Big affronted sigh. “Well, it’s only that I’d—”
I was already backing away. “Really have to run. Bell’s gonna ring. Have a nice day!”
The lease. Six months. How was I going to watch my every move, day after day, and—even more important—find a way to ease my mom into some forward strides before I lost her completely? And then there was my grandmother. I had no idea what she wanted, or what had finally propelled her into texting mode, but I couldn’t stress about it now. The day was already too cluttered by a full load of classes. By my own hoard of other worries.
* * *
After school, while sorting through my locker at Jefferson, a baritone voice behind me orated, “‘Then soldier, full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard, jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel, seeking the bubble reputation...’”
I grabbed my notebook and swiveled around. Ironically, the person who loved literature second-best out of everyone at Jefferson High wasn’t a fellow AP English student, or even one of the English teachers. That honor went to Mr. Penn, head janitor. He waited for me to complete the quote, eyes wide with challenge.
“Come on, Mr. Penn,” I teased. “If you’re going to stump me, you’ll have to do better than one of Shakespeare’s most popular monologues.”
He snorted. A solid, tank-sized man, tattooed arms bulging from the short sleeves of his olive coveralls. He kept his steel-gray hair military short, and wore a rasp of stubble over his ruddy, tanned face. “Miss Wells, all this trash talk about completing the quote without actually doing it?” He clucked his tongue, then kicked the maintenance closet door closed.
“Please.” I smirked. “Let’s see, ‘Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel, seeking the bubble reputation...even in the cannon’s mouth.’”
He wrinkled his nose and snapped his fingers. “Source?”
“As You Like It.”
“Gotta hand it to you. All these years, and you haven’t missed once.”
True, but I still said, “Plenty of time before graduation.”
Mr. Penn winked, and his disappearing form claimed my vision for a half second before Bryn Humboldt’s ballerina-turnout glide replaced it. She approached, all toned muscle and perfect posture.
“Can’t you move your locker to senior hall like the rest of us? Then I wouldn’t have to come all the way over here to ask you about Friday,” Bryn said. “Even your twin moved hers over there.”
Eye roll. Technically, Bryn and I were something between friends and frenemies. More technically, she was Marisol’s friend, and I was Marisol’s friend. Three years ago, that fact had forged some kind of occasional hangout link.
“Sorry.” I patted my trusty locker door. “I’ve spent years breaking in this baby.” Like Mom’s old books, like the mosaic tile table in my apartment courtyard, sometimes you just wanted the things you knew best.
“So, Friday?” She dashed her arms out in exasperation. “My Nutcracker blowout bash? You didn’t answer any of my texts.”
Marisol suddenly appeared in a waft of cinnamon gum breath. She looped noisy, bracelet-filled arms around Bryn and me, pulling us into a group hug. “Of course my little book-opedia is going. Which means she has—gasp!—plans for both Friday and Saturday night.” Big gum-cracking grin in my direction.
Somehow, when Marisol teased, it never felt like a dig. “What part are you trying for?” I asked Bryn, just now realizing I’d silenced my phone after my grandmother’s earlier text invasion. I switched notifications back on.
Bryn’s expression softened, almost dreamily. We’d gone to see her in the Nutcracker many times. Even my mom went when Bryn danced the part of Clara three years ago. “I want to dance in both the flower and snowflake waltzes. I mean, the costumes alone. Auditions start next week, so you know what that means!”
It meant Bryn, who already practiced at the ballet studio five days a week, would give up even more of her life to the annual ballet season. Every year she threw a big party before auditions, knowing she wouldn’t have time for friends for months.
“Friday at six, South Mission Beach by the jetty.” Bryn backed away, adding, “Feel free to bring a date, Darcy. I mean an actual date, not some book boyfriend. See ya!”
Alone with Marisol, I swallowed hard, studying my sneakers until she flicked my chin up. “Ignore her, please. Bryn’s brain is currently stuffed with pink tulle and satin.” When I shrugged, adding a resigned smile, Marisol asked, “Hey, you’re not heading to the Feather, right? Your day off?”
