by Ally Condie
An icy hush fell over the room. Or did it? Maybe only I felt it. The other assistants didn’t seem to think anything of Emily throwing Lisette’s name out there.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” Meg said. “Lisette Chamberlain would never, ever have yelled at a coworker the way Brad Murray yelled this morning.”
I felt brave. Daring.
“Would she have eaten food while in costume?” I asked.
Meg didn’t get mad. She smiled. “Depended on the costume,” she said. “And the food.”
And then we all went back to work.
When I finished in the costume shop I took the steps two at a time. I couldn’t wait to get to concessions and tell Leo about Brad Murray and the wardrobe malfunction. And to share the Lisette information. It wasn’t much. Almost nothing. But Meg hadn’t seemed annoyed when I’d asked about Lisette.
Leo was standing right inside the door of the building, looking out, with his arms folded.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
Then I saw them. The boys on the bikes. Making gestures at Leo through the glass. Cory was with them.
“Let’s go somewhere else,” I said. “Into the Portrait Hall. Maybe they’ll be gone when we come out.”
“I’m already enough of a coward for coming inside,” Leo said.
“They’ll leave you alone if you walk away,” I said. “You have to ignore them.”
“You sound like my parents.” Leo sounded mad. “Like every teacher ever. That doesn’t work. You can’t walk away every time they bother you. Sometimes there’s nowhere to go.”
The boys had seen me come up next to Leo. One of them pulled up his eyes. Like he was pretending to be Chinese. Making fun of me.
I heard Leo draw in his breath.
And someone else behind me.
I turned around.
Meg.
“Those little brats,” she said. “I’m going to go say something to them.”
“No,” Leo and I said at the same time.
“You two have to cross the courtyard to get to work,” she said.
“They’ll go away,” I said. “Soon.”
“Come with me,” Meg said. And as we turned away from the window she called out to the security guard standing near the Portrait Hall, “You’ve got some kids on bikes out in the courtyard. Get them to clear out.”
He jumped to it.
Meg took us back downstairs and to a door at the end of the hall, past WIGS and MAKEUP and COSTUMES. She opened it with a key. I saw another doorway in front of us but she had us turn to the left and opened a final door. “There,” she said.
“Wow,” Leo said. “Is this one of the tunnels?” Right after he said it he looked like he wished he hadn’t.
“You’ve heard about the tunnels?” Meg asked.
“Yeah,” Leo admitted.
“This is only a hallway,” Meg said. “Sorry to disappoint you.” She pushed the door open. “Follow it and you’ll come out right by a stairwell that will take you up to concessions.”
“Thank you,” I said.
The hallway was full of old food trays and other concession stuff. Boxes and boxes that had come in from shipping, printed with CUPS and CUTLERY. Things they threw back in here because people didn’t pass through very often, I guessed. Lots of those tall metal racks where you could put a bunch of trays and then wheel them along. Like the kind you see in school lunchrooms sometimes. Leo pushed one out of the way and the sound made me think of lunchroom sounds, of kids talking and trays scooting. And Ben yelling.
When I was in fourth grade and Ben was in second, my parents decided to send Ben to regular elementary school instead of his special school. It lasted for three weeks. He cried every night but couldn’t tell us what was wrong. The teachers said he was doing fine in class, which meant he wasn’t screaming or trying to run away.
Then I went into the lunchroom one day on an errand for my teacher and I saw him sitting at a table with the other second-graders. (Lunch was one of the parts of the day where they were supposed to integrate the special-needs kids with the other kids.) Ben was not eating. He sat there, nervous, with his eyes closed. He held his wire whisk in one hand and was shaking it back and forth like he did with stuff, like the screwdriver and the toothbrush and other things. I didn’t see the teachers. Maybe they were getting their lunches. But the other kids were throwing food at Ben. A fruit snack. A pea. Every time they hit him, he said, “Don’t!” in a high-pitched yell, but he didn’t open his eyes, he didn’t stop flicking that whisk back and forth. I could tell he was trying to shut out the world. I could tell he wanted to be someplace else.
I went over and told the kids to leave him alone.
Ben opened his eyes when he heard my voice and an M&M hit him in the eye.
He cried.
I held his hand all the way to the office and told them we needed to call my mom. She came over right away and picked him up. He never went back.
That was one of the days I didn’t understand Ben completely, but I also knew I understood enough. I felt like my heart was cracking. Those were always the hardest times, when I saw Ben get hurt. Until the accident. Then it felt like not only my heart hurt. It felt like even my blood did, like my broken heart was pushing pain through the rest of my body. Beat. Beat. Beat.
When I was small I used to pretend that I had to tell my body everything it had to do or it would stop. Lungs, breathe, I whispered. Heart, beat. Eyes, focus. Tummy, digest. Legs, walk. Arms, move. I was so glad then that everything did what it was supposed to do without any conscious help from me. But after the accident I wished that my heart wouldn’t keep hurting so much. Wouldn’t keep going like this without my telling it to. Beat. Beat. Beat.
“That was nice of Meg to let us come through here,” Leo said.
