Capsized

MARGARET

In the fuzzy five a.m. blackness, things come into focus inch by inch. I see shapes before I see their colors: a boxy skyline, the half-circle archways of Anderson Bridge, and the familiar bend of a familiar river I haven't touched for months. The Charles.

Thonkthonk . . . Thonkthonk . . .

The twist-and-drop of my oars echoes loudly under the bridge, a reliable melody. I apply pressure with my left hand at the turn, and my boat glides out the other side like an afterthought. Weld, the sepia-colored boathouse for the Harvard women, greets me on port side. I might be the only one awake this early, but there is a light on upstairs; an orange-yellow reminder I won't be alone much longer.

But I don't want to be seen.

Not yet, that is.

It's a race against myself down the Charles. The shell that I'm using is five times my height from bow to stern, and there is just enough light from Storrow Drive to see my hands in front of me. As I move forward on each stroke-hands away, body over, knees bent-they vanish into the morning air. Then, as I push off in the opposite direction-legs down, body back, hands in-they return. New blisters are already forming on the ridges of my palms, and I can feel the skin pulsing, hot and raw.

That might be the only thing I didn't miss this summer.

Hands away . . . Body over . . . Knees bent . . .

Legs down . . . Body back . . . Hands in . . .

By the time I take the widest turn at Magazine Beach, the line between the black water and the black sky has unraveled. Next comes the BU Bridge, the underside graffitied in tribute to various athletes, friends, and first loves, and I peek at the concrete walls without turning my head. When you've been on this water for as long as I have, it feels easy to recognize the outlines and the shadows and the space between.

In fact . . . it feels like being home.

LOVE YA 5-EVER!

EAT. MY. WAKE.

TUFTS '04.

GOooOO WARRIORS!!

Ten . . . Nine . . . Eight . . .

I stop only once I'm safely into the river basin, and I count down from ten until my heart rate returns to normal. Something that's become an old habit. The water here is as choppy as it gets, and tepid, and I dip my fingers into the Charles, holding hands with my reflection until a wave sends my puddles spiraling out of reach. Another soaks me from the elbow down, the river lapping at me like a puppy greeting its owner after a long day alone.

Or in my case . . . a very long two months.

But everything is worth it for that view.

Boston is a wash of periwinkle shadows and peach-colored brick, dotted here and there and in between with trees that are eagerly turning for the fall. There is the towering Prudential Center, a razor blade in the sky; New and Old Hancock, with the Old reflected off the glass siding of the New; and the ever-faithful Citgo sign, its neon triangle blinking like a lighthouse on the coast. Seeing it all from here makes me smile. This is my favorite place in the world.

That's why I had to leave.

And . . . more importantly . . . why I had to come back.

JO

BeepbeepbeepBEEEEEEP-

I hit snooze without opening my eyes. It's six-thirty a.m.-ish. And it feels like I woke up in the middle of a sprint. But in the time it takes me to roll onto my belly, another feeling hooks into my chest. My brain wakes me up as my body pulls me down.

Into bed.

Into sleep.

Soon-I'm dreaming again.

I don't have a ton of memories from when my parents were still together, but the ones I do have are all from early in the morning. George-my dad-was always first out the door. After that, I'd crawl into bed with my mom, or she would crawl into mine. On the weekends, I'd help her make pancakes, and when I wasn't looking, she'd sneak cookie cutters into the pan-magically turning the batter into different shapes. Shooting stars. Dog bones. Zoo animals. Fall leaves.

Mornings were always my favorite.

Until they weren't.

". . . Teenager?"

George's voice is loud. Too loud. As always. He opens my door without knocking-also as always-but I feel it more than see it.

"I'm up," I lie. Groggy. I open my eyes in time to see George disappear, him ducking to avoid bonking his head on the doorframe. My mom once called him a human Great Dane, and I still haven't been able to shake the image.

He's too big.

Too loud.

Just-too much.

BeepBEEEEEEP-

Groaning, I snatch my phone from where it's charging next to the bed and swipe my alarm off, using the light from the screen to burn my eyes awake. Most of my friends back home in Upstate New York always planned on going to different high schools starting freshman year, but I never considered that I'd be the one to end up in an entirely different state. A few of them texted me last week asking about the move to Boston, but no one really messages unless it's an emergency-or a new Taylor Swift conspiracy theory.

MOMMA: Good luck on day one!

MOMMA: I love you more than the dog loves its tail!

MOMMA: (!!!)

I smile despite myself.

When I was little, my mom would read to me at bedtime, and my favorite story was a children's book called Mama, Do You Love Me? It led to us creating our own kind of secret language-I love you more than the whale loves its spout, I love you more than toast loves butter, I love you more than milk loves cookies. When I finally learned how to read by myself, I tried to hide it from her for as long as possible so she wouldn't stop.

But my mom knew everything-and still does.

JO: Thanks. Need all the luck I can get.

Which, I do.

Because it sounds like George is making breakfast.

And he's singing.

"We all live in a yellow submarine . . ."

I yank myself the rest of the way out of bed and check the door is firmly shut. George and I haven't lived together since I was in kindergarten, before my parents' divorce, and the last time I even came to visit was one weekend in fifth grade when he said we could paint the guest bedroom however I wanted. Each wall is still a different violently bright color-one pink, one blue, one navy blue, and one with zigzagging stripes of all three-and it feels like I'm being smothered under a bonkers-looking circus tent. Which could be cool, I guess.

If I was still ten.

There isn't enough space in the closet for all the clothes I brought from my mom's, so I've piled my things in a single lump on a chair in the corner. From the pile, I extract my new uniform-a plaid skirt of black-and-maroon twill, a black polo, knee-high socks, and black sneakers. Technically, my old school did have a dress code, but no one cared what you wore as long as your tank top straps were three fingers wide. However, according to the orientation handbook, Walden Academy requires skirts and polos and knee-highs until November. Then it's on to oxford button-downs and V-neck sweaters and itchy tights until April-when it all switches back.

