This Place Is Still Beautiful Read online

  Dedication

  To my parents, for every sacrifice;

  and to Chris, for every beautiful day.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  One: Annalie

  Two: Margaret

  Three: Annalie

  Four: Margaret

  Five: Annalie

  Six: Margaret

  Seven: Annalie

  Eight: Margaret

  Nine: Annalie

  Ten: Margaret

  Eleven: Annalie

  Twelve: Margaret

  Thirteen: Annalie

  Fourteen: Margaret

  Fifteen: Annalie

  Sixteen: Margaret

  Seventeen: Annalie

  Eighteen: Margaret

  Nineteen: Annalie

  Twenty: Margaret

  Twenty-One: Annalie

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by XiXi Tian

  Back Ad

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  One

  Annalie

  The predicted rain on the first day of summer never comes, meaning I can count on two things: my mother spending most of the morning in the garden, and Thom Froggett coming by the Sprinkle Shoppe for a double scoop of Rocky Road in a waffle cone.

  My mother is endlessly good at gardening, which is why she spends an unreasonable amount of her free time furiously deadheading her prize-winning golden roses in the backyard. My sister, Margaret, is endlessly good at school, which is why she charged through high school as valedictorian and class president, signed up for a double major in economics and political science with a minor in gender studies at NYU, and is now spending the summer before her sophomore year at a fancy summer internship with a McBain-type consulting firm in Manhattan.

  I, on the other hand, am a B student, a second-chair flautist who sometimes still goes right when I should be going left in the drill set for marching band, and I suppose, above average at applying eyeliner with one swipe using the rearview mirror of my car in the mornings.

  One thing I am better at than both Mama and Margaret is scooping ice cream (mainly because they’re lactose intolerant, so they never eat ice cream), and thus, I have a summer job at the Sprinkle Shoppe. I am determined to use my unremarkable talent to do something remarkable: catch the attention of a certain Thom Froggett, soccer star and hazel-eyed underwear model look-alike.

  Thom and I have been in each other’s lives peripherally since elementary school because his last name and mine (Flanagan) are close to each other in the alphabet, although always with a certain Justin Frick right in between. So from grades one to eight, we were almost together when we lined up every day. Except instead of chatting up Thom, I endured a slow transition of first-grade Justin flicking spitballs into my hair to eighth-grade Justin trying to convince me to be his girlfriend.

  On the other side, Thom was always blissfully oblivious, except for when the barrier of Justin was removed. The few days a year that Justin stayed home sick were the greatest days of my young life. Sadly, waiting for spongy chicken nuggets and plastic, stab-able bags of chocolate milk in the hot lunch line was not the ideal backdrop for a grand romance, and the young love of my formative years went unrequited.

  In high school, we didn’t have lunch lines anymore and we were in different classes, so we were separated by more than the unfortunately placed Justin Frick. Puberty hit Thom like a freight train, and basically overnight, he shot up a foot in height and learned how to style his dark blond hair so that it swooped gently over his forehead with the blessed curve of an angel’s wing.

  He got a girlfriend at the end of freshman year. And that was that, until they broke up this past January of our junior year, as I found out approximately four days later from my best friend, Violet (whose particular prowesses are Filipino home cooking and finding out about people’s personal lives when social media doesn’t give them away).

  Violet had told me her plan after school as we shouldered our backpacks and headed out the door. “This is it,” she said. “Your chance.”

  “The way you’ve delivered this news is a little creepy,” I told her, wincing against the sharp midwestern wind as we climbed the hill toward the parking lot. “Like I’ve been stalking him my entire life.”

  She shrugs unrepentantly.

  “I just think that it seems crass to jump on this right after his breakup.”

  “You snooze, you lose. That boy is going to go faster than hotcakes. You don’t want to still be formulating your plan when Cheerleader Number Two catches his eye.”

  “They have names, Violet. Besides, I don’t want to be a rebound.”

