The Looking Glass

by Janet McNally

  Jack is still holding my hand. “You were right, you know.”

  “About what?”

  “Well.” He pauses. “We don’t really know each other that well, despite having known each other for a long time. But there are things I know about you.”

  Jack is looking ahead of us, and I’m looking at him.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah,” he says. He turns his face toward me. “I know how kind you are, and how smart you are. I know that when you want something, you find a way to make it happen.”

  “Is that a good thing, though?” I glance down at the linoleum, which is shiny and pearl gray. “All it meant was that I broke my own heart.”

  Jack nods his head one time, emphatically. “Yes,” he says. “It is a good thing. You found out what you needed to know.”

  “I guess.” There’s a little girl in a wheelchair to my right, waiting for her mother to fill out some paperwork. Her leg is in a dark pink cast right up to the knee. I smile at her, and she smiles back. She waves, and I do too. Ahead of me, at the end of the hall, I see a woman push the button for the elevator and a little spark goes off in my brain. Save yourself, I hear. (In the voice of Stevie Nicks, if you really want to know).

  “Do you think we could make it?” I ask Jack.

  Jack looks at me. “Make it?” he asks. I nod in the direction of the elevator. I’m afraid he’ll say no—that we couldn’t get there in time, that someone would stop us, and anyway, I should stay to make sure I’m okay. He’s cautious like that. But I can see the possibilities unspool in his brain, see him calculating the risks. For a moment, I can’t tell which way it’s going to go.

  He squeezes my hand. Ahead of us, the elevator doors slide open, and Jack leans a little closer to me, puts his lips by my ear.

  “Run,” he says.

  Where We’re Going

  THE DOORS TO THE STREET whoosh open for us and we run straight through them, then all the way down the block. We don’t stop until the flashing lights of the ambulance out front look like snow-globe glitter when we look back.

  “We may have made that exit a little more dramatic than it needed to be,” Jack says.

  “That was so much fun,” I say. Or I try to say it. I’m basically panting.

  “You are so much fun,” Jack says. He reaches for me and pulls me toward him. We kiss in the street and I feel my molecules swirling, but I don’t mind. Someone honks, and we pull apart. We hop up on the sidewalk, both smiling like someone has given us free puppies and chocolate milk shakes at the same time.

  He unzips Pavlova’s bag and she hops out onto the sidewalk and looks up at us in a very WTF kind of way.

  “Sorry, Pav,” Jack says.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Lots of drama. Thank god I wasn’t wearing a hospital gown.” I bend down to pet my dog. “I feel a little guilty about running out on Dr. Sara, but I couldn’t stay there for one more minute.” I grin. “I’ll send her a really good thank-you note.”

  I pull my phone from my bag. There’s a text from my brother, a selfie he took just now, apparently, in front of a sign that says his name.

  “Oh my god. Everett,” I say. “I forgot. He’s here. In DC.”

  “Where?”

  I squint at the picture. “Georgetown, I think.” I look up. “He says he’s speaking tonight.”

  Jack smiles. He’s so even-tempered, so dependable, but at the same time he makes my electrons spin.

  “Well,” he says, “I guess we know where we’re going.”

  Seeing Stories

  WHEN WE GET TO THE auditorium, Everett is sitting behind a table on the low stage. He’s talking to the woman sitting next to him, who has spiky pink hair. She’s smiling at him.

  The room is filling, but I go straight to the front. I don’t want to go up on the stage but I stand at the foot of it, right in front of my brother. It takes him a moment to notice, but when he does, it’s like he’s seen a ghost.

  “Sylvie,” he says, coming around the table and hopping off the stage. He crushes me into a hug. “What the hell are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be at camp?” He lets me go then and looks into my face.

  I open my mouth. Then I close it again. I want to tell him the whole story—I will someday—but for now, I can only manage the end. And even then, I feel close to tears in the middle of this auditorium.

  “Julia sent me a map,” I say. “Or at least I thought it was a map, but it wasn’t. I thought she wanted me to find her.”

  “Okay,” Everett says. His voice is careful.

  “I thought she was in trouble,” I say. “I thought she needed me to save her.”

  “What happened?”

