The Last Tree Town

by Beth Turley

  “You could tell me the last tree town story,” I say.

  Aaron drops the leaf.

  “Spruce Landing. I guess I’ve been putting that one off.”

  My brain tunes in like it does when he starts a story. Everything else falls away.

  “What happened?”

  “I learned what the memoir was really about,” he says.

  The leaf is between our shoes. One side is yellow and the other is green. The breeze goes quiet like it’s listening.

  “Dad always said the memoir was about expanding the borders of our comfort zone. But I was starting to think that if I expanded any further, I’d crack. So I told him that one night.” Aaron reaches into his pocket. “And then he showed me this.”

  He pulls out his phone and scrolls for a minute. When he holds up his screen, I see a picture of a handwritten note. Lines cover the page like it’s been folded over and over. I take the phone and start to read.

  My loves,

  This is the hardest thing I’ll ever have to do, but the adventure of our lives together ends here. I am not good for you or for the world we’ve built. I don’t fit in a house or a family portrait. If you ever feel like you might want to come after me, please know that I don’t want to be found. I need to be out there, in tree towns, growing. You’ll be okay.

  Forever,

  Tracy

  I remember the day of Bye Bye Birdie when Mr. Kale approached that woman in the gray sweater like he knew her. Like he’d found her.

  “He was looking for your mom.”

  Aaron nods.

  “Dad was a lawyer. I should’ve known something was wrong when he decided to leave it all and start writing a book. When suddenly all he cared about was adventure. But it’s not like I had a choice other than to go along. Mom was gone.”

  I think about Aaron building birdhouses to get his mom to stay, and then leaving them behind like an abandoned neighborhood. Maybe they’re still there, withered and mossy but holding on.

  “What did you do after he told you?” I ask.

  “I got mad. But he begged me to give it one more shot. One last tree town. And we came here.” Aaron’s face turns red like it does before he speaks a big truth. “But I bet that’s not even what Mom meant by ‘tree towns.’ I don’t want to spend my whole life searching for someone who isn’t here anymore.”

  This story doesn’t feel careful and plotted the way his stories usually do. It’s Aaron spilling out like candy from a piñata.

  “Do you think he’ll let you stay?” I ask.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you want to stay?”

  He looks at me. “Yeah. A lot. I’ve never had friends like you, Jac, and Ben before.”

  The wind blows, and the leaves rustle above our heads. A family of birds sings from somewhere in the branches. I think about the place mats on our kitchen table.

  “I’ve been looking for someone too,” I say.

  His face creases with concern. “Who?” he asks.

  I take a breath and tell him everything. About the things Daniella said at Kindly Vines, about the Welcome to Middle School dance, about the kite at the citadel and Briana from the mall and Buelo’s wallet lifted to the cafeteria lights. I tell him about the button on the red shirt. I even tell him about the boy in the Rudolph sweater.

  And by the time I finish talking, I realize that the Cassi I thought I was supposed to be, the Cassi from before all those things happened and multiplied, isn’t here anymore. I’m like a snake that’s shed its skin to make more room to grow. And maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

  April 20

  I snapped. The weight above my head crashed down harder than it ever has, and I snapped. The thing is, I do care when the Declaration of Independence was signed. I care about history and revolutions. But the weight convinced me that I don’t. The fallen wall in my chest convinced me that none of it matters at all.

  Psycho.

  #crazypants.

  Why’s her hair look like that?

  At least she got the question right, people.

  What did that map do to her?

  I’ve read all the comments. I’ve let my fingers rest on the keyboard, ready to compose an explanation. I’ve let myself believe that those people are right. That I really am a psycho. That I have done the most embarrassing thing anyone has ever done. That I should find a rock to hide under forever.

  I had my first therapy session today. My therapist, Alice, has a kind voice and a small tattoo of an airplane on her wrist. She asks me about my interests, and my goals, and my fears. She uses the word “depression.”

