But she shakes her head, annoyed, frustrated I’m not getting it. “… us,” she adds, and now I have even less idea what she means.
She rolls her eyes and types, “… to what we need.”
“So you’ve actually overheard the evidence we’ve been desperately searching for, which would end a battle your mother’s been fighting since you were born and avert a crisis for an entire town, but you won’t tell our lawyer about it because you overheard it in therapy. But if something Apple said, also in therapy, pointed us to evidence you could find yourself, that would be fine.”
“Yes.”
“You’re not Nancy Fucking Drew.”
“In addition to the Nancy Drews in our clothing drawers, there is a copy of The Clue in the Old Album on the fifth stair from the bottom on the right side as you are going up”—Monday sounds even more nervous than usual. She does not like yelling—“and a copy of Nancy’s Mysterious Letter under the rubber bands in the junk drawer.”
“Tell me that’s not why,” I say to Mirabel. Implore. Plead. Beg. Whatever. “You’re having such a good time putting together clues and solving mysteries and being at the center of the action for once in your life you hate to see it end.”
“No.”
“If he just tells you, it’s too easy.”
“No.”
“Nathan’s all, ‘We did it. We’re guilty.’ And you’re like, ‘No, I want to be the hero. I want to prove it with my own cunning.’”
“Feel bad for him,” she types.
“Oh, so you’re stupid!” I shout. Monday clamps her hands over her ears and is pressing herself into the wall. “Naive, manipulable, and stupid. He needs therapy because he feels so sad he poisoned us, especially since he’s trying really hard to do it again, and you feel bad for him?”
“Yes.”
“You got played.” I can’t even look at her.
She shrugs the one shoulder she can shrug. Then she types, “Moral high ground.”
“Bullshit,” I say.
“Difference between us and them.”
“They’re smart, and we’re dumb? They’re solvent, and we’re destitute? They’re living in the real world, and we’re dying here? In the unreal world? Abandoned, forsaken, and dumb as rocks?”
She’s ignoring me, typing while I yell at her. Her Voice says, “If we behave like them, we are no better.”
“Sure we are.”
“No.”
“Fine, then. I can live with that.”
“No.”
I grab fistfuls of my hair at both temples and pull hard. Mirabel and I usually understand each other without the Voice, and it is part of the genius of her that she says what she means in fewer words than you can. But right now her nos are more than succinct, more than stubborn even. They’re petulant, dismissive, a refusal to defend herself, not because she knows she’s right but because she doesn’t care whether she is or not, doesn’t care what I think, has already made up her mind and will not be moved. Which is not how it works between us.
“Just because you can’t talk doesn’t mean you get to make decisions unilaterally.”
“Big word,” her Voice mocks. She’s had that one saved since Petra and I started SAT prep, but it’s been a while since she used it.
“Just because you can’t talk doesn’t mean I don’t get a say.”
“Yes.” Mirabel has the luxury of her Voice speaking one thing and her face doing something else. Can you stick out your tongue and talk at the same time?
“I won’t just acquiesce. I won’t just bow to your pronouncement. I’m not other people.”
“Truth,” Monday says from the corner. “You are you.”
“No,” says Mirabel.
“Just because you can’t walk or move or speak or eat or do really anything for yourself doesn’t mean you always get your way.”
“Lie,” Monday whispers from beneath her hands. Getting her way tends to be exactly what Mirabel’s limits mean.
“I don’t care what you think anyway,” I say.
“Lie,” Monday says again, but I keep right on going.
“I’ll tell Russell.”
“Hearsay. Inadmissible,” Mirabel’s Voice says immediately. She must have known I’d get here eventually and saved that in advance.
“Fine.” I am talking through my teeth, but it’s so they won’t chatter. “Then I’ll tell River. He’ll tell his father you told, and then it won’t matter whether you respected his privacy and confidence—which you didn’t, by the way. You told Monday. You told me. He won’t believe you didn’t tell everyone else in the world too. Mama will lose her job. He’ll warn his lawyers. And this whole thing will be in vain.”
