“Did anyone know? Besides your dad?”
I consider for a second. But there’s no point in lying. “Liam. My neighbor.”
“Right. So you could trust him. Just not me.”
“That’s not fair. I’ve known Liam since I was four. He knew everything about me.”
“And you loved him, right? Still do, maybe.”
“It’s different. Besides, he’s the one who outed me, so—”
“Never mind. None of it matters. I don’t give a shit who you love, and who you tell your deepest, darkest secrets to. I don’t want any of it.”
I reach out to him, but he steps back, just out of reach. “I really care about you, Oliver. Everything we felt yesterday was still real.”
He shakes his head, backing away even farther. “I don’t think you even know what real is. Everything about you is a lie.”
He’s down the sidewalk then, opening up his car door. “Tell Emma,” I start to yell, but then I realize there’s nothing she’d want to hear. The best thing for her is to forget about me. But it’s not just me she’s losing. She’s losing Marigold, too. She’ll never be able to read another word of her favorite books, the world and the people she loved so much. I’ve ruined that for her, too. Her refuge.
I hope her parents let her use every dirty word under the sun today.
* * *
I log on to Twitter. I type five words: It’s all true. I’m sorry.
* * *
If yesterday was about self-indulgence and denial, today is about punishment.
It’s time for me to face it head-on, to see everything that fans are saying about me online. To read all the e-mails—though, this, I realize, might have to be a more extended punishment, because there are already over two thousand new messages in my in-box. Enraged fans, of course, and what looks like a slew of media requests, too. Everyone wants an exclusive interview. Including, I see, from a quick scan of subject lines, the New York Times.
The New York Times knows. Everyone knows.
I close my e-mail and search for my name online, click the “news” option to bypass my website and best-seller listings and all the good and happy things that people have said about me over the years. The news updates—they are not so good and happy.
Thistle Tate, International Bestselling Author, Accused of Fraud.
Theo and Thistle Tate: Their Lemonade Skies Conspiracy.
In Depth: The Undoing of Thistle Tate.
I sit at my desk for over six hours. I can’t make myself stop. It’s like rubbernecking at my own accident scene—I’m bloody and broken and somehow watching from outside my body. And I can’t look away, no matter how gruesome the sight.
My name is mud. My dad’s name is mud. The Tates will never again have a home in publishing. I’m not sure we’ll have a home anywhere.
The direct tweets and personal messages are the worst—there’s no limit to what someone feels comfortable expressing online. I’ve been called: a conniving bitch, a fame whore, a talentless piece of shit. They seem rather unanimous in thinking that my dad and I should be shipped off to jail. After we return all our money, of course. There are calls, too, for an international Lemonade Skies Book Burning Day. There’s even a new Twitter account dedicated to rallying my enemies: Ban Marigold Maybee!
When I finally seem to have covered most of the posts from the last twenty-four hours, I close down my computer. Maybe I’ll read more tonight. Tomorrow. The day after that. The day after that, too. Because there’s nothing else to do. No homework, no book, no friends or boyfriends. Just a dad who I can’t bear to even look at right now. There’s Mia, too, but I’m sure she wants nothing to do with either Tate anymore. I can’t believe she’s even still here.
I rack my brain trying to think of one other person, someone else who might actually care about how awful my life is right now.
Mrs. Rizzo.
I laugh. Care feels like a strong word. But she did say I should knock if I needed anything, and I need to talk to someone. Plus I’ve eaten nothing all day, and one of her parakeet cookies sounds perfect right now.
I’m on her porch knocking before I can change my mind. There’s a pause, and just as I’m about to try one more time, the curtain gets yanked aside. Mrs. Rizzo is staring at me, her snowy brows raised. She looks surprised at first, but then alarmed.
“Is everything okay?” she asks, nearly knocking me over as she throws the door open. “Is your father in trouble? Do I need to call 9-1-1?” Of course she would assume that my face on her doorstep must mean something terrible has happened. I’ve never once initiated contact, not in seventeen years of living right next door.
