A/N: My apologies for the wait, I just had to fix up Mae, you have no idea how much she was bothering me. Anyway, after a little bit of characterization and profiling, I finally rewrote her the way I want her. This chapter’s a bit fast paced and fairly short but I hope you enjoy it all the same.

Side note, a website was created for Apples and the other pending books in the series (yes, I said series, woo for ambition!). I recommend taking a look at it, it’s pretty awesome-looking and there are lovely pictures and a guestbook and an entire About the Author blob and everything (written in third person so it looks legit). The link is in my profile go go go look pleaseeeee?

15. Birthday Wishes part 1

Sunday, November 2, 1941

4th Hallway, West Wing

6:12 P.M.

It’s not like it mattered, really, Mae thought to herself as she absentmindedly walked into an underclassmen. It’s not like it mattered. Maybe it would matter to him, though; it’s a bit frightening that his fashion sense is as good as, if not better than, a teenage girl’s.

But it’s not like it mattered.

So that means the fact that the dress was folded in a manner so carefully that suggested it to be sacred really wasn’t a big deal. The fact that she had stared at it for a good twenty minutes instead of doing her homework wasn’t really a huge thing. The fact that she had probably just failed a French test because she was thinking about how and why that was the designated costume for her was completely trivial.

It’s not like it mattered because if it did matter, there would be an awkward and uncomfortable realization that she had thought more about him than the beauty of the dress whenever she looked at it. But that was just association, so it’s not like it mattered. And it’s not like it mattered that she liked to look at the dress and liked the association.

It’s not like it mattered that it did, in fact, matter.

X-X-X

SAVE THE DATE

NOVEMBER 13

THE DAY IN WHICH A MISTER CAYDEN FLETCHER WAS BORN

APPARENTLY THIS WAS A BIG DEAL

SO HE GETS FLYERS

WE’RE BIG ON FLYERS LATELY

CONGRATULATE HIM ON LIVING AND BEATING THE PREVIOUS RECORD HE SET FOR LIVING ON A CONSECUTIVE YEARLY BASIS

X-X-X

Dear Muse,

You think you’re funny with what you’ve been doing to me lately. You think you’re just so fantastically witty with your control over my actions. I appreciate your sudden taste in style. That really comes in handy in my day to day routine. I’m so glad.

-CD

X-X-X

Andrew looked down at the envelope in hand, feeling his jaw tighten but doing nothing to stop it from locking up. After all, it was a way to stop the words that may or may not have come out. His thoughts were incoherent anyway; speech was hazardous.

The return address loomed over him like a vulture, circling low and steadily, bidding its time until the scrumptious meal in question elects to die quietly. Andrew didn’t really process his vulture. His eyes had to go over the writing over and over again, not quite believing something that shouldn’t have been. He hated the name, he hated the address, and he hated the fact that the man in question had the guts to write to him. But it didn’t matter that he hated the sensation—the vulture wouldn’t go away. This feeling of dread and bitterness was not unfamiliar to him, but it hit him like cold water whenever this happened.

Nicholas Dodge.

He felt the pressure above him advance a notch as his fingers (which he just realized were shaking—just slightly) flipped over the letter and looked at the wax seal. Of course it would be a wax seal, he thought dryly, God forbid he should just close it regularly.

The crest embedded in the wax taunted him. His fingers undid it quickly just so that it broke. And yet, he regretted it in that moment because then he was stuck between a rock and a hard place—in his haste to defile the envelope, the cannon behind the gate was now in full view. He sighed in a resigned manner as he took out the parchment. Sure, it would be parchment.

The letter in question was folded perfectly into three sections, so mockingly easy to open.

Dear Andrew,

Your silence is troublesome and makes me worry for your safety occasionally, you are aware of that I presume. This outright statement of mine probably gives you more incentive to continue your battle against me. How rebellious, I must say. In any case, you have asked me not to contact you many times before in the rare one-word letters that I do receive from you. I feel that this is an unfair request, considering I am paying for most of the luxuries that you are holding. Your school, for example.

Obviously your father has done a lovely job in brainwashing you, a skill that he has mastered over the years. In part, I am nothing more than a bother to you as I am to him. Let me say this, though, Andrew: you are a Dodge and will remain so until you die, your children left to pass on the name to their children and so forth. You are able to run away from me and run away from your responsibilities, but regardless, you cannot run away from your core identity. And you’d do well to remember your place in spite of what is happening and whatever has occurred in the past, no matter how heartbreaking and unfortunate.