“Right, but I have to start on my college application essay for State.” Her features sank; I knew her well enough to realize when she needed something. Needed me. I bumped her shoulder. “Which I can tackle tonight. What’s up?”
She let out a relieved sigh. “You’re coming with me. You’ll see.” She grabbed my elbow and pulled me through the hall.
“Coming with you, where?”
The where turned out to be the front row of the auditorium, right at the start of Much Ado About Nothing play practice. Cast and crew members buzzed around with scripts, some hovering near Mrs. Howard. The former stage actress, now Jefferson High director, stood skyscraper-tall and graceful, her dark Afro rising from a colorful head scarf.
“How am I helping?” I asked.
Marisol scoffed. “By keeping me focused. Like always. My design anxiety is at level five thousand.” She took out a spiral notebook. “Designing costumes for both female leads is huge for me. I want to consider the whole ambience so I can capture the right looks for Hero and Beatrice. And no one knows Shakespeare like you.”
Making her mark in the fashion world was Marisol’s dream, but also the one thing that drove her to enough anxiety that she’d seek a moral support booster from the person who knew her best.
That’s how we jibed. Marisol regularly—but gently—coaxed me from my library. But she also understood my bookish ways, and the magnetic pull of my alone time with stories. Conversely, I was a calm figure in Marisol’s big noisy life. A low-drama constant. Her bustling world, and perpetually creative mind, needed the balance of my rational ways.
Though perfect opposites, Marisol was my champion. And I was hers.
“My costumes have to do justice to the scenery.” Marisol pointed downstage with a hot-pink pen. “Look, the set’s all done, and it’s fab.”
Okay, it really was. Set in the garden of an Italian villa, a stone courtyard was flanked on both sides by towering cypress trees. Builders had added three flower-covered arches for mischievous characters to hide behind while eavesdropping and scheming. The backdrop featured a gauzy scrim curtain that could change hue from day to night.
“You’re gonna nail this job. Costume glory,” I said, and we shared a smile. The cast began rehearsing a scene from the play’s opening act, voices echoing in the near-empty theater.
“Speaking of glory, look who’s playing Benedick,” Marisol said. When Mrs. Howard sat in our row, Marisol lowered her voice. “I could think of worse ways to spend my afternoon than watching Jase shimmy around onstage.”
I had to agree. Jase Donnelly was the obvious choice for Benedick, the male lead. All signs pointed to him hauling his talent and Hollywood good looks straight to film school or the Broadway stage after graduation.
Mrs. Howard signaled the cast, her voice rising. “Jase, Alyssa, give us more sass in your banter. Alyssa, you need to sell the tension between Beatrice and Benedick.” She glanced down at her script. “We’ll come back to this later. Let’s work on Act Two, Scene One again.”
Alyssa, the willowy blonde playing Beatrice, nodded, studying her script and consulting with Jase. Mrs. Howard left to join them, calling more actors over to switch scenes. Stagehands pushed a faux stone fountain to the center.
Marisol rapped her pen on her notebook, staccato style. “The costume budget is tight, but I want Beatrice and Hero to have more than one look. Maybe I can make a base layer gown for each girl, but create different overlays with velvet jackets and lace toppe
rs and...”
Marisol went on, but I was only half listening. The rest of my attention snapped to the tall male figure who’d just entered through the side door, and I recoiled when I realized who it was.
“I’m not here,” I whispered, sinking down into my seat, zipping my black-and-white-striped hoodie. I shoved the hood up and over my head.
Marisol instinctively shielded my face with her big turquoise tote, but still asked, “What are you yapping about?”
“Asher Fleet. Stage left. Didn’t he graduate?”
“Breathe, D.”
“I am.” But my cheeks flared hot as I remembered my “spectacular” exit from the wig shop. I still carried the painful bruise. Now Asher was suddenly showing up everywhere I went, too?
“Yeah, breathing like one of my dogs after a run.” Marisol pretended to rummage through the tote, which was still shielding me. “What really happened at Tops the other day?”
“I told you at lunch. Yesterday.”
“You told me pieces while you were eating hummus and crackers and also reading Looking for Arizona.”