“No, he’s fine. I’m fine. Well, not fine, but not in dire medical need. Can I—would you want to have tea or anything?”
She lifts both eyebrows, lips pursed. Like she’s waiting for the joke to land. She pulls her housecoat tightly around her chest, blue-and-white parakeets flapping in the cool breeze. “Okay,” she says, her sharp eyes observing me warily. “Come inside from the cold. You’re still in your pajamas, you know.”
I look down. She’s right. Pink-and-yellow-plaid top and bottoms. Slippers on the cold concrete stoop. “I apologize for my indecency. I can change if you want and come back?”
Her gaze softens, just a bit. “Don’t be silly. Get inside. You’re letting the cold in!” She mutters about outrageous oil prices as she heads down the hallway, leading me to where I know her kitchen will be, seeing as it’s an exact mirror image of our house. Structurally, that is. Nothing else is the same. I could have guessed from the housecoat and the cookies, but any color that Mrs. Rizzo lacks in her dour demeanor, she more than makes up for in her home decor. It’s like sparkly rainbow vomit everywhere: the floors, the walls, the countertops. There’s hardly a square of white to be seen anywhere. The hallway is lined with canary-yellow and Barbie-pink and sky-blue frames displaying pictures of kitties and puppies and lambs and—of course—parakeets. There are no baby pictures, no family photos. There is just one portrait of an actual human: a man in an army uniform. The photo has that old-timey brownish golden tint, but I can still tell that he is quite handsome. Was quite handsome. I assume this must be her late husband, but I don’t ask.
The kitchen counter is a mess—canisters and whisks and wooden spoons, dapples of flour and sugar all over the faded silver-speckled Formica. I remember that countertop from when I was younger—replacing it was the one home improvement Dad made with our first Lemonade Skies advance. Mrs. Rizzo points at a kitchen chair, giving a grunt that I take to mean: Sit down. I obey. She’s busying herself with a kettle, filling it and putting it on the stove, rustling around in her cabinets for boxes of tea and mugs and what I suspect is a tin of cookies.
She comes over to me, tin in hands, and takes the lid off. It’s her typical parakeets, but this time—this time there are mini–chocolate chips on top, no sprinkles. “I tried something new today,” she says. “I usually like to keep my chocolate separate, but I figured, why not? Who knows how many days I have left? Might as well try everything once.”
I take one cookie, but Mrs. Rizzo keeps holding the tin in front of me. “It’s not rude to have more if you’re hungry, you know.”
I take three more, and she seems content, closing the tin and putting it down on the table. We smile at each other politely, silent for a moment, before the kettle lets out a low, squeaky whistle. She walks to the counter and collects a tray with two steaming mugs of hot water and every kind of tea bag under the sun.
“I suspect the black cherry would taste especially nice with this particular cookie,” she says, settling the tray at the table and easing into the chair next to me. “And I’m personally very keen on adding a generous drip of cream to my tea. Makes it taste like a real treat.” I take a black cherry tea bag and steep it, adding two cubes of sugar and cream, just as Mrs. Rizzo does. She seems
pleased by this, nodding at my cup approvingly as we both dip our cookies.
“These are fantastic,” I say, only after I’ve chewed and swallowed the entire first cookie. “Seriously, the chips were a phenomenal decision. Game changing.”
“I thought so, too. This new recipe might be the death of me. Or my waistline at least.”
I wouldn’t say that Mrs. Rizzo is slim necessarily, but she’s certainly not morbidly obese. I’d be thrilled to make it to her age—and if I could pick a way to go, death by shortbread chocolate chip cookie seems pretty great, all things considered.
“So you’re in my kitchen to talk about something, I imagine? Given you’ve lived here for, oh, your entire life, and you’ve never set foot on my doorstep. This feels like quite the occasion.”
It’s not accusatory, the way she says it. More an observation. It’s not like she was seeking me out either. She was too busy peeking over the backyard wall and lecturing me on the sidewalk—but now doesn’t seem like the time to point those things out.
