the middle of the 101, while the rest of the car kept on going. Luckily – or unluckily – the sound of Taylor Swift blaring from the car stereo was loud enough to drown out the rattling noise, so Callie didn't have to think too hard about the car falling to pieces with her inside it.
"Switch!" Jesus yelled from the back seat.
Callie, seated in the passenger seat, leaned forward to adjust the music.
"Hey, just leave it!" Mariana whined.
"No," Jesus said to Mariana. "It's been seven minutes. It's my turn." To Callie, he said, "Switch it to Pharrell."
Obediently, Callie grabbed Brandon's iPod, which was hooked up to the car stereo, and began scrolling toward P for Pharrell.
"Callie, don't," said Mariana.
Callie's hand stilled.
"Callie, come on," said Jesus. "Switch it." To Mariana, he said, "This was your idea, remember? The seven-minute rule!"
"Yeah, only 'cause I thought you'd get so into the music you'd just want to keep listening to it," said Mariana.
Jesus snorted. "Like that would happen!"
Callie couldn't help but laugh. She sneaked a glance at Brandon in the driving seat, who was trying hard to keep a poker face. Callie resumed scrolling and, moments later, Pharrell began blaring from the speakers.
"Oh my god, I hate you," Mariana muttered to Jesus. "I'm totally going in moms' car next time we stop."
Callie twisted around in her seat to look at Mariana.
"Uhh," said Callie, "just so you know, Jude texted me to say they're listening to NPR in the other car."
As one, Mariana and Jesus let out a groan.
Their united front only lasted a fraction of a second, however, and then they were back to bickering.
After seven minutes of Pharrell on the stereo, Mariana began a triumphant countdown, as if she were anticipating a rocket launch.
"Five, four, three, two, one. That's it! Seven minutes! Now switch it back to Taylor!"
"Excuse me," said Brandon. "What about me and Callie? The parameters of the seven-minute agreement also extend to us. It's Callie's turn."
The seven-minute agreement was a piece of diplomacy so hard-fought that one day, Callie mused, it would probably become the blueprint for UN peace talks.
The Adams Fosters were on a road trip to visit Lena's parents. Callie's 'grandparents'. She wished she could stop using mental air quotes when she thought the word grandparents. But she couldn't. Because they weren't really her grandparents. They were just a nice man and woman who treated her with the same kind of cautious affection exhibited by countless social workers and foster carers that Callie had come into contact with. So the mental air quotes remained.
On the road, Brandon, Callie, Jesus and Mariana were all packed into one car, while Lena, Stef and Jude rode in the other car. In Brandon's car, most of the journey had been spent arguing. And, after three hours of fighting about what they should listen to, a rota system had been negotiated.
Now, each member of the car was allowed his or her choice of music for seven minutes, before they had to switch. The answer to "why seven minutes?" was still fuzzy to Callie. The seven-minute figure had emerged as a result of Mariana's impressively persuasive arguing – arguing which had no basis in actual fact or science.
"Callie wants to listen to Taylor," Mariana said immediately, shooting a smug smile at Jesus.
"I love you, girl," Callie said to Mariana, "but I am not using my turn on Taylor Swift."
Mariana's face fell, while Jesus broke into a grin. However, his grin didn't last long when Callie made her choice of music. The raucous march of Modest Mouse's 'Tiny Cities Made of Ashes' began to blare from the speakers.
"What—is this?" Jesus asked.
"It's Modest Mouse," Callie said, shrugging.
Jesus opened his mouth to exclaim a reply, before recovering himself. Jesus, who still couldn't seem to bring himself to treat Callie with the same unbridled contempt he reserved for his other siblings, simply said, "Okay…"
Mariana seemed similarly struck dumb. The twins sat in the back, saying nothing, for the full seven minutes of Modest Mouse – their longest stretch of silence since setting off from San Diego.
Mariana didn't do a countdown this time, but when her seven minutes were up, Callie hit pause on the stereo.
"Brandon," she said, "you're up."
"Well," he said. His tone was faux-thoughtful and Callie could see that he was supressing a smile. "I was gonna choose The Weepies, but you've inspired me, Callie. Let's go with some rock music. Put on the Yeah Yeah Yeahs."
"Oh," Mariana said from the back seat, relief palpable in her voice, "I like 'Maps'."
"Nahhh," said Brandon. "Let's go classic Yeah Yeah Yeahs."
With one hand on the wheel, Brandon grabbed the iPod from Callie. Moments later, Karen O's lunatic screaming on 'Art Star' began to blast from the stereo.
Whether Jesus and Mariana realized what was happening, Callie couldn't be sure. But, in between the chart R&B (Jesus's picks) and the kittenish girl-pop (Mariana's picks), Callie and Brandon began spinning some truly eclectic tunes when their turns came around.
Seven minutes of obscure piano music.
Seven minutes of 70s punk.
Seven minutes of Gregorian chants.
Brandon and Callie began colluding while Jesus and Mariana weren't paying attention, discussing in undertones what new highs (or lows) of musical insanity they could reach.
Seven minutes of Sesame Street.
Seven minutes of death metal.