“Stop!” Monday’s hands do not move from her ears. “One, Three, stop, stop!” She sounds like a stuck video game.
“You would,” Mirabel’s Voice says.
“Truth,” I say. “I would unless you—” but she interrupts because she wasn’t done.
“You want the plant to reopen so your boyfriend will stay.”
This takes my breath away. When it comes back I get all debate-clubby. “If I wanted the plant to reopen, why would I be begging you to tell Russell what Nathan said in therapy? If I didn’t want you to tell, why would I be standing here screaming that you have to tell?”
“Deep down,” her Voice says while her face does smug and angry and hurt and scared and superior all at once.
“You’re the one who won’t use what you know,” I throw back at her. “Maybe you’re the one who wants the plant to reopen deep down.”
“Why?” her Voice asks. Then there’s a pause while she adds, “He’s not my boyfriend.”
My mouth opens again, but nothing comes out. Monday looks terrified. And frankly, I’m with her because either Mirabel truly believes this appalling thing about me, or she’s stooped to lies and slander. Either is low and mean and unlike her.
And untrue.
But not entirely untrue.
It’s not true that I would sacrifice my mother, my sisters, my father’s memory, our town, and our future just so River won’t move back to Boston. I would not. I would never abandon our sister pact to make sure the plant does not reopen, even if it means losing River. If that’s what it takes, I will let him go. I will have to.
Also, it’s her—not me—holding the smoking gun in her hand but refusing to pull the trigger. Or pull it again, I guess, since it’s already smoking. Or whatever the stupid metaphor is. Point is, she’s the one who has the information that could stop Nathan, and she’s the one refusing to use it to do so.
But it is true that for the first time since Belsum came back, for the first time in my life really, I’m starting to see other things that could happen and how they might not be so bad. It would be bad if the plant reopened, but it would not be so bad if the plant not reopening dragged out a few months or years until we graduated, during which River and his family had to stay to fill out paperwork or something. It would be bad if Belsum got rich off our suffering, but it would not be so bad if the possibility of Belsum getting rich reduced our suffering, either because of an influx into Bourne of promise and hope and a little cash or because I finally met a guy I like.
We still have to take them down, but they are becoming less evil by the moment—River, of course, but also his homesick mom and, apparently, his heartsick dad. We are wavering in our commitment—Mirabel because of technicalities or, as she would call them, principles, Monday because she can’t take raised voices or muddled morality. And me? I guess because I’m young and in love. Which, of course, makes me think back to Romeo and Juliet. They were young and in love, and it got them killed, and not only them—a bunch of other people too. They were young and in love, and it made them abandon beliefs and loyalties and—yes—grudges that had been serving them their whole lives, their parents too, their entire families for generations.
But the other thing about Romeo and Juliet? Both only children. Not a sister between them. And you
can tell because even when you’re happy and don’t want to hear it, sisters won’t let you settle a blood feud or fake your own death. Sisters don’t care how he’s magic or how it feels when his hands touch your face and his eyes meet your eyes or how much he changes your life and opens your world and everything in it, especially you. They won’t green-light your ill-founded, life-ruining plan just because you’re in love. With sisters, at the very least, you’re going to need a much better reason than that.
Two
If their house is small enough, even two sisters who are not talking to each other still have to talk to each other even if one of them cannot talk. After Mab and Mirabel fight, Mirabel goes straight to our room, but she cannot slam the door behind her so I pretend she just went in there to do homework or read a library book. Mab can slam the door behind her, and the door she slams behind her is the front door because she is so mad she leaves the house, but four minutes later she comes back because it is cold outside and too dark to walk in the woods. She comes into the bedroom and slams that door too, but we are already in there so I do not think it works.
I am on my bed and Mirabel is on hers so the only places for Mab to sit are in Mirabel’s wheelchair, which she would not do, or her own bed, but she lies on it and faces the wall and the postcards instead of sitting and facing us.
And she does not say sorry.
That is all the mad you can be in our house.
