by Lara Avery
As tradition mandated, after exactly one minute, the noise stopped.
This was the drill on game day. Faces returned to normal, except for the occasional sly look. Homework was extracted and shuffled. It was time to go to first period.
The Lions Dance Team had made it to the southeast side of the cafeteria, to the other end of the school, panting.
“Good one, dudes,” Kelsey told her team, placing loose strands of her hair back into her ponytail as they walked to class.
Ingrid was the color of an eggplant, as usual. She looked worried. “I think I made that kid Frankie pee his pants.”
Kelsey and Gillian laughed. “How did you manage that?” Kelsey asked.
“I banged open the door to the boys’ bathroom just as he was unbuttoning.”
Kelsey closed her eyes and folded her hands with faux wisdom. “A small price to pay in the spirit of victory.”
“Poor Frankie,” Gillian said. “And poor anyone who has to sit next to him.”
Ingrid peeled off to go to Comp Lit. “No one tell him it was me,” she called.
As she left, Gillian tucked another loose strand of Kelsey’s ponytail behind her ear. “You seem good today.”
“I feel good,” Kelsey said, putting her arm around her friend.
“What’s different?” Gillian asked. “Because I’ve been trying to cheer you up for three freaking months now, and I’d kind of like to know.”
They paused in front of Gillian’s AP Euro class. Kelsey did her best to look like she was thinking, but she knew. Last night was the first night in several weeks that she hadn’t cried herself to sleep.
“I mean, I know it doesn’t happen just like that—” Gillian snapped her fingers. “But if there’s anything I can do so that you’re like this all the time, I want to do it. You know?”
She couldn’t tell Gillian about Peter. She wished she could but she couldn’t.
“It’s probably just time,” Kelsey said, smiling. “Don’t read too much into it.”
At that, she was alone, on her way to Geography. She was late, but it didn’t matter. She took her time, basking in the red, in the quiet of the main staircase. As she sidled down the first two stairs, she felt the air on her back change, a little colder, a little clearer.
Someone must have opened a window. She turned to look.
The air came from the art wing. Kelsey had only been to this section of the school once, for Michelle’s junior art show, but she could barely remember it. On impulse, she went back up the stairs.
Four classrooms bordered the small gallery. Inside, two short pedestals holding student sculptures stood in the center: one, a hand made out of clay; the other, a ceramic vase. The walls were lined with portraits in dark pencil, and Kelsey recognized some of the students. Most of them had eraser marks streaked across their faces, noses off-center, hands twisted into too many lines. Michelle had done this assignment, too, back when she had her mermaid hair.
In the corner, Kelsey found it. Unlike the others, it was framed, with a plaque, and it was perfect. Michelle had drawn herself curled up on her side of the porch, sitting on a chair, looking out onto the yard. Sun shone on her face. Tiny hairs, lines that could almost be mistaken for stray pencil, lifted in a light breeze.
A loud creak sounded from across the gallery, and Kelsey jumped.
A teacher, her head full of gray curls, was opening another window.
“Sorry!” she called. “The smell of paint leaks out of Mr. Henry’s room and it gives me a headache.”
A door labeled MRS. WALLACE was propped open, revealing an empty classroom.
The name was familiar. Mrs. Wallace had been Michelle’s AP Art History teacher. Can’t go to the game, Kelsey could remember her saying. Have a paper for Wallace.
“Mrs. Wallace?” Kelsey asked, tearing her eyes from Michelle’s portrait.
Mrs. Wallace paused. “Yes.” Then she squinted, and walked closer. “Miss Maxfield,” she said, a smile of recognition growing on her face.
“The other one,” Kelsey said.
“I know,” Mrs. Wallace said, glancing down. “I was at Michelle’s service.”
They were both quiet for a moment, side by side, and their gazes fell on Michelle’s drawing.
“How is your family?” Mrs. Wallace asked.
“They’re all right.”
“Really?”