Seven minutes of bagpipe marching songs.
Callie settled back in her seat, comfortable despite the din that emerged from the stereo. She'd been restless ever since they'd set off on the road trip. But the warmth of Brandon's glances, his smothered laughter as she made musical suggestions, made the long drive pass in a rapid, happy blur for Callie.
"The good news is, we have someplace to stay," Stef announced, as she exited the motel kiosk and crossed the parking lot. "The bad news is, they only have two rooms."
"I knew we should have booked ahead," Lena said with a sigh.
"Yes, and that is exactly what happens on a spontaneous road trip," Stef said, smiling tersely. "Forward planning! Booking ahead!"
The seven Adams Fosters, all of them tired and cranky, were assembled in the parking lot of a rundown motel. The truck stop next door beckoned a steady stream of heavy goods vehicles and drivers. And, less than fifty meters away, on the other side of a chain link fence, traffic roared past on the highway.
The moms shared a look, which Callie interpreted as, do you really want to have this argument right now? Then Lena drifted into Stef's arms and the tension rolled away. As Callie watched them, she felt the familiar tug of affection mingled with wistfulness. Mom. Moms. For the millionth time, she tried to imagine saying the word out loud. Saying the word to them. Mom, I—
"Two rooms?" Mariana said. "But that means, like, four people in one room."
"Whaaaaaaat," said Jesus.
"They're both decent-sized rooms," said Stef. "Two double beds in each. Plenty of room for all of us."
"And it's just for tonight," Lena added, in her most placating tone.
Jesus spoke up instantly. "If there are four beds and seven people, that means one of us gets a bed to themselves. I call it!"
"Why are you suddenly a math genius when it comes to this?" Mariana broke in. "Your last math test, you just drew a picture of a dinosaur. Emma saw it. She told me."
"I call it!" Jesus said again, ignoring her. "Shotgun!"
"You can't call shotgun on a bed!" Mariana cried.
"Yeah? 'Cause I think I just did!"
Mariana wheeled around, looking for reinforcements. "Moms!"
"Staying out of it," Lena said, holding up her hands. "You kids are old enough to come to an agreement on your own."
"Meanwhile, I will happily share a bed with the most beautiful woman in the tri-state area," Stef said, giving an ostentatious wink as Lena rolled her eyes and smiled.
"Gross!" Jesus muttered.
Stef and Lena handed Callie a plastic key card—"It's number twenty-seven"—and then used a duplicate key card to open door number 28. The moms disappeared inside their room, leaving the kids to bicker in the parking lot.
"I'm serious," said Jesus. "I'm not sharing."
"Me neither," Mariana said.
Callie wondered if they knew what a parody they looked: standing facing each other, both with their hands on hips; their shared features comically fierce.
"Well, I don't mind sharing," Callie said, turning to Jude with a smile. "How about it?"
"Sure," he said, smiling back at her.
They exchanged a look and Callie could tell that Jude was thinking the same thing she was: Just like old times.
"Okay, so Jude goes with Callie," Mariana said. "Brandon goes with Jesus. And I get the spare bed. Perfect."
"No way!" Jesus broke in.
Mariana stared Jesus down.
"I'm not sharing with a boy," she said. There was a beat, and then she added, "Unless it's Jude."
"You can share with me and Callie if you like," Jude spoke up, redirecting his smile at Mariana.
"Awesome," said Jesus to Mariana. "You share with Jude and Callie. Me and Brandon get a bed each." He mimicked Mariana: "Perfect."
"That is not fair!" exclaimed Mariana.
Callie cast a sidelong look at Brandon. She wondered how much longer he'd let the argument go on. He raised his eyebrows at her and mouthed you. She shook her head, smiling. A single house party had taught her that being the responsible one sucked. And Callie learned from her mistakes. Well, mostly.
Finally, Brandon rolled his eyes and cleared his throat, ready to play the long-suffering diplomat once more.
"No one calls shotgun," he said loudly. "No one sleeps three in a bed. We figure it out fairly."
The five of them reassembled inside room 27. Brandon dragged the suitcase (the mammoth suitcase, the suitcase that ate all other suitcases) into the room and unzipped it.
The suitcase had been a whole other argument. The morning had begun bright and early, and it had grown progressively less bright, as they'd tried to fit four individually-packed bags into the trunk of Brandon's car. Mariana's hugely-overstuffed bag was the main culprit, although Jesus needed a bizarre number of pairs of sneakers for a four-day trip. Finally, Stef announced that they would all have unpack and repack, sharing just one suitcase between them.
When Brandon flipped open the suitcase, it was a jumbled mess of tangled clothes. (Mariana actually moaned at the sight of her white dress being trampled by Jesus's sneakers.) He grabbed his composition notebook from the chaos and tore out a blank page. Methodically, he tore the paper into strips and wrote a name on each one, before folding them in half and then in half again. Finally, he pulled off the navy-blue hoodie he wore and tossed the folded pieces of paper into the hood, using it as a makeshift bag.
Brandon looked up expectantly.
"Who wants to pick?" he asked.
"Me," Mariana said immediately. "I need to make sure there's no cheating."
