by Amy Berg
Hildy’s friends don’t come around much anymore. Hildy doesn’t mind; she has a new roommate and a new doublesize fish tank.
While the apartment building’s management company initially frowned at these changes, a note from the landlord quieted them. If anyone cared to look, the handwriting of the note is the same as the signature on the original lease from eighty years ago, and both curiously similar to Hildy’s own.
Sometimes she and Walt sit in the shade of their patio, the windows open, and sing quietly together, songs she had forgotten she knew.
Anthony’s mantel groans with awards.
About The Author
Kira Snyder has written for TV shows The 100 on the CW, Incursion for Starz, Syfy’s Eureka and Alphas, and the CBS vampire cult hit Moonlight. The Parish Mail ebooks, Kira’s interactive Young Adult mystery series, are available now on many digital platforms. Also a game designer, Kira has created games for Microsoft, the MIT Press textbook Rules Of Play, and Electronic Arts, including the seminal alternate reality game Majestic. Kira is a proud geek and loves both science and sci fi, reading when she’s not writing.
Follow her on Twitter: @sugarjonze
Check out her Parish Mail ebooks here.
“Crystal Brook”
by Jeane Wong
The blue shutters and white paneling of this sprawling mansion hadn’t aged a day.
Everything about the home was suspended in time, like little critters embedded in amber. The houses on Mill Lane in Stamford, Connecticut were always enchanting, despite their gothic facades. It was the way the afternoon light hit the angles of the pointed windows and arches of these homes. The light resembled little yellow particles doing pirouettes in the air. And not to discount the beauty she saw here, she felt it was the people who used to be here that made this a magical place. The only jarring feature of the mansion was on the front lawn, where the foreclosure sign laid on its side. The new owners probably haven’t had a chance to get rid of the sign yet, she thought.
With the sleeve of her shirt, she pushed her bangs out of her eyes but forgot she shaved her hair off. Old habits, you know, die hard. Instead, she wiped away a bead of sweat. She crept in slowly, trying to keep her bulky backpack from making too much noise. She wasn’t scared. She had been through worse. So undaunted by the idea of trespassing, one bald girl crouched and looked in every direction ten times. She tripped over the same rock twice. Some people make the worst criminals.
She unhinged a window panel on the first floor that led to an inner garden, a trick she learned when she used to sneak boys in growing up. She walked through the inner garden, now a dusty path with weeds and a bevy of flattened moving boxes. The house was put on the market almost a year ago when they found out about the cancer. The money from the sale of the house came through a month ago, but it was already too late. Sure, you can pay old medical bills off but not new treatment if the person’s already dead.
Pushing aside her sudden anger, she saw the new owners had pulled out the flowers and poured in concrete, which covered some of the path. She could already tell the owners had no sense of taste. Now she was annoyed. Even with money, they lacked the ability to create even an adequate home. Instead, some people get rid of the old. She had an involuntary jerk thinking about this, but soon it wouldn’t matter. She arrived at Crystal Brook. The sunlight made a halo around her silhouette.
Before her was a flowing stream, wild grass surrounding the water and scattered volcanic rocks all around, all leading to a mini-castle on a distant hill. This is how the two kids rendered this dream-like place growing up. Crystal Brook was like Shangri-La, Narnia, or Terabithia: a place in one’s imagination. But in real life, Crystal Brook was actually a tree house built in the backyard of 1249 Mill Lane that connected to the inner garden and it was a place named after two best friends—Crystal and Brook.
Simply put, yes, Crystal Brook was a tree house. But in the eyes of these kids, it was a castle on a hill. And the puddle inside the tree house from the leaky roof was a large pond, where these two friends would skip stones, for hours on end. One time Crystal hung a mirror inside, and the mirror shifted to become a hall of mirrors, where the kids made silly faces, which reflected in patterns all along the walls. A chocolate bar turned into a treasure chest that overflowed with gummy bears, lollipops, and more chocolate treats.
