Sweetly

by Jackson Pearce

  My sister and I—we were born together. I thought we’d die together. I didn’t expect her to just… not die. And not live. To just not be. We were the same—if I could run fast enough to escape the witch, so could she. But she didn’t, and now everything about my life is wrong, wrong, wrong, because of her—

  I slam the window shut; it creaks against stale paint and old grime, but I feel the familiar fear and fury subsiding. We’ll go to the ocean tomorrow. Calm down. I breathe slowly, like Ansel does, until another fear strikes me—one I had forgotten about until I climb into bed and pull the crisp sheets up over my body. Stay away from her. Stay as far away from her as you can.

  He spoke as if he was afraid of her. He spoke of Sophia the way I used to speak of the witch.

  But what about Sophia Kelly would warrant such a dire warning?

  CHAPTER THREE

  Loud, sharp clanks of a hammer on nails wake me up the next morning. When I peer through the curtains, I see Ansel on the roof of the shed out back, forest looming behind him. I’m not surprised he’s good at this handyman role—he kept our home from physically falling apart after Dad died, even if he couldn’t repair my family’s heart.

  In my bedroom, the sun cuts through the white curtains so easily that they might as well not exist. I rummage under my suitcase of novels for a sundress—the last of my clean clothes—and quietly open the door. I’ve got no idea if Sophia is awake yet. Her door is open; I pause for a moment to look inside.

  It’s still dark, even in the daylight—I can see the silhouette of one of the large oaks swaying just outside a window and reason it must be blocking most of the sun. There’s a small bookshelf packed with philosophy books, and another with classics—Little Women, Moby-Dick, the Narnia books, all old and worn down, begging me to flip through their pages. On Sophia’s tiny wicker nightstand is a small lamp and, beside that, a Nietzsche book.

  A bark startles me; I whip my head toward the staircase and see Luxe panting happily at the open doorway, a tennis ball at his feet. I smile and walk toward him; he sits obediently while I rustle the fur on his head and then descend the stairs.

  I’m relieved when the scent of the chocolatier strikes me; something about it makes me relax, makes me forget about the thick forest just outside. Sophia is making something with coconut—she must be, because it smells like islands and sunshine in the storefront. Coming down the stairs, my eyes find a piece of wood nailed above the chocolatier’s front door.

  The wood is polished smooth, and painted in pale blue are the words “There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness.”

  Odd quote for a chocolatier, I think as I walk around the glass display cases and look over the saloon doors, to the kitchen.

  I was right—Sophia is standing over a half dozen split coconut shells. She’s gazing out the window, at my brother, I realize, with a sad sort of look on her face. I pause, watching her. It’s as if she’s remembering something, or wishing for something, something she can’t have—

  I step through the saloon doors; they creak and Sophia whirls around, smile on her face, any semblance of melancholy gone.

  “You’re up! Are you hungry? Because I’m not so good at making breakfast—actually, I’m not good at making much of anything except candies… but I have a toaster that makes awesome toast, and about a hundred different kinds of preserves,” Sophia says, pointing to a cabinet behind me. “My mom, she could make anything. Grits, biscuits, pancakes in the shape of hearts, you name it…” The tangerine-colored radio behind her plays music quietly, and she begins pouring milk from the remaining coconut shells into a yellow mixing bowl.

  “Do you want help?” I ask on my way to the toaster.

  “With this?”

  “I mean, since we’re waiting on Ansel, if you want… I don’t know how to cook, but I can learn.” I’ve always wanted to learn, honestly—our mom was a great cook. My sister and I practically survived off her homemade macaroni and cheese. I drop two slices of bread into the toaster and pick out a jar of grape preserves.

  “I’d love help. I’m kind of obsessive about the way the mixing is done, but can you do the filling? I hate filling.” Sophia grins and a look similar to relief washes over her, as though she’s truly touched by my offer. “Dad used to pay me a nickel per mold I filled, because he hated it as much as I do.” After I finish my toast, I walk to the other side of the counter, where Sophia is standing.