Mariana shot Jesus a dirty look, which he returned with full death-ray force. Callie stole a glance at Brandon, who was trying not to laugh. When he caught her eye, his façade cracked and he had to cover his laughter with a coughing fit.
Mariana swirled the hoodie-bag full of paper with a solemnity suitable for a Presidential election. Carefully, she selected two pieces of paper and placed them on one of the motel room's beds. Then she laid out two more pieces of paper on the other bed. Finally, she reached for the remaining strip of paper and held it up.
"This is the name of the person who gets a bed to themselves," she said gravely.
Mariana bowed her head and unfolded the piece of paper. A moment later, she let out a whoop of joy and began to dance around the room.
"IT'S ME!" she yelled.
"No way!" Jesus yelled back, grabbing the paper from her hands. "Fix! Totally a fix!"
Jesus turned to Brandon, who shrugged.
"You watched her do it," said Brandon.
Mariana finished her impromptu happy dance and, shooting Jesus a haughty look, she leaned down to unfold the two pieces of paper that lay on the first bed.
"Jude," she read, "and—Jesus." A condescending smile broke across her face. "Aw. Just like at home."
"We don't share a bed at home!" exclaimed Jesus.
"Oh, just get over it," said Mariana. "It's just for one night."
"If it's just for one night, why don't you share with Jude?"
Wrapped up in their squabble, Mariana and Jesus were slow to catch on. However, Brandon and Callie had already connected the dots. If Mariana got the bed to herself, while Jesus and Jude shared, that meant—
Callie looked over at the room's other bed, at the two folded strips of paper lying innocently on its comforter. She didn't need to wait until Mariana, in her role as grand emcee, leaned down and unfolded them, to know that they read—
"Brandon—and Callie."
It hit her with dizzying force, the memory of the heat of his body against hers.
Her imagination supplied more memories – fabricated memories, of moments that could have happened, but never did. Her skin burned with thoughts of being wrapped up in clean sheets and his smell; of waking up to his lips at her throat, his arms holding her tight. She could feel it as vividly as if they'd shared a bed just the night before.
In the motel room, there followed a moment of supreme awkwardness.
Everyone, even Jesus, was silent. No one moved. Callie looked at the floor. And she wishedwishedwished that moments like this didn't have to happen.
She wished she could scrub her mind clean. She wished she could erase everything that had happened, so that innocent moments didn't get twisted into something bad, so that she never had to worry that she was sending the wrong message. So that they could just be… family. Simple. Straightforward.
Finally, it was Brandon who broke the silence that trapped them. He strode over to each bed in turn and switched over the scraps of paper.
"Jude can go with Callie," said Brandon. "Jesus, you share with me."
"But that means Mariana still gets a bed to herself!" said Jesus.
"Suck it up," said Brandon.
The terse tone in Brandon's voice achieved the impossible: it shut the twins up.
Two minutes later, another squabble almost broke out, over who would sleep in moms' room, but Brandon again shut it down quickly.
"Mariana, you got what you wanted. So you take the penalty and sleep in the other room."
As Mariana pulled some clothes from the mammoth suitcase and flounced out of the room, Callie almost called after her. Wait! Let me share with you. Just like at home, Mari. Let's share a bed and whisper secrets like real sisters, until our moms tell us to go to sleep.
Callie knew she couldn't do it, though. She and Brandon were stuck in another situation where there was no choice but to prove themselves. Strenuously, cheerfully prove themselves to be a good brother and sister. And that meant sharing a room and acting like everything was normal.
The four of them made a vague effort to watch a movie on the motel room's fuzzy TV, but they gave up on it after less than an hour. It had been a long day and no one was in the mood to do much except sleep. The sense of jovial rowdiness that had infused the car journey seemed to have seeped away. The new, subdued mood was either due to the general sense of tiredness, or – Callie felt a ripple of paranoia – it was her doing, somehow; it was her fault.
Callie and Brandon edged past each other on the way to and from the bathroom, scrupulous about not meeting the other's eye. Callie reminded herself, again and again, that Brandon saw her in her pajamas all the time. It wasn't a big deal. They shared a bathroom at home. They slept meters apart, separated by a thin wall. It wasn't a big deal. (Except, tonight, it felt like a big deal.)
As they'd watched the movie, all Callie had wanted to do was sleep. Now, in the darkness, as she lay in bed, she found herself wide awake.
Jude was sprawled across the other side of the bed, fast asleep. With a pang, she remembered how, when they'd shared a bed as children, he would cling to her in his sleep. She knew she was wrong to miss the way things used to be – Jude's neediness, his fearfulness – but she missed it all the same.
Across the room, Jesus snored softly. She could hear Brandon's breathing, as well; deep and even. Callie let her eyes drift to the other bed, to the dark ridge of Brandon's back that rose up off the bed. She forced herself to look away, staunchly staring straight upward. Everyone else slept, while Callie stared at the ceiling.
After an hour – more? – of counting the bumps on the cottage cheese ceiling and chasing away dark thoughts, she couldn't stand it any longer.
