by Foxglove Lee
Maybe Uncle Flip had been right all along. Maybe he was more right than I was willing to accept. Obviously a doll hadn’t messed up my room. I mean, seriously! Yvette couldn’t have done it. If nobody else in my family had torn my room apart—and, honestly, why would they?—then it had to have been me.
And if it was me… why didn’t I remember doing it? Or undoing it, for that matter? Was it possible that I’d blacked out? That was the only explanation.
After our fire, Mikey opted to sleep in the tepee. When I’d gone back to my room, I stood at my dresser and watched him beyond Yvette’s puff of red hair. Now that I’d decided she had no special powers, her presence didn’t bother me—that’s what I told myself, at least. In reality, I was ignoring her, pretending she didn’t exist even though she was right there in front of me.
Saturday morning, I woke up before my aunt and uncle. Mikey was awake. I spotted him drawing on rocks with shards of burnt wood from the fire as I began the painstaking process of choosing an outfit.
Usually, I didn’t care what I wore, especially up at the cottage. This was different. I had a date with Tiffany, even if she didn’t know it was a date. Even if my aunt was coming with us. By the time I’d settled on overalls and a ribbed tank top, everyone was up and at ‘em.
“That’s what you’re wearing out?” my aunt asked.
Uncle Flip whispered, “Libby…”
“Well, I thought we’d go to the tearoom for lunch.” She poured boiling water into the teapot while my uncle defended himself against a sprightly spray of bacon grease. “It’s not a criticism, Flip. It’s just not the sort of place you wear denim.”
“But what if Tiffany’s wearing jeans?” I cut in. “I never told her we were going to any tearoom. She might feel out of place if I’m wearing something fancy and she’s not.”
Tiffany didn’t show up in jeans, of course. When she arrived at our door at ten on the dot, she had on yet another white dress. She must have owned forty of them, all nearly the same. This one had crinolines sewn into the skirt, but not underneath it. The crinolines ran in vertical strips, and you could see right through to her legs. You could even see the sides of her panties, which were white with a lace trim.
“My, Tiffany, that is a creative outfit,” my aunt said.
“I picked it up in Paris over March Break.” Tiffany stepped into our cottage and looked around slowly. “Wow. Smells like bacon in here.”
My aunt stood a little straighter. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”
“Yeah, but bacon?” Tiffany lightly touched the base of a table lamp, then brushed the heap of dust between her fingers and thumb. “Don’t you care about your cholesterol? So bad for your arteries.”
Nobody said anything.
“Don’t get me wrong, my grandparents eat the same thing for breakfast.” Tiffany bit her lip and picked up one of the old throw pillows from our couch. “I wish they’d switch to yogurt and fresh fruit like me, but they’re old. Old people get set in their ways. I’m trying to get them to change one meal a week, just to get them started.”
My aunt’s lips pursed, but Uncle Flip smoothed things over by saying, “Well, that’s not a bad idea, is it, Libby?”
Tiffany’s eyes lit up. She turned to my aunt, her golden hair whipping around her back. “Wow, your name is Libby? Snazzy. Sounds like liberation, liberated, liberal.”
“Oh my gosh, I can’t believe I never introduced you!” I said, feeling startled and uncomfortable. “I’m so rude. This is my Aunt Libby, and that’s my Uncle Flip. My brother Mikey is around here somewhere.”
“He’s out back,” my uncle said as Tiffany turned her attention to him.
“That can’t possibly be a real name,” Tiffany said, in a tone that made my aunt growl a bit. “There’s got to be a story, there. Why do they call you Flip?”
My uncle opened his mouth to speak, but I cut in. “Because when he was a kid, he knew how to do a front flip. Everyone in my family has called him Flip ever since.”
“Can you still do a flip?” Tiffany teased.
“Well, sure,” my uncle said. “I don’t see why not.”
“Don’t even think about it, Mister.” My aunt was growling again, but that was understandable—Tiffany came off as a bit of a flirt. “You’ll break your neck.”
“I’ll be fine,” my uncle scoffed, pushing open the screen door.
