Under the Moon

by Deborah Kerbel

  My eyes fly open again. “Of Aunt Su?”

  Nod. Dad’s hand-patting picks up speed.

  “But how is that even possible? What did she have that Mom didn’t?”

  His dark eyebrows bounce with surprise. “You, of course.”

  Merde. I lean back on the couch and let out a long, deep breath. Suddenly, I’m so tired I just want to curl back up and go to sleep all over again. So tired, I almost break down and tell him about Aunt Su’s letter and the truth about how she really died. Almost. It’s on the tip of my tongue. But I don’t. It’s not my truth to tell. So I take another long, deep breath. “I just need some space, Dad … you know?”

  He leans forward and sighs. Pokey elbows jutting into big, thick knees. “Maybe you and your mom would have the chance to be closer if you didn’t have to live together all the time. I could talk to her about the idea of you coming to stay with me for a while. If you’d want to, that is.”

  Just the thought of it makes me want to break into a little happy dance. Yes, I want. I definitely want! I sit back up again. “But do you really think she’d go for it?”

  “Worth a try, isn’t it?”

  “Where would my space be, though? Your apartment is so small.”

  “Yeah, well, I have a feeling we might just be able to afford a bigger place now.” He pulls out a crumpled envelope from his jeans pocket and hands it to me. Am I imagining it, or is his hand shaking?

  “This came in the mail yesterday. It’s all yours, Sweetness.”

  “What is it?” I ask, running my fingertips over the little red drips of Tabasco sauce dotting the smooth, white paper. At the top left corner of the envelope is the name Colville Press followed by an address I’ve never heard of in New York City. The words “The estate of Shoshanah M. Chase” are very officially printed across the middle. My stomach flip-flops.

  Dad nudges me with his elbow. “Go ahead — open it up.”

  I shake my head. Hard. Really, just about the last thing I want to do right now is open another mysterious letter about Aunt Su. “Maybe you should just tell me, Dad. What is it?”

  He puts a trembly hand on my knee, as if to steady us both. “It’s a royalty cheque for Su’s books. I spoke to Mr. Duffy about it. He says we can expect one of these to come in the mail about every six months.”

  A royalty cheque? I reach in and pull out a long slip of turquoise paper. It has my name printed right there on the front. And Dad’s name right underneath.

  Arial Narrow. Nice!

  And underneath our names is a string of digits so long, it’s hard even for me — the enriched math genius — to take it all in. A number way bigger than the amount of hours you’ll be sleeping away during your life.

  Three hundred and twenty-four thousand, seven hundred eighty-six dollars and fifty-two cents.

  The cheque flutters down to the dusty cabin floor.

  Sacre bleu!

  It’s a bequeathing fortune.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Right. So, Aunt Su was totally, completely mind-bendingly loaded. Turns out the rights for all those cheap, trashy romance novels are worth a veritable fortune. And on top of that, she was a closet real estate mogul. In other words, I didn’t just inherit a rundown little cabin with a hairy garden gnome out front and a rusty moped in the garage. Oh no. I inherited a giant chunk of premium lakeside property that stretches for kilometres in every direction. According to Mr. Duffy, Aunt Su bought it all up piece by piece over the years. She was so desperate for privacy that every time she sold a new book, she bought herself another chunk of land. A massive real estate bubble of personal space. Which, by the way, totally explained why she didn’t have any neighbours. Aunt Su owned half of Big Bend’s lakefront.

  Which means, of course, that now I own half of Big Bend’s lakefront.

  Head between knees. Deep breath in … deep breath out …

  Okay, I’m all right now. Yeah, as you can guess, I really didn’t see this coming! But can you blame me? It was all so easy to miss. Aunt Su never lived the lifestyle of the rich and famous. I don’t ever remember her talking about money or wanting to buy a fancy car or go shopping on the French Riviera. She never wore jewellery or fancy clothes. As far as I know, she didn’t like polo or caviar or golf.

  Her writing, the lake, me. Those were the things she got the most joy from. And none of them cost a penny.

  Quel irony.