  “Just a half spoonful should do it. Don’t worry too much if it overflows a bit—we can just snap those edges off once it hardens,” Sophia says, passing the bowl to me. “And I’ve got a bunch more of those trays and am not ashamed of convincing someone else to fill them. Live Oak throws a big Fourth of July party in the square, and I’m way behind.”

  Sophia turns the radio up a little bit—all oldies, but she tells me it’s the only station she can get decent reception for. As Ansel’s hammering falls into even patterns, I slowly fill the tiny circles while Sophia pops already-cooled candies from the plastic and puts them into cellophane bags. Luxe settles at my feet and snores softly. There’s a consistency to it all, a rhythm that makes me forget time is passing. I don’t bother to check the clock till it’s almost noon, and I’m shocked that so many hours have passed. It’s the same feeling I get after finding out how long I’ve been absorbed in a book.

  I’m about to comment on how quickly the morning has gone when Luxe leaps up and barks happily; he runs out the kitchen’s screen door, almost bowling Ansel over, just as I hear a quiet tinkling of bells out front. I glance up to see two girls my age, one blond and one brunette, walking in. Luxe follows at their heels, as if he just strolled in with them instead of racing around the entire house to meet them. Ansel makes it into the kitchen and gives Luxe a weary look.

  “Hey!” Sophia calls to the customers as she sweeps through the saloon doors.

  “What’s up?” the blond girl asks brightly. I peer through the doorway at them. They look unpolished standing next to Sophia Kelly, as though they’re made of paint and makeup.

  “Nothing too serious. Just about to put out some coconut cordials. Interested?” Sophia asks.

  “Hmm, maybe,” the brunette says. “Anything new?”

  “Not lately,” Sophia admits, leaning over the glass counter. “I’ve got some chocolate and peanut butter bark, though, and I haven’t had that in a while.”

  “Ooh, that sounds yummy,” the blonde says, nodding emphatically. I watch her breathe deeply—does the scent of this place make everyone feel carefree, or is that just me?

  “It’s right over there.” Sophia points to a shelf near the saloon doors. She catches my eyes. “Oh hey, wait—Gretchen, Ansel, come up front and meet Jessie and Violet!”

  My brother and I make eye contact briefly, and he looks surprised when I’m the first to step toward the saloon doors. I smile as he follows behind me—normally it’s me following him, wary to lead.

  “Hi, I’m Jessie,” the blonde says, and her voice is warm enough that I relax a little as I walk toward them. “You’re… working here?” She gives Violet a confused glance that screams: But they’re strangers! Violet, however, seems focused on Ansel and only gives a faint nod.

  “They’re just helping me out for a little bit. Broke down crossing through,” Sophia explains, handing Jessie a crinkly bag filled with peanut butter bark. The explanation doesn’t seem to lessen Jessie’s surprise.

  “That’s cool… Where are you from?” Violet asks Ansel after a moment, glossed lips curling into a flirty smile.

  “Um…” He looks at Sophia, as if she can explain Violet’s heavy gaze. Sophia stifles a laugh and shrugs, so Ansel continues. “Just Washington State.”

  “You guys drove here all the way from Washington?” Violet sounds amazed. I nod. “That means you crossed through practically every state!”

  “Not quite, but a few. Lots of fields,” I say, reminiscing about the Midwest. “And then once we hit Kentucky, t
hings weren’t so different from here.”

  “Ugh. At least they have an Applebee’s in Kentucky. Live Oak just has eight churches and a grocery store, basically. But anyways, how old are you?” Violet asks Ansel hungrily.

  “Nineteen. Um, Sophia?” Ansel turns to her, ears bright red. “Do you have a smaller Phillips-head screwdriver?”

  “Yep. If you look behind the shed door, there’s a whole other set sitting on a box to the left,” Sophia answers, waving her eyebrows to tease him. He gives Violet and Jessie an obligatory nod and leaves—I wonder if he’d have been embarrassed if Sophia weren’t right here?

  “Will he be at the festival?” Violet asks Sophia before Ansel is out of earshot. I see my brother cringe and I suppress a laugh.

