Throughout the day, my mind wanders between Lark’s house and my new book on Van Gogh. I don’t think about how Lark died anymore, more about little things, like what it’s going to be like to see a For Sale sign in her front yard and then how weird it will be if another family actually moves in. Mr. Haus goes on and on about the Persian wars and why the Greeks finally won. I’m copying his notes from the chalkboard and trying to finish the sketch of the fountain in the courtyard of Van Gogh’s asylum at the same time. Poor guy. He wore himself out looking for God and arguing with Gauguin. I’m drawing from memory, trying to capture the ellipse of the fountain and the sharp angles of the trees. My right hand is flying. My left is holding up my glasses so they don’t fall into my notebook. The bell rings, but I don’t move. My drawing is almost finished.
“Eve,” Mr. Haus says softly. “You’re going to be late.”
In Debate, Ms. Curren has mercifully decided it’s our group’s turn to research in the library. Scott and Darren give each other high fives. Judith takes the pass for the four of us, and off we trot. The boys take a side trip to shoot some hoops, while Judith and I dutifully hit the books.
“Look for a quote from some expert or official,” Judith orders, passionless. “I’ll get some statistics about the high cost of research.”
Between the two of us, we could finish all the research we need in about three hours. Darren and Scott are mostly a hindrance. We don’t even bother to think of something for them to do.
I type in “opposition to stem cell research” and am flooded with hits. Senators, ministers, scientists, and right-to-life advocates all have something to say. There’s massive concern for the unborn. I scroll down until I find the speech of a molecular biologist who reminds us that Congress declared life begins at conception. Therefore, harvesting stem cells is tantamount to murder. It’s irritating to take notes on why the government shouldn’t help scientists find cures for diabetes and multiple sclerosis, but I’m happy to be here and not in the classroom. My pen glides across paper.
Behind me there’s a rustle of backpacks and chimes from a cell phone. A mob of juniors pulls in. They descend on the computers, and the guy sitting down on my right is Ian, the writer for the paper, the guy whose eyes met mine at the end of the pep rally.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I say back.
“You knew Lark Austin, right?”
My face gets warm. My answer is muffled, like I’m speaking through a scarf. “Yes.”
“I did, too.”
“How?” I ask. His eyes are the blue in Starry Night, expansive and cobalt, surrounded by black lashes. My heart stirs a little, like it’s swimming inside me. If I ever wanted to draw him, I’d have to use colored ink—maybe Bombay blue.
“Lark took journalism last year.”
“She gave it up for gymnastics,” I say.
“Yeah, I remember. Too bad. She was a good writer. I drove her home once. I think I saw you. You live next door, right?”
He reaches over the keyboard to shake my hand.
“I’m Ian.”
“I’m Eve.”
His hand touches mine. There are muscles where the fingers meet the palm, and the hollow is deep, like it could cup water.
“How are her parents?” he asks.
“Not very good. They want to move.”
“I don’t blame them,” he said.
He logs on while I print out the speech of the molecular biologist. Scott and Darren tumble by to see if there’s anything to do. They’re red faced from shooting hoops in the cold. Their hats are on backward. All they need are little propellers and they could be Tweedledee and Tweedledum. They’re making a ruckus, dropping books and dissing each other. The librarian threatens to send them back to class. I get the speech from the printer and hand it to them.
“Read this,” I say. “Look for a quote we can use in our opening remarks.”
When I get back to the computer, Ian is looking at my sketchbook.
“Hey!” I say, grabbing it back.
“Sorry,” he says, “but you left it open. I didn’t touch it. You’re so good!”
“No,” I say. The sharp corner stabs the pad of my thumb.
“Yes! I like that old lady, and the windmill along the canal. Have you been to the Netherlands?”
“No,” I say, “but I’d like to. . . . I’m into Van Gogh. I’m studying his art. I copy a lot of his drawings.”
“That’s cool. I thought Van Gogh was famous for his paintings.”
“He is, but I like his drawings better.”
“That’s cool,” he said. “There are lots of great abandoned buildings in the Netherlands. You into that—ruined buildings taken over by nature?”
“Sounds interesting.”
“It is,” he says. He’s focused and lit up, like all sorts of ideas are firing inside his brain. “I know a bunch of cool websites to check out.”
I’m dying to hear more, but his friend calls out from the magazine rack. “Hey, Ian,” he says. “Here’s that interview you were talking about.”
“Gotta go,” he tells me. “Talk to you later.”
He bounds over to his crowd of juniors, not bothering to log off the computer.
Days later, he’s in the hall with the other journalism students passing out the new issue of the paper. He points to the story about Lark on the front page. There’s a photo of a grief counselor talking to a class, and another one of students huddling at a table in the library drawing pictures and writing poems.
“Why isn’t there a picture of Lark?” I ask.
“Look at the back.”
The entire back page is a blowup of Lark’s school portrait. Underneath, in wispy font, it says,
Lark Austin
Forever in our hearts
Finally, you can fly. . . .
“It’s disgusting,” I say.
“I know.”
“What’s that supposed to mean, ‘Finally, you can fly’?”
“It’s supposed to ‘honor her love for gymnastics,’ says the senior editor.”