Except…she did knock on our door sometimes, didn’t she? With cookies for Dad. Maybe for me, too, even if she didn’t expressly say that. And I was always too snotty to eat one, let alone thank her.
“I’m sorry about that. I’ve been…a pretty shitty neighbor, I guess. I’m a shitty friend and girlfriend, too, so it’s nothing to take personally. Really, you’ve been better off. A shitty neighbor from afar is better than a shitty neighbor who’s too in your business.”
“That was quite a lot of ‘shitty,’ dear.” She’s smiling, though. A small smile, but still easily the biggest one I’ve ever seen on her face. It’s like seeing a beak on a kitten, whiskers on a bird. “But there is something you’re good at, no?” she says. “I’ve followed along for all of Marigold’s adventures, you know. You’re a rather talented writer.”
“You’ve read them?” This stuns me. More than the chocolate chips on her parakeet cookies, more than the fact that I was allowed to say shitty four times without being scolded.
“Your father always gives me a copy hot off the press. Repayment for the cookies.”
“But you never told me. You never once brought it up when you saw me on the street.”
“True. I could have acknowledged it. But you never seemed interested in talking to me, so I suppose I was a bit reluctant to praise you. I can be quite the crotchety old hag, you know.”
She winks at me. Mrs. Rizzo winks at me. I laugh so hard the milky tea spews out of my mouth, and instead of looking at me in disgust, she’s laughing, too. The moment feels so bizarre, so completely surreal and at odds with everything Mrs. Rizzo and I had established in our nonrelationship as neighbors, that suddenly I want her to know.
“Mrs. Rizzo, about that writing thing—”
“Call me Dottie,” she says, cutting me off.
“Dottie,” I say, tentatively. It feels odd on my lips, but no more odd than anything else that’s happening, so I might as well embrace it. “Dottie it is.”
“Thank you.”
“So Dottie, the thing is…”
And just like that, I’m telling her everything. My dad’s unhappiness, his money woes and failed attempts at getting published, his one shot at success. The lie that felt like our only choice. Though maybe Susan had been right—maybe we’d never needed to resort to deceit. But now we’d never know. I tell her about the years of faking my role, faking it so well that no one, not my agent, my editor, my fans ever suspected. I tell her about the deadline, my dad’s mental state, my fights with Liam. Working with Oliver and Emma. The big exposé.
“I’ve lost everything,” I say at the end, miraculously still free of tears. I guess I’m all dried up, nothing left to shed. “No friends, no career. Probably no college prospects, either, since I’ve just been caught in one of the biggest literary scandals in history. Mrs.—Dottie…what do I do now? What’s next?”
“More cookies,” she says, yanking open the lid of the tin and shoving them into my hands. “Eat more cookies.”
“That’s your solution?” I laugh. And then take a few cookies, of course.
“The best I have at the moment. I’m still processing your rather extraordinary tale.” She takes some cookies, too, her already very wrinkled face creasing even more deeply as she chews, considering. “From what I’m hearing, this situation has been awfully toxic. Probably hurt your relationship with your father more than helped it, despite your good intentions. And you were planning on cutting all writing ties after this last book, correct?”
“Yep. This book was it, for me at least. I was scared I was going to be pressured again, by Dad, by the publisher. But I wanted no part of ‘writing’ another book.”
“Do you think,” she starts, then takes another large bite of cookie, and continues: “Do you think that—despite the immediate consequences, yes, and the ugliness of what everyone is saying about you on that darn Internet—maybe it’s for the best? ‘The truth will set you free.’ That’s John, chapter eight—”
“I’m not very familiar with the Bible, but I know that line.” I don’t need biblical fire and brimstone—I’m miserable enough without the idea of hell lurking around the corner. I’ve had enough afterworld with Marigold to need any more of my own.
She sighs, reaching out to pat my hand. Her palm is warmer and softer than I expect—she’s always looked so stiff, I imagined her skin would be brittle and leathery. Dottie is nothing but surprises today.
