It Started with Goodbye

by Christina June

  When the song ended, I couldn’t move. My face was slick, tears clinging to my eyelashes as I stared at the ceiling, seeing nothing. I willed my breathing to slow until I was calm and sated. It felt like I’d just run a marathon, the exhaustion was so overwhelming. I closed my eyes and marveled at how magical it was that I could feel all of that, an eruption of emotion, from a song. And if the song could communicate all of that sadness and yearning, what did it say about the musician breathing life into that song? What had SK been thinking that allowed him to play with such fervor?

  The sorrow fled as quickly as it had arrived, moving over for a meddling curiosity. I sat up and opened my email once more.

  That completely wrecked me. Bravo.

  T

  Chapter 11

  Despite the hurricane that had passed through our house, the punishment remained the same. There wasn’t really anything more Belén could inflict on me, within reasonable levels of human decency, anyway. I imagined her feeling smug and justified in her previous assessment of me. Tatum Elsea was trouble and Belén Castillo-Elsea knew it all along. I wondered if this confirmation helped her sleep at night.

  Because Belén was all about keeping commitments, she didn’t tell me to quit my “babysitting” of the Schmidt girls. I think she’d considered it, I’m sure she had, but knowing how her brain worked, she probably assumed that it would stir up more dirt than she was willing to deal with. She probably thought it was stressful enough to keep me in the house and away from respectable friends for a school-related project. Same song, different day.

  For the next few days, I didn’t even come out of my room to watch TV Land with Blanche or exchange chilly silences with Tilly. I read books, occasionally flipped through the SAT study guide that had mysteriously appeared on my bed, worked while listening to SK play his cello on repeat, and usually cried myself to sleep. Sometimes I was ragey. Sometimes I wallowed. Most of the time, though, I felt defeated.

  On the mornings I wasn’t doing my community service, when I became too restless to lie in bed anymore, I’d roll lazily out from under the covers, wrap myself in a Henderson hoodie, and sit at my desk to open my laptop. I usually craved a cup of peppermint tea and hoped Blanche might psychically connect with my thoughts and bring me one, but she never did. I scanned through my email inboxes, sifting through spam, college mailing list blasts, and coupons, hoping a new potential client would seek me out.

  One Saturday morning at the beginning of August, someone did.

  Dear TLC Design,

  My name is Matilda Castillo, and I am currently a rising senior at McIntosh High School for the Performing Arts in Arlington, VA.

  Wait, what? My evil stepsister was trying to hire me? This was too precious.

  This summer, I was selected to take part in a unique opportunity for elite dancers with the District Ballet Company’s summer intensive program.

  She was more of Belén’s clone than I’d realized. Unique opportunity? Elite? I didn’t know anyone else my age who would say those things. I couldn’t believe that she and I had lived in the same house for ten years and grown up worlds apart.

  As a result of this program, I’ve discovered a passion for contemporary dance, and want to create a personal website that highlights the work I’ve done this summer to hone this skill.

  My eyes bugged out of my head. Hold the phone—contemporary dance? I reread the sentence several times to make sure that’s what she’d actually written. As far as anyone at home knew, Tilly was dancing the perfect pas de deux in her black leotard, pink tights, shiny toe shoes, and expertly crafted bun, vying for the title of queen of the ballet. I called up my knowledge of a very popular reality TV show that involved prima ballerinas competing against breakdancers for some insane amount of money and a contract for a music video that wouldn’t ever see the light of day; I’d seen it a time or two with Ashlyn. Or ten or fifteen, but who’s counting. I remember really feeling invested for about three episodes in this one girl who danced like her life depended on getting through the next motion, the next leap or thrust. She chose painfully emotional songs, and her choreography always mimicked whatever feeling the music was conveying. Her movements were jerky and sharp, her toes were flexed instead of pointed, she rolled and writhed, and sometimes there was an ugliness to her body, but her face always told a story. She was a contemporary dancer. That’s what Tilly had a passion for? I would never have put the ice queen and passion in the same sentence. Or zip code. Who was this person?

  I’d like to make a site I can send to colleges that would serve as an art supplement, so it would need to be created using the standards set forth by the selective universities I’ll be applying to in the fall.

  Ah, there she was again.

  I’ve taken a look at your portfolio, and the idea of a personalized questionnaire used to determine the best fit for me and my needs is appealing.

  I aim to please. You’re welcome. Glad I could meet your needs.

  If you could please send whatever forms or paperwork you need me to complete to get started, I would greatly appreciate it. I look forward to working with you.

  V/R,

  Matilda

  What the heck was V/R? A quick google told me it was an abbreviation for “very respectfully.”

  “How is that respectful?” I muttered to myself. I thought that maybe writing out the words you intended the recipient to see, instead of using an acronym, might actually send a message of respect, but what did I know. Maybe discovering new passions with elite dancers and honing your skills made you an expert on respect.

  I stared at the screen wondering how to handle this. I could treat it like a burden, just one more opportunity to bask in Tilly’s superior achievements and life choices, or I could treat Tilly’s request like a gift. A chance to get a peek inside her head. Or maybe, just maybe, a shot at melting some of the ice wedged between us. I wasn’t going to hold my breath on that one, but you never knew. Not a difficult decision after all.