Silence. Visions of her father, leaking tears as he did the dishes. Her mother in her corner, listening to Carmen, the opera, on repeat.
“We’ve all lost it,” Kelsey let out. She looked at Mrs. Wallace and shrugged. “To be honest.”
Mrs. Wallace put a hand on her shoulder. “I don’t blame you.”
Mrs. Wallace hadn’t told her to get to class and Kelsey didn’t want to leave just yet. “Did you know my sister pretty well?”
“She was one of my favorite students. A wonderful girl. A little manic, at times, but brilliant. She knew who she wanted to be.”
“Yes!” Kelsey paused, thinking. “And for me, well—” she continued. “It’s like, I had my opposite my whole life.” Kelsey gestured at the portrait. “So I knew exactly who I was. I knew who I was because I knew who I wasn’t. And now she’s gone.”
“I can’t imagine what you’re going through,” Mrs. Wallace said. “But I will say, Kelsey, that as for who you are, you’ve got a whole, long life to figure that out.”
That’s what Davis had said, too. And Gillian. And everyone else. But the truth was, in some very messed-up way, speaking for Michelle, if only for a few minutes, had made her feel less hollow. The only time she felt like moving forward was last night, with Peter, who needed Michelle as much as she did. Yes, she wanted to tell them, I have plenty of time, but Michelle’s time has already run out.
And that wasn’t fair.
Mrs. Wallace looked at her watch. “I better start preparing for next period.”
“I want to take your class,” Kelsey said suddenly.
Mrs. Wallace’s forehead wrinkled. “Which class?”
She couldn’t have Michelle, but she could still get to know her better. She could do what she never bothered to do when Michelle was alive. She could find out what made her tick. “Your Art History class.”
“That’s an Advanced Placement class,” Mrs. Wallace said, then gave a pitying laugh. “You missed the first half! We’re already on French Impressionism. I don’t think you’ll be able to catch up, Kelsey. This is for students serious about art history. It won’t be fun for you.”
“Please.” She found her eyes.
Mrs. Wallace sighed, shaking her head. “You’d have to switch your schedule around.…”
“Let me try. I can do it. Really, I would like to know more about…” Michelle’s portrait next to her, in the corner of her eye, hair lifting. The soup can. Ian’s directions. The print on the wall. “Warhol. Will we study Andy Warhol, for example?”
“Mmm.” Mrs. Wallace narrowed her eyes, thinking. The teacher turned and walked away toward her classroom. Kelsey’s heart sank.
Then Mrs. Wallace called behind her, sighing. “All right. Sort it out with the counselors.”
“I will!” Kelsey called back, and fought the urge to do a little dance.
“Okay, then,” Mrs. Wallace said as she closed the door. “I’ll see you at sixth period.”
POSTMARK 1/6, RECEIVED 1/13
Dear M—Forgot to send you this postcard from the Brussels Airport, so I’m sending it now. I was about to write something else but a huge rat just scurried through the computer room and scared the shit out of me. And I’m wearing flip-flops. My dad always told me flip-flops were the worst kind of shoes because they leave you unprepared. I always told him to screw off and wondered what on earth I would need to be prepared for but now I have rat residue on my foot. You live and you learn. I’m changing into my boots, though their more accurate name is portable ovens. Oh well. Give yourself an awkward sweaty hug for me.—P
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Berthe Morisot.”
Anyone who happened to be passing through the alley behind the Maxfields’ backyard would hear an extended list of notable French Impressionists floating through the night in Kelsey’s scratchy voice, a little scratchier than usual. Maybe she was coming down with something.
“Auguste Renoir.” Kelsey was pacing on her side of the porch, puffy coat unzipped, earbuds blasting. She sniffed. She was definitely coming down with something.
“Mary Cassatt,” she called into the darkness.
Mrs. Wallace, as Kelsey had found out over the past couple of weeks, was a pop quiz sorceress. She had a sixth sense for when her class was most comfortable, and at the precise peak of relaxation, BAM! Quizzes up her sleeve.
