“Prove it,” I say.
“That you’re on my mind?”
“That you’re on our side.”
“How?”
“I don’t know, but your grandfather being a jerk isn’t proof of anything. We already knew that. Get us something that matters, something we can use. Help us find whatever your dad and your grandfather don’t want us to find.”
I’m not proud of this willingness to manipulate him, but times were desperate, I will testify before the soul tribunal, and the lawsuit needed me, and being cruel doesn’t count if you’re the wronged party. I will introduce into evidence all my mother and Russell haven’t been allowed to and all they haven’t been able to find.
And even if the soul tribunal isn’t swayed by my logic, I still like my chances. I’ve learned not to have that much faith in the justice system anyway.
Two
Mirabel is having a good day today, so she came to school with us instead of studying at work with Mama. She meets me after the bell rings, and I say let us go home, and she says let us wait for Mab to be done with tutoring, and I say what if someone comes to the library, and she says we can do palm reading so I say okay because I like palm reading. She does not mean telling each other’s fortunes by looking at the lines on our hands because that is just pretend. She means a game we invented together when we were little. How it works is I close my eyes and hold out my palm, and Mirabel uses her finger to draw a picture on it, and I read what the picture is, and then she uses her finger to erase and draws another. Why I like this game is it is peaceful and soothing with only a little bit of touching, and Mirabel, unlike everyone else in the entire world, is always soft with her fingers. Why Mirabel likes this game is she is as good at it as anyone.
We play in the hallway outside the tutoring room. Mirabel starts easy. “Rainbow,” I guess, and I know I am right because she erases it to draw another.
She draws a face so I know it is a person, and then that person gets lots of hair so I know it is Mama even though the face is smiling and Mama usually is not.
She erases, and the next one is easy. Three lines straight up and down. “Us!” I say. Mirabel squeezes my finger. I squeeze her finger back.
She taps on my palm many times for rain which means green which is an adjective which is an advanced level of this game because most players can only do nouns. (It is more accurate to say most players would only be able to do nouns because there are no other players.) (That is just how it is when you invent your own game.)
Then I hear Mirabel gasp.
I look up from my palm to her face right away. “Why did you gasp, Three?”
She draws lots of squiggles.
“Snake, worm, string,” I guess. “The letter S,” I guess. “Skunk smell. Slippery road. Approximately. Sin x.”
She pulls on my finger so I will look at her face again, and she uses her eyes to signal a signal to mine. I look where she is looking. And then I see what she was drawing. A river.
He is running down the hall. At first I make an assumption he is running to us, and then I make an assumption he is running to the bathroom because he has blood dripping out of his nose and down his lip and chin and neck and onto his shirt. Then I realize he is not running to us or to the bathroom because the Kyles come around the corner and they are running too, so I make an assumption that River is being chased by the Kyles. It is possible they are all three being chased by someone else and River got a head start, but that is not the assumption I make because the Kyles do not have blood dripping out of their noses.
River is running fast, but I can still see that in addition to the nose blood there is a scratch on his forehead and a rip in his shirt and a scrape near his eyebrow. River is running fast, but he gives a little wave to me and Mirabel as he goes by which is very polite under the circumstances. Then he is gone.
Left behind is the memory of his face which was scared and hurt, the echo of his running feet, loud on the linoleum, a dotted line mapping his path, like in a cartoon, except it is drops of blood, and Mirabel’s facial expression, which is shocked like mine must be and upset like mine must be and something else too, but I cannot figure out what because there is a howl building up in my throat, and I know it will be loud and I will not be able to make it stop, but before it can arrive, a very surprising thing happens.
Mirabel takes her hand from mine and steers right into the middle of the hallway where the Kyles are thundering down.
“Move!” shouts one Kyle.
“Shit!” shouts the other Kyle even though Mrs. Radcliffe does not like us to say swears.
One Kyle swerves to avoid Mirabel, slams against the lockers, and falls down. The other Kyle does not see Mirabel because the first Kyle did not swerve away in time, so the second Kyle runs right into Mirabel’s wheelchair and falls down too. Mirabel’s wheelchair does not fall anywhere because it is heavy, and Mirabel gives them both a look that means smug, embarrassed for them, and they should be ashamed of themselves, but they are not her sisters and were not paying attention when Mrs. Radcliffe was doing facial expression cards this week so they might not notice.
“Why did you park there? We were in the middle of kicking that kid’s ass,” says Kyle.
Mirabel does three quick taps on her tablet. “That is why.”
“Now we have to start over,” says the other Kyle.
Mirabel starts typing out a reply to that, but the first Kyle says he is hungry, and the second says he is too. They have had feelings of love for Mirabel for years, but these are not as powerful as the feelings of hunger they have had for seconds. “We’ll bring you back a donut,” they promise her. Then they leave.
But the running feet and falling down and slamming into lockers made a lot of noise, so the tutoring-room door opens, and many people look out.
I take three deep breaths to help my surprised howl stay away, and then I tell everyone about River and the chasing and the blood and the Kyles, but I can guess they do not care because they do not say anything and they all go back inside.
