by Anne Ursu
It would have never occurred to Iris to put a campfire on the surface of the moon. It wasn’t just that you can’t actually have fire on the moon; she was not one of those stick-in-the-mud people who insisted that people’s imaginations venture no further than the laws of science allowed. It was just that the atmosphere of her mind could never allow such ideas to spark in the first place.
Now Lark sat cross-legged on her bed, clutching her beanbag cat, Esmeralda. Iris could not sit. She felt like pacing, but pacing in Lark’s room would be fraught with peril, so she leaned against the wall and imagined she was pacing, which helped a little.
“Mom and Dad knew,” Lark breathed. “And they didn’t do anything about it.”
“They could have at least told us!”
“They could have told us, and they could have told Principal Peter that they didn’t want us to be separated.”
“I don’t understand how he could do this to us. Like, is he trying to punish us?”
Lark looked up at her. “Principal Peter? Why would he do that?”
“. . . I don’t think he likes me.”
“Well, you did march into his office and tell him Tommy Whedon was a menace.”
It was true. She had. Someone had had to do it.
Lark had always been a little frightened of Principal Peter, ever since first grade when he’d teased her about drawing in class instead of listening to the teacher. Iris, however, was not scared of him. Iris was the one who could look him in the eye and tell him the things that were awry in his school if need be.
“Remember next time you’re going to tell me before you do something like that?”
“Okay,” Iris grumbled. This was a frequent conversation between the two of them. The problem was, if she told Lark she was going to do something like march into Principal Peter’s office to hand him the anti-bullying policy and inform him he was not enforcing it, Lark would tell her not to do it, that it wouldn’t help, and that it would just make Iris even madder, and then Iris wouldn’t do it because she’d never disappoint Lark like that. So she didn’t tell Lark, she just did it, and it didn’t help, and it just made Iris even madder.
“Still,” Lark said. “I don’t think he’s punishing us.”
Iris gazed at her sister. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” Lark said. “I don’t think principals are supposed to do things like that. You’re not actually supposed to take stuff out on kids. That’s got to be in the manual.”
Iris exhaled, then flopped down on the bed next to her sister. “Then why?”
Lark’s face darkened. “You heard Mom. Because he thinks it’s in our best interest. I don’t know why!” She sniffed. “But I don’t understand why Mom and Dad didn’t tell him he was wrong. I don’t. They seem to agree with him!” Her voice cracked.
Iris twirled a strand of hair in her fingers. She didn’t know what to say. How could anyone possibly think it in their best interest to be apart? What did that mean? The phrase didn’t even make sense—that wasn’t how any of those words were supposed to work.
“Maybe I should talk to them again.”
“It’s not going to matter,” Lark said. “You heard them. They made up their minds.”
“But . . .” But if she could just explain it. If she could find the right words, and the right way of saying those words, then maybe they’d listen.
Lark shook her head. “Iris, they’re not going to listen. There’s no point. They’ll just get mad at you for arguing with them.”
“I don’t care if they’re mad at me!”
“But I do! And you get mad that they aren’t listening to you, and Dad starts using that voice and Mom looks sad and then they act really weird and plastic with me because they don’t want to let on to me that they’re annoyed at you because they want to show us that they think of us as individuals, even though I’d actually rather they just acted annoyed with me than weird and plastic, and meanwhile everyone in the house is mad at each other, and it doesn’t help. When has it ever helped?”
“Well . . .”
Lark was right. The truth was, never. It never helped. Just like at school. Instead Iris got talking-tos about how they were so glad she was able to stand up for herself and her sister and they always wanted her to know she could talk to them about anything, but at the same time, Iris, we’re your parents and sometimes enough is enough, sometimes you need to accept things and move on.
But that didn’t mean it might not work someday.
“What if Mr. Hunt is mean?” Lark said, clutching Esmeralda to her. “What if he’s one of those teachers who likes to call on students who don’t like to raise their hands? What if we have to do a lot of presentations?”
Iris eyed her sister. Lark seemed focused on the bed, but Iris knew she wasn’t really looking there: she had suddenly retreated into herself, into that corner of her brain that occupied itself with spinning stories about the future, all with terrible outcomes. It was one of Lark’s gifts and curses: she saw the story in everything. Once upon a time there was a girl who was given a new teacher at school, but no one knew that the teacher was really an evil sorcerer. He looked into the girl’s heart and saw there all of her fears, and then he made her fears come true.
“I don’t even know who else is in the class!” Lark exclaimed. “What if Tommy Whedon’s in there? Who am I going to be partners with? What if there’s an odd number of girls and no one wants to be partners with me? What if I say something weird and everyone laughs at me?”
Iris inhaled. What could she say? There was nothing to say, and Lark was stuck in that storytelling room in her brain, where even Iris’s words weren’t always enough to get her out.
A quiet knock on the door then. Iris sat straight up and Lark shot her a look, as their mom came in and perched herself against the wall, a plastic bag in her hands.