Crystal was five years old when she met Brook. He was the son of the housekeeper who lived with her family. Not being very remarkable, he was a chubby boy and a shy kid with jet-black hair, brown skin, and light eyes that were green or blue depending on the shirt he wore. He spent most of his time hiding behind his mother and speaking in faint whispers of Spanish. The first words he uttered in front of Crystal were, “Estoy asustado.” I’m scared. He was a peculiar young boy. But Crystal soon learned he was more than a quiet weird boy, because he had a mind that could make the impossible a reality.
Crystal was the Snow White version of Brook, with fair skin that burned far too easily, and matte black hair and blue eyes; she was a pint-sized doll. Socially, she didn’t understand the girls her age, who wanted to drink tea from empty cups, or the boys, who liked burning ants on the sidewalk. Brook was welcome refreshment. Growing up as an only child, Crystal was excited to have a friend. Brook’s mother was happy to have Brook practice his English and come out of his shell.
At the bottom of the tree, Crystal traced her fingers over a handmade wooden sign: “Crystal Brook—Beware!” She peered up at the tree house and its small opening. Could she fit in the doorway? She ballooned three dress sizes this year from the stress of everything. When she turned 37 a few months ago, her body refused to acknowledge the concept of dieting and weight loss. The process of putting on clothes had been like waddling around like a blind bear, with her top always stuck midway over her head, or hopping about like a kangaroo, trying to fit into her favorite not-so-skinny jeans. Not minding the present challenge, Crystal climbed up the tree and sucked in her belly. She pushed aside some old cobwebs and squeezed her way in, like forcing the last dollop of ketchup out of a bottle.
She opened her backpack, taking out an urn and various photos of her and Brook. One photo was of them as kids pointing to the sign in the tree house, and another image was one with their faces painted at a college football game. There was a span of a few years when they never saw each other. They went to separate high schools. And the last photo was of Brook and Crystal as young adults, on their wedding day. All of these mementos were like talismans to conjure up the magic of Crystal Brook.
She carefully lay down on the dirty wood and closed her eyes. She imagined this was what meditating was. Taking in a sharp breath of air, she smelled a hint of eucalyptus from the Jefferson’s garden next door.
“Crystal, Crystal.”
Now she looked to her side and saw young Brook sitting next to her. She was back in her youthful and skinny body.
“What do you think is happening?”
He was referring to the sounds of a distant argument. She shrugged, unsure. She didn’t have an answer. That year her parents divorced. Crystal’s mother abandoned her for Mr. Hugo, a car salesman, who sold Crystal’s family their station wagon. Brook’s mom became like a surrogate mother to young Crystal, but her dad was never the same after that, except with his morning bourbon. Little Crystal remained stoic sitting there, side by side with Brook, as the shouting became an incessant car alarm, impossible to ignore. Brook placed his hand on hers. He spoke slowly, as English was still coming to him in fragments. “Let’s go somewhere?”
“And where would we go?” she snapped.
“An exciting place where we have powers!” His hair flew over his eyes.
“And you and I are king and queen. I have a sword, you, a crown … ” and so he trailed off. She let his words wash over her, like a cool breeze. She stopped him to add, “and there has to be water. Mom never wanted me to have a swimming pool. Ooh, and a castle befitting a queen.” Like big blue discs, her eyes lit up, allowi
ng Brook to take her to a fantasy world.
There’s no fighting in the land. And candy grew on trees. People could fly. Animals talked. Their favorite animal was a bluebird, which greeted them with jokes during
breakfast. A typical day at court meant playing go fish all day. And before she knew it, the loneliness she felt vanished.
She closed her eyes again, happy, and began to check out until VROOM! It was the sound of the station wagon peeling out of the driveway, officiating the exit of Crystal’s mom.
Every week for the next few years, these two best friends came to Crystal Brook and escaped into secret adventures. In fourth grade Brook and Crystal saw the court doctor when she broke her ankle roller skating. In fifth grade Brook took Crystal to a jousting tournament on her birthday. During their elementary school graduation they fought and won an epic battle against an evil invader. No matter what was happening, Crystal admired Brook’s ability to make believe.