Except for Mab.
Mirabel looks at her.
“Don’t look at me like that,” says Mab.
“Like what?” I ask. I can see how Mirabel is looking at Mab, but I cannot see what it is like.
“Why do you even care?” Mab says.
“Care about what?” I ask.
Mirabel keeps looking at Mab the way she was looking at Mab before.
“Not his fault,” Mirabel’s Voice says quickly, so I can guess that was what she had started to type to the Kyles before they got hungry.
“What is not his fault?” I ask. I do not ask Whose fault?, even though Mirabel did not say, because I can guess it is River, and my sisters do not like when I ask too many questions.
“I never said it was,” says Mab.
“Help him,” says Mirabel’s Voice.
“How?” says Mab.
Mirabel’s Voice does not answer that question but instead answers a different question. “You can.”
“Not my problem,” Mab says anyway.
I do not say anything because that is true but it is not kind, and Mirabel does not say anything, maybe for the same reason, so Mab says, “I’m like half his size. If he can’t stop them, how can I stop them?”
“Numbers,” Mirabel’s Voice says.
Even Mab does not know what this means which it is nice when I am not the only one.
Mirabel sighs, which means frustrated, and types, “Safety in.”
“Two is not a number,” Mab says.
“Lie,” I say because two is a number.
“You know what I mean,” Mab says.
“Lie,” I say.
Mab turns to me. “She thinks River’s vulnerable alone, but with me by his side, surely we can take them.”
“Who can you take?” I ask.
“Exactly,” Mab says.
Which does not answer my question so in case she is not in a question-answering mood, I decide to skip right
to the important one. “His face is sad and hurt and bleeding, One. Why would not you help him?”
“It’s complicated.” She looks confused, but I do not know why she would be. “You know?”
“No,” Mirabel’s Voice and I say at the same time.
“He says he can’t stop thinking about me. He writes me notes in class. He’s always looking at me.”
Now it is my turn to sound confused because I am confused. “Why does that mean you do not want to help him?”
“He’s evil,” Mab says.
“It is more accurate to say his family is evil,” I correct.
“And he said he was going to find some proof or something,” Mab says, “something we can use.”
Mirabel’s hand flips out, palm up, which means So what? which is a good question.
“So if he does … I don’t know…” Mab says. “I want him to do it because it’s the right thing to do, not because he likes me.”
“Why does it matter why he does it if he does it?” I ask.
“Because otherwise that makes me the jerk.” Mab pulls the sleeves of her hoodie down over both of her hands as if she is cold. “Otherwise, I used him and manipulated his feelings to get what I want.”
I consider this. “That is bad,” I say. “But it is not as bad as letting him get beat up.”
“I’m not letting him.” She waves her hands around but her hands are all tucked in so she waves her sleeves around instead.
“Maybe his family is evil,” I say, “but ours is not.”
Mirabel points at me which means I am correct. “Right thing to do,” her Voice says.
“According to who?” Mab asks, but I do not know why since she knows who Mirabel’s Voice speaks for.
Mirabel holds up her hand with her fingers out wide. Five. Two plus Three. She means according to her and according to me.
Mab’s sleeves flop into a shrug. “Who died and put you in charge?” she says, but then she stops saying anything because she does not need to be in a question-answering mood for us all to hear the answer to that question in our heads anyway. She tucks her sleeves under her armpits. “Sorry,” she says. She does not mean because she does not want to help River. She does not mean because he is getting beat up. She means because she accidentally said that hard, sad thing, and it made everyone feel bad.
“It is okay,” I say so she will not feel worse.
But Mirabel is typing. “I know how you can make it up to me.”
Three
I spend a lot of time listening. As a result, I might be the world’s leading expert on annoying conversational tics. The list of irritatingly misapplied clichés people utter would take me more hours to type out than I have left to live, but near the top is the conversational gambit “There are two kinds of people in this world…” There are two kinds of people in this world: the ones who split the world into two kinds of people, and the ones who know that’s reductive and conversationally lazy.
With this exception: There are two kinds of people in this world. People who can expect to, strive to, feel entitled to be happy. And people who cannot.
The rest of the dichotomies are meaningless beside that one. Look through history for the latter. Look around your town or city. You will find us everywhere. We are legion.
Of course, everyone’s unhappy sometimes. But some people’s barriers to happiness are considered surmountable. They resolve to get in shape, find a therapist, make time for family, read more, go back to school, save money. We advise them, if they are our friends or our family, to find a new job, go to yoga, quit drinking, move out, try online dating, hire a personal stylist, buy a bigger house. You deserve it, we say. Put yourself first for a change. You be you.
Whereas some people are unhappy and that’s okay with us. It seems unreasonable, in fact, that they should expect to be anything else.
Mab should fall in love. She should have friends, adventures, and a family of her own (by which no one means me, never mind I share a significant percentage of her DNA, her home and history, every single blood relation, and a onetime womb). We all agree: Mab should leave Bourne for limitless horizons. Mab should have joy, excitement, aspirations she strives for then accomplishes with much fanfare and personal gratification. Mab will go forth and be loved and fulfilled. Happy.