  It didn’t seem to bother her that I kept my arms tight across my chest and wouldn’t answer her questions with more than a few words. She acted like we were having a perfectly pleasant conversation.

  Maybe I didn’t say much. But I did listen.

  I’ve spent a lot of time thinking that there’s something wrong with me. That I was an unlikable, broken thing that was making everyone else miserable too.

  Alice says that’s not true. Yes, something was wrong. The stress in my life turned to deep, heavy sadness in my brain. I needed help.

  But there is nothing wrong with me.

  I am not broken.

  48 Fifty Years

  I borrow Daniella’s blue romper for the awards ceremony. It’s a little too big, but I like the color and how it smells like her. The ceremony is at a banquet hall downtown, the same place where we had Buelo and Buela’s fiftieth wedding anniversary party. I wonder if Daniella thinks about that when we walk under the awning at the entrance. I wonder if she remembers standing on the big deck with me, looking out at the water and trying to picture the next fifty years. When my hair tie snapped while we were dancing, she gave me hers. Curls tumbled down to her shoulder blades.

  Daniella’s been seeing Alice twice a week. She comes home from her sessions looking different. Not happy exactly. But less glassy-eyed and angry. I haven’t read her diary since her first visit, so I’m not sure if she’s started uncrossing her arms and talking. But I hope so.

  Dad holds the door open for us.

  “I’m proud of you,” he says when Daniella and I walk by. I think he’s saying it to both of us. I smile and try to feel proud too.

  We make it to the main room. The big hardwood dance floor is surrounded by that generic patterned carpet that all banquet halls seem to have. Round tables are draped in yellow fabric. A chandelier glitters in the center of it all.

  “Look, there’s Maria.” Buela hurries over to a table near the edge to side-kiss an older woman with orange hair. A boy my age sits next to her. I end up beside him when we take the empty seats. The tables are set the proper way, with salad forks and soup spoons and everything. A centerpiece stands in the middle—a tall vase with daffodils stuffed into sand.

  “Tus nietas?” Maria asks.

  “Sí, my granddaughters, Cassi and Daniella.”

  “Nice to meet you.” She puts a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “This is Javier. It’s his second year being awarded.” He wears a mustard-colored polo, and his dark hair is slicked back.

  “What subject?” I ask him.

  “History. You?” My heart smiles a little. He knew the award was going to me. He didn’t assume we were here for Daniella, because she looks more like she belongs in the Hispanic Society of Mapleton County. You belong too.

  “Math.”

  Waiters start bringing out dinner. The first course is a salad with bleu cheese and walnuts. I eat it all. Daniella pushes the cranberries to the side.

  “Want them?” she asks.

  I nod and spear the cranberries right off her plate. It feels so normal, it almost hurts.

  A man in a gray suit walks out to the podium during dinner.

  “Good evening, everyone. I am Frank Mercado, president of the Hispanic Society. We will now be calling our honorees to the front.”

  I drop my fork into my lemon chicken. It crashes against the plate and make
s everyone at the table look at me. I smile until my parents turn away.

  Javier nudges me with his elbow.

  “Don’t be nervous,” he says.

  “I didn’t know I would have to go up there.”

  Frank Mercado is still talking. I can’t focus on what he’s saying.

  “It’s real easy. You just have to stand and have a picture taken.”

  I nod. If Jac were here, she’d do something to make me laugh. Aaron would tell a story to distract me. Ben would sing a song about the lemon chicken. But Javier’s reassurance works too. Maybe there are friends to be made all over the place.

  “Thanks.”

  Frank Mercado starts to call up the award winners one at a time.

  “First is Sierra Ramos. She is a seventh grader at Trinity Prep. She has been on the honor roll since her first semester of sixth grade, and she is being awarded for her performance in art. She enjoys painting in her spare time. Congratulations, Sierra.”

  Sierra looks like a twelve-year-old version of my sister, with big curls and bright clothes. She stands next to the podium and rocks back and forth.