Trust me on this, Andrew, running is never good. Never.

While you are determined to ignore me and fascinated with frustrating me, you refuse to listen to me. You are heading into dangerous territory, Andrew, and the situation is much more complicated than you or Christopher allow yourselves to understand. I admire your perseverance but it is displaced and unnecessary.

I feel that you will never forgive me either way, but you have inherited your persistent will from me, I’m afraid. I don’t expect a reply, but I do hope for one.

You are welcome to visit the manor for Thanksgiving. I would be eternally grateful.

Sincerely,

Grandfather

Andrew read the letter over once, twice, three more times before stuffing it forcefully back into the envelope and vandalizing his trunk in an effort to find the small compartment at the bottom of it. When the latch was located, he opened it and stared at the other forty six letters. All opened but unanswered save two: the birthday and Christmas ones.

Third time’s a charm.

Nicholas,

There’s nothing you can do. Stop writing me. Don’t save me a place at Thanksgiving.

-Andrew

He folded up the letter with precision, eyebrows creased the entire time. He didn’t want to revisit this over and over again. He didn’t want to hear the flimsy apologies and weightless excuses that his grandfather had to offer. He didn’t want to know his bloodline and he didn’t want to know his options or his place or what happened. He didn’t want to hear Nicholas Dodge’s point of view.

His eyes strayed to the locked top drawer on his roll-top desk where a painfully memorized picture resided of two boys, both with neat hair and chocolate brown eyes—one set that shone even brighter than the other. Eyes that were long gone from his life and would probably never return. Eyes that were the very definition of false hope.

X-X-X

“She started it!”

“Did not!”

“Yeah you did!”

“I did no such thing. Professor—”

“Gravy, c’mon.”

Professor Graveline looked between Zach and Camille, watching as the latter got ready to verbally crucify the former. She had seen it happen before and didn’t really care to hear bickering at the minute. All she cared about was her coffee which was all over her unmarked papers and not anywhere near her mouth.

The ink began to run off of Charlie Fitzgerald’s essay and the professor heaved a deep breath before holding up a hand for silence.

“Gravy, come on. You can’t possibly believe that I would want to do this to you, do you?” He really shouldn’t have ended that with a question, Evelyn thought.

“Mr. Kink. Miss Ridgefield. What were you even doing in my classroom in the first place?” she asked heavily, her eyes still set on the stack of papers.

“It was his entire fault!” Camille cried, pointing a finger at him and accidentally (or so Graveline liked to hope) hitting him in the eye.

“OW HOLY HELL.” Zach clutched the eye in pain, exaggerated or not. “Why is it always my eyes?!”

“Because they’re ugly. And weird,” Camille informed in a blunt manner, looking at him as if he should have known the answer to this question.

“Are you going to let her talk to me like that?!” Zach turned to Graveline for help, a bit scandalized that she hadn’t come to his rescue thus far. She rubbed the bridge of her nose and slumped down in her chair.

“Sometimes I wonder why you seem so intent on defeating me, Mr. Kink,” she murmured.

“Well now, Evelyn, if you wanted to be conquered you could just—ow!” the sound that Camille issued because of that slap was echoing. Zach turned to her completely disgruntled. “Jealous?”

“Pitying.”

“Yourself?”

“Never.”

“Insecure.”

“Idiot.”

“Enough,” Graveline stopped just as Zach opened his mouth. “Detention for both of you.”

“For what?!” they both objected.

“For annoying me,” Graveline finalized.

“He was the one who knocked your coffee over, Professor,” Camille pleaded.

“She was the one who hit me!” Zach pointed out with validity.

“You deserved it!”

“I have coffee on my pants because you pushed me into it.”

“You deserved that too!”

“Ev, clearly she deserves this more than I do.”

“Professor, he was the one who broke into your classroom!” Camille snitched. Zach looked at her with disbelieving eyes.

“Low, Cam. Real low.”

Camille simply smiled.

“You still haven’t explained why you were in here in the first place,” the professor pointed out with a keen look. Camille’s lips curled into a smirk and Zach was left to think on his feet.