  Dad said I’ll get access to the money and properties when I turn eighteen. He’ll help me decide what to do with all of it at that point. “Until then, I’m going to have to approve any purchases you want to make, since I’m the executor. Okay, Sweetness?”

  “Yup, fine with me.”

  And it really is fine with me. Fact is, now that I have my sleep back again, there are only a few things I can think of that I want in life, and money isn’t going to help me with any of them.

  To start with, I want my freedom. After our talk, Dad got right on the phone and started the parental negotiations with Mom. He knows how to handle her better than anyone else. In the end, she agreed to let me live with Dad for the rest of the school year as long as I come to stay with her on weekends. Dad and I are going to start looking for a new apartment together this week. Really hoping Dad’s right — that Mom and I will get closer with a bit of distance. It’s all so ingeniously oxymoronic, it has to work. Dontcha think?

  The other thing I want to do is figure out the final place for Aunt Su’s ashes. I got a good idea that last night at the cabin with Ben. But, believe it or not, the only person in the world who can help me make the idea work is none other than Todd Nelson. First thing after breakfast, I walk over to his house — which, incidentally, looks way nicer without the sprinkling of wrecked kids all over the property. Todd’s on the front lawn with what looks to be his grandfather, raking leaves into neat little piles. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost think they were sorting the piles according to shape and colour of leaf. I have to resist the urge to jump in and scatter them to the wind. Todd would probably forgive me but his grandpa looks pretty harsh — like he might even have less of a sense of humour than General MacArthur. If that’s even humanly possible.

  “Hey, Todd,” I say, hovering back on the edge of the driveway. He drops his rake when he sees me.

  “Lily?” He glances over at his grandpa, and when he turns back to me, I see his face is brighter than the pile of red maple leaves at his feet. “What are you doing here?”

  Stepping over the leaves, he strides over to where I’m standing. His grandpa has his arms propped up on the end of the rake handle. He’s watching us with an overabundance of interest.

  “I think we should talk,” I say, lowering my voice to a whisper so his grandpa won’t overhear. “First of all, I want to say that I think you’re really nice. And smart. And it was sweet of you to try and help me out last week in the hallway.” A slow smile starts to build on Todd’s lips. I hurry to finish my point before it takes over his face. “But … well, I’m so sorry … but I just don’t like you that way. You know what I mean, right?”

  In a flash, his smile disintegrates. Okay, yeah, he knows what I mean. Todd’s face is burning so bright red, I worry it might just implode. He shuffles his feet and shoves his hands in his hoodie pockets. “But what about the night of the party … What about what happened —”

  I hold up a hand to stop him from saying any more. Now my face is burning too. “No. I was drunk, Todd. I wasn’t acting like myself. I … it’s … I wouldn’t want that to happen again.”

  He lowers his eyes to the ground. Zut. I’ve hurt his feelings. I take a step closer and give him a buddy-like punch in the arm. Hard, but not hard enough to hurt. “I’d really like to be friends, though — if you want.”

  When he speaks again, his voice is a low rumble. “Emma told me you don’t have any friends. Well, except for her.”

  “Yeah, well … guess you could say I’m turning over a new leaf,” I say. My introverted self lets out a weak sq
ueal of protest. I ignore it, reach down, grab a handful from the neatly raked pile at my feet and toss them at his head. Leaves scatter around us like confetti. By the time they’ve landed, Todd’s smiling again. For all the right reasons, now. Behind him, I see his grandfather scowl and pick up his rake. “So, what do you say?” I ask.

  He buddy-punches me back. Hard, but not quite hard enough to hurt. “Okay. We can be friends. Guess I’ll take what I can get.”

  See, Lily? That wasn’t so hard, the little voice in my head says.

  I let out a shaky breath. “If it’s okay, I have a favour to ask you.” Once I explain what I need, Todd happily abandons his raking and takes me on a shopping trip. To his family’s garden centre.