  I smiled to myself, printed out a copy of my client preferences survey—complete with the TLC Design logo right smack at the top—and took myself down the hall to Tilly’s bedroom. I realized that giving Tilly my survey, blowing my cover and revealing that I had a secret business, was a risky move, but I was banking on the fact that she wanted her secret kept quiet even more than I did mine. Plus, I really wanted to see how she would react when she figured out I was TLC. Giddiness practically leaking out my ears, I raised my fist to knock just as she opened the door and slammed right into me.

  “What are you doing?” she spat, and rubbed her forehead, which was turning bright pink where we’d collided.

  “I just wanted to give you something you asked me for.” I held the client questionnaire out to her with both hands and smiled sweetly.

  I wish I’d thought to bring a camera and record the moment for posterity. Tilly was always the kind of girl who, even though she was reserved and introverted and unfailingly polite, you knew had a lot going on under the surface. If you took a look inside her head, you’d probably see five mice running overtime on their little treadmill wheels just to keep up with all the thoughts she had.

  When she saw what I was offering her, it was like those mice didn’t just stop running, they fell off the wheels altogether, rendered immobile from shock. Her face blanched with fear. Fear of disappointing her mother, perhaps? Nope. It was the pure fear of being caught. The same look that jerkface Chase Massey had for a millisecond when the security guard approached my car at Mason’s, right before he turned into a sad, skinny version of the not-so-incredible Hulk. I would never forget it.

  I held the papers out again. “You wanted this, right? I got your email a few minutes ago. Figured it was easier to deliver it by hand. A nice, personal touch. Shows I care, don’t you think?” I dared her to respond, my eyes flashing their challenge.

  Tilly hesitated and then whispered, “You’re TLC?” I could see her putting the puzzle pieces of my name and the company name to
gether. At least one mouse must have gotten back on the wheel. There was disbelief in her tone, and maybe it was the fact we’d smacked heads a moment before, but I thought I might have seen the Ghost of Impressed pass over her. Tilly had always been so preoccupied with her own activities and commitments that she never really paid much attention to mine.

  “At your service.” I gave her a mock curtsy. “So, would you fill that out ASAP so I can get going on your portfolio site? You know, the one you want so you can feature your passion for, what was it again?” I put a finger to the corner of my lips. “Oh, that’s right, contemporary dance.”

  Tilly grabbed my arm and hauled me into her room, reminding me never to underestimate the strength of a dancer, and shut the door behind us. “You cannot tell my mother.” Her face was inches from mine, so close I could feel her breath warm on my skin.

  “Chill out.” I took a few steps away. I hadn’t meant to scare her, only tease her a little bit. “Why would I tell Helicopter Mom of the Year about this?”

  “Seriously?” The look of disbelief was back.

  “Seriously. You’re my client, or you wanted to be, anyway. If I tell Belén about you, you lose your portfolio, I potentially lose my business. Probably not the smartest move.”

  All the mice regained momentum as Tilly considered my logic. Visible relief draped itself over her cheeks and her shoulders, and she sat down on her bed, much more relaxed than ten seconds prior. “You’re not going to tell her?”

  I shook my head.

  “But you hate me.” She was matter-of-fact.

  “I don’t hate you.”

  She put a hand on her hip and quirked an eyebrow skyward, managing to look menacing even though she was sitting and looking up at me.

  “I don’t,” I repeated. “I can’t say I always like you”—this made me laugh and made her look more annoyed—“but you can’t deny that we don’t really know each other.” I pointed to the survey. “Case in point. If you and I talked or had any kind of actual relationship, there’s probably a chance you would have told me about your new, um, passion.”

  She considered this. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “Maybe not,” I conceded. “Look, I’m not going to say anything and I’m not going to ask you about it, unless you want to tell me, but if you want me to do the website, I really do need you to fill out the questions. It helps me do my job.” She didn’t respond, but her eyes tilted down. “Do you still want me to do it?”

  “Yes. I need it.” I didn’t know if she meant the website, the dancing, who knows. But I wasn’t going to push her buttons anymore. She was already clearly in distress. It occurred to me that feeling anxiety about keeping secrets from her mother was the first thing Tilly and I had ever had in common.

  “All right, then. Get me your answers and I’ll get started.” I gave her a curt nod, opened the door, and went back to my room, still a little baffled by what had just happened. In the course of a few minutes, I’d learned more about my stepsister than I had in years of living under the same roof. And I wasn’t totally sure what that said about me, her, or us.

  Back in my room, I sat, holding my new discovery like a brand-new baby; something that needed to be guarded, something delicate and breakable. Partnering with Tilly was a huge risk, for both of us. In a matter of seconds, our entire relationship—thin as it was—had changed completely. It was shocking what uncovering clandestine information could do to one’s outlook on life. One wrong move and the whole web would rip and come crashing down. I hoped she could keep up her end of the bargain. I hoped I could too.

  Instinct took over, and I did what I’ve always done when something is trying to burst out of me—I held on to the key in my pocket for luck, still missing my beloved keychain, and I told my best friend.