  “Worrying about being a rebound is an abstract concern right now. It’s like worrying about whether you’ll like the weather in Georgia enough to go to college there before you’ve even applied to any schools. You deal with that problem later.”

  “Fair point,” I acknowledged.

  We stuffed our snow-dusted selves into Violet’s tiny Honda Civic and cranked up the heat before continuing our plot.

  “Look, here’s what you should do,” she said. I should not have been surprised that Violet already had a plan.

  Essentially, it was to work at the Sprinkle Shoppe, because Violet and Thom did have a class together, and he mentioned to her once that he went there for ice cream on summer afternoons, like it was his job, and ordered the same thing, right after his daily run, because it was on his way home. “He loves ice cream,” Violet said triumphantly, as if she had just invented a new element for the periodic table.

  I paused and thought about it. “Vi, this is a supremely stupid plan.”

  “No, it’s not!”

  “Yeah, it is.”

  “Well,” she said, turning toward me defensively, “feel free to contribute. Do you have a better idea?”

  I didn’t.

  “Just apply when the time comes,” she instructed bossily.

  On my first day at the job, the Sprinkle Shoppe greets me with a blast of cold air when I push the door open. The little silver bell over the door tinkles.

  Aside from just providing me a paycheck and an opportunity to stake out Thom, I like the place. The building is small and brick in downtown, with an old-timey vibe. The name is in big curving letters, slightly chipped white paint, on a wooden sign that hangs beneath the sharp angle of the eaves in front. I like the heavy silver handle of the door and the cabinets, the checkered black-and-white floor, and the scalloped trim that overhangs the serving counter. It reminds me of one of those wholesome fifties hangouts, where teenage boys in letterman jackets would take girls out on ice cream dates and ask them to go steady.

  Audrey is already behind the counter in her apron. Audrey is one of those cheerleaders who Violet was concerned about. She has wavy hair the color of rust and these long golden eyelashes resting on the lightest dusting of freckles, like sprinkles on top of an ice cream cone. Incredibly pretty, except right now she’s scowling at me.

  “You’re late,” she says.

  I check my phone. “No, I’m not.”

  “Two minutes by my watch.”

  I think about saying something rude, like I’m sure the Sprinkle Shoppe was totally inundated in those one hundred and twenty seconds of time that I wasn’t here, but I decide it’s not worth the effort. I have to be around her all summer, after all. “Sorry.”

  “Whatever.”

  Audrey has worked here the last four months. For the Sprinkle Shoppe, that’s practically forever, because most people just work the short summer months when business ramps up. It’s just my luck that she and I have the same shifts, so she gets to tell me what to do.

  “You,” she says, jabbing an ice cream scoop in my direction like a dictator, “are going to scoop the ice cream. I’ll handle the payments.”

  No arguments here. Math was never my strong suit.

  She hands me the silver scoop. It looks pretty self-explanatory, but then the first customer who comes in asks for a scoop of mint chocolate chip and a scoop of regular chocolate. I don’t get as full a scoop of ice cream as I need to for the mint chocolate chip, and I don’t pack the scoop of regular chocolate tight enough onto the first, so it tumbles to the ground with a soft splat. This is apparently harder than it looks, and I also apparently oversold my scooping skills.

  Audrey has to clean it up. She rolls her eyes so many times in the next two hours that I’m afraid she’s just going to start looking at me with her eyeballs already fixed toward the ceiling to save time. But by the tenth customer, I’ve pretty much gotten the hang of it.

  I feel almost like a natural when the door swings open.

  It’s him. Just like Violet promised.

  At that moment, I silently thank her for having so much foresight. She’s wise after all. I owe her a gallon of free cookies ’n cream.

  Thom is in his running clothes. My eyes automatically move to the hard outline of his calves as he strides toward the counter, shaking his hair, darkened with sweat, out of his eyes. I think about my next move. I think about taking his order. I think about doing literally anything other than stand here like a buffoon.