But me? No one really thinks that. I am lovable, yes, but not, people would say, in that way. Not like I might find myself hand in hand with a crush on a moonlit night, or spill a long friendship over suddenly into more, or feel passion that simply must be answered. People imagine I will have no relationship more passionate than a pen pal.
So when I say I love River Templeton, I fear you misconstrue. You think it’s cute or silly. Or pitiable. Or deluded.
But that misses the point. Love does not come from the likelihood it will be requited. If it seems reasonable, even inevitable, that soon enough Mab will fall in love with River, it must be because he is lovable. Should we not conclude, then, that I would love him too?
Or perhaps the inevitability has nothing to do with River himself and more to do with Mab being a teenage girl with a budding sexuality and nascent awareness of herself in the world. And am not I that as much as she? After all, they say the most sexual organ in the body is the brain, and by that logic, I am pretty well-hung. I do get that sex is corporeal too—I’m a virgin, not an idiot—and though relaxed muscles under your very own control must help, I am told that losing control is at least part of the point. Turning parts of my body over to others without feeling squeamish about it is something I must have more experience with than most teenagers. I can communicate “yes,” “no,” “stop,” and “more please” as well as anyone, even without my Voice, as long as you’re paying attention. And as for the other body parts involved, those are some of my most functional ones: earlobes to nibble, a navel to graze, warm lips and flushed skin and bated breath and a quick-beating heart, pheromones and erogenous zones. All the parts inside. I can feel my body move even if I can’t move most of it myself. And yes, I’ll have to find partners who will listen to me, who will focus on what my body wants and can do instead of what it doesn’t and can’t, who will look at me and really see, who are patient and gentle and kind. Will those partners be easy to find? No. Does anyone in any body think those partners are easy to find? Also no.
So perhaps the assumption that I could not possibly really love River is not about him and not about Mab and not about me and what I can do, but only about what I can’t, what I shouldn’t. A be-grateful-for-what-you’ve-got sort of argument. A learn-to-be-happy-with-settling-for-less approach. This logic reasons that after sixteen years trapped in a body in a chair, I should be used to it. I should know my bounds and strive for no more. I should lower every expectation to the bottom of a well.
I should shut up and find sufficient joy merely in being alive.
But, Monday would point out, those things are opposites.
Forgone happiness foregone concluded, that special state of resigned discontent we’re not supposed or even allowed to question, is a curse I share with my hometown. In whatever bougie Boston enclave the Templetons left to move here, everyone expects to be happy, and everyone, one imagines relatedly, expects not to be poisoned. If the water were contaminating wealthy Bostonians, that would be unacceptable and addressed.
But Bourne? Bourne is completely disposable. Like me, my town is not expected to aspire to happiness. We have neither right nor reason to expect we are not being poisoned. And that is not a coincidence. That is the reason Belsum chose Bourne for their site. That is the reason they did what they did to our water and soil and citizens so cavalierly. That is why I am the second kind of person in this world.
So this is where River and I part. At least one place. And I am not naive. I know he’s probably a spoiled brat. I expect he has unexplored, unrecognized privilege and an ego you could see from space. But that doesn’t mean I can’t love him. They say opposites attract. They say find what you lack in another.
They say two halves make a whole. And besides, he’s just a kid—not his father, not his grandfather—so it’s premature to write him off. He can learn, and that’s even better. It means more if he’s kind of clueless and sort of a jerk, and then he realizes what his family did to ours, and then he realizes what families like his always do to families like ours. And then he sets out to change, to change himself and then his legacy and then the world. They say you cannot change a man. But they say I cannot do all sorts of things it turns out I can, including fall in love. And anyway, he’s not a man. He’s just a boy, and those are ripe for change.
This is why I made Mab promise to help him. Not because I feel sorry for him. Not because it’s the right thing to do. Not because what happened in Bourne is not his fault.
Because I love him.
That is why.
Support on this point comes from an unlikely party.
* * *
The doorbell rings just as we’re finishing dinner—Caesar salad and spinach quiche because it’s pouring. Mab answers then steps back without a word so Nora can see who it is. Monday sees too and scampers back to our bedroom. Among the many things Monday does not like is conflict.
Mab forgets her manners. “What should I do?” she asks our mother.
“Let him in.” Nora sounds tired already.
“Enter.” Mab makes a gallant sweep with her arm. “At your own risk.”
Omar Radison comes in and drips on our threshold.
“You have homework,” Nora says to Mab, but me she ignores. I have more than done my homework.
Nora puts on tea. Omar takes his jacket off in the front hallway and hangs it on the doorknob. It won’t dry—there’s no heat in the entryway—but it won’t drip on our kitchen floor either.
“Hey Mirabel.” He walks over, takes my hand, squeezes it, an act of generosity—not many people touch me just casually. “How’s tricks?”
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