  More names are called that sound like Sierra’s. The award winners line up in a row. I try not to notice how different their names and faces are from mine. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. He calls another name. Please don’t let it matter.

  “Next is Cassi Chord. She is a seventh grader at Eliza T. Dakota Middle School. She is part of the Math Olympics team and has a perfect A+ average in Math. She enjoys outings with her family in her free time, particularly her sister, who she says is her hero. Congratulations, Cassi.”

  I look at Daniella. She smiles and imitates taking a deep breath. Her eyes look a little wet.

  The carpet seems to stretch on for miles. Applause rings in my ears. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Emilio from Math Olympics. Mr. G must have nominated him, too. He waves at me like I didn’t abandon him and the rest of my team at Regionals. I take my spot in the line.

  We’re at the edge of the dance floor, where my grandparents slow danced for their fiftieth anniversary.

  “Felicidades,” the girl next to me whispers, like there isn’t anything strange about someone pale and copper-haired being honored by the Hispanic Society of Mapleton County.

  “Tu tambien,” I answer. You too.

  Javier gets announced next. He mouths Good job at me when he passes by to get to the end of the line. I clap loud when Emilio gets called. After the announcements, a photographer has us move closer together so she can take a picture. I smile until my cheeks are sore while the camera flashes and flashes.

  * * *

  Music starts playing in the middle of dessert, a song made for dancing. The deep bass vibrates in my body. The dance floor fills with people. Parents and grandparents face each other and move, hands linked and arms around each other’s waists. You’d think their dances were professionally choreographed, but I think it’s their hearts that tell them what to do. The dances are part of them.

  I reach for Daniella’s hand.

  “Let’s go out there,” I say.

  “You want to dance?” She takes another bite of chocolate mousse cake. There’s a cherry sauce stain on her plate that looks like the chili on a Pepper’s pizza.

  “Yes, so much. The music speaks to me.”

  Javier laughs. He’s eaten two pieces of cake.

  “Since when?” Daniella asks. Her eyes look like she wants to smile but her mouth hasn’t gotten the message yet.

  “Since now.”

  I tug on her arm. I’m not strong enough to lift her like she did to me. But I’m willing to try. She takes the white cloth napkin off her lap and drops it onto the table, then lets me drag her to the dance floor.

  “You too, Javier,” I call over my shoulder. Javier pushes his chair back so hard, it almost falls, and then follows us.

  We claim a spot near the center. Daniella doesn’t dance right away. I wish I had her moves to follow but I start doing my own anyway. I sway my hips and feet, swivel my head back and forth. Javier jumps in place with his arms in the air. Daniella shakes her shoulders and claps. I watch her close her eyes a few times, immersed in the music.

  Soon Emilio joins our circle. And Sierra from Trinity, who likes painting. And the other award winners too. The songs change, the way everything eventually changes, I guess. But we all keep dancing.

  Mr. G was right. It’s not a certificate that makes me Spanish, or how I look. It’s about the way my heart feels. Like it did at the citadel in San Juan.

  Like I fit.

  49 Unfair

  I’m in my pajamas after the ceremony when there’s a knock on my door.

  “Come in,” I say. The blanket with the faceless princesses is folded at the foot of my bed. It’s too warm for fleece now.

  Daniella opens the door.

  “Can I grab my romper?” she asks. She’s wearing pajamas too.

  “Yeah.” I point to my laundry basket in the corner. The romper lies on top. Daniella walks over and grabs it. When she turns back around, her face has that tired, heartbroken look that’s been there all year.

  “Why are you sad?” I ask.

  She looks up. Her eyes are watery, her shoulders sunken in.

  “What?” she asks, like just that one word took all her strength.

  “I thought you were feeling better. You were fine at the awards ceremony, and now you look like you did before you went to see Alice.” The bottom of my throat prickles, but I refuse to cry.

  “It was hard for me just to be there tonight, Cassi. You pulled me onto a dance floor when all I wanted to do was sleep. But I did it. For you.”