“Claude Monet.”
She had recorded herself stating dates and names of paintings, and put them on her phone. She would match the artist to their facts out loud, because staring at a book would find her using it as a pillow. She needed her limbs involved somehow. She was walking to stay awake.
“Edgar Degas.”
“Kelsey?”
She turned to see her deck door slide open, her father’s scraggly, hulking frame dominating the light. She took out her earbuds.
“Hi, Dad.”
A smile peeked through his beard. “Whatcha doin’ out here?”
“Studying.”
“Pardon me, what word just came out of your mouth?”
Kelsey let out a laugh, and said it slower this time. “Stud-y-ing.”
He backed into her room. “You have a clown nose. Come in from the cold for a minute.”
She followed her dad inside, and he folded his big body slowly to sit in her desk chair, wearing the same old Cambodian cotton white button-down, stained slightly with burger grease. As he looked around with a gruff eye, she kicked some dirty clothes into the closet. For a minute, it was like it used to be.
He crossed his ankle over his knee. “What were all those names? Boyfriends?”
Kelsey let out a sarcastic “Ha! No, I—”
“You switched from Spanish to French, or something?”
“Nope.” She flopped on her bed. “I’m taking Art History.”
“Art History, huh?”
“AP Art History. What Michelle used to take.”
Kelsey was staring at the chipped red paint on her nails, avoiding her father’s eyes. “What?” she said finally.
“Nothing,” her dad said, a calm smile resting on his face. “Will you be able to handle a class like that?”
“Yes.”
She could tell he was waiting for further explanation. He knew her as well as anyone. He knew she had spent most of her high school years driving around Lawrence with Davis, improvising parties in the basements of her friends’ houses, avoiding her homework with elaborate excuses. And she was happy that way. But everyone was happier then.
“Have you spoken to your mother about it? I think she’d be very proud you’re challenging yourself.”
Kelsey hadn’t made an effort to speak to her mother since before Christmas, the day of the City Market trip. Her mom left notes for her on the fridge occasionally, and asked Kelsey if she’d missed the deadline for submitting her application to KU. “To your great surprise, I’ve turned it in already,” Kelsey had called to her through the door, and that was it. So, it wasn’t as if her mom was busting down the door to speak to Kelsey, either.
“It’s none of Mom’s business.”
“You’re her daughter. Everything you do is her business.”
“If she wants to know about it, she doesn’t have to send you as a messenger.”
“Kels,” her father said, putting up his hands. “I act alone. I think the Art History class is fantastic.” He paused. Kelsey waited. “And that’s all I have to say about it.”
“Good,” Kelsey said, and she felt herself relax. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” He leaned forward, pinching his nose, just like Michelle used to do when she was thinking. “You’ve got the biggest burden of us all, Kels.” His eyes shone a little, but he blinked, and his smile kept. “You don’t remember this, but your mother used to give you and Mitch baths in the sink. You were both very small babies. And even if she set you on either side of the sink, you’d find a way to get next to each other in the water. You two just loved to cuddle.”
Kelsey was quiet. Of course she wasn’t supposed to remember something like that, but actually, she could.
She could remember the warm water.
Her mother’s hands.
She could remember the puzzle-piece feeling of having her sister next to her, which is a feeling that no one in the world could ever know. Not just anyone else with a sister. Not another set of twins. No one but her and Michelle, and the way Michelle could twist her elbow inside out and Kelsey couldn’t, and Kelsey’s mole on her lower back and Michelle’s on her forearm, and how they always knew what the other was thinking.
When they got older, they had stopped wanting to know. Which was the worst part of all.
“Okay?” her father said, smiling.
“Okay,” Kelsey said, trying to swallow her tears. She smiled back at him. “I should get back to studying.”
“Okay then, strong girl.” He stood up, she stood up, and they embraced.
As he closed her bedroom door, Kelsey put back in her earbuds and pressed PLAY, but she could only hear nonsense syllables. The wound had torn again.
From downstairs, she heard her mother call her name.
