The Odds of You and Me Read online

  Dedication

  For my mother, who stayed awake with me all through that

  dark, terrible night as the winds howled and the snow fell—

  and gave me the courage to pursue a bright, new world.

  Epigraph

  Two possibilities exist: either we are alone in the Universe, or we are not.

  Both are equally terrifying.

  —ARTHUR C. CLARK

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Acknowledgments

  P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .* About the author

  About the book

  Read on

  Praise

  Also by Cecilia Galante

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  Bird?” Mrs. Ross, all blond hair and wide, kohl-rimmed eyes, beckons from inside the probation office. “Hi, hon! Come on in.” She holds the door open and strides ahead of me, winding her way through a maze of pale brown cubicles. It’s impossible not to stare at her legs; encased in a pair of mustard-yellow tights and spiky black pumps, they demand to be noticed, dare you to look away. Even without heels, Mrs. Ross has got to be at least five-ten, most of it from the waist down. Her black skirt, white silk blouse, and matching black jacket lend an air of confidence, decorum, and smarts, all at the same time. Things I will never have—at least not in this lifetime. “So, how are things?” The question is tossed over her shoulder, both a propriety and an afterthought. “Everything all right?”

  “Yeah.” I trot a little to keep up with her. “Things are fine.”

  She indicates the empty seat next to her desk with an outstretched palm, and then settles into her own chair. A cloud of something sweet drifts out from under her—a blend of Ivory soap and roses and maybe a little bit of cinnamon, too. When she crosses her legs, she has to move them to one side, since they don’t fit under her desk, hooking one ankle around the other. The wheels on her chair make a small screeching sound, like the brakes in my car. “Okay, now.” She taps her keyboard, glances at the computer screen. “Let me just get you caught up here and then we can talk.”

  I sit back as her fingers fly over the keys and glance at the familiar items lined up along her desk: the black-and-silver placard that spells out ALLISON ROSS, PROBATION OFFICER in neat, shiny letters; a blue coffee cup with the message 40 IS THE NEW 20; a varied assortment of red-and-black ballpoint pens, neatly rubber-banded and stashed inside a narrow black container. Next to it is a withered plant inside a terra cotta pot, the only indication of Mrs. Ross’s fallibility. The purple flowers are wrinkled and dry as old Saran wrap, the leaves almost brown. Along the corkboard walls of her cubicle are thumbtacked photographs—mostly of the same two kids, blond, gap-toothed, their arms flung around Mrs. Ross, a snowman, each other. There is one of the three of them in a pool, with just their heads peeking out of the water. Mrs. Ross is shielding her eyes against the glare of the sun; drops of water bead her forearms. Even with her hair slicked back, and no makeup, she is beautiful.

  Next to the photographs, encased in a plastic frame with faux wood edging, is a college diploma announcing her bachelor’s degree in criminal justice from Wheaton University. I’ve never heard of Wheaton University, but then I haven’t heard of a lot of colleges. I was never one of those people who planned on going to college, especially since I barely even made it through high school. Whenever I come here, though, I find myself thinking about it, wondering what kind of school I would have been interested in if I had ever taken the time to look at any, if I would have actually studied something, or just screwed around, the way I did during my last two years of high school. There was a time when I’d toyed with the idea of becoming a nurse, especially right after Dad died. Something about all those life-hinging moments interspersed between the ordinary hum of daily activity; what other kind of work granted such a thing? I was good at biology, too—one of the few subjects that ever held my interest in school, and even when I was younger, things like blood and innards had never freaked me out. Of course, you needed good grades to get into nursing school—good grades and money, too; neither of which I had. And so life took a different turn, veered around another bend. Which is part of the reason I’m sitting here right now.

  “Hoe. Lee. Cow,” Mrs. Ross says suddenly, squinting at the screen. “Do you really only have two more weeks left, Bird?”

  “Thirteen days actually.”

  She taps a few more buttons on the computer, narrows a neatly edged brow. “Wowzer. Now, where did that time go?”

  “Oh, you know.” I stick a piece of hair behind my ear. “Time flies when you’re having fun.”

  Mrs. Ross turns all the way around, done with the computer, and settles her folded hands into her lap. Her fingernails are beautifully manicured—small and square, painted the palest pink. The large pear-shaped diamond looks perfectly natural adorning her fourth finger, expected even. “And these last two weeks will fly by, too. Boy, before you know it, Bird, you and I will go back to being strangers again.”

  Except that we weren’t ever friends. I smile, shrug, look away. People like Mrs. Ross always think they’re friends with everyone. Especially people like me who they think don’t know any better. I wait as she riffles through a stack of manila files on her desk and then pulls one out.

  “Okay, here’s the letter I got from the manager at Super Fresh last week. He said he received your last payment on . . .” She pauses, her eyes scanning the note. “February twenty-second. And today’s April sixth, which means you’re a few weeks ahead of schedule.” She lets the file drop again into her lap. “Wow. You’re all paid up with time to spare. Good for you, hon.”