“It was.”
“And she basically admitted that the tunnels are real.”
“She did.”
As we came out of the hallway, I pretended that the whole world had secret tunnels, where people could walk straight to wherever they really wanted to be and ignore all the meanness in the middle.
I wiped my eyes on my sleeve before Leo could see.
21.
The vultures in our yard weren’t only roosting in the tree anymore. Now they went back into the part of the lot that hadn’t yet been cleared, the corner with an old shed and a rotting fence surrounding a square of dirt that used to be a garden but was now a jumble of soil and vegetation.
“That’s next summer’s project,” my mother said. “I’ve got my hands full for now with this deck.”
She did. She’d been sawing and sanding in every spare moment. Whenever it rained, she ran outside to rescue her tools. Hundreds of boards leaned against the outside wall, under the porch.
She had framed in the base of the deck but it didn’t look quite right. It seemed too short. Something was off.
But of course I didn’t mention that. “Looks great,” I said to her. She put down her sandpaper and smiled at me.
The back door swung open and Miles came out. “I got the mail.”
“We actually have mail?” Mom asked. “Real mail?” All we ever got at the summer house were advertisements or bills.
“Something got forwarded to us,” Miles said.
“Miracles never cease,” Mom said.
Miles handed her the letter and she glanced at the envelope and then her face changed. She looked stunned. Without saying anything, she tore into the envelope and walked inside.
“Okay,” Miles said.
“Who was it from?”
“The return address looked like it was from a hospital,” he said.
“Oh no,” I said.
My mom had spent months and months dealing with medical and ambulance bills and life insurance.
Mom opened the
door and came back out. “It’s okay,” she said, when she saw our faces.
“Miles said it looked like it was from a hospital.”
“Sort of,” Mom said. “But not.”
We both waited.
“There’s a family that wants to meet with us,” she said. “A family whose son was the recipient of”—and here she swallowed—“whose son benefited from our decision to donate.”
I knew right away what she meant. And it wasn’t our decision, it was hers. She was the one who had said that Ben could be an organ donor. My dad was a donor—it was on his driver’s license—so they asked her about Ben too.
“Why did they write to us?” I asked.
“I had said it would be okay,” she said. “For them to contact us. If they wanted.”
“I don’t want to meet them,” I said.
“Me either,” Miles said.
“Why not?” Mom asked.
I didn’t say anything. So Miles did. He spoke in a small voice. “Because it sounds too hard.”
And my mom nodded. Like she understood. Like maybe she was even relieved. “Okay,” she said. “Okay. Let’s think about it for a few days, but I can write back and tell them no. That’s fine.”
“Which of them was it?” I asked. “Ben or Dad?”
“Ben,” Mom said. “Ben’s cornea—part of his eye—was given to another boy. It kept that boy from going blind.”
For some reason that hit me like a punch to the gut. It wasn’t like Ben had saved anyone’s life. That boy who got the cornea wasn’t going to die. He wasn’t going to be able to see. That was the worst-case scenario. It wasn’t like Ben had died and then that boy could live. It wasn’t even as good as that.
My mom folded up the letter and Miles asked for ice cream and I went upstairs.
22.
It had been so long since I’d found anything on my windowsill.
But there was something that night. Maybe the lollipop had done the trick.
It was an old pocket-size map of Iron Creek, folded up neat and small. Ben would have liked to look at the roads and think of places to drive. Last summer he was learning to read a map and to tell time. “It’s seven forty-three,” he would say. “At eight o’clock, I go to bed.”
I lined up the things on my windowsill. The screwdriver, the purple toothbrush. The map.
They were all so specific. So tangible. And I knew it could never be Lisette Chamberlain’s ghost who left them.
Leo.
It had to be.
Even though he hadn’t known Ben.
Leo was the kind of person who did his research. He would have found out about Ben from someone. Maybe his mom had overheard something in the dentist’s office where she worked. My grandma went there for her checkups. My grandma thought Ben was an angel but not in the way I hated. When Ben was alive, she looked right into his eyes and saw him there.
I looked at the things again. Screwdriver, purple toothbrush, map. I thought about how Leo had helped me get a job and how he let us watch Times of Our Seasons at his house every day and how he listened whenever I talked about Ben and my dad but also didn’t expect me to talk about Ben or my dad and how Leo always shared the lollipops from the bank with me. (And now I’d given him one back.) How he’d shown me The Tempest with Lisette Chamberlain as Miranda. How he’d completely understood when I’d cried after I’d seen it.
And a thought came to my mind. Even though I’d only known him for part of a summer.
Leo Bishop might be the best friend I’d ever had.
I decided it was time to do something for him. Something biggish.
What could it be?
I stood at the window, looking through the diamonds into the dark. I thought about the costume shop and bullies and Barnaby Chesterfield and England. About birds and being buried alive. I thought about everything. And then I had an idea.
23.
It took me a few days to sort out my surprise for Leo but I worked it all out at last. After the tour one day, I told him I had somewhere to go.
“I have to run,” I said to Leo. “I can’t walk home with you today.”