  And of course, the other thing I want is to help Ben. And fast. Before he makes the biggest mistake of his life and drops out of school. I wiggle-worm his address out of Dad and head over there first thing the next morning. The Matthews’ home is a large, rust-red cottage in the newer, more touristy part of the lakefront. It’s the kind of place that pretends to be quaint and country-ish on the outside but in reality is the exact opposite. From the two-car garage and the landscaped front yard, it isn’t hard to imagine there’s probably a lap pool and a perfectly matched quaint red boathouse somewhere out back.

  I walk up to the front stoop and reach for the doorbell. But my finger freezes in midair as I notice the yellow piece of paper tacked to the outside of the red wooden door. I lean in to read it. My stomach drops to the ground the instant I take in the ugly black words crawling across the top of the page.

  Notice of Foreclosure.

  TWENTY-THREE

  I pound on the door. The ugly yellow sign shakes with the force of my fist.

  What does this mean? Is Ben still here, or have he and his dad been kicked out already?

  My mind spins with images of Homeless Ben wandering the streets, busking for spare change, digging through trashcans for scraps of food. Ben and his father, dirty and thin, curled up inside a pair of tattered sleeping bags as they pass night after night on the beach. I pound on the door again, louder this time. The date stamped across the top of the letter jumps out at me. September 16. Last Monday — the day before Ben had his angry meltdown in the hallway. Three days before he quit school and ditched his job at McCool Fries. My head spins even faster as all the awful dots start connecting together in my brain. A few seconds later, the door swings open. It’s him. I have to bite my lower lip to stop from crying with relief. He’s wearing a faded pair of jeans and an old U2 concert tee. And his hair’s all tousled and messy. From sleep or a night full of tossing and turning? Jeepers creepers! I’m so happy to see him, I have to stop myself from hurling myself into his arms. My eyes drop down to my shoes.

  “Ben,” I say. Yeah, the Pop Rocks are still going strong.

  “Hey.”

  I peek up around him and see big stacks of cardboard boxes littering the floor. Merde! I have to act fast!

  “Can we talk for a minute?”

  Ben glances over his shoulder. “Yeah, but my dad’s not up yet,” he says, stepping out onto the porch and pulling the door closed quietly behind him. “So it has to be out here.”

  His dad’s sleeping … or passed out drunk? I don’t ask, ’cause I’m not sure I really want to know.

  He puts a hand to his forehead, shielding his eyes from the bright sun shining behind me. “So, did your father calm down yet? He looked pretty wound up yesterday.”

  What’s going on? He’s getting kicked out of his home and he’s asking about me?

  I jab my finger against the yellow sign behind his head. “Mind telling me what this is about, Ben?”

  He actually has the nerve to laugh. “Just a love letter from the bank.”

  Unbelievable.

  “How can you joke around at a time like this? I mean, are they really going to take away your house? Where will you go?”

  My voice is breaking to pieces over these words. I think Ben senses it because his lips press into a grimace and then all of a sudden, I see his carefully guarded walls come crashing down. No more mask of boredom. No more flippy jokes. Finally, he offers up a glimpse of his real feelings. And the pain I see in his eyes slices through me like a knife. His face crumples and he leans against the doorframe, like he’s suddenly lost the energy to hold himself up.

  “I’ve made a couple of calls. We’ve still got a few days to figure it out.”

  A couple of calls? That’s it? Not exactly what I’d call a plan.

  Reaching past him, I yank the paper off the door and scan my eyes down the page. It says the residence has to be vacated in ten days. I crush it between my fingers and let it fall to the ground. Time to get serious. I pull in a few deep breaths while my eyes fixate on Ben’s hand — the one that seems to be saluting me. It looks strong but tired at the same time. And the healthy-looking suntan I’d noticed back on that first night we met has almost completely faded away to nothing. I want so badly to reach up and take that hand in mine. And then the other hand. And then wrap them both around me like the night in Aunt Su’s cabin. I take a small step closer. Another breath — shuddery like wind blowing through a tunnel. My eyes float down to his face. Zut, why am I so nervous?

  “Listen, I came here because … well … I don’t even know where to start. This is going to sound really strange but,” another deep, calming breath, “I came here because I, well I-I have a present for you.”