  Audrey sweeps past me and seizes the ice cream scoop right out of my fingers. I’m so startled I don’t put up any resistance.

  “Hi, Thom,” she says, smiling with all her dimples. Scooping ice cream isn’t too menial for her when it’s Thom’s order she’s taking. It occurs
to me that other people—namely, Audrey—might be using the same plan and might be better at it than me.

  I’ve lost my chance. I can’t undermine Audrey’s authority, so I slink away. She motions sharply for me to move to the register. Like Violet said, you snooze, you lose.

  “Would you like the usual?” I hear her say.

  “You know it. Thanks.” His voice is friendly. I strain to hear any hint of flirtation like a thirsty person strains for the last drop of water in a canteen. I don’t think he’s looked in my direction, even though I’m right here.

  I watch Audrey pile two perfectly round scoops of Rocky Road into a waffle cone as if she’s competing in the Olympics of ice cream service. She deserves the gold.

  Thom takes the ice cream gingerly and moves down the line until he’s at the register. Right in front of me. I snap to attention.

  “Hi,” he says, all tanned skin and white teeth. Even though he’s coming off a run, he smells good, a magical combination of musk and apples. Can sweat smell good?

  My heart tumbles down into my gut and is lost. What does one say in response to hi?

  “It’s been a while since the junior high lunch line, huh?”

  “Yeah,” I say, surprising myself. “I barely know what to do without Justin Frick in between us.”

  I make him laugh. It feels really good.

  “You’re working here, are you?”

  “Yep. Needed a summer job.”

  “Well, you should know that I come here every day.”

  I resist the urge to say, So I’ve heard. Because that would be extra creepy, and even I have some sense of self-preservation. “Okay, should that be a problem for me?”

  “I hope not.” He’s grinning. We’re flirting. This is unbelievable! From the other side of me, Audrey is glaring daggers at me, but I can’t be stopped.

  By now there’s another customer behind him who’s already gotten ice cream. I remember that I’m supposed to be ringing him up. I look down at the cash register in amazement, because I realize at that moment that I have absolutely no idea how to use this archaic-looking machine. I’m afraid if I push something wrong, it’ll just break.

  Helplessly, I glance back up at Thom. “I’m sorry,” I say. “This is my first day, so I have no idea what I’m doing.”

  “No problem,” he says. “I have cash, and I know how much this costs.” He hands over three crumpled dollars and two quarters.

  I take it. “I trust that you’re not pulling a fast one and giving yourself a discount, because I really don’t know how much two scoops costs.”

  “I’m not,” he says as he turns to go. “But for the record, it actually costs three dollars and thirty cents. You can keep the change, though.” He winks at me, and I die a thousand deaths internally.

  Nothing Audrey does can ruin my summer now.

  “Just admit it. I’m a genius,” Violet crows as I open the door to let her in a few days later.

  “It wasn’t a bad idea,” I admit as she blows past me.

  Violet has come over every afternoon in the summer since we were kids. This year, since I’ve finally been pushed toward a job, we’ve had to scale back our daily rendezvous, because afternoon is prime ice cream shop boom time in the summer, and I’m scheduled for Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. “Which means Tuesdays and Thursdays without Thom,” I say, sighing.

  “Sure,” Violet says. “Some friend you are. I hook you up with the jock of your childhood dreams, and you don’t even so much as bat an eyelid when you ditch your BFF three times a week. Are you going to be the person who completely flakes on everyone when you and Thom start dating?”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Don’t give me that attitude!”

  I escort Violet into the kitchen, swing open the freezer, and plop a sweet, sweet full tub of cookies ’n cream on the countertop triumphantly. “Courtesy of the Sprinkle Shoppe. Is that enough of a thank you?”

  Violet’s eyes practically bug out of her head, and her lips split into a wide grin. “It’s a start.”