Iris could feel the words swelling in her chest: a cold What is it? And a hopeful Did you change your mind? And an angry What were you thinking? And a desperate Did you hear what Lark just said? She opened her mouth, not knowing which question would fly out, but her mom held up her hand. Wait.
Iris swallowed. Lark blinked rapidly.
“Girls,” she said, eyes guarded. “Your father and I are sorry—”
“So you’re calling Principal Peter?” Iris exclaimed.
Her mother’s eyebrows went up.
Shhh, Lark tapped quickly.
“Let me finish,” her mom said gently. “Iris. Lark,” she continued, looking at each girl in turn. “Your father and I are very sorry you’re upset.”
Iris blew air out of her cheeks. There was nothing sorry about I’m sorry you’re upset. I’m sorry you’re upset didn’t mean I did something wrong and I’m going to fix it right now. It meant I did something right and your reaction is the problem.
“But,” she went on, eyes on Iris, “we want you to understand that we have every confidence that you girls will succeed and be happy and have great school years. Just like you always do.” Now she smiled warmly at them. “I know it must seem scary, but it’s going to be okay. You still have each other’s backs, and we have your backs, always.”
At this, Lark’s hand flew to Iris’s knee. Iris clamped her mouth shut.
“We just want you two to try. Give it a chance. We have faith in you. And maybe after a few months you guys can have more faith in yourselves. Now,” she continued, straightening, “as we’ve discussed, we need to get you girls signed up for after-school programs this fall, and the deadline for some of them is Friday. Lark”—she reached into the bag and pulled out the printouts and pamphlets she’d been waving at them for the last couple of weeks—“there’s an art program at Barnhill that I think you’d be interested in.”
“Yeah, but Iris doesn’t—”
“I know. You guys are going to do different programs, too.”
“What?” Iris exclaimed.
“Just to try it. Just this fall. Lark, you love Ms. Messner. You love art, and this i
s a chance for you to really focus on it, and that will be so good for you! And Iris, you really love . . .”
Her mom stopped talking. Iris waited. Next to her, Lark cocked her head.
“Well, you might find something you love. This is a good chance for you to do that.”
“Mom,” Iris said, “I don’t want to do any of that. I might as well take art. I don’t mind it that much.”
At that, Lark made a small noise. Even Esmeralda seemed to laugh.
“No,” her mom said. “It doesn’t make sense for you to do something you don’t like. This is an opportunity to find something you do like.” She looked back and forth between the girls. “You guys don’t have to do everything together. It doesn’t mean you’re not still sisters.”
“That’s not it!” Iris said, a tremor at the edge of her words.
“My sweethearts. You’re still each other’s best friends, and you still can be there for each other. Nothing important is changing.” She smiled at them, eyes full of love and misunderstanding. “All we’re asking is that you try this. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
Chapter Five
Meanwhile, Back at the Shop
Right after the shop opened, the chalkboard sign changed from We Are Here to, simply,
ARE YOU?
As it always did.
Are you?
This stopped passersby in their tracks.
Am I what?
Here, I think. The sign said We Are Here, before.
Well, of course I’m here! Where else would I be?
Others just gaped.
Are You? Are You?
Am I?
One man stared at the sign for a whole minute, and then shouted, “Yes! Yes I am!”, and then ran home, quit his job, and started a cat rescue.
Are You?
Most people thought the sign was simply clever, clever enough to stop people in their tracks, clever enough to make some of them want to go check out the store behind the sign, to peruse the treasures within.
Good marketing! people said.
It wasn’t, really. Getting potential customers into Treasure Hunters was just a happy accident. And it didn’t always work—there are cities where people put their heads down and scurry away in the face of probing questions like Are you?
But, once again, the sign was not for them.
Still all the passersby were right, and I could have told them so. The sign meant both Are you here? and Are you?
Are you here? Are you still alive? Are you well? Are you paying attention?
Are you?
Chapter Six
Missing Pieces
There was always a point where it was worthless to argue with their parents anymore. Lark always knew exactly where that point was, and Iris always argued well past it.
But now things were at the place where even Iris knew that arguing was fruitless. Lark was right: nothing they said was going to matter. Whatever had caused Principal Peter to enact this travesty, their parents were in all the way.
In fact, her parents had apparently decided that it was a wonderful idea, an inspiring idea, an idea so amazing it should have little baby ideas that could run around and ruin everything.
This is how it is with parents: they read some article by an alleged parenting expert online or some psychologist says something on the radio or the principal gets a head injury, and they get inspired, and they start having their own ideas, and suddenly you’re trying a new vegetable every night of the week, or going to bed at eight thirty no matter what, or having family weeding time every spring, which is supposed to instill a love of gardening in you but looks suspiciously like you doing the parts of gardening that your dad doesn’t like.
Yes, Lark would do art camp at school with Ms. Messner, who adored her and who had once pronounced her milk-carton project visionary, and Lark could take the activity bus home afterward. And that would be fine—Lark would be fine. She loved art class, and it wouldn’t even matter too much that Iris wasn’t there because it wasn’t like art required a lot of talking to people.