She pushed aside the sheets and climbed out of bed, careful not to wake Jude. She jammed her feet into her sneakers and grabbed her black hoodie from the suitcase. Quietly, she pulled open the door and slipped outside.
A wall of cool air hit her, making her shiver. She pulled on the hoodie, wrapping it tight around herself, zipping the fabric right up to her chin. It was then that she realized.
It wasn't her hoodie.
It was Brandon's hoodie. The navy-blue one he'd been wearing all day. And it smelled like him.
She walked in a slow, weaving line away from the motel room door, breathing him in. That familiar smell: laundry detergent and wood shavings and boyish musk, undercut by the sharp apple scent of his shampoo. (It was the shampoo that she, in rare, restless moments, uncapped and smelled in their bathroom at home, guiltily savoring the memories it evoked.)
In a haze, she wandered the motel complex. When she reached a vending machine, she told herself this was why she'd gotten out of bed. A midnight snack. A soda to soothe herself to sleep. She'd already gone through the motions of picking out what to buy when she realized she didn't have any money.
She rocked back on her heels, feeling deflated – feeling eight years old again. She'd been eight when her mom and dad had been evicted from their apartment the first time, and nine when they'd been evicted the second time. Both times, they'd ended up at motels almost identical to this one. They hadn't stayed for one night; they'd stayed for four months, then for six months. The four of them had piled into one room: Jude had clung to her in his sleep; she'd counted cottage cheese bumps on the ceiling.
Feeling dizzy, Callie leaned against a wall. The memory lay heavy in her heart. Nearby, the traffic from the freeway roared. And the hoodie she wore smelled like apples.
In the humming fluorescent light, she watched the procession of enormous trucks as they turned into the truck stop next door. She found herself obsessively examining the drivers' faces, as they climbed down from their cabs.
"Hey…"
At the sound of his voice, she jumped.
"…Sorry," Brandon said. "It's just me."
She nodded, but her heart was still beating too fast.
When she didn't say anything, he lapsed into silence as well. He followed her gaze impassively, taking in the parade of trucks and their drivers. He was dressed only in a t-shirt and pajama pants, but if he was cold, he didn't show it.
"I stole your hoodie," she said at last.
"Keep it."
She nodded again, hugging the hoodie close against her body.
"What are you doing out here?" he asked.
She was about to lie – to say something about getting a soda from the vending machine – but this was Brandon. She could tell Brandon the truth. Some of it, anyway.
"Couldn't sleep. Couldn't stop thinking." She paused. "In my head, I keep referring to Lena's mom and dad as 'my grandparents' in, like, these horrible, sarcastic air quotes," she said in a rush. "They're such nice people and I just…" She trailed off, pausing to collect her thoughts. "I feel like I'm going to say or do something stupid and screw up this whole trip."
To her surprise, Brandon didn't demur or throw out some platitude. He just smiled a deep, rueful smile.
"I never told you about the gazpacho, did I?" he asked.
"What?"
"First time I went to stay with Gram and Gramps, I was seven," he said. "I didn't want a new mom and I definitely didn't want new grandparents. Gram was so nice to me and I was—I was whatever the seven-year-old version of an asshole is."
"I think that's still an asshole," Callie said.
"Okay, I was an asshole. So, finally, Gram got tired of it and told me, in her best professor voice, that I needed to snap out of it. But I guess you can't reason with a seven-year-old asshole. So I overturned a huge pot of homemade soup. Bright red gazpacho all over the kitchen. Everywhere. It was like a crime scene."
Callie took a moment to imagine the scene, smiling in spite of herself.
"So what happened?" she asked. "Did you get in trouble?"
"Nope." Brandon shrugged. "Gram just handed me a bucket and we got to work cleaning it up. Ate canned soup for lunch. And Gram never told a soul what I did." He paused. "Trust me, I got you covered on not knowing how to act around brand new grandparents. And nothing you do on this trip can be worse than the gazpacho."
Callie let out a long breath and nodded. Talking with Brandon was making her feel better, but she found that her gaze was still drawn to the trucks and their drivers.
"…What are you doing out here, really?" Brandon asked.
"I don't know… Motels creep me out." She tried to sound dismissive, like it was no big deal.
She expected him to say something. To refer to what they both knew to be the last time she'd stayed at a motel. But he remained quiet, just waiting for her to go on.
"Being on the road," she said in a rush, "it's freaking me out."
He still didn't say anything; he just held her in his steady gaze.
"I keep checking every truck that leaves," she said. "Looking at license plates. Trying to guess where they're going. Which drivers seem friendly. Which drivers seem too friendly…"
"Callie—"
She heard the note of alarm in his voice.
"I'm not going to run away," she said quickly. "But something in my brain… I don't know. When it's loud, when it's daytime, I'm fine. Mariana and Jesus arguing. Jude telling me about some program on the radio, about how wolves have complex inner lives. When there's noise, I'm fine. I feel okay. But, at night, when it's quiet, I get stuck inside my head. I start thinking about how easy it would be to hitch a ride. Climb on board a truck. Become someone new."
Instantly, she regretted being so brutally honest. She felt exposed, saying these things out loud. It made her sound fucked up, schizophrenic. It made her sound ungrateful; as if she was ready to throw away her new family.