“Uh.” He glanced around the room for some form of an excuse, felt his pockets and—bingo. “I wanted to surprise you.”

“Surprise me.” Graveline’s straight face held no signs of anticipation.

“Yeah!” Zach’s hand surfaced from his pocket in which he held a tiny ring. Camille snorted and was promptly ignored as Zach’s face became completely solemn. “I wanted to give you this.” He knelt down on one knee and Professor Graveline wondered what she could have possibly done in a past life to deserve this.

“Get up, Mr. Kink.”

“Will you marry me?”

Camille’s laughter echoed throughout the room as Professor Graveline sighed and looked towards the sky.

“You can’t possibly be serious with that excuse,” Graveline’s monotone gave Zach little to work with. He couldn’t play on her emotions. He searched for a response.

“I am always serious when it comes to matters of the heart,” he replied, his straight face causing a bit of concern on the professor’s end. She shook it off.

“You’re proposing to me—”

“That I am.”

“—in my classroom—”

“So that you can always remember this whenever you walk in for your morning routine.”

“—with a ring that you found in a Crackerjack box.”

Camille was overcome by mirth, her shoulders shaking from the laughter so much that the thought of her dislocating one crossed Zach’s hopeful mind. Regardless, he continued.

“I would go through a thousand Crackerjack boxes just to find the perfect ring to slip on your delicate fingers,” he committed.

“Get out, Mr. Kink.”

“Why does she get to stay?!” Zach asked, appalled, looking at Camille. Camille raised her hands.

“Oh I’m gone, the show’s over,” she snickered. Zach pouted.

“Your detention is at seven,” Graveline dictated. Zach’s face lit up. “Not with me, Mr. Kink.”

Oh.

He placed the ring on her desk and blessed her with a smile. “Think it over.”

X-X-X

November 13 came quicker than originally planned. The morning of, Cade’s eyes remained closed in vague sleep-ridden suspicion. His body clock could definitely feel that it was later than 5:15. Why was it not 5:15? Why was no one jumping on him at 5:15? Why was there no annoying broken-record rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’? What the hell…?

Cade cracked open one eye and swiveled it around. As far as he could see, there was no Zach or Andrew present in the room.

Why was there no Zach or Andrew present in the room?

He opened the second eye and took a look at the clock next to him. 7:30. He was probably going to be late for his class but he didn’t really care. All he knew was that this was his 18th birthday, where were the celebrations??

There must be something wrong. Or something extremely good. Or both? Either way, it was unusual and his mind went through all possibilities as he clambered out of bed and into the bathroom, scratching his head and creating even more of a mess out of the mop of hair that sat atop his head already.

He looked in the mirror above the sink and frowned slightly at the note that was scribbled messily in bright pink lipstick on it.

Fletch,

No festivities today. Dodger and I have stuff to do. We’ll make it up to you or something. But you’re 18 so you can handle it without crying like a little baby.

Won’t be at breakfast either.

Have fun without us.

Toodles.

-Kink

P.S. Don’t tell Ridgefield that I stole her lipstick.

Cade rolled his eyes at the post-script and opened the medicine cabinet, finding the toothpaste and brushing his teeth quickly. He was a bit put-off to be honest. Why wouldn’t they stick around to at least annoy him a little bit?

Bastards.

He dressed lazily, knotting his tie and loosening it carelessly, his hair a bit out of place and his shirt tail sticking out. His blazer would cover that, he figured, but he didn’t bother bringing it down to breakfast anyway.

He turned down the hall to the main staircase, rubbing sleep from his eye when—

“Cade!”

He looked up and saw two very unlikely people blocking two routes that he could have taken to the Hickey. He was at one of the most awkward crossroads imaginable and they both looked up at him with appraisal, one more approving than the other.

Sherry’s voice was the one that called out to him, so his head turned to the right, completely intent on ignoring the other figure who had simply stopped to watch.

He smiled politely. “Hey, Sherry.”

“Happy birthday!” she chirped, far too energetic for this time of the morning. His grin was genuine—at least she was willing to acknowledge his birthday. “Big 18. How’s it feel?”

“Not that different, to be honest,” Cade answered thoughtfully. ‘That’s slightly annoying actually; you’d think that I’d go through some kind of metamorphosis into maturity or something.”

Cade forgot the way that Sherry laughed and how it always tended to tinkle around the halls. “Well, we all know that you’re not mature.”