“I know I’m just a crazy old lady to you. And it’s mostly true. My parakeet obsession! And I’m a lot old, too. Eighty-seven, to be precise.” She looks smug as she says it, proud of every single one of those years. “I’ve told some lies in almost nine decades. None of them as much of a whopper as yours, but they add up. I don’t think lying makes you evil. And considering the reasons for this lie in particular…no, I don’t think you’re an awful person. It was a mistake. And you’re paying for it. But you’re only seventeen. It may be hard to see now, but this lie won’t define you forever. You can’t let it. You have to go on and do so many other good things that this just seems like one blip in a long life of happy truths. You know what I regret about life? That since my husband, Sammy, died thirty-six years ago, I have barely left this house or talked to anyone but these walls. I’ve learned too much about life from the television screen, not from being out there in the wild. So whatever you do, don’t do that. Don’t you dare keep hiding yourself.” She gives my hand one last squeeze and stands up, unceremoniously clearing away our teacups and cookie crumbs.
I’m too dazed to offer to help, which I realize only after the table looks perfectly clean and orderly again. She’s already moved on to the countertops, sweeping up the flour patches and dumping the baking utensils into the sink.
“Can I help you with anything else?” she asks then, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Do you want more cookies to take home to your father? Or for your dinner?”
I nod, even if my stomach hurts from too much sugar and it feels greedy to ask for more. But I don’t have a mom or a grandmother to make me comfort food. Dottie Rizzo is as good as it’ll get for me, and maybe it’s not such a bad alternative.
“I’m glad you came,” she says, handing me a plastic bag of cookies. “You know, if you want to pop over tomorrow, or any day really, you’re more than welcome. It seems like both of these houses can be a bit solitary sometimes. We’re a sad little row, aren’t we?”
Liam, me and Dad, Dottie. A sad little row indeed.
“Of course I’ll be back,” I say as I move toward the door. And I mean it.
She nods, a bit tight lipped as she pretends to shoo me away. But her eyes are smiling and shiny. I’m about to walk down her front steps when she says, “You look so much like your mother, you know that?”
It occurs to me, for the first time ever, that Dottie would have known Mom. She grew up here, right next
door. All along I’ve had another source to be drilling for information, and I was too indifferent toward her to realize.
“Do you think sometime…we could talk about my mom?”
She frowns at me, her eyes even shinier. “Sure. I don’t know much about her life after high school, mind you, but I remember her as a young girl. Sweet thing. Sassy, though, like you. Had some fire to her. By the time she passed, I’d shut myself off in here. She tried to reach out a few times after she moved back with your father, but I pushed her away. I’ll always regret that. I will.”
She closes the door then, and I’m glad, because she can’t see that I’m crying as I trudge back to my own house.
Mom. I’ll finally know more about Mom.
I read for a bit that night. I don’t check my phone or turn my computer back on. I replay my conversation with Mrs. Rizzo—Dottie, which I’ll probably never get used to—and start to think that she’s right. I hate the way it happened, that Liam betrayed me, that I betrayed him, too. But maybe it was all for the best. This is worst. There can only be better. For the first time, I let myself feel it:
Relief.
I fall asleep thinking about my mom, wondering what she would say to me if she could somehow send me a message down here on earth. I may hate the Afterworld when it comes to Marigold, but that doesn’t apply to Mom. I want her to still be existing somehow, her soul some beautiful, untouchable orb of light.
My dreams that night are Marigold’s. I’m climbing again, higher and higher through that great big building in the sky. But it’s my mom at the top. My mom. Rose Lockwood Tate. Mommy. We lock eyes and I reach out. She reaches back. We hug so tight I can feel her heartbeat, her heartbeat. I’m in her arms, all night long.
I’m in her arms until the sun comes up.
eighteen
The third month.
The third time she’d go back to the Afterworld, looking for Colton, hoping things would be different—that he would be there waiting, armed with news about her mom. Marigold kissed her dad good night, went up to bed, and then slipped out just after midnight.
The Undoing of Thistle Tate Page 18