  “I was wrong.” I press my hands together. “She’s here, in DC, but she didn’t need me. Didn’t want me to come.”

  “Oh, Syl,” Everett says. “You were always seeing stories in your head. Heroes and villains and victims who need saving.” He’s smiling, but his eyes are sad. I see my mother’s happy-sad face in his. “I don’t mean to play Wise Old Brother here, but you can’t—”

  My tattoo twinges. “Yeah, I understand that now.”

  Everett is watching my face. “She’s here, though?”

  I nod. He shakes his head like he’s shaking thoughts out of his mind.

  “Listen, I have to do my panel. You can sit in the front.” He points. “We’ll talk more afterward.”

  When it’s Everett’s turn to talk, he goes to the podium. Behind him on the screen is a sketch from the first issue of The Square.

  “Hey, everybody. I have to tell you, I’m a little rattled.” He runs his hand through his hair. “My sister’s here.” There’s some tittering in the crowd and someone says, “Uh-oh!”

  “No,” Everett says, putting up a stop-sign hand. “I love my sister. Actually, I love both of them. But this particular sister is sixteen and I didn’t expect her to show up here tonight.” He looks at me, like he’s talking just to me at this moment. “Though I’m happy she did, because she’s going to make an appearance on here.” He points his thumb at the screen behind him.

  “I’ve been working on this series for three years,” he says. “The story has to evolve or it dies. So tonight, you all will be the first ones to meet my new characters.”

  There’s a smattering of applause. I feel nervous for some reason, and then Everett clicks to the next picture.

  “I just drew this a few days ago,” Everett says. “They’re practically brand-new. These two are Theo’s sisters.” Theo is one of his Square characters, the one I always thought was most like him. I didn’t know Theo had sisters.

  It’s us. Julia and me. She’s in a leotard and leg warmers, the tattered remains of a tutu hanging from her waist. She’s standing in the middle of an iridescent oil spill, and I’m standing right by her side in pointe shoes and leggings. You can see the reflection of our legs in the oil. We look strong.

  “They’re ballerinas,” he says. “And sisters. Like mine. I spent hours and hours at their recitals when I was younger, so I thought I might as well put it to use.” People laugh. “But that’s not all I’ve put to use. We’re supposed to talk about where we get our ideas. I mean, usually I make things up. This is a dystopian series, right? Manhattan’s not uninhabitable . . . yet.” More laughter. “But I did take something from my life here. This is a story line about what it feels like to lose someone. What it feels like to get them back.”

  There’s a catch in my breath and before I realize it, I’m crying. I don’t wipe the tears away. I just listen to my brother.

  “I have a point,” Everett says, “and this is it: you can use the bad things that happen to you. You can make something out of them.”

  The auditorium is totally silent, and I can imagine that everyone here is trying to think of what they can make out of the bad things, the sadness they can’t let go. As for me, I put it into my dancing, for sure, but I also put it into this trip. I put it into finding Julia, letting the world break my hear
t. And somehow I’m still here.

  “In all seriousness”—Everett is looking at me again now—“ballet dancers are superheroes. They go through some major pain to make something beautiful.” I swipe the back of my hand across my eyes and it comes away wet. “What I’m saying is, if the apocalypse happens, you want a ballerina on your side.”

  I’m pretty sure I’m still crying, but I’m also smiling so big I feel like my face might fall off.

  There is a throng of people—fans!—waiting to talk to my brother. When they finish, I notice his sketch pad sitting at the edge of the table. I sift through it and find half a dozen versions of the ballerina sisters—Julia and me.

  “Can I have a couple of these?” I say.

  He nods. “Of course. You like them?”

  I gather them up and slip them into my bag. “I love them.”

  “I was worried you wouldn’t. Or you wouldn’t want me putting our story in my book, in whatever form.” He smiles. “It just sort of came to me the other day. Which is weird, since you were out looking for Jules right then.”

  There are enough weird things in the world that I’m willing to accept one more.

  “I think it’s perfect,” I say. I lower my voice. “Are you going to go see her?”

  He waits. Then he shakes his head. “No.” But the way he says it tells me that some part of him wishes he could, even if he knows it’s not the right choice.

  “You should call Grace,” I say.

