“Brilliant,” Alexander says, surveying the space.
All year round, my family leaves out the extralong wooden tables and chairs, so in the winter it is ghostly—like you’re witnessing a dinner party for invisible people. The napkin dispensers and some of the spare cutlery are still out.
“Is that you?” Alexander asks, pointing up to the mural on the ceiling.
Ugh. “Yep.”
“Huh.”
“You can leave it at that.”
“Right,” he says. “I was just going to say that I really like how your Nana’s painted.”
Everyone’s looming above us: Mom, Dad, Fern, Reed, Nana, Grandpa, and toothless me. Nothing but smiling faces and happiness. An image of how we used to be, at our absolute best. Grandpa didn’t paint it from one photo in particular; it’s a composite, his memories of us at full brightness.
Nana’s portrait has always been my favorite as well. Something about her coy yet loving expression. He got it just right. Even as a little kid, I thought that was the purest expression of love: for someone to see you, really see you, and replicate that image in art.
“You know,” Alexander says, “I always wanted to go to American summer camp as a little boy.”
“Are summer camps not really a thing where you’re from?”
“No. But I think I would’ve really taken to it. Pillow fights. Making ice lolly-stick birdhouses in the great outdoors.”
“So your impressions are entirely gleaned from 1980s American television.”
“Entirely, yes.”
I pause. “I’m not sure how much you’d enjoy The Hundreds in the summer, actually. You don’t . . . um . . . seem like the outdoorsy type.”
“Absolute bollocks,” he says, smiling. “I’ll have you know that I have camped in an actual tent.”
“An actual tent,” I mock. “Was it in someone’s backyard?”
“Front garden,” he concedes.
“A real Daniel Boone.”
“Well, right. Point taken . . . So walk me through this: I’m a camper. I come in those doors and—”
“And the buffet’s to the left. Usually Nana’s serving the dessert—and there’s always pie. Plenty of vegan things, gluten-free, stuff like that.”
“So this is a . . . ?”
“Hippie camp? Basically.” We’re walking slowly alongside the tables, from front to back. I gesture to the speakers in each corner of the hall. “We play music over dinner. Nana’s a huge Motown fan. On the last night, she completely blasts ‘Ain’t No Mountain High Enough’ and lets the campers dance on the tables.”
“Well, this,” he says, “I must see.”
“Come back in the summer and you just might.”
“Uh . . . I thought, like . . . right now.”
I stop walking, and I guess Alexander views this as a sign to proceed—gently placing his hand in mine, stepping onto the nearest chair, then the table, and pulling me along with him. My heart’s beating out of my ears.
He lets go.
But here we are, standing on top of the tables in the middle of an empty mess hall, Alexander bobbing side to side to the beat of undetectable music.
“You . . . ,” he begins nervously, adjusting the glasses on the bridge of his nose. “I was still hoping that maybe you would’ve changed your mind and come to the dance.”
I compose myself. “How long were you there?”
“Just long enough to see that you weren’t.”
“With that suit, I hope they crowned you king.”
And in the most ridiculously sweet way, he asks, “You like my suit?”
“It’s . . . Yeah. I do. It’s kind of fancy for Winship, though.”
“Right, I did notice that, yes.”
“I mean, not compared to my outfit,” I say, smoothing the fabric of my sweatshirt for emphasis. “But we can’t all look this awesome.”
Alexander half smiles. “You always look awesome.”
There’s a moment of anticipation before it happens, like waiting for the first snowflake to fall, and then his hands are lightly touching the sides of my face, tracing his thumbs up and down my cheeks. In books, boys smell of a variety of unrealistic things (unicorn dust, freshly chopped down pine trees, the motor oil of classic cars), but he’s so . . . familiar. Baking spices. Cologne.
His lips gently travel to mine, and for a few fragile seconds, it’s like coming up for breath after a year underwater. I find myself kissing him in return, both of us opening our mouths, and he’s brushing his hands through my hair, telling me in between breaths, “Quinn, you have no idea how much . . .”