“Well, it’s disgusting.”
He shrugs and sighs. “I agree.”
I keep staring at the photo and hating it. Ian takes a step back.
“Well,” he says, “I gotta go. I wanted to make sure you saw it.”
He’s wearing a huge striped sweater that’s unraveling at the sleeves. He’d look lost in it, but his shoulders and back are all muscle because he’s on crew.
“Thanks,” I say. “I know it’s not your fault.”
“Hey,” he says. “This Friday I’m hearing a band you might like. Would you like to come?”
The concert is in an old movie theater that Ian says was built in the twenties when films were still silent and vaudeville acts used to perform on the stage. He takes a picture of me in the lobby between sconces shaped like candles; only the flame-shaped bulbs are burned out. Ian says he’s never seen them lit up. The walls are covered in painted fabric that’s been fading and unraveling for almost a hundred years.
“The owner is trying to sell,” says Ian, shaking his head. “Can you imagine what a tragedy it would be if someone knocked it down?”
Ian points to the huge chandelier in the lobby. Strings of crystals and beads drape from a recessed painting of peacocks and classical ruins.
“You could draw that,” he says encouragingly. “You’re good enough to draw this whole place.”
His hand is warm and smooth. I imagine the theater being taken over by trees. Saplings break through the floors. Vines suffocate the walls, pulling them into the earth.
All the seats on the first floor have been torn up so people can stand by the stage or dance. Ian leads me to the balcony so we can sit down and talk. The seats are the old-fashioned kind with inlaid brass numbers and velvet cushions. We sit in the front row, dangling our hands over the railing, looking down at the crowd that’s already pushed against the stage.
“Don’t hate me,”
I say, “but my dad builds McMansions.”
“Oh, no,” he groans, rubbing my hands like I’m cold. “You poor girl.”
The DJ plays Brian Eno and Stone Roses and Joy Division, which Ian says are good choices since they’ve all influenced Sky Crush, the band we’re about to hear.
The opening act is a band from Portland called the Substitutes that projects educational filmstrips from the Cold War about personal hygiene, the growing threat of communism, and how to respond in case of nuclear attack. The songs are short and angry, with driving beats overlaying thrashing guitars. I put my hands over my ears, but the music is still so loud I can feel my bones vibrate. On the screen, primary-school kids are ducking under their desks. A map of the Soviet Union turns into an evil octopus spreading its tentacles over Europe and Asia. A high school girl points to a pimple on her chin and frowns.
At intermission we go downstairs to the little bar that used to be a hatcheck booth when people wore hats and gloves. Ian buys us each a Coke, then leads me outside to a patio where people go to smoke and get some fresh air. A woman with a boy’s haircut and silver hair lifts up her throat to laugh. Her date smiles at her with glittering wolf teeth.
Ian pulls out a tiny bottle of rum from his coat pocket, the kind you buy on airplanes.
“Want some?” he offers.
“Sure,” I say, and he pours some into my drink. “What about you?”
“I’m driving,” he says, shaking his head. “Gotta get you home safe. I promised your dad.”
I take a long sip of my drink. Rum clings to the ice cubes and makes me shudder. People around us laugh and talk. Their cigarettes glow and send out curls of white smoke. Above us a square of sky is speckled with stars. Ian pours the rest of the rum over the ice cubes, and a few sips later I’m instantly relaxed, as if I’ve let two heavy packages fall to the floor.
We drift back to the balcony. Other couples mill around us. Going down the stairs, I stumble a little. I’m not used to drinking, so I lean slightly into him and he puts his arm around me until we get to our seats. Onstage the roadies unwind cables and set up the mikes. Finally, the lights go down, and Sky Crush takes the stage. It’s a band of two, a girl and a guy, both skinny and tall with pale oval faces. They could be brother and sister, but Ian says they grew up together in a beach town in Delaware. In high school they started recording waves crashing and boardwalk sounds like the whoosh of the roller coaster, the calliope of the merry-go-round, and a wooden ball rolling up the skee-ball ramp in the arcade. He says they have a whole library of sounds that they edit and splice and include in their songs. The girl looks like she stepped out of a Pre-Raphaelite painting. Her long auburn hair falls over her face as she sings and plays keyboards. Sometimes it sounds like an organ, sometimes a harpsichord. The guy plays gamelan and slide guitar, adding layers of sounds from a laptop hooked up to a tiny speaker. Between the vocals I hear distant laughter and bells, and the three-four rhythm of a ragged waltz played by old men in a plaza. The girl’s voice floats above the texture of sounds, coaxing you to listen like the waves in a shell. It makes me think of Van Gogh walking in the fog sketching windmills and geese, his red beard and blue eyes the only bright colors in an expanse of gray.
After the final song, the curtain falls, and the dusty chandeliers flicker awake. People put on their coats and leave their drinks on the floor. Outside it’s windy and cold, and the music still clings to me like a dream.
“Did you like it?” asks Ian.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m still dreaming.”
Ian laughs. “I knew you were the one to take to Sky Crush.”
“Why?”
“Because,” he replies, “you’re an artist. Like they are.”
“I don’t know what that means,” I say, confused.