  His face brightens when I say her name. I see the light in his eyes.

  “Why?” he asks.

  “Because you can’t just send a girl drawings of her in the mail with no explanation. It’s not polite.”

  A slow smile spreads across his face.

  “Makes sense,” he says.

  Later, after Jack and I eat burritos with Everett and send him back to the Georgetown dorms, we stand on the sidewalk next to the Volvo. The sky above us is wide and dark, and even though I can’t see Ursa Major very well with the city lights shining, I know she’s up there.

  “Now what?” I ask.

  “Now we go to Richmond.”

  “What?” My eyes are wide.

  Jack shrugs. “Someone I trust made a case that it’s the right thing to do.”

  “Can we make one stop first?”

  “I told you,” Jack says, smiling. “You’re the one sailing this ship.”

  Look

  THE WHOLE RESTAURANT IS LIT up gold. The neon sign still buzzes bright blue. Jack and I sit in the Volvo, parked on the street out front. We’re both watching the window.

  I don’t know whether she’ll still be there, but after a few moments I see her, walking from the kitchen with a tray. I pick up the fairy tale book. If I give it back to her, what will happen? I’m not sure she’d even want it. And if I’m honest, I don’t want to give it up.

  I put the book down. I pick up Everett’s sketch instead. I get out of the car.

  She’s still on the same shift, but for me, this has been the longest day. It might as well have been an entire week. It’s bright in there and dark outside, but there’s a streetlamp right out front, so the sidewalk is illuminated. When I stand there, step into its circle of light, so am I. I can see my sister through the window, putting dishes on a table. I can see myself too, the ghost of my reflection. I see it in the glass, but I know that I’m real, out here on the sidewalk.

  Jules steps away from the table and turns my way. She sees me. She stops, lowering the empty tray to her side.

  I smile. I wave. It means

  hello

  and

  goodbye

  and

  you are who you are and that’s okay.

  She waves back. I don’t know what her wave means, but I’ll take it. It’s something.

  There’s a bunch of flyers taped to the outside of the window, band shows and lost cats and apartments for rent. I take a piece of tape from the bottom of a flyer for a band called Hashtag Witch Hunt and I use it to attach one of Everett’s folded-up sketches to the window. Julia stands in the middle of the aisle, watching me. I take a step back and this is when I see it again: my reflection in the glass, over Julia. We are not the same. We are two different people. We always will be.

  I walk back to the car and get in. Pavlova hops into my lap.

  “You ready?” Jack asks.

  I take a breath.

  We’re going to drive to Richmond. Jack’s going to talk to his dad and I’m going to have to tell Sadie that I’ve been kissing her brother. And then when I get home, I’m going to tell my mother that I’m not sure about Level Seven. That I need to take a break and figure that out.

  I think she’ll understand.

  When we leave, when she has a chance, my sister will come out and get Everett’s sketch from the window. She’ll know that we love her—that he loves her enough to have drawn it, that I love her enough to have brought it here. That’s going to have to be enough for now.

  I look in the rearview mirror. I half expect to see butterflies, owls, bluebirds, twisting vines covering the restaurant. Every Girl in Trouble lined up on the sidewalk. But I think we’ve crossed into the Ever After. It’s time.

  I look at Jack. “I’m ready,” I say.

  Jack smiles at me, and then he pulls away from the curb. I pick up Jack’s phone. I’m looking for a Stevie song.

  Acknowledgments

  I’m sure you know this by now, but there’re all sorts of magic in the world. I’m going to take a moment here to thank all the people who’ve brought it to this book and my life.

  I’m so grateful for my team at William Morris Endeavor: my agent Jay Mandel, who is kind and funny and generally fantastic; Lauren Shonkoff, who cheers for me silently during conference calls; Laura Bonner, who handles the whole rest of the world (that’s big); Janine Kamouh for her fantastic insight; and Flora Hackett, who’s helped take things cinematic. You guys are the best, and I’m so lucky to have you on my side.

  At HarperCollins, I’m so happy to work again with my editor Kristen Pettit, who is supportive and insightful and fun. Elizabeth Lynch’s enthusiasm always peps me up. Jenna Stempel has designed another beautiful cover, with the help of Hsaio-Ron Cheng and her gorgeous illustrations. Thanks to the rest of the team at Harper too: Jessica Berg, Bess Braswell, Tyler Breitfeller, Jacqueline Hornberger, Laura Kaplan, and Kimberly Stella.