He shudders as we step infinitesimally closer and closer to each other, until there’s no space between us.
And then the storm comes.
The last person I kissed . . . the last person I kissed . . .
What the hell am I thinking?
I twitch, scrambling back. “I—I can’t do this.”
Alexander looks embarrassed. When he speaks, his throat bobs, all his confidence sweeping away like the tide. “Right, sure, I completely understand.”
“I’m just— It’s not you.”
“Really, don’t worry about it; it’s okay. . . . Did I possibly . . . I’m sorry. Christ, I’m so sorry if I’ve done something wrong.”
I can’t exactly catch my breath. “No, it’s—not that.”
Concern is growing in his eyes. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Please don’t,” he says softly. “You don’t have to tell me you’re fine. You can tell me—”
“Let’s just go.”
“But I think maybe you need to talk—”
“Stop.”
His face flushes. “I’m sorry. I was just trying to—”
“Help me?” I say. “You shouldn’t want to help me.”
“What . . . what do you mean by that?”
“I’m not a good person, Alexander. Just listen to half this town.”
A pause. “I hope you know that I don’t give a toss about what other people think. I also know rumors: the worse they are, the further they are from the truth.”
“But what if they are true?” My hands flit up, scooping the air, a dam breaking. “I’m not sure what you even want me to say. That I was in love with someone and he fucking died? Is that what you want me to say? That one minute I was in love with him and the next minute he was dead? And that it’s my fault? That my brother and my sister and this whole town think it’s my fault?”
“That’s not—”
“I can’t do this,” I repeat, and it feels like it echoes on forever in this empty hall. “It should’ve been me. I should’ve died. But instead . . . Alexander, I’m not that girl in your drawings. I’m not invincible, and I’m not good.”
I step down from the tabletop, looking back up at him from the ground. He’s wilted, like our flowers in fall.
Do not cry, I tell myself. You will not cry.
It takes all my energy to whisper, “I hope you have a nice Christmas,” and walk out of the hall as quickly as I can.
July
We Would Not
You and I would not grow old together, Dylan.
We would not have cabins next to each other.
We would not chop down Christmas trees in your backyard.
We would not,
we would not,
we would not.
When I came to, I was in a hospital gown. Mom was clasping my hand near her heart, whispering, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. That’s how I knew you didn’t make it, because she said nothing about you.
I answered questions for the police.
What were you doing on the boat? How did you end up in the water? So you saw the sea monster? Are you sure? How did you alert someone that Dylan had fallen in? Don’t leave out any details.
They scratched their heads about the sea monster but ruled it an accidental drowning: The seaweed had held you down. They had to cut it from your limbs with a k
nife.
The hospital staff gave my damp clothes back in a white plastic bag.
Nothing felt real.
On the way home, we stopped at Al’s Burgers. Mom ordered me a chocolate milkshake that I didn’t drink. Good thing, too, because I would’ve thrown it up when we pulled into the camp driveway, and there was Reed, slumped on the front steps, shoulders shaking, head between his legs. I’d never seen him so folded up, like an origami crane.
Then Fern burst through the front door. Even from across the yard I could make out every single little detail about her face.
I wish I couldn’t read lips.
Because she was mouthing, Monster. She was looking right at me.
I started to cry so hard that I couldn’t breathe. It felt like drowning, like you must’ve felt, and Mom cut the engine to wrap her shawl around me like wings. For a second—just for a second—I thought if I stayed still, if I held my breath a little longer, the hurt couldn’t find me.
It found me anyway.
I burst out of the car.
I started running and I didn’t stop.
December
Paper Wishes
In my dream, I’m ten.
Propped against the interior wall of our hand-built snow cave, feet splayed in front of me, I’m gobbling down Dad’s homemade snow cream while reflecting on life’s greater issues. “I think”—gobble—“that we should”—gobble—“live here forever. We should put it to a vote.” I’ve just learned about the electoral process in elementary school, and my newest thing is requiring a two-thirds majority to pass all motions.