Brandon was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, he said:
"I get it. But… you don't have to give in to the bad thoughts. You don't have to let them rule you. You don't need to run anymore, Callie. You know that, right?"
He put a hand on her shoulder and said it again, more insistently.
"You know that."
She turned to face him and his grip tightened on her shoulder. His hand palmed the ball of her shoulder, anchoring her, as if sensing that she felt like she might float away in that instant. She slipped an arm around his waist, her hand grasping a fistful of t-shirt at the small of his back. She leaned into him, into his warmth, into his solid, steady presence. His arms wrapped around her, holding her tight.
As they hugged, she reminded herself that brothers hugged sisters all the time. But she was also forced to remember that they, as brother and sister, did not hug. They had not hugged when he'd been released from the hospital, pale and woozy, with his hand trussed up in a sling. They had not hugged when she'd come home after her night spent in emergency foster care with the Sweet Old Lady Jailer. They had not hugged after Lena lost the baby.
They had not hugged at all in the last six months. And the number of times they hadn't hugged had begun to form a tally in her mind. It lent the moment a weight, a significance. Because they both knew why – why they subbed smiles and friendly pats on the back for hugs; why they hung back in situations where hugs were expected.
She leaned her head against his chest and breathed in the smell of him. She knew that hugging Brandon would never feel like anything except a promise of more. Even as his hand stroked her hair, she imagined she could feel his fingers against her scalp, grabbing at her, desperate, wanting. She could feel how easy it would be to tilt her face upward and find his lips there, waiting to be kissed.
She thought about how, earlier, she'd wished to erase their relationship from her mind. She realized how wrong she'd been. Of course she didn't wish that. She could never wish that.
In these in-between times, it was undeniable, how much she was drawn to him. When it was loud, when it was daytime, she was fine; she could pretend she didn't need him. But, with the noise of the highway so close by, with the feel of his fingers in her hair, she couldn't pretend.
She let out a shaky breath and pulled away, breaking the hug. Brandon's arms fell to his sides, awkward-looking, like they didn't belong there.
"We should get back to bed," she said.
"Yeah," he said.
It would be better if he'd remarked on the suggestiveness of it. Back to bed, eh? But he let it slide, blank-faced, serious. Because there was no doubt about it. They'd go back to bed, to separate beds, but they'd still spend the night together. In imagination, in sleep, in dreams, they'd spend the night together; it was queasily unavoidable.
As they walked back to their motel room, a careful distance separating them, she thought about his words.
You don't need to run anymore, Callie.
Of course she still needed to run. Every day, she was running from her feelings for him.
When the two cars full of Adams Fosters arrived at Lena's parents' house the next day, Callie's first reaction was that the house was… nice. Wood panelling, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, heavy, embroidered drapes and dark leather couches. Nice. Callie could hear Daphne's voice in her head, saying that word. She could imagine Daphne's raised eyebrow. Nice really meant not for people like us. She and Daphne hadn't grown up in nice houses.
Dana and Stewart greeted all the kids enthusiastically. Callie was grabbed and squeezed just the same as the others, before they were all dispatched to their various sleeping quarters. Stef and Lena were to sleep in the guest room; the boys were camping out in the basement; and Callie and Mariana got Lena's childhood bedroom. Up in the eaves of the house, the room was a crisp, pale green haven, with a faded Maya Angelou quote stencilled on the wall.
In the room, which still felt so full of traces of Lena's younger self, Callie dressed for dinner. She brushed her hair and tied it back. She wore a dress and even borrowed some of Mariana's lip gloss, rose blush. The girl in the mirror looked clean and fresh and uncomplicated. Even still, she felt grimy. Like there was dirt under her fingernails that she couldn't pry loose.
Later that evening, Callie sat curled in an armchair, pretending to read. The book was a loaner from Lena's dad, Stewart, who'd told her she'd "love it". Maybe she would "love it", but her mind was too full of other thoughts to concentrate on the words on the page.
Dinner was over and the family had retreated to the den. Stewart was playing a rowdy card game with Stef, Mariana, Jesus and Jude, the five of them crowded around a card table. Lena and her mom were on the sofa, trading parts of the newspaper back and forth. Brandon sat on the rug in front of the fireplace. His composition notebook was open in front of him, but he seemed to be spending most of his time staring into space. Callie followed his gaze, watching the synthetic flames in the fireplace lick at the synthetic coals.
"I'll find you a different book, if you don't like that one," Lena said, breaking Callie's reverie.
"Oh no, I love it," Callie said. She had to love it, right? If her grandfather told her she'd love it, she had to love it.
Lena gave a gentle smile and nodded. Callie found that Dana was looking at her now, too.
"You thinking about college yet, Callie?" Dana asked.
"A little," she said, feeling shy. "I have a job. So that I can save."
"Thinking about any schools in particular?"
"Not… really."
"We should take a trip to visit Berkeley," Dana said, smiling encouragingly. "You'll love it." (That phrase again, Callie thought hollowly.) "Lena adored her time there. So did I."