“Looking for Alaska. It’s Alaska.”
“Whatever. I may have missed crucial details. So tell me the real story again, without you reading another story.”
“Oh, you mean the one about Darcy Wells going to take Tess some documents? Where Asher Fleet was playing handyman, and he was instantly rude and weird? And then Darcy was trying to execute this suave exit, but she crashed...”
I trailed off when Asher turned at the lip of the stage, boring his eyes right into mine. Just for a second. Obviously, my hoodie wasn’t hooded enough. I averted my gaze until he spun around and traded waves with London Banks, who was currently playing the part of Beatrice’s cousin Hero. Asher grabbed the railing and slowly climbed up to speak with a stagehand. I noticed his limp as he moved between the flowered arches.
“You done freaking out yet?” Marisol produced a pack of gum, offering me some.
“Maybe.” I brushed away the disgusting grape flavor and whisked off my useless hood. “Can you explain why he hates me?”
“Hates you? He doesn’t even know you. Plus, people run into fixed objects all the time. It happens.”
The auditorium swelled with voices. Drama-filled conversations, on-and offstage. “Before that, he went all Mr. Darcy on me,” I said. “What is he doing here?”
“Three reasons.” Marisol pointed at the backdrop. “One—handy-dude Asher’s been helping with the set. Two—he’s still super tight with Jase. And the third—”
“Speak low if you speak love,” I muttered.
“Huh?”
“Sorry.” I shoved my hand forward. “Don Pedro—or, Connor, who’s playing the part of Don Pedro—has messed up that line three times. It’s not ‘speak low if you speak of love.’ It’s just ‘speak love.’ The flub changes the whole meaning.”
Marisol flopped backward, sinking down, arms to the heavens. “That’s it. You’re simply not of this planet we call Earth. For eight years, I’ve been friends with a Shakespeare-savant-with-no-script alien.”
“Now you’re being dramatic. The ‘speak low’ line is one of the most famous in this play.”
Sure enough, Mrs. Howard finally caught Connor’s mistake and corrected him. I lobbed a satisfied grin at Marisol.
“Still an alien.”
“Fine. Tell the alien the third reason.” Like it mattered.
“London, of course. And not the city.” Marisol gestured, nails sparkling with glittery polish. “The senior.”
I found the actress in question sitting on the prop fountain—London Banks. Aloof London with a well-tended, icy reputation. Not to mention the gorgeous long red waves clouding around her shoulders. She adorned the Jefferson stage like she was made for it, just like another performer I knew too well. London Banks and Bryn Humboldt: two best friends who loved to turn everyone’s sunlight into their personal limelight.
“Asher and London have been on and off again for two years,” Marisol told me. “You know that.”
“I do?” Did I? Okay, something about that tickled my memory.
“You would if your head wasn’t always hiding in print.” She bopped her head sideways. “Exhibit A.”
During this exchange—this comedy within a comedy—I’d reached into my bag again, mindlessly grabbing that copy of Looking for Alaska. Clutching it tightly. “Apparently, they’re on again.”
Marisol nodded. “She resurfaced after his accident. Helped him through rehab and stuff.”
“And you know all this, how?”
“Oh, Darcy,” she said on a low chuckle. “You kill me.”
I shook my head and reached down to retrieve my persistently dinging phone. I read the text messages and shoved the screen into my friend’s view.
Grandma Wells: Let’s make it 6:30. My house
Grandma Wells: I’ve been wanting to use some new cookware
Grandma Wells: Leave home before 6. The traffic into La Jolla has been absolutely dreadful at that time
Marisol snorted with mirth. “G-Wells discovers the beauty of texting and—bang! Blows up her phone.”
“And mine.” I tapped a single response, covering all points.
“What do you think she wants?”
I shrugged. Grandma Wells had always supported me, faithfully sending money every month for bills. She also maintained a substantial college fund for me, so I could someday attend SDSU and pursue my beloved English degree without incurring debt. But we often disagreed over the way I coped with my mom’s hoarding, and she rarely changed her opinion.