“If we have to live here,” Reed offers, “I can hunt with Galileo.”
“No, I like snow cream.”
“You can’t just eat snow cream.”
“Says who?”
Fern skips inside, her hair in pigtails down her back. She taps my foot with the toe of her boot. “Mom’s ready.”
The three of us—Reed, Fern, and I—follow each other like ducklings into the wildflower meadow, which is frozen flat with snow. Mom’s lighting white paper lanterns with a single match; every lantern is twice the size of my head. We each grab one.
I watch the lick of flame dart beneath the paper. “I wish for—”
“No!” Fern shrieks, tiny hand cupping over my mouth. “You can’t say it out loud! You’ll ruin it!”
So I whisper in my head, I wish we had three horses and that one was named Steve because Steve is a good name for a horse, and the paper rises from our hands, white blobs swaying up to kiss the sky.
“Good!” Mom says. “Great, that’s just great.”
Somewhere on the fringes of my dream, my mom is actually shouting: “Great, Mother! That’s just great.”
When I wake up my head’s pounding, like I’ve been subconsciously absorbing all the harsh words in my sleep. What time is it? I check the clock on my phone—just after one in the morning, three horrible hours after that kiss with Alexander.
Fern isn’t in bed.
“Do you have any idea what . . . ?” Mom asks, dropping her voice for the rest of the words. But I do hear Quinn. I hear sad and dead and lost.
In my hoodie and sweatpants, I slide my phone into my pocket, tiptoeing from bed and into the hallway, just in time to hear Mom sigh.
“I’m tired, Mother. We’ll . . . we’ll talk about this in the morning.”
More footsteps, drawing closer to me. Quick, quick—I scrunch behind the hallway armoire, the Best Hiding Spot, as declared by Fern, although there is a startling amount of cat hair behind here. Mom’s all the way back upstairs, and I’m holding my breath, as Nana says, “You might as well come out now.”
Wait. Maybe she’s talking to Galileo?
“Quinn, should I boil us a pot of tea?”
Darn. Does the woman have bat ears or something? Slipping from behind the armoire (easier said than done), I brush off a sweater’s worth of fur and peek into the kitchen, saying sheepishly, “How did you know?”
She taps her left temple. “Sixth sense.”
“No, seriously. How?”
“One person moves in this house, and the whole thing shivers.”
I slump down at the kitchen table. “How long have you and Mom been fighting?”
In the sink, she washes the kettle then fills it with water, flicking the flames high on the stove. “Oh, we’re not really fighting, dear. But if I had to put an exact date on it, I’d say since 1979, right about the time she learned to talk.”
The ghost of a smile spreads across my face.
After pulling mugs from the kitchen cabinet, she sits across from me at the table, steepling her hands. Suddenly it seems as if every year she’s lived is showing up on her face, like someone has attached anchors to her eyelids. “Cookie, I’m going to ask you something, and I want you to give me an honest answer. Your mom seems to think that our boating trips are at risk of damaging you somehow. Do you think there’s any truth to that?”
If only I had that horse named Steve. I could use him as a getaway right about now. “Nana, I think . . . I think it’s helping.” Only maybe it’s more about spending time with her, more about my friends, less about the sea monster.
“But you’d tell me if it weren’t?”
I scratch the back of my head. “Sure.”
She nods. “This winter has been hard. I know you miss him so much.” Her voice is like the barn doors creaking open. It occurs to me in a thunderhead burst: Dylan was like a grandson to her, and I’ve never asked her, not once, how she’s doing. Good Lord. I’ve been Fern-ing Nana.
The kettle whistles, and I tell her no, stay seated, I’ll get it—and pour us two cups of strong tea. We’re blowing into our mugs when I murmur, “Hey, Nana? I know you miss Dylan, too.” And I hope she understands what I’m trying to say. She pats my arm with her knitting-callused hand in a way that lets me know she does.