"Don't cajole her, Mom," Lena said diplomatically. "She can go where she wants."
"But it's a very good school."
A very competitive school, Callie thought. A very expensive school.
"And tradition is important," Dana continued. "It would be so nice to have three generations of the family go to the same school. I've tried to persuade Brandon here, but…" She turned to Brandon. "You're still set on the East Coast, aren't you?"
"I don't know," Brandon said.
Dana sounded surprised. "Really? I thought it was always Boston or New York. New York or Boston."
Brandon shrugged. "Maybe I'd rather stay close to…" His eyes strayed to Callie. "Home."
Dana and Lena continued to talk, about trips to visit the campus at Berkeley, about national rankings and music programs and college life. But Callie didn't hear a word of it. She just lost herself in Brandon's gaze.
When he looked at her like that, everything else faded.
It felt like the sound had been turned down on the rest of the room. She couldn't hear Dana and Lena talking about her future, or her siblings' good-natured squabbling over the card game.
It was times like this when she thought: haven't I made my choice already?
Hadn't forfeited him and chosen all of this instead? The big, rowdy family; Lena's fond smile; Dana's matter-of-fact statements about three generations? She'd chosen and she'd expected the feelings to go away. Maybe not immediately, but in time. She'd wagered on her love for the family outweighing her love for him.
But, the horrible truth was, when he looked at her like that, she didn't care about anything else. She didn't care about the chatter, about three generations, about fond smiles. She didn't care, because deep down, what she wanted most was him.
Callie cut her eyes away.
She'd made her choice, she reminded herself. For better or worse.
"Hey, Lena, I changed my mind about that book," she said, interrupting Lena's discussion with Dana.
"Oh yeah? Want me to find something else for you?" Lena asked.
"Yeah, I think maybe I'd like to try one from your room."
Lena laughed. "Well, I hope you like heavy tomes on feminism and trashy romances about swashbuckling virgins, because that's mostly what I read when I was a teenager. And, yes, I know those two things don't go together."
The two of them stood up and Lena put her arm around Callie's shoulders, leading her out of the room.
"Let's find you something," Lena said.
The longer Callie spent in her grandparents' home, the more she began to feel that she'd slipped into the Bi-racial Brady Bunch. In this house, lunch didn't mean a sandwich or a slice of yesterday's cold pizza. It was a proper meal, for which you sat down and ate with silverware and napkins.
"Where are the napkins?" Callie called out as she barrelled into the kitchen.
"Uh… bottom drawer… over there," Brandon said, gesturing vaguely without looking up.
Callie followed his direction and opened the lowest drawer, but found only dish rags. She began opening more drawers at random, but still no luck.
Brandon finally looked up.
"Oh, sorry. Maybe they're in the cabinet over here," he said.
Brandon stood over an enormous pan on the stove, stirring intently. To get to where he indicated, she had to squeeze past him. She realized belatedly that it was just the two of them in the kitchen.
"What's that?" she asked, trying to keep the conversation benign.
"Corn chowder," he said.
"Gram's letting you make soup?"
"Trust me, there was a lot of supervision. And… hey, you called her Gram and you didn't even use air quotes."
He smiled at her – genuine, pleased – and she smiled back for a moment, before ducking her head. She opened the cabinet and found the napkins.
"I think this is done," he said, frowning down at the contents of the pan. "Do you know anything about soup?"
She laughed. "No, I don't know anything about soup."
Carefully, Brandon lifted the spoon and tasted the soup. There was an air of intense concentration about him. That was the thing about Brandon, Callie realized with a pang. Other kids, if their grandmother wrangled them into making soup, would half-ass it, or blow it off altogether. But, for Brandon, in that moment, making soup was as important as finishing a sonata.
He let out a sigh and lowered the spoon. A smear of soup remained just below his bottom lip.
"I don't know," he said. "I think I'm too close to it.
"Gimme a break," Callie said. "It's not a concerto."
She leaned over and grabbed the spoon out of his hand. She'd taken a taste of the soup before she even realized what she was doing. It was totally grade school to think that sharing a soda – or a spoonful of soup – amounted to the same as kissing. But she felt her face flush anyway.
"It's good," she said lamely.
She handed the spoon back to him and their fingers brushed. She tried not to stare at the smear of soup at his mouth. They were standing too close together – closer than they usually allowed themselves to stand – and she could feel the kitchen's emptiness acutely.
Brandon cleared his throat.
"You wanna help me serve it?" he asked.
They busied themselves with the task of serving the soup, setting out nine bowls. Brandon held the pan while Callie ladled corn chowder into each of the bowls. As she ladled, Callie worked up her nerve.
"So what you were saying yesterday…" she said, making sure her voice sounded calm, almost disinterested.
Brandon was concentrating on the soup. "Hm?"
"What you were saying… about college. You thinking of staying in California?"
They were done with the soup now and Brandon put down the pan.
"Oh… yeah," he said, looking at the pan, rather than at her. "It's a lot cheaper to go in-state and there are tons of great schools." The answer sounded rehearsed, robotic.
"Because… the way you said it… it kind of sounded like you wanted to stay for… a reason."
