The Undoing of Thistle Tate

by Katelyn Detweiler

  I move to hug him from behind, burrowing into his back. We don’t hug enough these days, I think.

  “Well, it is Halloween today,” he says. I’d forgotten. Dates tend to be a blur around here—the only ones that matter are deadlines and tours. And even as someone whose world revolves around the afterlife, the idea of creepy ghosts and ghouls has never appealed to me. “But I’m sad there has to be a special occasion for a dad to make his daughter some pancakes.”

  I pull back, forcing a smile even though now this sentimental moment is leaving me feeling more wary than grateful. “I mean…no offense, but we ate a box of doughnuts from Wawa on my last birthday.”

  He laughs, but it’s a sigh, too. It doesn’t sound quite right. He flips the last pancake onto a plate and puts the spatula down.

  “I don’t know, Thistle. You seemed so quiet at dinner last night with Elliot and Susan. This tour has been hard on you, I can tell. These last two years have been hard on you. But last night, you just…you looked so exhausted. I’m worried that something I thought was our dream is only my dream now.”

  It’s true, completely, but I won’t say that. I can’t. He’s trying so hard this morning. He realized that I was upset, and he’s doing something, no matter how small, to make me feel better.

  “It’s not just your dream…” Had I ever wanted this? Not really, not even in the beginning. But I had wanted to give him a reason to smile, to feel good about his life. Our life. I’d wanted to save our home.

  “I love our time together,” I say, as diplomatic as I can be. “I love Marigold. I just…”

  He waits, his brow furrowing deeper.

  “I want to be able to have a more normal life. After it ends. College, friends other than my dad and my dog—no offense to either of you—and the boy next door.” I toss a piece of bacon down to Lucy as an apology. Just in case she understood. There’s a very human wisdom in her eyes—so much so that as a kid, I was convinced that she was a girl like me trapped in a dog’s body. My dad even tried to write a picture book about it years ago, but that manuscript never found a home. Just like so many others.

  Lucy inhales the bacon in one bite, gives the floor a few swipes with her tongue to make sure there isn’t any residue left, and then sits down on my foot.

  “I need you to understand how I feel,” I continue, my eyes still on Lucy. “I worry sometimes, that…that this won’t be enough for you.”

  “Thistle, you know I want those things for you, too. I want you to go to your dream school, make your dream friends. And you will. You will have all of that.”

  “Then why did you bring up another book? Last night with Susan and Elliot?”

  “Okay, you’re right. That was out of line. It was a big night, and I got myself too hyped up. Let’s focus on this last book for now. Making it the best it can be.”

  For now.

  I dislike those two words.

  “Enjoy the food while it’s hot,” Dad says, before I can respond.

  I fill my plate up with a stack of pancakes and bacon, and we sit and eat in silence.

  There’s a lot I want to say, though: No way, Dad. There’s no for now. This is over. No more lying. We have all the money we need. And you proved it to yourself—you are a writer. Even if no one knows but me and Liam. Of course I would never say the last part out loud to him.

  I take another huge bite instead, warm butter and maple syrup oozing down my fork.

  But even chocolate chips can’t make this Halloween breakfast taste special.

  five

  Marigold opened her eyes, safely back on the porch, curled up in the rocking chair. The shift between worlds surprised her every time. There with Colton one minute, alone at this sad house the next. Minutes passed the same way in both places, but she liked her minutes with him much better.

  She still had no idea how the porch and rocking chair created a portal. It didn’t matter if she went at night or during the day. She also didn’t understand why she, a living girl, was allowed to go to the Afterworld. Was it because she’d almost died the day of the accident? Or could others use the portal and go with her, too? She didn’t know. All that mattered was that she could and would keep doing it.

  But tomorrow, she wouldn’t go to the Afterworld. Marigold would do what she’d just promised Colton—she’d find his twin, Jonah, so she could tell him that Colton wasn’t resentful, that he was glad Jonah had been on the lucky bike. That he loved him. Marigold would tell her dad she was hanging out with Abby and Sam—he didn’t know that she’d barely talked to them outside of school in weeks. She had to do this, for Colton.