It was taking Kelsey a bit to return to reality from a rainy day when they were nine, the day she and Michelle invented their own way of walking down the redbrick sidewalks. Every three steps they skipped, always the right leg, knee up, all the way into downtown. They had the same raincoat in different colors.
Kelsey opened her door and yelled down, “What?”
“Guess who I found in the basement?” her mother called. Kelsey stiffened.
“Don’t—not right now, Melody,” she heard her father say.
“Who did you find?” she asked, glancing at the closed door to her sister’s room.
“Billy Bear!”
“Michelle’s lizard?” An image of the dirty green stuffed animal surfaced, drooping from Michelle’s hand by its tail as she dragged it around.
“Billy Bear the lizard,” she heard her father say, laughing sadly. “Where everyone else saw a lizard, Michelle saw a bear. Of course.”
“I suppose we’ll put it in her room,” her mother said, choppy. Kelsey wiped her nose. She felt something thaw inside her, a little, for her mother.
“That sounds good, Mom,” she called.
“I can’t go into her room right now,” her dad said to her mom, quiet. “Put him on the stairs.”
“I’ll bring him in later,” Kelsey said aloud, and softly shut the door. She had just realized something.
She whipped under her bed and brought out Michelle’s laptop. In the email sign-in box, she typed Michelle’s name. In the password box, she typed another.
“B-i-l-l-y,” she whispered. “B-e-a-r.”
It worked. Hundreds of unopened emails flooded the screen. The first dozen or so were from Peter. First from his personal account, and then his military account: PFC Peter Farrow. So that was his last name. Peter Farrow. She had to stop herself from clicking open the most recent. This was snooping. This was definitely snooping. And yet…
She typed Peter’s name into the search function so that only his emails appeared. They were all there, from the very beginning of the summer, from the very first time he and Michelle had met.
The first subject line was “Here is that band I was telling you about.” The second was “Saw this on the way to Wichita, thought of you.” Another was “Road trip?”
Kelsey paused again.
Peter was the person who knew Michelle most recently. He was, at least, the person who Michelle wanted to know her.
Kelsey’s fingertips sat on the warm
laptop keys.
It wasn’t just about the mysteries behind Michelle anymore.
It was the little things, too. Kelsey craved hearing her voice, the rhythm of her words, her everyday thoughts. A current ran through her, animating her hands.
She clicked the first email open. “Michelle,” it read. “Peter here. From the concert. You were a great tour guide.…”
“Peter, I like how you said, ‘Peter here,’ even though your email address has your first name. Of course it’s you. Who else would it be? I’m kidding. It was nice to meet you, too. I had no idea the Avett Brothers were originally a punk band. Did you follow them before? Can’t say punk is my thing but…”
“Michelle, Peter here, again. It’s me, Peter. From before? (Haha.) Punk is to me like fantasy novels are to some people. It’s like the fantasy of being angry and raw and on drugs. I am none of those things, but when I listen to the Ramones, I can pretend I am while dancing around my room.…”
“Peter, this is Michelle, the girl who you have been previously emailing, and met once in person outside the Granada after a concert, when my middle-aged friend Emerald tried to sell you a painting of her spirit animal. I believe it was an egret. Anyway, it’s me.…”
“Michelle: Kansas, though large, is flat and easily traversed, especially in a car. I would like to see you again and finally visit the Art Museum, preferably without the company of your friend Emerald, but if she wants to come, that’s okay, too.…”
By the time she got through all of them, it was late. Later than late. It was early. Michelle’s words leapt around her mind like exploding kernels of popcorn. She couldn’t believe the emails were over. She didn’t want them to be over.
The only light in the room came from the computer. Kelsey could feel her eyelids drooping. As she drifted off, a sound like a rock dropping into a pond rang out from the laptop speakers. Kelsey jumped, blinking her eyes open.
Peter: you there???
Me: yep!
She took her hair down from its bun.
His call popped up in a small window. She pressed ANSWER.