Brandon looked up, meeting her eye for the first time. Just like last night, the look in his eye – that bottomless, helpless look of wanting – made the rest of the world fall away.
"Yeah, I guess it maybe sounded that way," he said. "Four years is a long time and I guess I just started thinking about how it would be. To be—away."
"Away from what?"
He worked his jaw for a moment, as if gathering his resolve.
"From you, Callie," he said at last. "But I know it's not—I know we're not—"
She reached up to touch his face and the words died on his lips. Slowly, her thumb wiped at the smear of soup below his bottom lip. His mouth opened against her thumb, warm wetness taking her knuckle-deep into his mouth.
They stayed like that a moment, and then his hands were at her hips, lifting her against the counter, and his lips were on hers. They kissed and the world shattered.
At the noise of ceramic breaking against tile, they sprang apart.
One of the bowls of corn chowder had fallen to the floor and shattered, splattering soup in a wide arc. Callie looked down at the mess, her lips tingling.
At that moment, the door swung open. Gram appeared in the doorway.
A flush rose in Callie's cheeks, and she felt that what had happened must be written all over face. But apparently her guilt was invisible, because Gram simply gestured to the spilled soup and shook her head.
"You know where the mop is," she said to Brandon with a sigh.
The ceiling of Lena's childhood bedroom was smooth. No cottage cheese bumps here.
In the darkness, Callie rolled over to face the wall, with its stencilled quote. If you don't like something, change it. If you can't change it, change your attitude. In Callie's experience, it was the kind of thing social workers said to you, right before they quit their job to go live in a hut in South America and 'find themselves'.
She reached out to grab her phone from the nightstand. Rapidly, she tapped out a message and waited for a reply. The faint glow of the screen acted like a nightlight in the dark room.
A few minutes later, she climbed out of bed and pulled on a navy blue hoodie that wasn't hers. She held her breath as she tip-toed out of the room, ready with an excuse if Mariana, who was asleep in the other bed, woke up. But Mariana slept on and Callie crept downstairs, through the dark house.
She remembered how, earlier, she'd felt like she was in an episode of the Brady Bunch. Now, Lena's parents' house felt like just another foster home. Another strange and foreign house where she didn't belong.
She found her way into the den, with its big armchairs and tall bookshelves. She navigated the room in the dark, roaming restlessly. She didn't feel comfortable sitting in the armchair where she'd read the night before. The card table was still strewn with cards and the buttons that the others had used as chips. She didn't feel comfortable sitting there, either.
Finally, she took a seat on the rug in front of the dark fireplace. She reached over to switch on the fire, letting the slow burn of synthetic flames fill the room with dim light. In the light, for the first time, she noticed that a notebook lay open on the rug. It was a composition notebook – the one in which Brandon had been writing the previous night. The staves were filled with pencilled-in notes, musical directions. And then, around the edges of the pages, words were scrawled in cramped, untidy handwriting. Brandon's handwriting.
At random, Callie read a run of lyrics and felt her heart clench:
You mean everything to me
I'd give it all away
If you say you'll stay
She flipped the notebook closed and pushed it away, unwilling to read more.
She'd thought that she had it all ordered in her mind – her feelings, her choices; about the family, about Brandon. But this road trip had jumbled it all up again. She could no longer tell what she wanted more; the careful layers of pretence she'd built up had begun to shred apart.
She heard the light scuff of footsteps at the door and looked up. He eased himself into the room, uncertain for a moment, before his eyes found her.
In the half-dark, he crossed the room carefully and kneeled down on the rug beside her. His voice was hesitant as he said:
"Callie…"
Brandon.
Brandon, who could make a long car journey pass in a flash. Brandon, who treated making soup like composing a song. Brandon, who loved her – loved her with a depth that took her breath away.
She reached for him, her hands cupping his face, her lips finding his. She pressed her body against his, feeling the familiar tug of desire. They became a tangle of limbs, craving closeness, as he laid her down.
Around them, the dark house slept peacefully. And, in the light of electric flames, they kissed like the night would last forever.
Despite this, time ticked on, unflaggingly, infuriatingly.
Time ticked on and, the next day, the Adams Fosters headed back out on the road. Callie rode with Stef, Lena and Mariana, losing herself in their mindless chatter and car games. She tried not to think of the boy driving the other car, the car that rattled when it went too fast.
If the journey to visit Lena's parents had been planned (or unplanned) on Stef's terms, the journey home was planned on Lena's terms. She called ahead to book four rooms at a clean, comfortable motel, well-reviewed on TripAdvisor, which was a short drive from the freeway. She even snagged a discount from the manager, who couldn't resist her laser-focused vice-principal charm.
Jesus was ecstatic, because he got a room to himself. No one else bothered to fight him for it: Jude was unconcerned by the whole situation; Mariana sniffily declared herself above such petty arguments; and both Brandon and Callie were too distracted to care. Brandon shruggingly agreed to share a twin room with Jude, while Callie shared with Mariana.