  Thanks to the following friends, who’ve been kind and generous in all sorts of ways: Brian Castner, Barbara Cole, Anne Marie Comaratta, Julie Eshbaugh, Michael Estes, Noah Falck, Laurie Elizabeth Flynn, Kami Garcia, Jeff Giles, Heidi Heilig, Bridget Hodder, Lucy Keating, Jessi Kirby, Kerry Kletter, Nina LaCour, Meg Leder, Jen Maschari, Shannon Parker, Deanna Pavone, Lygia Day Peñaflor, Riley Redgate, Marisa Reichardt, Dee Romito, Rob Selkowitz (scientist-on-call), Laura Shonan, Amber Smith, Eric Smith (who also named my bakery), Courtney Smyton, Janet Butler Taylor, Sherry Taylor, Rachelle Toarmino, Alison Umminger, Kali Wallace, Lauren Willett-Benson, Jeff Zentner, and Missy Zgliczynski. Kathleen Glasgow, for being there for me every day. Harriet Reuter Hapgood and her floor-length tutus. Katie Kennedy, who gave me a pep talk when I really needed it, and great notes. Emily Henry, for her notes and her sparkle. Aryanna Falkner and Gaby Weiss, who answered the call of the BookBat Signal in the sky. Diana Goetsch (and her committee) for the great untaken band name. Denise Zdon Bitar, who talked tattoos with me. Joe Murray, for handing out copies of my book to rock stars when necessary. Jaime Sampson, who named my diner. Symon Mink and his long-ago Volvo. Jodi Bryon and Brett Essler, who are among my favorite humans. Jon and Martha Welch and everyone at my favorite independent bookstore, Talking Leaves Books. Canisius College and my students and colleagues there, who make my job a pleasure, especially Mick Cochrane and Eric Gansworth, the very best mentors turned friends. My professors from the MFA program at the University of Notre Dame: Valerie Sayers, Sonia Gernes, William O’Rourke, and Steve Tomasula, plus my talented cohort there. The teachers and staff at my
daughters’ dance studio, the Fit Physique, especially Candice Cavanaugh and Kandi Braun. Janet McNally (the other one), otherwise known as Janet of the North, who is the best name doppelgänger a girl could ask for. Janie Killewald for her moonflowers. New York Foundation for the Arts, for awarding me fellowships in fiction twice: I truly appreciate your support. To the Sweet Sixteens, who are supportive and kind. To the Fight Me Club: I’m so happy to be one of you. To Erin, who came back: I’m so proud of you.

  Thanks to Misty Copeland, whom I saw at JFK airport when I was doubting this book. Like Sylvie would have, I saw that as a sign. Thanks, too, to Fleetwood Mac, who gave Sylvie and Jack their road-trip soundtrack. When I began this book I wasn’t even a Fleetwood Mac superfan (gasp!), but I’ve come to love these songs, and I sure love Stevie Nicks.

  Thanks to my mother, for all her love and support. To my brother Pat, who buys stacks of my books and forgets to give them to his friends. I mean, eventually he remembers, but we get to laugh about it in the meantime. To my sister-in-law Mary, best one I could ask for, and to Peggy McNally, one of my favorite adults. To my daughters: I hope you’ll go to the ends of the earth for each other if you need to. To Jesse, who has loved me for such a long time. I love you too.

  I lost my dad when I was finishing this novel, and I miss him every day. He used to forward me emails from the International Space Station until I finally signed up myself. Now, whenever I get one, and when I watch its bright dot cross the sky above me, I think of him. Thank you, Dad. I love you.

  Resources

  If you love someone who is addicted to alcohol or drugs, my heart is with you. There are many amazing organizations working to improve the lives of people suffering from addiction, as well as their families and friends. Some of these organizations are listed below. While all efforts have been made to ensure the accuracy of the information in the following sections as of the date this book was published, it is for informational purposes only. It is not intended to be complete or exhaustive, or a substitute for the advice of a qualified expert or professional.