But Mab is also impatient so she only waits two minutes before she rolls over and says, “Fine. We’ll compromise.”
Mirabel is very patient so she does not say anything so neither do I. So Mab says, “Also I had sex.”
Mirabel wants to be mad, but I think she also wants to hear about the sex. I do not want Mirabel to be mad, but I also do not want to hear about the sex. Or, to be more accurate, I want to not hear about the sex.
“Let us start with the compromise,” I say.
Mab does a big sigh. “I get that Mama won’t tell Russell what Nathan said in therapy,” she says to Mirabel, “and I get you won’t either. But he’s no different from Apple, so what if we did your plan for her sessions where something she told would just point us in the right direction? What if we used what he said to find evidence ourselves?”
Mirabel makes a motion with her hand that means Like what?
“Like what if we found his dissertation?”
A dissertation is less than a book but more than homework, so it is not something you can buy online and have shipped to your house, and it is not something that will be on the shelf in any library you visit, not even any library you visit except one that is just leftovers in someone’s home. But Mirabel says it is something that might be on the shelf in one library, and that is the library of the college where it was written, like how not everyone’s picture frames hold a photograph of you but your mother’s picture frames probably do.
“We cannot visit Nathan’s college library because it is too far away,” I object.
Mirabel types. “Interlibrary loan.”
“We don’t have a library on this end,” Mab says.
“Lie!” I shout.
And that is how I find myself on the telephone dialing the library at Nathan’s college.
“Library,” says the person who answers, which I like because it is simple and direct. No one ever calls me, but if they did, that is how I would like to answer.
“Good evening,” I say politely. “I am calling to ask one librarian to another if you will send me a copy of Nathan Templeton’s dissertation via interlibrary loan.”
“I’m sorry,” says the other librarian, but she does not sound sorry. She sounds confused. “Who is this?”
“This is Monday Mitchell,” I say. “A librarian.”
“You sound very young, Monday.”
“I am sixteen.”
“I see,” the other librarian says. “And what’s the name of your library?”
“My library does not have a name.”
“Why doesn’t your library have a name?”
“It is in my house.”
“Ah,” says the librarian. “I think I see your problem. A library is not a house.”
“That is not my problem,” I correct.
“Who is Nathan Templeton?” she asks.
“He was a student of yours, and he did homework we know about but cannot discuss without reading.”
“I see.” The other librarian laughs, but I do not know why because I have not made a joke, but I do hear typing. “Well Monday Mitchell, Librarian, I’m not finding any record of a dissertation or any other publication by a Nathan Templeton, and I’m afraid we don’t keep student homework, nor are we able to send materials via interlibrary loan to someone’s house.”
“Even if their house is a library?” I ask.
“Even if. However, I like your style.”
I look down. I am wearing a yellow cardigan over a yellow T-shirt over mustard-colored pants and socks. “You cannot see my style.”
“I like your spirit, I mean,” she says. “Being a sixteen-year-old librarian is impressive.”
“Thank you,” I say, both because it is polite and because her words make me feel grateful.
“Keep reading, Monday, and keep librarying.”
“‘Librarying’ is not a word,” I say.
“Doesn’t mean you can’t do it, though, does it?” the other librarian asks, and it is surprising but that is an accurate thing to say.
After we hang up, Mab says, “Google?”
And I say, “It is an exaggeration to say we have googled Duke Templeton and Nathan Templeton and GL606 and Belsum Chemical a million times, but it is only a slight exaggeration.”
Mirabel types. “Gala 606,” her Voice says because we have never known the full name of GL606 before or even that GL606 was an abbreviation. I do not like abbreviations.
But when we google Gala 606, the only thing we find is pictures of people at fancy parties and pictures of apples.
“Is it not strange”—I am scrolling through all the pictures on the screen—“that Apple’s name is Apple, and when we search for Gala 606, we find pictures of apples? That is a good coincidence.”
“No,” says Mirabel’s Voice.