During her junior high school years, Crystal Brook became a long forgotten dream. Brook’s mom got a job in California and the two friends kept in touch on and off over the years. During their last years in high school, they stopped talking. Crystal had a boyfriend and Brook took an extra job when his mother had cancer and needed extra money around the house. According to Crystal, life ceased to have any room for Crystal Brook anymore.
Then, adulthood inevitably came. Brook went to a college in California to stay near his mother. Crystal went to school in New York with her boyfriend, who kissed another girl during her birthday party. Typical. No longer able to face New York and feeling lost in life, Crystal moved out to California. She toyed with the idea of being an actress. During a play reading, Crystal realized she wanted to create worlds rather than interpret someone else’s vision. She enrolled in college in California as an English major. She wanted to write.
So-called serendipity brought Crystal and Brook together again in a seminar class. Crystal explained that her dad was doing better. He lived in New Haven and Brook’s mother survived her fight with breast cancer. Brook came a long way from being the shy boy she remembered. He had tattoos on his arms, rode a motorcycle, quoted Oscar Wilde, and could make his own whiskey. He wanted to backpack through Southeast Asia, eat poisonous fish in Japan, or run with the bulls in Spain. Crystal was the same girl, who didn’t know that the shirt she wore brought out the blue in her eyes and never stopped thinking about how her mom left her.
They bonded over new restaurants in their college town, proofed each other’s essays before turning them in or going on spring break together. One day, during one of their dinners and after a few glasses of sangria, she kissed him. She had never made the first move before with a guy. He was a world of chances for her—ways for her to get out of her own shell, now the reversal of their beginning so many years ago in Crystal Brook.
Like a snake, she shed a layer of skin every time she was with him. He was the only one she confided to about her mom’s recent attempts to contact her. She cursed out loud and openly cried about her mom. She admitted she couldn’t find herself forgiving her dad for his past drinking. She got her first tattoo in a shady part of town. She overcame her fear of heights rock climbing. Because she was with her best friend, Crystal welcomed the simultaneous thrill and fear of shedding her little kid floaties and diving headfirst into the deep end.
Then one day, during a camping trip, she wondered how he felt.
“I don’t know. No matter how crazy I get, you’re about what’s happening here around me,” Brook paused, thinking. It made sense; she kidded that perhaps her problems were dragging him depressingly back down to earth. He added, “You bring me down to Earth. But it’s good.” What a sap, Crystal said out loud jokingly and she added he always talked about doing things that seem so out there, so different. Brook replied he likes to talk about the serious things, even his worries with paying back student loans someday, or hoping his mom didn’t have cancer again. Sensing the gravity the conversation had taken, he gave her a devilish grin and nudged, “Have you ever been skinny dipping?”
Crystal could only laugh at his suggestions, which were 100% serious, 100% of the time. “I’ll go, if you go first.” She took off her shirt, exposing her neon pink bra and kissed him deeply. “You’re bad for me.” She took off her shoes and continued, “I’ll race ya’.” She sprinted first. He ran after her. They disappeared down the dirt path leading to the lake, like flies buzzing away in the distance.
Crystal opened her eyes again in the tree house now—years of memories engulfing her today on the 22nd of July, her wedding anniversary. She needed air. She found a beetle crawling up her arm and gently flicked it off. Sitting up, she eyed the corner of the tree house where Brook had proposed to her nearly five years ago. She could feel her eyes wet.
“What the hell?”
Crystal quickly gathered her things at the sound of a voice she recognized. It was the Mathesons, the family who purchased this house. She and Brook sold the house to pay for Brook’s chemotherapy and medical bills. This was when she put on 15 pounds while he lost 15, and she had shaved her head while he lost his hair. They were together, always.