  —EXCERPT FROM LEMONADE SKIES, BOOK 1: GIRL IN THE AFTERWORLD

  Dad and I are sitting down for take-out Thai that night, Sherlock playing on the TV—the one show we can both agree on watching—when the doorbell rings. We don’t usually get trick-or-treaters, but there’s no pumpkin on the stoop and our front lights are off and the curtains pulled closed just in case anyone is tempted to try.

  I jump up, nearly knocking over my full plate of pad see ew in my frantic need to get to the door. “It’s probably Liam,” I say mid-leap toward the hallway, trying and failing to sound casual. I’ve been staring at the clock since four, his usual return time on Thursdays when there’s no water polo game. It’s six thirty now. I was starting to lose hope.

  “Liam as in the same Liam you see every day?” Dad asks, one eyebrow cocked. “You seem oddly excited.”

  “Oh, he—he had this project at school today that I wanted to hear about. It was on…” My eyes flash to the TV screen, where Sherlock is investigating a conspiracy in an episode based on The Hound of the Baskervilles. My dad and I love this one. “It was on the use of dogs in literature. From the Odyssey to Oliver Twist, Old Yeller, Where the Red Fern Grows, Sorcerer’s Stone…Cool, right?”

  I’m proud, almost, of how quickly the lie came together. Maybe my dad isn’t the only creative one in the family. Or maybe these last few years have made me a better liar than I ever wanted to be.

  “Dogs, eh?” Dad is looking from me to the screen, where a large demon dog is lunging.

  “Ha! Weird timing. I’ll have to ask if this made the cut!”

  I’m out of the room before Dad can ask more questions. I walk down the front hallway, open the door, and see him. He’s bundled up in his plaid jacket, cheeks pink, eyes bright under the streetlight. I have to remind myself that this is just Liam, only Liam, that I’ve seen him literally thousands of times before tonight. Kiss or no kiss, it’s still the same Liam.

  “Trick or treat,” he says, smiling. “I figured I’d actually use the front door today instead of a Ping-Pong ball.” He looks nervous, or at least I hope he is—maybe it’s just wishful thinking. But I’d rather not be the only one standing here sweating.

  “Hey,” I manage to respond. I debate hugging him, but I wouldn’t typically greet him that way, so I decide against it.

  We stand for a minute, staring.

  “So…” he starts, his grin growing wider.

  I should be asking him in. He could sit with Dad and me until we finish dinner, and then we could push onward with one of our Netflix marathons like we were doing before the tour. But the idea of it—of lying side by side on my bed like we do—feels like way too much today. The same, but still so different.

  “Want to go for a walk?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I say, nearly floating off the stoop in relief. A walk feels safer. “Let me grab my coat.”

  I yell to my dad that I’m going out and shut the front door before he can say anything.

  Liam and I are quiet for the first few minutes. I’m not sure if he’s leading me somewhere in particular, or if we’re both just aimlessly walking for the sake of being together. Two mini-ghosts and a Wonder Woman pass us on the sidewalk. A small cluster of glowing jack-o’-lanterns grin and grimace from
a nearby stoop.

  “Are you hungry?” he asks.

  “Sure,” I say, thinking about the delicious mound of pad see ew that’s sitting on the TV tray. I hope my dad remembers to put it in the fridge so it’s still good for tomorrow’s breakfast.

  “I was going to say we could grab some sandwiches from Wawa and sit on the art museum steps, but it’s probably too cold for that. How about Juan José’s?”

  I nod, smiling. It’s one of our favorite local spots, a Mexican dive that everyone but us seems to think is viable for take-out orders only. I’m pretty sure it’s the painfully bright plastic floral tablecloths and fluorescent lights, but that’s fine by me. Whenever we eat there, we’re the only customers, like it’s our own private restaurant. They always bring us complimentary cups of some delicious mango concoction. We’ve been going for years and I still don’t know the name of the drink, but it tastes like sunshine and laughter and world peace.