  I nod, although she doesn’t have to remind me. The little notebook in my top dresser drawer has a list of every payment I’ve made over the last eighty-nine weeks—thirty-four dollars every Monday—until the six hundred dollars I wrote in bad checks eighteen months ago plus restitution fees, which added up to a grand total of twenty-four hundred dollars, was paid off. The debt has been front and center in my life for so long that making that last payment felt like I had won the lottery, or as if someone had just let me out of jail. It was a good feeling knowing that—at least financially—I had made things right. Now I was at the starting line again. Maybe, after a little more time, I could even get back in the race.

  “So, how’s everything else going?” Mrs. Ross adjusts her ankles, settling in for an extended conversation. “No problems at home or anything?”

  She means home with Ma, where I’
ve been living since I got into trouble with the checks. I’ve made the mistake of admitting once or twice how trying the whole setup can get sometimes, how often I have to bite my tongue with my mother, who is not only the polar opposite of me but has also made it her life’s mission to change that. Now I wish I hadn’t said anything. Mrs. Ross never fails to bring it up when I come in, almost as if she is expecting me to break down and confess one day that I lost my temper and took a swing at her.

  “Nope, no problems,” I say lightly. “Everything’s good.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “You’re still working with her, right? Cleaning people’s houses?”

  “Yup.”

  “And how’s that going?”

  “It’s work.” I shrug. “It pays the bills.”

  Ma’s been cleaning houses for as long as I can remember, but I only started last year, after I moved back in. When I was younger, she only took jobs during the day so that she could be there for me when I got home from school. But after Dad died, she started working night shifts, too. I was in high school then, but for a long time, I barely saw her at all, just for an hour or two after school, which we usually spent arguing about my poor grades or my even poorer choice of friends, before she had to leave again to work through most of the night. She didn’t have a choice, of course. It was the only way she could make ends meet. But her absence created another layer in the shaky foundation that had become our new, two-person family, infusing the holes with a loneliness I hadn’t yet known existed.

  Most nights, unbeknownst to Ma, of course, I’d head out to meet up with my best friend, Tracy. We’d go sit behind the old water tower a few blocks away and smoke a few joints or nurse a bottle of vodka Tracy had stolen from her parents’ liquor cabinet and stagger back home at midnight. It was always a relief to realize that I had once again successfully killed the string of empty hours behind me, but no matter how drunk or high I got, I could never fell asleep until Ma returned, until I heard the click of her key in the front door, the familiar gait of her footsteps on the stairs. I swore to myself back then that I’d never go that route, that I would never get myself into a position where I was so hard off financially that I had to clean other people’s houses.

  Until the day came when I did.

  Mrs. Ross sits back, her face softening. “It’s hard work, I’m sure.”

  “Nothing wrong with that.”

  “Oh, not at all! Hard work is the best work there is.” She pauses, adjusting the hem of her skirt. “And how’s Angus?”

  I grin when she says my little boy’s name, despite the fact that he told me this morning he never wanted to speak to me again after discovering that I put his magic sneakers in the washing machine. (“You’ll wash all the magic off, Mom! Jeez! Don’t you know anything?”) “He’s great,” I reply. “Getting big.”

  “Four now, right?”

  “Five in a few more months.”

  “Wow. Five years old.” Mrs. Ross shakes her head. “You still don’t look old enough to have a five-month-old, Bird.”

  I bristle a little when she says that, although I know she means well. She probably even thinks it’s a compliment. People say things like that all the time when they find out I have a child, especially women. I think it’s because, with my small frame and pale, unremarkable features, I look a lot younger than my twenty-five years. One woman, a cashier at the supermarket, actually reared back when I told her Angus was mine, and said, “And how old are you?” When I told her, she shook her head and clicked her tongue against her teeth, as if having a five-year-old child at my age wasn’t just an impossibility but an atrocity, too. I doubt getting pregnant a few months shy of your twentieth birthday is part of any lucid woman’s plans. But it happens sometimes. Sort of like other things you don’t plan on happening.

  “Well, you’ve been doing everything exactly the way you’re supposed to.” Mrs. Ross smiles fondly at me, a mother hen whose chick has just learned to use her wings. “You’re paid up on the bill, you’ve come in again for your biweekly report, and things are almost completely settled in your file. Now we just have to wait until this probation clock of yours stops ticking, and then all of this will be behind you.” She hitches both hands around the top of her knee and arches the shiny black pump on her foot. “Have you thought about what you’re going to do next?”

  “Well, I’ll move out of my mother’s house for starters. Get my own place. For Angus and me. I’ve been saving.”

  Mrs. Ross nods. “What’re you thinking? Downtown, maybe? Or over on the east side?”

  “No. God, no. I’ve lived here in town all my life. I hate this area.” I glance up quickly. “No offense to you or anything. I mean, if you live here. In the area.”