  Ash,

  You will never guess what just happened to me!!!

  I wasn’t typically an exclamation point girl, but this situation needed them. Lots of them.

  My perfect stepsister, Belén’s extra-special snowflake, has just hired me to make her a website fueled by rule-breaking and subversion. I have been waiting for the day Tilly decided to rebel against her mother, and miraculously, it has arrived. She apparently “discovered a passion” for contemporary dance and is ready to tell ballet to take a hike. She’s been keeping it to herself all summer. Can you believe that?!?!? My jaw is still lying on the floor, where it’s been since I found out. I wish you could have seen her face when I told her she’d actually hired me, not some faceless professional like she thought, and that her fate was now resting in her lowly stepsister’s hands. Of course, I haven’t told Belén about my business, so Tilly could tattle on me if she wanted to as well. But I have a feeling she won’t.

  Anywho, I had to tell you. Even if you’re still ready to throw me to the wolves, I knew you’d get a kick out of this. And, if you’re not too annoyed with me still, feel free to offer any advice, tactics, or strategies … You know, whatever you can think of. We are in uncharted territory, my friend.

  Yours in conspiracy,

  Tate

  I typed without thinking, without tiptoeing around the elephant that sat firmly between us. When I finished and read it back to myself, I smiled. The old me, the one who cracked snarky jokes and shared secrets with her best friend, was still there; a little damaged, but still there. I hoped Ash could see that, and that the old her, the one who liked conspiring and commiserating, was still there too. I ran my index finger over the teeth of my substitute house key again and smiled.

  And, because I was feeling pretty good about myself, I dashed off a quick note to my dad. The weight of our last conversation was hanging around my neck, and my improved mood reminded me I had the power to take that weight away.

  Hi Dad,

  Just checking in. I feel bad about hanging up on you the other night. It wasn’t my finest hour, but I’m working on it.

  Things here are status quo. You were right about my doing a lot of good with my work this summer. Hope you are too. Can’t wait till you’re back.

  Love,

  Tatum

  I was deliberately vague about which work I was talking about, but he wouldn’t know the difference. He must not have been in meetings or doing site visits, because he wrote back in minutes.

  That means a lot, sweetheart. I’m glad to hear things are looking up. Counting the days till I see you again.

  In my bones, no matter how annoyed or upset I was over how things went down this summer, I knew I was counting the days too. Counting the days off the color-coded calendar until “Ken—out of country” was gone, counting the days till September first, when my sentence would be over, and counting the days, however many they might be, until I heard from my best friend again.

  Chapter 12

  I had to remind myself to stop checking my email for a response from Ash. I knew sitting in my room was only making it worse, constantly refreshing the browser in between working. I did get a note that Emily loved the book cover. She’d promptly filled my Paypal account with the full amount I’d asked for, and told me to expect emails from some of her writer friends. I was still freaking out that someone was paying me for creating art, but I’d take it. Between Emily’s fee, what Abby had given me for her logo, and the Sol Jam posters, I was close to the amount I needed to save for the fine. SK’s site and Tilly’s portfolio would push me over the edge, leaving what I hoped would be a nice chunk to use toward that coveted tablet.

  In a fit of nervous—but oddly positive—energy, as nothing had come from SK, or Ashlyn, or anyone else, I slammed the lid shut and flounced down the stairs, stomping my foot on each step. Each loud thud I made was more satisfying than the next. A silly, childish grin was on my face by the time I made it to the basement, where Blanche sat on the floor, cross-legged, playing solitaire on the glass coffee table.

  “Good afternoon, Tatum,” she said sweetly, without looking up from her cards.

  “Good afternoon,” I said with a smile.

  Bla
nche chuckled. “You’re in a good mood today for a change. I’m glad to see it. I worry about you sometimes, Tatum.”

  My cheeks colored. “It’s not been the best summer ever, exactly, but you already know that.”

  “I do know that. Speaking of, I was walking upstairs the other night and heard something. Arguing. It may have come from the kitchen, but I couldn’t be sure.”

  I didn’t know how to respond. Did she want me to elaborate? She didn’t say anything else, just turned the cards slowly, one by one, arranging them in their straight columns. The grin that had graced my face on the way down to the basement slid off and fell to the carpet at my feet. I dropped to the floor next to Blanche. “I snuck out the other night. I got caught.”

  “Probably not the wisest decision you’ve ever made.” She turned another card.

  “No, probably not. But, in my defense, that’s the most disobedient thing I’ve done in my life. She thinks I’m always screwing up.” We both knew which she I meant. “The thing I choose is always wrong, in her opinion.”

  “Our experiences inform our behaviors, Tatum. My daughter’s actions may not always be justified in your eyes, but I can understand where she’s coming from.”

  “Do you think they’re justified?” I asked. Comparing the differences between Blanche and Belén, it was easy to forget that Blanche was the one who’d made the rules and enforced them for so many years. “I mean, you’re nothing alike. Sometimes, I have a hard time believing you’re her mother.”

  Blanche chuckled softly. “I’m not sure my daughter would have ever followed my lead when it comes to parenting. Though the fact she asked me to come this summer warms my heart.”

  “She never asked for your help with Tilly?”