  We don’t talk again during our walk, but luckily it’s only a few more minutes until I see the Juan José’s sign, a flashing neon-yellow sombrero. Liam picks up his pace just as we’re closing in, beating me by a few steps. He opens the door then, a cluster of bells at the top chiming loudly, and holds it, waiting for me to go through first. Liam has never gone out of his way to open any doors for me. Ever. Not to say that he’s lazy or selfish or anything like that, but there was no need for chivalry before now because we were just two best friends. It’s another first. Flowers. Beautiful. And now this…

  I realize that Liam is watching me stand frozen in front of the door. He looks mildly confused, maybe mildly amused, too.

  “Oh,” I say. “Thank you.”

  We sit at our usual table and place our usual order—six tacos, a quesadilla, and a burrito, all to be split down the middle. And chips, with two different salsas. Pineapple for me, spicy chipotle for Liam.

  “So,” I say, after I’ve nearly finished my first cup of the mango-flavored nectar of the gods. “How was school today?”

  I never ask that question. Just like he never asks about my day at home with Dad. There’s not enough common ground—too many kids, teachers, classes I will never really know about or understand. And for me, every day is more or less the same, and talking about the writing only makes me cranky. So we talk about other things, movies and celebrities and politics. College. Dreams. And hypothetical questions—we love hypothetical questions. For example: Who would you rather see as president, Miley Cyrus or Taylor Swift? Would you rather watch only Nicholas Sparks movies for the rest of your life, or eat nothing but chocolate for a hundred straight days? Never fall in love, or never find a job that makes you happy?

  We can play this game for hours.

  “Okay,” he says, making himself a paper ring out of the straw wrapper. “Had a Calc quiz, started Gatsby in English Lit, watched a ridiculous video about the reproductive habits of spiders in Bio. Best part of the day was when Brian Bender stood up on his chair and asked Kyle Reynolds out on a date in front of the whole cafeteria. But you don’t know Brian…or Kyle…so it loses some of the effect, I guess. Kyle’s been very out since elementary school, but Brian, not so much. The whole cafeteria broke out in applause.”

  “That’s cool,” I say. “This guy, Kyle, he said yes, then?”

  “Yep.” Liam grins. “It was awesome.”

  “Great.” I bite down on my straw, grinding it between my front teeth.

  “Would you rather…” Liam starts, his dark eyes twinkling, “win a two-week trip to South America, all expenses paid, with a personalized tour of Machu Picchu, or…”

  I laugh. My dream trip, as he knows, though my dad’s been too busy to agree to go. Yet. “How in the world will you top that? Lame question, I can already feel it.”

  “Or go on a date with me?” he finishes.

  “Oh.”

  “Not as easy as you thought?” He’s still smiling, but it’s more anxious now. I can tell because his left eye is crinkled just a little too much, making his gaze a smidge lopsided.

  “Well, that depends,” I say, hoping my cheeks aren’t as red as they feel. “That’s a two-week trip but a one-night date. That doesn’t seem fair. Is there a chance for more dates?”

  His neon grin flashes. That’s what I’ve always called it: neon. His brightest, fullest, highest-wattage smile that only comes out when it’s incredibly deserved. Like when he won free Diamond Club Phillies tickets last year, right on the field behind home plate, or the time his parents surprised him—and me—with that infamous trip to Disney World.

  “I’d say there’s a very high chance of multiple dates then,” he says. “If that helps in your decision-making.”

  I nod, pretending to look serious and thoughtful. But on the inside I am nothing but high-pitched squeals and fist pumps and high kicks that could probably get me a place with the Radio City Rockettes.

  “How about we go on a date to Machu Picchu?” I ask.

  “Nope. It’s South America or me. One or the other. I should have emphasized the small print on that. My bad. If you go on the date with me, you can never go to Machu Picchu. And vice versa.” There is always fine print to our hypotheticals.

  “Well, then, after careful deliberation…”

  He pretends to hold his breath, waiting.

  “You. I pick the date.”