We followed him out front, my aunt clucking all the while about how my uncle was doomed to injure himself. Mikey must have heard the commotion, because he raced around the cottage like Roadrunner to find out what we were so excited about.
“Oh, your uncle’s acting a fool,” Aunt Libby groaned.
“He’s gonna do a flip!” I said. Hell, I was excited!
Mikey stopped on a dime and stared at Tiffany, like he was immediately smitten.
“That’s my brother,” I told her.
“Hey, Mikey.” Tiffany pointed at his Spiderman runners. “Neat shoes. Wish I had a pair like that.”
Mikey’s ears glowed red, and he laughed like a little idiot.
“Are you ready, ladies?” My uncle had backed all the way up to the car to get a good running start. “Feast your eyes, because I’m about to make history.”
My aunt let out an explosive “HA!” which made my stomach clench. What if he didn’t make it? What if he really did break his neck? I could kiss my Saturday with Tiffany a sweet goodbye!
“Wait,” I called as my uncle started his sprint across the yard. “Maybe you shouldn’t…”
Uncle Flip extended both hands and lunged forward. His palm landed in the untended grass pretty much simultaneously, and his feet left the ground without pause. They went up, up, up, but his heavy work boots slowed him down. By the time he’d launched himself into a straight line up and down, I was sure he’d lose his balance.
But I guess he’d built up enough momentum after all, because his feet kept going forward. The only problem was that his hands didn’t leave the ground. He ended up in a backbend, his body a bridge.
I froze, waiting for some indication that he was just in an awkward position and not in pain.
My aunt trudged over to him, grumbling, “Oh, get up, you idiot.”
Mikey pointed and laughed, which put me at ease for some reason. When I looked over at Tiffany, she was standing serenely against the station wagon with a lofty smirk painted across her lips.
Aunt Libby hoisted Uncle Flip up by the armpits while Mikey tugged at his hand.
“I did it,” my uncle said, defensively. “Close enough. Pretty good, for an old-timer.”
My aunt cracked a smile, which quickly turned into a laugh. “Don’t call yourself old. Makes me feel old, too.”
When Aunt Libby had gotten my uncle to his feet, they grinned at each other long enough to make me feel weird for staring at them. For the first time I could remember, I actually felt jealous. They had something I wanted. They had each other. Forever.
I was choking back a shock of tears when Aunt Libby turned around and clapped her hands. “Okay, girls. Let’s get a move on!”
In the car, my aunt flipped the station from hers to mine, and made some lovingly disparaging comment about “the music you young people like.” A shiver ran through me when I realized the topic might lead back to the one Tiffany and I had started and never finished: my dad and his band. Tiffany had taken the front seat, and I was sitting in the middle, in the back, so I couldn’t hear what they were saying very well. All I could hope was that Tiffany wouldn’t ask about my dad, and Aunt Libby wouldn’t give too much away. But of course she wouldn’t. She didn’t like Tiffany, but she did respect my shame.
When we got to town, Aunt Libby parked at the bottom of the main street. It looked like every other small-town main street: little specialty shops with antiques in the window, or nightgowns for old ladies, a candy store that sold Kawartha Dairies ice cream, a Home Hardware with barbecues and Muskoka chairs out front, and a drug store that carried e
verything from calamine lotion to inflatable water wings for little kids.
“Can we go to Lucy’s before lunch?” Tiffany asked, hopping toward the arts and crafts store.
My aunt turned to Tiffany and smiled for probably the first time since they’d met. “Well, well, Tiffany, you never struck me as the crafting sort. Don’t tell me you’re keen on needlework, like our Rebecca here.”
I felt a blush come on. Popular kids weren’t known to spend their summers enraptured by stitch samplers, but a girl could hope.
“Needlework?” Tiffany asked as she yanked opened the shop door. She shrugged, but she didn’t make the disparaging face I was expecting. “No, I’m not good with needles. I stab myself too much.”
“Ah.” My aunt followed Tiffany inside the little craft store, and I trailed along behind her. “Tell me, then, what are you looking for?”