“You mean, you’re literally going running?” he asked, because I did have on black shorts. And running shoes.
“Kind of,” I said. “I have to get back fast. But I’ll see you later after my mom leaves. For Times of Our Seasons.”
“Okay,” he said, and I hoped he hadn’t figured out what I was going to do.
I ran all the way over to the Summerlost Festival. It was exhausting. Also sweaty. I’d have to wash my Lisette T-shirt for sure before the next tour. My bag bumped against my side the whole way.
I’d tried to plan for everything. I’d called Leo’s mom at the dentist’s office to ask if he was free on a certain night and sworn her to secrecy. I’d thought she might be mad or annoyed at me for calling her at work, but she’d been a good sport about the whole thing. I’d told my mom what I wanted to do and she’d agreed to let me go. I guess because we’d be surrounded by people the whole time. She’d promised to pick us up after the play was over.
I skidded around the corner to the box office so fast I had to put my hand on the exterior wall to stop myself. The stucco scratched my palm. A couple of older people in tall socks and khaki shorts exclaimed in surprise as I hurried past them.
There was no line for same-day tickets at the box office. Either the line had moved quick this morning or they were all sold out. Please please please, I said to myself as I stopped in front of the glassed-in window.
“Hi,” I said, breathless. “Do you have any same-day tickets left for As You Like It?”
“We do,” said the lady at the box office, and I breathed out a sigh of relief. “Do you have proof of residency?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. I was proud of myself for remembering that I’d need something to prove I really lived in Iron Creek so I could get the discount. I pulled out one of our utility bills that showed our address and my mom’s name on it. “I’m her daughter,” I said.
She looked at the bill and then at me and I started to panic. What if you had to actually be the person on the utility bill? Or what if you had to be older than me? Had Leo’s mom always bought his tickets for him?
“All right,” the ticket agent said, and I breathed out. “And you’re aware that these are the bench seats at the back, and that there are no exchanges or refunds?”
“Yes,” I said.
And then when she asked, “How many tickets do you need?” instead of saying “Two,” I said, “Three.” I handed her thirty dollars.
One for Leo, of course. One for me. And one for Miles.
I don’t know why I did it. Maybe because my mom would feel better about it not being a date if Miles came too? Or because I felt bad about Times of Our Seasons and wanted Miles to see something cultural and well acted instead of something that gave him nightmares?
“Nice shirt,” said the box office lady. “Is that Lisette Chamberlain?”
I froze. In all my planning, I’d forgotten to bring an extra shirt to wear. “Um, yes,” I said.
“Did you buy it at the festival gift shop?”
“No,” I said. “A friend had it made for me.”
“Very cool.” She handed me my three tickets. “Enjoy the show.”
I couldn’t freak out too much about the shirt and possibly blowing our cover because I still had to do the hardest part of my plan. Talk to Gary. And I wanted to do it immediately, before I lost my nerve. So I went into the bathroom and turned my shirt inside out before I went over to concessions.
“Hi, Gary,” I said.
“Hi,” he said. “You’re here early.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I, um, came by to ask if Leo and I could leave early from work tonight. We’re going to the play.”
Gary shook his h
ead. “You have to ask for time off two weeks in advance. And even then, it’s not guaranteed.” He sounded stressed and his forehead wrinkled. When that happened, he looked as old as my grandpa.
“I know,” I said. “But we can’t afford the full-price tickets. So it had to be a Tuesday. And I didn’t know if we’d get the tickets until now.” I took a deep breath. Was Gary really going to say no? Leo was his best seller. And I wasn’t bad either. I should have done this differently. Asked for the day off in advance and then hoped to get the tickets. But it was too late now.
“You didn’t follow the rules,” Gary said.
“What rules?” asked someone behind us.
Meg. She must have come through the hidden hallway. “Here are the costumes you needed fixed, Gary,” Meg said. “Emily mended them. And I came over to talk with you about the concessions costumes for next year. Is now a good time?”
“It’s fine,” Gary said. He glanced at me. “I can’t give you the time off. You didn’t ask far enough in advance.”
“But I already have the tickets,” I said. I couldn’t give up that easily. Especially not in front of Meg, with her sharp eyes and her collar of safety pins and her gravelly, no-nonsense voice.
“What are you trying to get away with, Cedar Lee?” Meg asked.
“She wants to leave work early so she and her friend can go to the play,” Gary said. “Tonight.”
“And you’re not letting them go?”
Gary looked surprised. “I can’t. It’s against the rules.”
“But,” Meg said, “this is the very purpose of the Summerlost Festival. To bring people to Shakespeare. Did you buy the tickets with your own money, Cedar?”
“I did.”
“And you’re taking your friend?”
“Yes,” I said, and then for good measure, I added, “and my younger brother.”
Meg raised her eyebrows at me. Did she think I was lying? I held out the three tickets so she could see. “His name’s Miles,” I said. “He’s eight.” Meg’s eyebrows went down but she still had a quirk to her mouth. Maybe I was laying it on too thick bringing up Miles.