“How do you figure?” Cade asked. “Maybe I could have changed unbeknownst to myself and I just haven’t gotten around to demonstrating it in the five second conversation we’re having.”

Sherry looked amused. “Alright fine, you’re the most mature person I know. You’re so mature that I can’t keep up with a conversation in your presence. Want to come down to breakfast?”

The last question made Cade stiffen just slightly, not enough for her to notice. His eyes swiveled to the girl on his left. Banter was all well and good, but eating alone with Sherry would turn into walking to class with Sherry which would lead to hanging out with Sherry which would turn into something that he would rather not revisit.

“Actually I was going to meet Ki—Mae for breakfast,” Cade blurted out. Mae, who had remained silent and entertained until now, raised her eyebrows.

“What?” Sherry and Mae said at the same time. Cade threw a pleading glance at Mae before turning back to Sherry.

“Yeah, y’know. I was uh. Just coming to look for her and look at that I found her and y’know. Didn’t want to be late. And stuff.”

Mae’s expression clearly read ‘what the hell are you on about’.

“Oh.” Sherry attempted to hide her dejection and shrugged. “Well, I suppose I’ll see you around. Happy birthday again, though.”

“Thanks. Bye Sherry,” Cade said hurriedly as he bounded down the stairs to the path on his left, grabbing the bewildered Mae by the elbow as he went.

Once clearly out of sight and earshot, Mae yanked her arm from Cade’s grasp. “I must have missed our plans,” she told him dryly. Cade rolled his eyes.

“Oh yeah, didn’t you know? I want nothing more than to be with you on the morning of my birthday.”

“Which nobody bothered to acknowledge I’m guessing,” Mae said astutely. Cade stopped walking.

“Why would you say that?”

“Because you weren’t with Zach and Andrew. And because you were unnaturally pleased when Sherry wished you a happy one,” Mae pointed out twirling around to face him. Cade shrugged.

“Maybe I was just happy to see her,” he rebutted, continuing his pace, turning the corner.

“Which is why you went with me,” she countered. Cade didn’t even bother to mask his frustration.

“Maybe I wanted to go with you,” he said. Mae scoffed.

“Bull.”

“Isn’t.”

“Right,” she said sarcastically. “Well, at least she’s right on one thing. You’re nowhere near mature.”

“How would you gather that today I haven’t matured.”

“A mature person wouldn’t whine about their birthday not feeling different than any other day,” she mentioned. Cade wrinkled his nose.

“Fine, then maybe I don’t want to be mature.”

“Maybe you don’t know how to be mature.”

“Maybe I don’t want to know how to be mature.”

“Maybe you’re just afraid of being mature.”

“Why does it always go back to my supposed irrational fear of things?” Cade asked her with an eye roll. “You make me out to be a wimp.”

“Not a wimp, just human.”

Cade’s raised eyebrow was his only response and Mae continued. “You play it off like you’re the perfect kid. Witty, perfect friends, lots of admirers, envied by most, completely fearless,” she paused for a moment and assessed him. Her blue-eyed scrutiny made him feel awkward and slightly childish.

“So that’s your critical analysis, then?”

“It’s just a front,” Mae finalized. “Does anybody even know the real you?”

“It’s not a front, this is the real me,” Cade protested.

“Yeah, now it is,” Mae told him. “The real-you is the kid that gets a little annoyed by his friends who don’t celebrate his birthday. The real-you is the kid that doesn’t want to grow up but then does but then doesn’t but then does and the real-you can’t decide if maturity is going to overtake the personality that you’ve grown into for the past seventeen years. The real-you doesn’t like change unless you’re at least partially in control of it. The real-you has layers and secrets that you don’t want anyone to figure out, not even Zach and Andrew. No one really knows the real-you. And the real-you is almost afraid that they won’t want to. Because the real-you writes poems that no one gets to see. The real-you isn’t always about a good time. The real-you is really rare.”

Cade stayed silent for a very long time, unconscious that he had stopped walking, but aware of the fact that all he was doing was looking at her. It seemed as though he couldn’t do anything else. He continued to stare but she seemed unperturbed by it.

“You seem very sure of yourself,” he said finally

“I am,” she affirmed.

“Why?”

Mae paused. “Because I see the real-you. And the fake-you doesn’t like it.”