Isla and the Happily Ever After

“When does Gen get in?”

She tuts at my obvious evasion but cheers as she answers. “Late tonight. Just in time for Thanksgiving Day.” Hattie shoots past us and slams her door shut, and Maman grows mournful again. “Oh, mon bébés. You will not ruin your beautiful hair, non?”

“No, Maman,” I say.

She’s the only family member without red hair – though, scientifically speaking, she must carry the gene somewhere – and this has made her overly protective of ours. Her own hair is the colour of coffee beans. Maman and I do share the same height and the same upturned nose. Gen is tiny like us, while Hattie takes after our dad, tall and slim with sharp features. But Dad’s the only one with a scruffy, burnt-orange beard.

“A package arrived for you this morning,” he says. My father is generally mellow, so the way he announces this news is peculiar. It’s hesitant. Maybe even a tad hostile. “I put it in your bedroom.”

My brow furrows. “What kind of package?”

“It was delivered by courier. I think it’s from Joshua.”

Joshua. I’m getting the sense that he does not like this Joshua, but my entire being perks up. “Really? I wasn’t expecting anything.”

“The box is heavy.”

I’m already bolting upstairs.

“He is still your boyfriend, oui?” Maman says, and I grind to a halt. “Because we saw him on television saying that he does not have a girlfriend. I do not like this, Isla.”

I frown. “He was protecting me. Josh didn’t want the press to hassle me.”

She shrugs, slow and full-bodied. “It sounded like he was looking for tail.”

“Tail? Oh mon dieu.” I can’t believe she’s forcing me to defend this. I haven’t even been home for five minutes.

“Why didn’t he deliver the box himself?” Dad asks. “He’s been in this city for three whole weeks, but he can’t be bothered to introduce himself to your parents? It’s the least he could do after what he’s put us through.”

“What he’s put you through?” I throw my hands into the air. “No, forget it. I’m not going over this with you again. And he sent a courier because he had a plane to catch. To go to the White House. To have dinner with the president. Remember?”

“It’d still be the polite thing to do,” Dad says.

“Why? So you can harass him about school?”

“We do want to know what his plans are for the future, yes.”

“Do you even hear yourself?”

Maman cuts back in. “We just want to meet this boy who is so important to you.”

“You’ll meet him next month.” And I storm the rest of the way upstairs.

“Will we?” Dad calls up. “Will we?”

In spite of everything, I’d been looking forward to coming home. Now I’m not so sure. My energy levels are at an all-time low. It’s taken everything I have to maintain my grades – Dartmouth – and, even though we’re okay, things still aren’t back to normal with Kurt. I’m in detention so much that we hardly see each other. Josh has sneaked in a few more calls, here and there, but it’s harder now because his mom is less distracted now that the election is over.

And Dad harassing me about Josh’s future is particularly stressful, because the last time we talked, Josh said his mom wants him to finish the year at a private school in DC. When I suggested he take the GED instead, he replied, “Why would I waste my time when they’re just gonna put me in another stupid school anyway?”

I changed the subject after that.

My bedroom smells uninhabited and clean, that vacant scent it carries whenever I come home from abroad. A large box is in the centre of my floor. I don’t recognize the return address, and there’s no name, but it’s unquestionably Josh’s exquisite handwriting. My pulse quickens. I slice through the tape with a pair of scissors, peel back the flaps, and cry out in a grateful sort of agony. This air smells like him.

On the top is a dark blue T-shirt, one of his favourites. He wore it on the first day of school this year. I press my nose against its cotton. Citrus, ink, him. My knees weaken. I hug it to my chest as I examine the contents below. The rest of my body weakens.

Boarding School Boy, bound in string.

There’s a note slipped underneath the manuscript’s binding. I LOVE YOU. I love that he starts with this even in his letter. I’M SORRY THAT I CAN’T BE WITH YOU IN PERSON, BUT I HOPE THAT YOU’LL ACCEPT THIS PATHETIC SUBSTITUTE. I’VE SPENT ALL WEEK SCANNING AND PRINTING THE PAGES. I’VE NEVER SHOWN THE WHOLE THING TO ANYONE BEFORE. I’M NOT DONE, BUT HERE’S WHAT I HAVE SO FAR. I HOPE YOU STILL LIKE ME AFTER YOU’VE SEEN THE UGLY PARTS. YOURS, J.

My eyes well with tears of happiness. I want to climb into bed with it this instant, but I have to wait. I want privacy. I don’t want to be interrupted mid-read. I place Josh’s shirt beside my pillow, but I push the box into my closet. My parents aren’t the snooping type, but anything left out in the open is considered fair game.

I spend the rest of the day with them. When they inquire about the box, I give them a vague “Oh, you know. It was a care package. A letter, a shirt.” But as soon as dinner is over, I claim jet lag and retire. I drag out the box to the side of my bed, switch on a lamp, and crawl beneath the covers. I’d wear the T-shirt, but I don’t want to lose his scent. I snuggle with it instead. And then I untie the string and remove the first page.

The book is divided, as it was in his dorm room, into four sections beginning with freshman. Josh has drawn himself as skinny and naive, slack-jawed, as he takes in his new surroundings. He finds Paris equal parts intimidating and awe inspiring, but little time passes before he falls into homesickness. It’s not that he misses his actual home – not the flights between cities, the endless campaigning, the neglectful parents. He misses the life that he glimpsed when he was younger. The cabin and the pine trees. A family in one place. He recognizes almost immediately that instead of trading in two lives for one, he now has three. And it’s too late.

A single-panel page: him in the corner, small and crouched, looking up at home, while the rest of the page – where home is supposed to be – is a blank space. He misses somewhere that doesn’t exist. And he knows that Paris will not fill the void.

He tries to fill it by throwing himself into his art. He befriends St. Clair in their studio art class. St. Clair is a year older, but he’s attracted to Josh’s natural talent while Josh is attracted to St. Clair’s natural charisma. At night, Josh lies awake in bed, rehashing things his new friend has said or done, hoping to learn from him. Emulate him. The pages are sad and sweet and full of humiliating truths.