  Mrs. Ross smiles faintly. “None taken.”

  I withdraw a small newspaper photograph from my back pocket and unfold it carefully. The crease in the middle is practically a slit now, the edges of the paper curled and worn. I lay it down flat on Mrs. Ross’s desk, tap it lightly with my fingers. “I found this place, right on the lake. There’s an apartment on the second floor—two bedrooms, an eat-in kitchen, a full bathroom. It’s perfect for Angus and me. I’ve been putting a little aside for weeks. Five or six more days, and I’ll have the full security deposit, and then Angus and I can move in.”

  Mrs. Ross wrinkles her forehead, studying the picture. “Is this out at Moon Lake?”

  “Yeah.” I point to the peaked roof on top of the house, and draw my finger down the inverted side of it. “Can you see the skylights on top? Those are in the bedroom where Angus’ll be. He’ll be able to look up every night and see the stars. The snow, too.” I lean in a little, grinning. “Can you imagine lying in bed and staring up at the snow falling above you?” I’ve done it hundreds of times already, usually when I’m knee-deep in the grime around the base of someone’s toilet, yellow rubber gloves slick with suds, the knees of my pants damp and reeking of bleach: imagining a cocoon of Angus and me, beneath his Toy Story comforter, staring up at the whiteness above us, the glass window dotted with pale, sugary stars, the downward, rushing movement of them a tiny heaven all its own.

  “Wow. That’ll be beautiful.” Mrs. Ross’s voice is soft. “Have you seen it in person? You’re sure it’s okay?”

  “Oh, yeah. It’s great.”

  I’d actually driven up to the property two weeks earlier on a whim, not expecting much to come of it, just to look around for myself. I almost hoped something would be wrong with it, a hole in the kitchen wall that might suggest mice, or a perpetual leak in the bathroom. Anything that might make me second-guess my decision, or even make it for me. But the place—a pale yellow house with two large bay windows and a dried rosebud wreath on the front door—was perfect. The upstairs, where Angus and I would live, was more than I could have hoped for, with its hardwood floors, smooth, clean walls, and kitchen with a tiny breakfast nook built into one corner. And when the owner of the place, a short, gray-haired woman named Mrs. Vandermark, not only turned out to be close friends with a client whose house I used to clean but also decided on the spot that such a happy coincidence qualified me as her next renter, I felt something shift into place. She didn’t even protest when I told her I had the first and last month’s rent, but that I needed a few more weeks to get the security deposit together. “I understand completely,” she said. “No one’s making millions cleaning houses these days, although you should be, in my opinion, with all the horrible things people make you do.” She clucked her tongue. “I’ve heard stories.” I smiled and nodded as she patted me on the back. “You take your time with the security, dear. I’ll be in Florida for the next few weeks anyway. This place isn’t going anywhere.” It was as if it had been waiting for me. As if something had drawn me there, knowing somehow that this was the place. This was home. Finally.

  Mrs. Ross slides a paper clip along her desk with the tip of her index finger, as if trying to follow a wayward thought in her head.
“How do you think your mother’s going to take you leaving?”

  “Oh, she’ll be fine.” I fold the picture up and slide it back inside my pocket. “My coming home was always just temporary anyway. She knows that.”

  “Yes.” Mrs. Ross nods thoughtfully. “But she has gotten particularly close to Angus over these past few years, hasn’t she?”

  “Well, yeah, but it’s not like we’re leaving for California. Moon Lake is only twelve miles outside of New Haven. She’ll be able to see him whenever she wants.”

  “And you?” Mrs. Ross asks gently. “Will you take him down to see her . . . if he asks?”

  “Of course.” Something inside me bristles again. Mrs. Ross is my probation officer, not my therapist. There’s no need for all this personal probing, these extra questions. And I don’t owe her any of the answers.

  I stand up, inserting my hands into my back pants pocket. On the wall behind me, the crackle of static bleeds out from a police scanner, followed by a male voice: “Shoplifting suspect in transport. All stations ready.” The ticker tape of criminal activity in New Haven seems to run on a never-ending loop; whenever I am here, at least, there is always something being reported. On my last visit, I listened as the chatter reported a robbery at one of the local mini-marts. The suspect had used a plastic squirt gun hidden beneath a denim jacket, and managed to leave with twenty dollars in cash and six boxes of Ho Ho cupcakes. That little detail sums up New Haven perfectly: a desperate blend of insolence and stupidity that I’ve been saturated in all my life. Getting out can’t come fast enough.

  “Okay, well, good, good.” Mrs. Ross flattens her palms against the top of her skirt, and slides them briskly to the tops of her knees, as if everything is all settled. “You know, it sounds as if once all of this is over, Bird, you’ll really be starting a whole new chapter.”

  “That’s the plan.” I fasten a few snaps on the front of my coat, look down at my watch quickly. “So we’re okay, right? I really have to get back. Angus has to be in preschool at nine, and then I have a house to clean at nine-thirty.”