On the Lena-planned journey, which included careful time allocations for rest breaks, they arrived at the motel with plenty of time until nightfall. Lena and Stef went for a walk (obviously, the motel Lena chose was bordered by beautiful parkland), while the kids spent the dwindling hours of the day by the pool (because, yes, there was a pool).
Poolside, Callie lay back in a recliner and tried to relax. Too bad her skin felt it was humming. Motels creeped her out, she thought grimly. No matter if they were clean and comfortable and well-reviewed. They still creeped her out.
"Got any sunscreen?" she asked Mariana, who lay a few feet away on her own recliner.
"Nuh-uh," Mariana said, without opening her eyes.
"I'm gonna go grab some from the room," Callie said, raising her voice just fractionally, so that it carried on the breeze.
"Uh-huh," Mariana said, disinterested.
Callie stood up and walked along the edge of the pool. She slowed her pace as she passed the area where Jude and Jesus were horsing around in the shallow end, while Brandon sat with his legs dangling in the water. Jesus let out a good-natured scream as Jude used a pool noodle to clobber him. And, in the commotion, Callie met Brandon's gaze.
Callie walked back to the motel room and let herself inside. She went through the pretence of searching the mammoth suitcase for sunscreen, but really she was waiting.
Waiting for the soft tap on the door, which came moments later.
She opened the door and pulled Brandon inside. They were kissing before the door had completely closed. Sweet, hungry kisses that felt sweeter for having been delayed. His lips strayed to her neck and she leaned back against the door. If she stood against the door, no one could open it; it was a perfect barrier between the outside world and them.
Is that what I want?
The question surfaced from deep inside her.
To shut out the rest of the world – is that really what I want?
Brandon's mouth returned to her lips and they kissed deeply, recklessly. Then, gently, she pushed him away. Breathing raggedly, she held him at arm's length.
"What are we doing?" she asked in a low voice.
It wasn't really a question for him – she was asking herself as much as anyone – but she saw him try to reply anyway. He opened his mouth to speak and then stopped himself, frowning. The sight of Brandon – brilliant, articulate Brandon – failing to find an answer to her question made her want to cry or laugh or maybe both.
"I'm getting adopted, Brandon," she said at last. "I want to get adopted. I want this to be my family. I want to go visit colleges with Gram and talk about books with my mom. My moms. I want that."
"I know," he said, his expression helpless.
"So what are we doing?" she asked again. The question without an answer.
Brandon was silent for a long moment. Then he said quietly:
"You know what you were saying, the other night? About being on the road being weird. Like it gives you this sense that you could just hitch a ride and become someone new. I think I finally get it. Being on the road sort of makes you feel like you've stepped onto a different plane of existence."
"I think maybe this is our different plane of existence," he continued. "And when we get home, sometime tomorrow, we go back to who we are, how things really are."
When he finished speaking, his words seemed to hang in the air. His simple, pragmatic solution. Giving her up once more for the greater good.
In her pocket, her phone buzzed. Distractedly, she pulled it out and read the new message.
Mariana 6:21 p.m.
Everything okay? Where did you go?
"Mariana wants to know where I am," she told Brandon.
"You should go," he said blankly. "Any longer and she'll wonder."
"She won't come looking," Callie said. "Not for a couple minutes."
She leaned closer to him, slowly drawing him into a kiss.
"Maybe longer," she murmured, before kissing him harder.
Maybe he was right. Maybe they'd slipped onto a temporary plane of existence. Maybe they could only exist like this in motels and in cars on the freeway and in front of other people's fireplaces. Maybe, once they got home, it would have to stop.
"How long do you think we have?" he asked, a drowsy, drugged tone to his voice.
"I don't know… five minutes…" She kissed him and then revised her statement. "Six minutes… seven minutes."
"Seven minutes," he agreed. "In seven minutes, we leave. That's the rule. Seven minutes."
He smiled and she kissed his smile, shutting out the rest of the world for a few moments more.
Brandon's car rattled when it went over 60mph. It rattled like the doors might fall off, or the seats might drop through the floor and leave Callie and Brandon on a different plane of existence altogether.
They were 50 miles from home and Brandon, Callie, Stef and Mariana were packed into Brandon's car. Stef was driving, in order to give Brandon a break from the wheel. Mariana sat up front in the passenger seat, self-designated Empress of the stereo, while Callie and Brandon sat in the back of the car.
Brandon's eyes were closed. He'd been driving all day. He was supposed to be sleeping, a blanket cast over him. But he wasn't asleep.
Without opening his eyes, he shifted his shoulders, subtly angling his body toward Callie. Callie responded by uncrossing and recrossing her legs, so that her thigh pressed against Brandon's and her foot grazed his calf.
Under the blanket, invisible to the other passengers in the car, his hands held hers tight.
"Callie, it's your turn," Mariana called from the front seat.
"Hm?"
"Seven-minute rule," Mariana said expectantly. "You get to pick the next song."
"…You take it," said Callie.
Mariana shrugged and made her own music selection. Hazy, breathless pop music floated through the car and Callie closed her eyes.
When they got home, things would go back to how they were – how they had to be. But she wanted to savor the last of this. The warmth of his hand in hers, the way that every touch felt like a promise.
The end.