Mab rolls her eyes, which is usually at me but which right now is at Mirabel who is answering in one word only instead of explaining what she actually means.
So Mirabel adds, “It’s a pun.”
“What is a pun, Three?”
Longer typing. “He named the chemical after her and the night he kissed her.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Love,” her Voice says, which does not answer the question.
Mab agrees because she says, “What kind of loser thinks the way to a girl’s heart is puns?”
“Her name,” says Mirabel’s Voice.
“Huh?” Mab’s face shows irritated again.
“Her maiden name,” Mirabel types. “Apple Grove,” Mirabel types. “Apple said in therapy”—many of Mirabel’s sentences to us start that way recently so she has that part saved, but then we have to wait while she types the rest—“her grandmother liked puns.”
“Weird,” Mab says. But then she sits up. “Oh. Like Uncle Hickory.”
“Who is Uncle Hickory?” I ask.
“River’s great-uncle. Remember? That giant painting at their house? It’s in his father’s office so I thought he was his dad’s uncle. But he must be Apple’s uncle. Uncle Hickory. Hickory Grove. I get it.”
“Ha ha,” I say rather than actually laughing because I get it too but it is not funny. “Probably the painting is in Nathan’s office, even though he is Apple’s uncle, because that is where it fit best based on its size or color scheme, but on the—”
That is when I stop talking right in the middle of a sentence.
Because that is when I remember a folder in the box called Flora.
* * *
Mirabel was right. It was in the house all along. I found it and did not know I f
ound it, not because I did not know what I was looking for, which is what I have been thinking, but because I did not know what it was. I had it right in my hands the day I found the Santa photograph, a folder labeled Elm/Hickory Grove, filed in the Flora box because whoever put it there thought what I thought, which is that a folder titled Elm/Hickory Grove must hold papers pertaining to trees. But Elm/Hickory Grove are not trees. Or, to be more accurate, they are not only trees. They are also brothers. They are Apple’s uncle, Hickory Grove, and Apple’s father, Elmer Grove.
At first I think the most important lesson I learn is do not name your children puns because it confuses everyone in the world for all of time to come who is not your direct descendant. But when I re-find the file, I realize that there are other more important lessons than that.
In the file are four letters. They are handwritten, so harder to read than typing, but with neat handwriting, so we can still read what they say, and on paper that is yellow (good) because it is old (less good). So I am very careful when I hold the pages and read them out loud.
Dear Hickory,
Ran into Duke Templeton at a party at the Gladstones’ last night. He’s an insufferable ass, worse with a few drinks in him, but now that the kids are together, he seems to consider us family and has zero compunction about cornering me at a social occasion to make unreasonable business propositions and demands. Nathan seems like a nice enough kid, but I fear Apple will outgrow him. In fact, I’m certain she’ll outgrow him. It’s just that I imagine she’ll marry him first. Every time the phone rings, I’m expecting it to be Nathan Templeton requesting my daughter’s hand in marriage. I long for the days when asking the father’s permission was something other than an old-fashioned gesture you cannot possibly say no to.
Therefore, Duke presumes not only that we’ll sell him the land he wants but that we’ll give him a great deal on it. He’s eager to buy about twenty acres in Bourne for some kind of chemical plant they are hoping to have up and running by late next year. I said you were there at the moment with Mother and Dad, and I’d check with you and get back to him. I reiterated your offer of the land below the orchard and told him I considered the rate you quoted him quite generous. He explained though that their operations require a river—apparently for some pretty questionable effluvia so the less we know the better—so he’s interested only in the land by the river. I said that though we do indeed own all the land by the river as well, there’s less of it, and it is quite a bit more expensive, even for almost-family. Between you and me, I would much prefer to talk him into that vacant land instead because then we’ll be able to sell both. We get the money for the orchard land, and then, when his plant opens and brings in lots of new workers, we’ll be able to jack up the price of the river properties. It’s win-win. If you disagree with any of the rates I quoted, let me know soonest. Otherwise, I will proceed by holding firm and awaiting his reply.
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