Tiffany ran down the narrow front aisle to the wall that held probably a hundred jars of beads. “These!”
Aunt Libby joined Tiffany in the beading alcove. “Oh, you make jewellery!”
“Yeah. I made these.” Tiffany held out here wrist so my aunt could admire her bracelets. Some were made of crystal clear glass beads, and others of rose-coloured stones. “I string them on fishing line so they’re really strong.”
“Well, Tiffany, they’re just lovely.” My aunt traced her fingers up Tiffany’s forearms, playing with beads that gleamed over her pale skin. “This one is just extraordinary. People would pay good money for a bracelet like that.”
“Here, have it,” Tiffany said, rolling it off her wrist. “I have lots.”
My aunt burbled that she couldn’t accept the gift, it was too pretty, blah, blah, blah. Sure I felt relieved that they were getting along, but why was Tiffany giving presents to my aunt? Why not me? Maybe she didn’t like me at all. Maybe she just flirted with everyone and didn’t care if they thought she was serious.
When my aunt had finally given in and accepted the bracelet, Tiffany looked at me and said, “Come here, Rebecca.”
Aunt Libby went off to talk to Lucy, the shop owner we’d rudely raced by when we first came in, and I moved into the beading nook. Maybe I stood a little closer to Tiffany than I should have, but I wanted to… I don’t know… show her she was mine, or something. Block her in, away from my aunt. Away from everyone.
She didn’t seem to notice. Holding a spice jar up to the light, she said, “Look at these.”
Small bits of rock gleamed bronze in the light. “What are they?”
“Don’t you remember?” Tiffany cocked her head and set one hand on her hip. She rolled her eyes when I shrugged. “They’re tiger’s eye, like the gem you were looking at on my necklace that one time. These are the same thing.”
“Oh yeah.”
“Want me to make you a bracelet with them?” She seemed eager to do it.
“I don’t really wear jewellery.” I wasn’t being very nice to her. My voice was gruff and irritable, but she didn’t seem to notice. “You can if you want. Whatever.”
Tiffany caught up with my tetchiness and her expression fell. “I just wanted to do something nice for you. What’s your problem?”
I shrugged. “You want to do nice things for a lot of people.”
Before she could say anything else, I walked away, all the way to the far aisle where Lucy kept the embroidery kits. Usually, I’d have looked at the intermediate designs, the ones with cartoon characters—Snoopy, Holly Hobbie, Raggedy Ann, and the little naked babies from the Love Is comic strip—but I wanted Tiffany to see that I could take on advanced projects. I picked up a winter scene with a deer and a rabbit gazing up at a star in the sky. I liked it. Not too Christmassy, not too blatantly religious. It cost seventeen dollars, but it came with all the embroidery floss and the canvas, and even some extra needles, not that I needed any more.
“We should pick up a paint-by-numbers for Mikey,” my aunt said from across the store. She must have thought I was still with Tiffany, because after a moment, I heard her say, “Oh. Where’s Rebecca gone?”
I didn’t hear any answer from Tiffany, and my heart dropped when it occurred to me that she might have left the shop. Maybe she got so mad she was going to hitchhike home from town.
Why did I have to be so mean to her?
“I’m over here, Aunt Libby.” With my cross-stitching kit in hand, I emerged from the narrow aisle. Once I was out in the open, I could see the back of Tiffany’s head. She was at the cash, paying for her beads, which Lucy put in a little Ziploc bag. I couldn’t believe how relieved I was that she hadn’t left.
“What did you find?” Aunt Libby asked, grabbing the needlework kit from my hands. “Oh, very nice. You’ll be working all summer on this one.”
“I’ll pay for it out of my own money,” I said before she could comment on the price.
Aunt Libby gave me a funny look and said, “My treat, silly girl. Now pick out a paint-by-numbers for your brother.”
I didn’t move until Tiffany turned to meet my gaze, and then I quickly looked away. She followed me to the paint kits, and stood behind me like a lily while I flipped through them. They all seemed to be either for little-little kids or for adults.
“Aren’t you going to ask me what I got?” Tiffany whispered in my ear.