And Iris?
“Just pick something,” her mom said the next morning before Lark had emerged from her room, spreading the flyers out in front of her. “What appeals to you?”
Nothing. Nothing appealed to her. “Why don’t I just take the bus to the library after school? I can read and do homework and stuff. You could leave my bike there on your way to work and I could just bike home.”
Iris grinned. She hadn’t even thought of the whole transportation angle until she started talking, but it displayed just the kind of practical thinking that showed that she could be trusted to make her own decisions. Surely anyone who has thought things through so thoroughly can be trusted to be by herself at the library.
And indeed, her mother grinned at her, like Iris had had some great idea. And Iris felt some piece of dread break off and fall away. She didn’t have to go to some silly class by herself with kids she didn’t know. She could go to the library. She would be happy at the library! She loved the library!
“What a great idea! There’s a wonderful program at the library that I think would be perfect for you. I wasn’t sure how to make it work, but your plan is terrific.”
“No, that’s not—”
“You’re going to love it. It’s like . . . girl camp!”
“What?”
“It’s called Camp Awesome. Here.”
Iris glanced at the printout. Her mom was not characteristically good at details, and “girl camp” could have meant anything, including a camp only open to boys, but the printout showed that her mom was right. Camp Awesome was an after-school “enrichment club” at the library, for girls ages nine to twelve, where they would spend their time learning about a somewhat random assembly of topics, all of which would help girls “explore interests, gain confidence, and find their voices.” And, presumably, keep them safely occupied for ninety minutes after school every day.
Iris sank in her seat. She didn’t mind the idea of this, exactly: she herself was a collection of somewhat randomly assembled topics. But she did not understand why she needed enrichment at all. She was not white flour or garden soil. She was perfectly capable of sitting at the library reading through the kids nonfiction section—she could explore interests on her own. She was self-enriching.
“But I don’t want to.”
“Why not?”
“Because . . .” What? She had no good answer. She just didn’t want to. Why was she supposed to have good answers for everything? Sometimes the not-wanting-to rose up inside you until it filled you up.
“I’m happy to sign you up for something else. There are classes at the park. . . .”
Iris looked down at the table. “Whatever. I’ll do girl camp.”
“Camp Awesome,” her mother clarified, as if that made it better.
“Yeah. I’ll do that. It’s fine.”
It wasn’t fine. But there was clearly no point in saying that; her parents had made up their collective mind. Lark was right. This whole year was spiraling out of her control and school hadn’t even started yet.
Really, she just didn’t want to talk about it anymore. Her stomach was hurting, like something was gnawing on it from the inside.
Her mom gave her a small smile. “Okay. I’ll sign you up right now.”
Just then, Lark came padding down the stairs calling for them.
“I can’t find my bracelet!” she said when she got into the kitchen, thrusting her empty wrist in front of them both. Her face was all twisted in worry.
“When did you last see it?” their mom said.
“When I went to bed! I took it off and put it by my lamp, like I always do.”
“Could it have fallen on the floor?”
“I looked there! I looked everywhere.” Lark threw her hands up in the air.
“I’ll help,” Iris said, standing.
“Me too,” said her mom. “Don’t worry, it will turn up.”
This di
d not make Lark look any less worried, and Iris didn’t blame her one bit. That was what her mom always said when things got lost: It will turn up. She said it like a fact, like sixteen plus sixteen is thirty-two and a group of owls is a parliament and blue whales are the largest animals. As if everything were absolutely sure, as if never in the history of the world had someone lost something and never found it again.
Iris had noticed, though, that when her parents lost something it was different: they got frantic and acted like the sum of sixteen and sixteen might just have changed overnight, as if yellow and blue now made pink, as if these sort of things could happen when you weren’t paying attention.
“What if it doesn’t?” Lark said.
“Oh, honey, it will. Things don’t just disappear into thin air. It must be somewhere in your room—nothing could have taken it out of there, right?”
Her mom’s voice sounded slightly strained, the way it always did when Lark’s worries started running away with her. Like she didn’t know whether to act like these worries were perfectly understandable or to demonstrate that they were completely irrational, and so she ended up doing neither.
The three of them went back upstairs and stepped into Lark’s room. Of course, given the chaos there, if the bracelet had gotten on the floor they’d never be able to find it, and it might in fact have gotten stuck on something and be lost for all eternity. Still, they looked valiantly—around the nightstand, under the bed, in the covers.
Nothing.
Lark hovered, eyes wet, rubbing her wrist.
“Could you have maybe . . . taken it off in the bathroom or something?”
“No!”
“Maybe we should just check anyway? Iris, why don’t you go look?”
“I didn’t take it off in there!” Lark exclaimed.
Iris stopped, glancing back and forth between her sister and her mother. It was true that Lark might well have taken her bracelet off in the bathroom and just not remembered, because she was Lark and was far more interested in what she was thinking than what she was doing. It happened all the time.