  “You two are still coming?”

  “Of course we are!” Jessie says, and looks offended that Sophia would even question it. “You don’t think we’d listen to a bunch of old people’s opinions? They’re all idiots. They just want someone to blame.”

  Sophia sighs and shrugs. “Seems like more and more people are listening to them.”

  “If by ‘more and more’ you mean, like… seven people, total,” Violet says pointedly.

  “In a town like Live Oak, that’s a lot!” Jessie and Violet almost simultaneously roll their eyes.

  “They’re not going to ruin you. The festival is gonna be packed.”

  “I hope so.” Sophia looks down as Jessie turns to me, oblivious to some sort of pain crossing Sophia’s face.

  “You should really stay for it, at least. It’s so much fun,” Jessie says. “But then make sure you run for the hills as soon as it’s done. This place, it sucks you under and drowns you, swear to god. I’m running and never looking back the second I get the chance. I can’t believe you came back, Sophia, after you managed to escape.”

  “Eh, well, someone had to run this place. Besides, the chocolatier gave me something to come back for. I can’t say I blame people destined for cashier jobs at the Piggly Wiggly for not calling or writing once they break free.”

  “That’s true. I’m not dating anyone who’s stocking shelves at twenty,” Violet says.

  “Oh, shut up, you sound like a Lake City snob,” Jessie tells her, then turns to me. “My boyfriend works there. And speaking of, I’m supposed to pick him up in twenty minutes, and there’s no way we can speed on Jot-Em-Down this time of day. You know Ricky has his car set up behind that kudzu wall.”

  “Dammit,” Violet says. “He could at least sit on the interstate and catch tourists instead of locals. No offense,” she adds to me. “Anyway, I need to grab some chocolate-covered Oreos before we go, if you have any. For Grams.”

  “Oh, that’s right, your Grams…” Sophia trails off. “How is she?”

  Violet shrugs. “She’s okay. Better, now that school’s out and I can take care of her. Stubborn as hell, though. Won’t move out of her house to live with my mama. Afraid she’ll send her to that Live Oak old folks’ home.”

  “Of course… you have to take care of her.” Sophia shakes her head, as though she’s tossing away some lingering question. “I don’t have any Oreos made, but if you give me a minute, I can dip them for you.”

  “Thanks,” Violet says. “If I came back without them, I’d be in trouble.”

  Sophia disappears to the kitchen, leaving me, Violet, and Jessie staring at one another somewhat blankly.

  “So… is this place like Washington at all?” Jessie asks as we hear Sophia crinkling wrappers in the back.

  “No,” I admit. “It’s much better, honestly.”

  “Even staying all the way out here? God, it’d make me nervous,” Jessie says.

  “It’s nice. Quiet, but nice,” I answer. If I could just forget about the forest, or get over it entirely, it’d be perfect.

  “I don’t know how Sophia does it,” Violet says. “I mean, after the whole thing with her daddy, I couldn’t do it. Maybe she finally cracked, and that’s why she let two outsiders move in…”

  My expression must give away my ignorance about whatever happened with Sophia’s father—Jessie and Violet look at each other meaningfully. It’s clear they think they’ve said too much.

  “It’s not a big deal,” Jessie says, but I can tell by her voice that it is. I raise my eyebrows. Jessie chews her lip, then looks over my shoulder to see where Sophia is.

  “Her dad,” Jessie finally says in a whispered voice. “He got killed out here. In the house, about three years ago.”

  Death doesn’t scare me. Disappearing, vanishing, being swallowed, yes, but death, surprisingly, doesn’t affect me the way it does some people—I watched my mother die, then my father, and death is a lot easier to handle than disappearing. Still, I muster up a shocked expression when I ask, “How?”

  Violet’s eyes widen and she answers. “They think wild animals; someone said rabid dogs, maybe. Tore him to pieces. That’s why Sophia had to move back to Live Oak—to handle his things and take over this place. I would’ve just shut it down, honestly. There’s hardly anyone left in Live Oak to shop here anyway.”