Crystal stuffed everything in her bag and WHOOSH! The urn fell over: half of Brook and broken blue porcelain pieces were on the floor. Literally, parts of him were slipping away through the slits between the wood. Crystal gave up trying to gather the ashes. She laughed involuntarily, saddened by this sight but she wasn’t crying anymore and then she took a second to evenly spread him around.
As she climbed down the tree, she met Mr. Matheson, an austere Boston Brahmin, whose gaze burned a hole through her. She must have looked like a wild animal to him. “You can’t come in here like this. This is private property.” He held up his phone to call the police. If there was a hint of sympathy in him, he certainly wasn’t showing it.
Crystal slowed down. “Please.”
Mr. Matheson was dialing already and in a flash, she launched herself towards him and knocked his phone down in the fall, cracking its touchscreen on the cement. Hopefully Mr. Matheson regretted pouring cement over the garden, thought Crystal.
“Sorry! I’m terribly sorry.” She sort of wasn’t.
She ran through the side entrance of the garden and landed on the lawn like a cat on its feet after a jump. A swarm of fireflies now buzzed in the twilight. Only she didn’t have time to admire this view, as the sprinklers sputtered around her, right on cue. Great. She reached her car and could still hear the incoherent shouts of Mr. Matheson, who raced out after her, panting and flailing his old noodle arms about.
Crystal turned the key in the ignition and her lips curled up. She took one fleeting glance back at the house, where the tree house peeked out over the top of the chimney and the amber sunset rimmed around it. Brook always had a way of turning everything into something grand. Part of her always thought she needed him to make life less dull, but now she realized the memory of him was important too. He will always be a part of her, inspiring her to color outside the lines. She had the inner strength now to create her own adventures. And with that epiphany, Crystal sped away from Crystal Brook.
About The Author
Jeane Wong is a Los Angeles native and UCLA alum. She is an alumni of the Producer’s Guild Workshop and the Nickelodeon Writer’s Workshop. And she has placed as a semifinalist in both the ABC Disney Writing Program and Larry Brody’s TVWriter.com Contest. Currently, she co-authors the digital The Vampire Diaries comics for D.C. Comics and works on the show White Collar.
Follow her on Twitter: @jeanedevivre
About the Lupus Foundation of America, Inc.
The Lupus Foundation of America is the only national force devoted to solving the mystery of lupus, one of the world’s cruelest, most unpredictable, and devastating diseases, while giving caring support to those who suffer from its brutal impact.
Through a comprehensive program of research, education, and advocacy, we lead the fight to improve the quality of life for all people affe
cted by lupus.
Visit www.lupus.org to join the fight and learn more.
“Outlaw” Copyright © 2014 by Amy Berg
“Healthy Happy Hailie!” Copyright © 2014 by Cherry Chevapravatdumrong
“Hallelujah” Copyright © 2014 by Akela Cooper
“Three Minutes” Copyright © 2014 by Liz Edwards
“INT. WOLF—NIGHT” Copyright © 2014 by Jane Espenson
“XAYMACA” Copyright © 2014 by Shalisha Francis & Nadine Knight
“Collapse” Copyright © 2014 by Lisa Klink
“Suzie Homemaker/Apocalypse Ass Kicker” Copyright © 2014 by Pang-Ni Landrum
“Positive Symptoms” Copyright © 2014 by Lauren LeFranc
“Dangerous Stars” Copyright © 2014 by Kam Miller
“Home” Copyright © 2014 by Jess Pineda
“Stolen Child” Copyright © 2014 by Jennifer Quintenz
“Still Waters” Copyright © 2014 by Lisa Randolph
“Martyoshka” Copyright © 2014 by Kay Reindl
“Bat Girl” Copyright © 2014 by Kira Snyder
“Crystal Brook” Copyright © 2014 by Jeane Wong
Cover design by Jennifer Quintenz
Photo of Maurissa Tancharoen Whedon by The Bui Brothers
Photo “Iconic Image of a Female Factory Worker from the 1950 Era” by Katrina Brown
Vector “retro colors striped old background” by natbasil
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