No nail polish.

No hoodies.

No funky socks.

Actually-the only degree of personality allowed is our shoelaces. And I've replaced mine with a pair of lime-green curlicues. Just because.

Walden Academy is a private, prestigious, almost infamously posh K-12 school-and the reason I was forced to move to Boston this summer. Their seniors are known for going to only the best Ivy League colleges-if they don't zip off to Silicon Valley with the next billion-dollar start up-and their alumni list includes a respectful boasting of presidential candidates, senators, and Oscar Award-winning film directors, and at least one grandmaster chess player. Regardless, as a public school teacher, my mom was always against the idea of sending me somewhere like Walden. Not that we had the option, given the not-so-insignificant detail that a year's tuition is more than that of most colleges. That is, until last spring-when George got a part-time job teaching Earth Science to the Walden middle schoolers, and he called saying I'd be able to attend for free because of his new position. My mom and I were coming back from grocery shopping at Wegmans when she told me the news, and my entire life turned upside down in the time it took me to unload a tub of our favorite cookie dough into the fridge. Part of me can understand their thinking-a very small, very prickly part-but it wasn't until I saw George in person that I realized how happy he was about the new arrangement.

I knew then I couldn't say anything about Boston.

No matter how badly I wanted to.

In the past few years, I've mainly seen George on the weekends when he drives upstate and scoops me up at our designated divorced-kid drop-off point-a Dunkin' on the side of I-90 West. The idea of having to go from that to living with him for the school year-and going to Walden, and living so far away from my mom-is a literal nightmare.

Once I finish lacing my sneakers, I shuffle into the bathroom that connects my new room with George's. I brush my teeth. Floss. Spit. Downstairs in the kitchen, I'm surprised to find George still fiddling with his Keurig, his back to me. I'm less surprised to see that he's wearing only his boxers and a ridiculous pair of fluffy slippers.

Because of course he is.

". . . a yellow submarine!"

George moved into this house right after he and my mom separated, but there's little evidence that someone lives here now. The place is empty. None of the furniture matches, and I suspect that George found most of it on the curb. Meanwhile, my mom lives for redecorating-we both have cards to the local library, and she loves borrowing art from their free painting catalog to hang in our dining room. In stark and colorless contrast, the only things George has on his walls are framed newspaper clippings to document his coaching career.

That-and his rowing medals.

George turns when he hears me approaching, and I climb extra carefully onto one of the pleather kitchen stools, an island between us. He doesn't say anything, but he pushes his sun-bleached-blond hair out of his face, studying me with dark blue, almost black eyes. They're a stark contrast to my own muddy hazel color, but my entire life people have said that we have the same ones. I blink at him. And he blinks at me. We blink at each other.

It's incredibly awkward.

"What . . . are you wearing?" I manage.

George follows my gaze to his slippers.

"What's wrong, Teenager? Too embarrassing for you?"

I roll my eyes at the nickname.

"If you have to ask . . ."

"Aw, c'mon! It's my job to embarrass you." George grins, but he's the only one. "Coffee?"

I check the time on my phone, but George doesn't wait for an answer before passing me a Styrofoam to-go cup filled to the brim with hot, hot black coffee. He's so excited that it spills on my hand, and I wince.

"Erm . . . I don't like coffee. Sorry."

George considers this and turns back to the Keurig. A moment later, he offers me another cup, also overfilled, but this time with something that looks and smells like watery chai. Which I do like-watery or otherwise.

"Thanks," I manage, faking a smile wide enough to show my braces.

"Are you-"

My phone dings, interrupting George.

MOMMA:

"That your mom?"

"Yeah."

"How is she?"

"Good."

"Good . . . good . . . I'm glad."

And with that, we fall into another awkward silence.

George slides over to the stove and moves a pot off the front burner. Then he ladles a scoop of the grodiest-looking oatmeal I've ever seen into a paper bowl and scooches it to me-and when he hands me a plastic spoon, I realize I've yet to see a real utensil anywhere in his house. Almost everything here is disposable. George is still looking at me-staring at me, actually-and to appease his curiosity I take a quick spoonful.

A spoonful I spit out even faster.

"Too hot?" He pouts.

"Did you . . . put something in it?"

"Protein powder," George admits, bobbing his head up and down. He mistakes my horror for interest. "We gotta fuel you up for your first day! You excited?"

I shrug with one shoulder.

"I guess."

"You guess?"

"Yeah . . . I guess."

I try to make it clear with my tone that I don't want to have this discussion-ever-and especially not this early in the morning. But George misses the signs.

Typical.

"Everything okay, Teenager? You've barely said a word since unpacking."

"I just . . . I don't know why I'd be excited to be here," I admit, creasing my skirt with my fingers. "Boston is temporary. We all know it."

At that, George flexes both long hands on the countertop. Silent. I squirm on my stool when I realize how harsh the words sound out loud.

I didn't mean them to.

Or-did I?

"Sorry," I mumble. Already on my second apology of the day. "I didn't mean it like that. I'm just tired . . . I guess."

"Hey. You don't need to say sorry for how you feel." George hesitates. "I know change is hard. I know this is hard. But I think things may surprise you if you give them a chance. Walden is a great school, and Boston is an amazing city. There's so much to see, so many places to go . . . plus, we have some of the best rowing in the world." He waggles his eyebrows at that last one. "Trust me, Teenager. It's all about balance."

This time, I don't bother responding. Because I know he has my best interests at heart-or thinks he does-but George's words remind me that he has never paid attention to the things I actually want.

If he did, he would know I couldn't care less about this city.