  Now my eyes widen at the story, and I open my mouth to respond. But before I can articulate a single word, Sophia sweeps back in.

  “Here you go!” She hands a bag of Oreos over to Jessie and Violet. Violet gives me a quick shrug, clearly not as paralyzed by what she’s just told me as I am.

  Sophia takes their money and drops it into an ancient red cash register. “Oh, and wait,” she says. She reaches into the glass case and chooses three chocolate-covered strawberries, then puts them in a white box. “If Ricky gives you trouble, throw these at him and run for it.” She grins. “Trust me, he can’t help himself. He loves them.”

  “Thanks, Sophia,” Jessie says, laughing as she takes the box. “See you later. Good to meet you, Gretchen.” Violet waves as they push through the screen door. I lean back to see them through the window; they climb into an old Camry in need of a paint job. Sophia dusts her hands on her apron and moves back toward the kitchen.

  I remember the look on her face this morning, the sad, wanting look. Was it for her father?

  “Gretchen? Are you coming?” Sophia asks, and I realize she’s holding open one of the saloon doors for me. I jump and realize I’d been staring at her, then follow her into the kitchen.

  “So… what was that festival they were talking about?” I want to ask about Sophia’s father, but I’m not sure how she’d react to questions. Besides, I’m an old pro at walking on eggshells for people.

  “It’s this thing I do toward the end of July. Big chocolate festival that I throw in the yard out back for all the Live Oak girls. I invite some out-of-town guys just for variety. That and the Fourth of July block party are the biggest events in Live Oak. Unless you count the Daughters of the Confederacy gala which… um… I don’t, no matter how many mailers those old ladies send out,” she says with a giggle. “They were right, though. You really should stay for it. I mean, I know it’s, like… I guess a little more than a month away? But still, you’d have a great time.”

  A grin blossoms across my face. She really wants me not only to go to her festival, but to stay here for that long? I’ve never been invited to so much as a sleepover. I try to hide my smile—I don’t want Sophia to know how alone I used to feel. I want Sophia to know the new Gretchen.

  I slide back onto a bar stool in the kitchen. “Is that why the old people don’t like you? They blame you for ruining their gala or something?”

  Sophia turns on the stove, and gas flames beneath a large cooking pot leap up.

  “No,” she says with a sigh. She drops a chunk of butter into the pot and swishes it around with the point of a knife. “Two years ago, the first year I threw the festival, a handful of the girls who came skipped town right after. And I guess that put the idea into the head of a few others, because last year another few left.”

  “How is that your fault?”

  Sophia shrugs as the butter crackles and stares int
o the pot as though it has an answer for her. “I got unstuck once. Some people think I convince girls at the festival to leave—put the idea into their heads, give them some money, and send them away. After the first year no one really was mad at me, but then it happened again and people wanted someone to blame.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” I mean for it to come off casually, dismissive, even, but my voice is serious. I know what it is to be blamed. I know what it is to be Sophia.

  “Where’s your sister?”

  They asked us questions. They wanted to know why we had let her go. What we last heard. What we last saw.

  They didn’t believe me when I said it was a witch. They didn’t understand when I told them if it wasn’t a witch, I didn’t know what it was.

  They wanted to know why we didn’t help her. Why we let her disappear. How could you leave her? How could you just let her go?

  We wanted the same answers.

  How could we just let her vanish?

  I know what it is to be blamed for someone’s disappearance when it isn’t your fault. I know what it is to have eyes on you, to know people whisper, to at once both fear and long to vanish like her.

  Sophia is still talking, and I pick back up midsentence. “… it’s a long-standing Live Oak-ian tradition: graduate high school, grab your stuff, and take off before you end up barefoot and pregnant. Live Oak just has so few kids left; it’s a bigger deal when a group takes off, I think,” Sophia says, adding water to the pot. It steams up around her face and she stirs it slowly. “Plus they don’t call or anything, so people suspect they really are missing and not just escaping this place. It kind of sucks, though, when people you’ve known your entire life—people you used to babysit for, even—start hating you for something you can’t control. Something you can’t help,” she finishes, and hurt creeps into her voice.