“If she starts up again about Mom, we won’t make it to dessert,” I said. “I just can’t listen to it anymore. Especially after the couple of days I’ve had with more bills and more UPS boxes and that Thomas manager lurking around every corner.”
Gaze locked on the stage again, Marisol nodded. “Plus Asher staring directly at you, and whatever that means.”
“Huh? Where?”
She elbowed me both painfully and discreetly. “Don’t look. Head down. I’ll narrate.”
“What do you mean staring?” I tried to obey, eyes fixed on the John Green novel on my lap. The left corner of my vision tracked Marisol lowering her costume notebook a bit.
“Staring, staring. I said stay down,” she whispered, ventriloquist style. “Please locate your chill and trust me.”
Ugh.
“You know how in Much Ado, the characters eavesdrop from behind those arches and cause all kinds of trouble and misunderstandings?” she asked, then let out an amused huff. “What am I saying? Of course you know.”
“Yeah, okay, but what does that have to do with Asher?”
“The cast is rehearsing, and Asher’s hiding behind flower arch number three. But he’s not looking at his buddy, Jase. Or Alyssa, or Mrs. Howard, or London. He’s staring at you, and actually kind of...softly. Not in the way he’d glare at someone he hates, or snigger at someone he’s pegged as a klutz. Well, he was for at least ten straight seconds. Now he’s talking to a stagehand.”
“Come on, Marisol,” I scoffed.
She gasped. “Darcy Jane Wells, you don’t believe me?”
I knew then that what she said and saw was real. Marisol Robles embellished herself—face and body—to all kinds of fashionable extremes. But since the day I met her, she’d never embellished her words. Her accounts were always straight and true.
Unlike me, Marisol never lied.
Five
The Collector
“Two things cannot be in one place.”
—Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden
Thirty minutes into dinner, Grandma Wells still hadn’t mentioned my mother. This simple truth kept me perched on the edge of my Queen Anne chair in her dining room, but I couldn’t relax. Couldn’t really enjoy the roasted chicken, green beans sautéed with bacon, and garlic mashed potatoes.
Grandma clapped her hands twice. “I made that wonderful flourless c
hocolate torte for dessert.” She disappeared into the kitchen, her teal silk duster coat unfurling like peacock feathers. The torte was one of my favorite desserts. What was she up to?
While she fiddled, I studied rooms I hadn’t seen in months. As a little girl, scampering around her La Jolla home was like navigating a flea market. Knickknacks were everywhere. Most flat surfaces buckled under miniature carousels, decorative clocks, and porcelain figurines. It wasn’t hard to see where my mother’s hoarding roots started, how she’d stretched the Wells collecting gene a thousand miles too far.
“Voilà!” Grandma Wells brought coffee and dressed the table with crystal plates, dessert forks, and a large knife. The torte in front of me was perfectly round, coated with chocolate ganache and dusted with powdered sugar.
I sipped water and breathed deep, hiding my thoughts inside her nesting dolls and glass vases. “Thanks, Grandma. You didn’t have to do all this.”
She scored the frosting with the knife, then swiftly ran the blade through. “Oh, it’s no trouble. Besides, I haven’t seen you for so long. And you’re about to start a new life chapter. That’s cause for a little celebration.”
What about my life was worth celebrating?
She regarded my perplexed expression and slid over a hearty slice. “You’ll be turning eighteen soon.”
True. I was furiously counting the days until my birthday—the day CPS could no longer investigate my home, or take me away from a mother I couldn’t bear to leave.
Grandma smiled fondly, her cranberry lips and rose-blushed cheeks framed by a cap of golden-brown hair she never allowed to gray. “You’re starting college applications, too. You have so much going for you, dear. You’re just brilliant, and the world is yours.”
But...? I’d collected enough words to know where they belonged even when they weren’t voiced. This one was so loud, I set down my next forkful of cake. “I guess so. I’m applying to SDSU for a start. Excellent English program.”
“Naturally. But college presents unique challenges. Even greater than the substantial school load you’re carrying now.”
“I’ve heard.” The first bites of torte spun inside my stomach. “I’ll find a way to manage, same as I always have.”
The Library of Lost Things Page 4