  The neon smile is back, lingering this time, like it might become his permanent expression.

  “I like that decision.”

  “Me too.”

  “And the bonus to that decision? It’s effective immediately! Thistle Tate, we are now officially on our first date—with more to come.”

  If we were any other two human beings on this planet right now, I’d be making myself gag under the table. We’re every cheesy dialogue that Liam and I have ever made fun of, watching bad rom-coms or old episodes of The OC or Gilmore Girls. And it feels good.

  “I think that this is our first hypothetical situation that actually became real life,” I say, my smile no doubt just as neon as his. “And thank goodness. Because last month when I picked eating nothing but mushrooms for every meal for the rest of my life so that I wouldn’t die the next day, that would have sucked in actual practice. I definitely might have regretted that decision.”

  “Not this one, though,” Liam says. He reaches across the table and grabs my hand. His palm is hot and sweaty, just like mine. “I hope.”

  “I’ll have to go on a few more dates before I can say for sure. I don’t want to give you a rash answer.”

  “Fair. I’ll give you that. But I still can’t believe you’d pick me over Machu Picchu. You’ve been obsessing about going there ever since we were ten and saw that documentary on the History channel. You couldn’t stop worrying about whether or not it was aliens who built it all. It was pretty hilarious.”

  “No worries, plenty of other mysterious old ruins I can see.”

  “So is there something else you would have chosen over me?” He gives me a big, terrible, adorable wink. We’ve both always been notoriously bad winkers.

  Before I can answer him, the waitress comes over with our food, lining up the overflowing plates between us.

  Of course not, I think first. But then I realize, that’s not quite true, is it?

  Because what if I could go, like Marigold, to the afterworld? See my mom again. A date with Liam or a chance to see my mom…

  My mom, of course. The afterworld.

  But I don’t tell him that.

  Instead I say, “I think I’ve already given you enough compliments for one night. Let’s eat before that cute round head of yours gets any bigger.”

  * * *

  When I get home Dad’s bedroom door is shut and his lights turned off. I take a flying leap onto my bed, my hands stretched above my head as I bounce off the mattress. My fingers knock against something—the full glass
of water on my nightstand.

  Usually I’d be cursing and ranting, but I’m too giddy about my date to feel concerned about anything right now. I roll over to assess the damage. The glass didn’t break and most of the water seems to have spilled on top of the canvas bag that I used at my signing last night. I stand up and start to pull everything out—a few spare books, pens, water bottles—still mostly dry, so that I can hang the wet bag on my desk chair. Then my fingers wrap around a last scrap of paper at the bottom. A crumpled old receipt or flyer probably. I start to reach for the wastebasket when I see the handwriting. Emma Flynn.

  My stomach twists with guilt. But I hadn’t actually agreed to e-mail her, had I? I shouldn’t. Somehow lying to a sick girl feels infinitely worse than lying to a healthy girl.

  On the other hand, it would take me thirty seconds to shoot off some generic message. And her brother had said it would make her day.

  I sit down at my desk and open up my laptop. Just one quick note. My good deed for the day.

  Dear Emma Flynn…

  I write a few short lines and hit Send. It was the right thing to do. Now I can forget about it, clear conscience.

  But then I picture her telling Oliver, how happy he’ll be. And strangely, as I lie in bed, drifting off to sleep, I don’t think about Liam.

  I think about Emma and Oliver Flynn.

  * * *

  I wake up a few hours later, 3:37 according to the bright blue numbers on the clock on my nightstand. I sigh and roll over, hoping I can get back to sleep. I’d been having such a nice dream, a grand adventure with Sherlock—starring Benedict Cumberbatch, of course—involving mermaids and sirens and a crumbling castle by the sea.

  But then I hear him, and I realize why I woke up.

  My dad, crying in his bedroom, across the thin wall that separates us. It’s a sound I haven’t heard in years, not since before Marigold came around.

  I slip out of bed and into the hallway. I knock once, twice. The crying stops, and the house is suddenly too quiet. I can just barely hear Lucy wheezing steadily from downstairs.