A warm shot rang through me and I straightened up in front of her. “What did you get?”
She laughed. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”
“You’re such a tease,” I said softly, so my aunt wouldn’t hear.
“You know it, babe.”
I bit my lip to keep from smiling too widely.
“How about this one?” Tiffany reached around me to grab a kit with golden retrievers on the front. “Does Mikey like dogs?”
“Yeah.” Her scent and the heat of her arm were on my skin. She was so close I could die. “Yeah, that one’s good.”
“It says ages twelve and up, but if it’s too hard you can help him, you good big sister, you.”
I wondered who Tiffany had been talking to that she knew how devoted I was to caring for my little brother. Or maybe she didn’t know, and it was just a meaningless joke.
“All settled, girls?” my aunt called to us. “Let’s pay for this and get a move on. I’d like to eat lunch before dinner time.”
It suddenly struck me that my aunt hadn’t paid for Tiffany’s beads—Tiffany had paid for those herself—and it seemed rude. But I guess Aunt Libby would be paying for lunch and the movie later on, so maybe I shouldn’t feel bad.
“What did you get?” Tiffany asked as we trailed behind my aunt en route to the teahouse.
“That’s for me to know and you to find out,” I said.
Tiffany rolled her eyes, but smiled. “So funny I forgot to laugh.”
I showed her my cross-stitch pattern, since I was carrying the bag. I still wasn’t sure if she thought I was a huge geek for doing needlepoint, but maybe she could think I was a huge geek and like me anyway.
“Wow, this looks hard.” She stopped walking and leaned against the drugstore window. “I could never do this. Numbers make me cross-eyed.” She handed me back my kit, and asked, “Have you ever had acupuncture?”
“What?” She obviously didn’t realize how poor I was. “No, Tiffany, no I’ve never had acupuncture.”
“That’s Chinese medicine with needles,” she said as she strode down the sidewalk, catching up to my aunt. “They poke them into you in different centres that correspond to, like, energy points and stuff. Really thin needles, not sewing needles.”
Aunt Libby turned her head and gave us a weird look. “What on earth are you girls talking about?”
“Acupuncture,” Tiffany said with an endearing smile. “I’ve never tried it, either, but my friend Brittany told me about it. She had it for migraines and it worked, she said.”
“Here’s the tearoom.” My aunt held the door for us. “Have you been here before, Tiffany?”
“I’ve been to other tear
ooms, but not this one.” She looked around at the whimsical willows painted on the walls, and the strings of silk flowers hanging from the ceiling. “It’s kind of small.”
My aunt scowled at the condescension in Tiffany’s voice. I was just glad she said it before the host came to seat us, and when there were no other patrons within earshot.
“Well, you’ve got to remember, you’re in a small town,” my aunt whispered. Her voice sounded thin and irritable. “In a small town things are smaller than they are in… Texas.”
“Table for three?”
I looked up and screamed. Actually screamed. My aunt and Tiffany laughed because they obviously thought the waitress had taken me by surprise. That was only half the story. It wasn’t just that she came out of nowhere to show us to our table. She looked dreadfully familiar: curly orange hair, skin like porcelain, eyes as green as summer.
She looked exactly like Yvette.
“Sorry,” I said, meeting the girl’s elusive gaze for just a moment.
“No worries, dollface.” She turned to guide us to our table, and my stomach plunged into my canvas sneakers. Dollface? That was one of those terms you only heard in black and white gangster movies. What a weird thing to call me, especially when my acne-prone skin looked nothing like porcelain.
I couldn’t get over the girl’s striking resemblance to my doll, even after we’d sat down and another waitress came to take our orders. My mind buzzed so loudly I hadn’t even looked at the tea list. I just ordered the same thing Tiffany was getting: Lady Grey.
The tea came with scones and jams and cream, as well as teeny tiny sandwiches and a whole bunch of little desserts. I sipped my tea, wishing I were hungry. That girl put me on edge. The strangest bit was that I kept watching the entrance to the kitchen, where she’d gone after seating us. She never came back out. Never.