  My mother slides open the screen door to the backyard and ducks inside. She’s wearing a wide-brimmed hat and grimy yellow gloves that she sheds and tosses onto the deck behind her.

  “Hi, Violet,” Mama says, spotting us.

  “Hi, Auntie,” Violet replies, waving.

  “Oh, before you leave, I have things for your mama. Don’t let me forget.”

  Violet and I have been friends for so long that it’s pretty normal for Mama to send her home with a cut of new roses or a container of fresh stir-fry for dinner. And Violet’s mom is the same when I am there. We’re like extended family.

  We take our bowls of ice cream, heaped high because it’s summer and because nobody’s around to watch our gluttony, onto the deck. I love feeling the warmth of the stained wood under my bare feet, channeling the heat of the summer sun. I curl my toes. The ice cream is sugary and cooling. Everything feels so good.

  “Your mom’s roses are really taking off, huh?” Violet says.

  “Early summer is the best time.” Mama is almost religious about her flowers. Margaret told me she started growing them after our father left, when I was too young to remember. Since then, she’s become virtually professional. She spends a good part of the warm summer months outside, inspecting, pruning, mulching, watering, and fertilizing the soil with the perfect blend of compost material to achieve ideal acidity.

  Actually, one of the things I like best about our house is the backyard full of roses. The golden ones are at peak bloom in June, and they really are magnificent.

  We admire the Garden of Eden for a while. Then we scrape the final liquidy residue from the inside of our bowls and step back onto the cool linoleum of our kitchen floor and drop the bowls into the sink.

  The real reason that Violet comes over in the afternoons is so we can watch our favorite baking competition show on Food Network, and my house is super quiet, whereas her house is jam-packed with her younger siblings scurrying around. It’s been our tradition for years and will probably continue until we go to college or Food Network finally cancels the show.

  It’s the show that first got me into baking. We watch, and I usually jot down the interesting ideas for me to try and re-create on my own. Violet can always count on a new batch of something sweet every week.

  “I can’t believe this idiot is trying to make a napoleon,” Violet groans. “Does anybody actually watch the show before they go on it? Judges hate it when you make a napoleon. So unoriginal. You might as well whip out a package of Toll House cookies and bake those instead.”

  “Don’t be a hater. There are plenty of interesting things you can do with a napoleon.”

  “Please don’t make that this week,” she says. “Make the lady’s dessert. The peach cobbler. Looks to die for. And goes great with ice cream.”

  I shove her playfully. “I’m not taking orders at this time.”

  “You don’t have to. Just putting it out there in the universe, in case a certain someone wants to continue showing her gratitude for her brilliant best friend, hooking her up with the boy of her dreams.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” I say. “Besides, don’t you think you’re jumping the gun a bit? Thom and I have had something like two conversations.”

  “You’re going to be together before we even hit July,” she predicts.

  “How are you so confident?”

  “Well, first, because I know things. And second, jeez, are you really going to play dumb? You’re gorgeous. There’s no way he hasn’t noticed.”

  “I’m not!” I’d kill for Violet’s perfect long curls, which shine in a mass of glossy black down her back. We’ve had countless sleepovers, and I know she wakes up like that. Plus, she has perfect arched eyebrows that don’t require any shaping.

  “Yeah, you are. It’s why the Sprinkle Shoppe hired you the minute you walked in, and why I would never be able to get a job there. You realize they only hire attractive people, right?”

  Violet’s self-deprecating bluntness makes me uncomfortable. I know she isn’t trying to fish for compliments or make me feel bad. It’s just how she is.

  Violet, who was the first person to march up to me in third grade when she moved here from New Jersey and declare friendship when everybody else ignored me. Who steadfastly insisted on bringing kare-kare and pork adobo to school in her lunch box even though the other kids called it smelly and weird. Who probably knew from the minute she was born that she was going to grow up to be an environmental scientist and date and marry her boyfriend, Abaeze Adebayo, easygoing and soft-spoken, basically the opposite of Violet in every way.