  Everything I’ve held on to this year floods out of my chest at once, as if I’ve had a wall in there too and now it’s toppling.

  “For me? You haven’t done anything for me! Not all year. Except close your door, and tell me I wasn’t Puerto Rican enough, and ruin every single thing I did to try to help you.”

  Daniella’s eyes are cold, her mouth a straight line. She tucks the romper under her arm. “I knew it would make you feel bad if I said that.”

  Her words are honest in the way that hurts. The way words hurt when you know you won’t forget them for a long, long time. Like “scarecrow.” Like “Caucasian (Not Hispanic or Latino).” Like “You’re always like that.”

  But why would my sister want to hurt me?

  “Why would you say that if you knew?”

  Daniella takes a step closer to my bed. I stretch myself across my pillows so that she can’t sit down with me.

  “I wanted someone else to feel as awful as I did,” she says.

  “But… that’s not fair!” I try to visualize my words like numbers in a math equation. They’re not adding up. Sisters don’t do that to one another. Especially not sisters who listen to music together and talk with mouths full of toothpaste. “That’s mean to make me feel that way. It’s not fair that I’ve had to go through everything this year without you. Buelo, Math Olympics, Aaron. I needed you, Daniella.”

  I think about all the seasons that have passed. The burnt-orange leaves, steep hills covered in snow, the trees starting to sprout pink flowers. She hasn’t been there for any of it.

  I’m so mad, my body can’t hold it all in. I leap off my bed and tug the drawer of the nightstand open, take the stack of calendar pages out. I turn around to face Daniella and throw them at her. I throw every single day she’s missed back into her face. I want them to bury her the way they’ve buried me. The pages flurry to the ground. Daniella stands there, like a statue, her hands curled into fists.

  “I knew it. I knew you were going into my room. I just hoped you weren’t that sneaky!” she shouts.

  “Well, I was. I’ve been going into your room and reading your diary since September. I was trying to figure out a way to make you feel better!” I admit. I watch the truth sink in. Daniella’s eyes are narrow and fiery.

  We’ve reached our highest pressure.
r />   She kicks at the calendar pages. October twenty-seventh flies into the air, telling me Be kind whenever possible. It is always possible. February third hits my ankle. Don’t forget that some things count more than other things.

  “I can’t just snap my fingers and be fine, Cassi. I can’t talk to you about Buelo, when just thinking about it feels like being hit by a wrecking ball. You say it’s not fair that I haven’t been around, but guess what else isn’t fair? Expecting me to be. Using my private thoughts to manipulate me.”

  The anger in me withers. I was so sure that I was doing the right thing. But was it never up to me to make Daniella better with fires or rice or music?

  I want to get to the part where we end up like diamonds.

  “I just miss you so much,” I say. My voice cracks. Tears spring to my eyes. “I want you to be my best friend again.” The hurt I’ve been feeling all year streaks down my face.

  Daniella walks to my bed. The calendar pages slide under her feet. She sits on the edge and taps my polkadotted comforter. I take the spot next to her, leaving space between us.

  “I’m still your best friend. And you’re still mine. But I can’t be your hero right now. It’s too much responsibility.”

  “I never meant to put responsibility on you.” The words rush out of me.

  “I know you didn’t mean to. And I want to be here for you still, as best I can. I want to be out on that dance floor. But for now maybe we can take it one song at a time.”

  If I really want Daniella to feel better, then I have to let her do it in her own way. Just like I’m figuring out how to be me through all these changes.

  “I’m okay with that.”

  Daniella sets up my speaker, then leans into my pillows. Our favorite breakup song plays, and even though it’s sad, it’s ours.

  “When’s the last time you read my diary?” she asks in the middle of the chorus.

  “I stopped after the first time you saw Alice.”

  She walks out of my room, over the calendar pages, past the pebble CASSANDRA and the seashell DANIELLA. Her door stays cracked open when she comes back. She sits down on my bed again, her diary in her lap.