“I think it means you see things, hear things, that most people miss.”
I’m embarrassed and pleased, then suddenly disappointed. “So, would you take a different girl to a different concert?”
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“I mean, is this what you do? Match a girl to a band, then ask her out when it comes to town?”
“No . . . ,” he says tentatively.
“Because if it is,” I sputter, “if this is what you do . . .”
“No,” he insists. “It isn’t what I do. I didn’t want to take anyone else to a concert. I wanted to take you.”
“Why?” I ask, but he doesn’t answer. Instead he pulls the belt of my coat so I fall into him, then he presses his lips against mine.
“Stop it,” I say, pushing him away.
He looks embarrassed and a little shocked. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I . . . I thought . . .”
“Wait,” I say. “Wait . . .”
I stand apart, thinking of Trevor and the strange mix of feelings I used to have around him. Feelings of being excited and dismissed, invited, then ignored. I didn’t want Trevor to touch me or see me. I didn’t want him to put his hand on me or sneak up on me when I was naked.
But Ian, I tell myself, is nothing like Trevor. His eyes search mine, and I feel myself reaching up to him from the bottom of a well.
“Yes,” I say, “I do want you to kiss me.”
And he does, and the boundaries between us start to blur. I can feel his heart against mine, beating under our sweaters and coats while the wind swirls the night stars.
Chapter 18
Lark
It was past midnight, and the poor girl was still awake, sitting on the floor clutching a pillow, her ear to the wall. Her mom was on the phone, yelling at her dad, screaming that he’s ruined her life, and isn’t it great that he gets to start over with a new house and a new wife, and a new family. Even I was frightened by the bitterness in her voice.
I inched closer and put my hand on Nyetta’s shoulder. She turned around and shivered.
“You’re pale,” she said.
“I’m dead.”
“I know.”
Nyetta turned back to the wall. “My mom is so sad. I don’t know what to do.”
“Listen,” I say, “I need a favor.”
Chapter 19
Nyetta
April has given up asking about Lark. Now she wants to know all about the divorce and how it affected me, and if my parents used to fight. I tell her not really, which is the truth because I’ve decided not to lie about my family life. Only about my ghost life.
“But for a while my mother went crazy,” I say, then I go on to tell her how once my mom woke me up in the middle of the night and drove me to Hallie’s house to tell my dad to come home because the divorce wasn’t final. It was cold and she forgot my robe, and I was shivering when I rang the bell and waited on the step. My mother sat in the car with the motor running. I could see the silhouettes of my father and a woman sitting at a table through the window. I didn’t know Hallie then. She didn’t invite me inside. Instead she called my dad to the door, and he told me to tell my mom to take me home.
“Get some sleep,” he said. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
So my mom drove home, then she sent me to bed, but I didn’t go to sleep. Instead I took out all my dolls from the closet and set them up like groups of sisters and mothers, aunts and daughters, in kitchens and schools and living rooms where they would read books and draw pictures or teach one another the alphabet or how to play an instrument. My entire room became their dollhouse. They slept under the armchair because that’s where it was dark. My desk was the music room and the second-floor study. The shoe boxes in the closet were kitchen counters. I drew knobs and rings on one to be the stove.
April puts down her pencil. “What your mother did was very unfair to you. You didn’t want to go to Hallie’s house at night. She did. And then she made you be the one to ask him to come home.”
“But I didn’t,” I said. “I couldn’t. I just stood there on the porch.”
“Do you feel guilty about not doing what your mother asked?”
“Kind of.”
<
br /> “What she asked you to do was inappropriate. Adults shouldn’t tell their children to do things they can’t or won’t do for themselves.”
Why not? I wonder. It seems to me parents do this all the time. They want their children to make them happy and proud. Lark’s parents wanted her to get a gymnastics scholarship to college because it was the next best thing to being in the Olympics. I could tell she felt sad she wasn’t good enough for that.
April interrupts me.
“Next time your mother or father, or any adult, asks you to do something that’s inappropriate, you can say no.”
Her advice floats by. I think about how serious Lark was. I wonder if it made her happy or sad to be like that. On the outside, she was happy, but some people keep things to themselves. Sometimes her knee hurt so bad, she limped.
April watches me the way you watch the weather change in the sky. “It can be difficult to learn how to say no,” she says. “We can practice next week.”
At night Lark decides to drop by for one of her visits. She’s dirty, like someone who’s been spending too much time outdoors. She’s not asking me to look at her wound anymore. Mostly she wants me to see how she’s turning into a tree. It’s sort of a guilt trip.
Little buds of leaves are growing between her fingers, and her hair is wild and full. She lowers her head, and I can see tiny strands of ivy growing out of her scalp.
“My heart is wood now,” she says mournfully.
“That doesn’t happen.”
“It has to me.”
“No,” I say. “You still have feelings.”
“Not really.”
“Then why are you here?”
She sighs. Tears cut through the dirt on her face. “You’re right,” she says. “I hate being dead.”
Poor Lark. She loved having a body. It was her favorite part of being alive. “I’ll try harder,” I tell her.
Lark brightens, then she starts to lift her dress, but I turn away.
Lark Page 5