  His salute drops like a dead weight down to his side. “What?”

  “Aunt Su’s cabin. I’m giving it to you. Well, you and your dad, actually. You guys can have it for as long as you need it. Just give it back to me whenever you’re done.”

  His eyes widen. “Lily, I —”

  “No way!” I say, holding up my hands to stop him. “You’re absolutely not allowed to say no to me this time!”

  “It’s just that —”

  “No, Ben!” I squeeze my eyes closed and shake my head. I am not going to let him turn this down. “Unh-unh. This is something I have to do. And you have to let me do it. I know that little cabin isn’t anywhere near as nice as what you’re used to, but it’s free. And once we fix it up, nobody’s going to kick you out. There wouldn’t be any mortgage payments or property taxes to worry about. And you wouldn’t have to quit school and … and I want to help.”

  I have to stop speaking. One more word and I’ll collapse into pieces right then and there. I just know it. Ben stops speaking too. Maybe he’s one word away from collapsing also. The birds chirp in the birch tree beside us. The silence between us grows and grows until it becomes a giant sinkhole. Another minute and it’ll swallow both of us up.

  “So?” I finally ask. “Are you going to say something?”

  Ben shakes his head. His answer is a dry whisper. “Why does it always feel like you’re trying to come to my rescue?”

  I reach for his hand. “Can you give me one good reason why the hell a girl can’t be the knight in shining armour once in a while?” I tilt my eyes up to his and give him my best badass face. At least it revives his smile.

  “No, I can’t.” His face drifts down towards mine. “Which means that yes, I can.”

  Oxymoronic. Yeah, this is definitely going to work.

  He pulls me close and I can feel his heartbeat thumping against my chest through the thin fabric of our T-shirts. Ben seals our deal with the world’s most delicious kiss. His smooth lips slide like melted honey against mine. About a bazillion times better than soft-serve chocolate ice cream on a hot, summer day. When we finally come up for air, I open my eyes and drop my heels back down to earth. That’s when I see it. The moon hanging out over the lake. It’s only mid-morning, but there it is. A pale crescent swinging in the big blue sky.

  Kind of like a smile from above — a crinkly, heartbreakingly familiar kind of smile.

  I tilt my face up to heaven and smile back.

  A Short and Final Note from Me

  Ben called up some of his old builder
friends and a week later we gave the cabin a Lily-style makeover. Which means we gave it just enough of an improvement to keep it looking like itself (only a little bit better) and stop it from getting condemned. Turns out, the big problem was a few beams of rotting wood along the side facing the lake. It took a whole day to replace those. And seal up the seams to keep the moisture out. And clear out some of the clutter and clean out the dust and grime on the floor and scrub away the mould from the walls. Now it’s all ready for when Ben and his dad move in next week. But before that happens, we have to dig up what’s left of the marijuana plants growing rampant throughout the garden. In their place, I want to plant the twenty-six lily bulbs Todd helped me pick out from his family’s garden centre. According to Todd, this is the perfect time of year to plant them.

  And, also according to Todd, ashes make the best fertilizer. Who’d have thought?

  My dad and Emma and Ben and Todd and Mr. Swartz were all with me when I did it. Even General MacArthur insisted on being there for the moment. I’m sort of happy she was. Once we finished fixing the cabin up, she was quick to surrender the battle and call off her crazy condemning scheme. Which makes me really hope this distance thing is already starting to work. Got all my digits crossed on this one.

  The old me never would have cried in front of so many people. But I couldn’t help letting out a few tears as I emptied Aunt Su’s pomegranate jar over the lily bulbs and turned the soil over with a trowel. I know with all my heart that this is the right spot for Aunt Su to rest. When the lilies sprout up next spring, there’ll be yellow, red, white, pink, orange … and, of course, purple. All of them helping to keep her garden alive, just like the black-eyed Susans that’ll be pushing up beside them. And just like the Susans, my lilies will grow up strong, proud … and, yup, a little bit wild.

  Huh.

  Maybe, just maybe, I’m not a total oxymoron after all.