“You think this is good for me, right?” I ask, sipping my tea. “Our boat trips, I mean.”
“If I didn’t,” she says, “I never would’ve opened the barn doors.”
For a moment, I think she’s being metaphorical. But hold on a second. “That morning I was walking to school . . . when I decided to fix the Chris-Craft . . . you left the barn doors open?”
“Flapping in the wind like wings on a bird,” she confirms. “You’d been walking to school a lot. I knew it was a matter of time before you did it again. So every morning after you left for the bus stop, I flung open the doors, hoping you’d walk by and . . . well, you know the rest of the story.”
I’m stunned. “How were you so sure I’d want to fix it?”
“Because you’re a Sawyer. Because you’re my granddaughter . . . and I wanted to fix it, so I thought you might, too.” She drags her teeth across her bottom lip. “I should’ve never had that boat out there last summer, accessible for you like that. I knew it had dry rot, and out for so long in the water like that? The boards shrunk. I bet it got so heavy, and water probably filled the bilge. No wonder if was so difficult to direct the boat, why it drifted off into the seaweed. . . . I should’ve never ever. I know you think it was your fault, Quinn. But I think it was mine.”
It strikes me breathless: All this time, I thought Nana wanted to fix this boat to help me—and that’s true. But it was also to help her. That line about needing another woman to stand in the dark by her side? Maybe I was the other woman—maybe I was supposed to keep her company in the dark.
And I missed that. I’ve missed so much. Just another illustration of what I told Alexander in the mess hall: I am not a good person.
“Nana,” I breathe. “It’s not your fault at all.”
Instead of responding, she sips her too-hot tea. “I was thinking,” she says eventually, looking up, contemplating the paper wishes overhead. “I don’t think these are making a damn bit of difference.”
“Maybe that’s because they’re not our own.”
After mulling it over for a few seconds, she comes out with:
“I have a strong suspicion you’re right, Cookie. In fact, I’m now convinced that’s precisely why it hasn’t worked.” Jumping up, she gathers a few scraps of paper and two pens from a basket in the living room and plops them on the table. “Let’s write our futures, shall we?”
I’m staring at my paper, trying to consolidate a billion things into a few words, when my phone buzzes in my sweatshirt. Then it buzzes again. And again.
“Sounds like someone’s trying to contact you,” Nana says.
I’m afraid it’s Alexander—but as I flick on the screen, I see a series of texts from Fern’s number.
You need to come get Fern
I wouldnt ask but she needs someone to come get her
Please
And I can’t stem the panic fluttering in my chest.
“Everything all right?” Nana says.
I tell her, “I don’t know.”
Who is this?
Harper
K. Where are you? What’s happened to Fern?
113 foxside ln
The campground?
Harper
HARPER
That’s it. That’s all she says. And when I call her immediately after, no response. I leave a message: “Harper, or . . . Fern? This is Quinn. Call me back when you get this.”
There’s a point in a two-hundred-meter butterfly swim—roughly 85 percent in—when your muscles announce: You suck and we’re done. They torque, tense, refuse to move, and you have to will them with every ounce of everything you have, onward, onward. The same is true for panic. The same is true for discovering your little sister is in trouble. I literally have to shake the tension from my arms.
“Cookie,” Nana says—not sternly, but not gently, either. “You’re going to need to tell me what’s going on now.”
My sister will never forgive me if I snitch . . . but maybe she’s never going to forgive me, anyway. Grit crawls in my throat. “Fern isn’t here.”
“Where is she?”
“At the campground, and I think she’s . . . I think something’s wrong.”
Nana flies. “Go wake your mom and dad,” she says, grabbing the Time Machine’s keys from above the coffee maker. And then she’s in the garage—I hear the engine firing up, the garage door winding open, the sharp squeal of tires against snow.
Wild Blue Wonder Page 20
