Amelia Unabridged

by Ashley Schumacher

  He is wondering if I am one of those bad things.

  I don’t blame him.

  I want to tell him that the bad things will find a way in, no matter what he does. I want to say that I, too, thought I was safe because I loved friends and stories and life more than I liked material possessions, but it turns out that even the safest things can be ripped from you between one heartbeat and the next.

  “I don’t want to hurt anyone,” I say instead, and Alex stares at me for a long moment.

  “I almost believe you,” he says, and he sounds surprised. “I don’t know what happened last night, but it says something that he talked to you at all.” He pauses. “You should know he never talks. To anyone.”

  “I figured,” I say.

  “No, but really.” His voice is stern, almost admonishing. “No one. I can count them all on one hand for you.”

  “I get it, Alex. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

  Alex’s eyes bore into mine. “He needs friends. Not fans.”

  And there it is, the underlying concern, the fear I’m a mindless fan drone that, given the chance, will rip off N. E. Endsley’s sweater and sell it on eBay. Or maybe he and Valerie are worried I’m an undercover journalist gearing up to write a big tell-all. I look down at my decidedly unprofessional rumpled shirt and decide it is probably the former.

  “I won’t hurt him,” I say. “I swear.”

  Alex makes no move to get out of the truck, so I don’t either. I hear a sharp bark from Wally in the distance.

  “You remind me of my friend Jenna,” I say. I stare straight at the windshield, afraid if I look at Alex when I say her name, the air will leave me. “She was … protective. She had to be, because when she found me, I didn’t have anyone to do that for me. Jenna was…” I pause and take a deep breath before continuing, “Jenna was my sister and my dearest, dearest friend. I swear on her grave, I am not trying to hurt him.”

  I’m proud of myself for not crying when I meet Alex’s circumspect eyes.

  “I’m sorry about your friend,” he says. After a pause, “You’ll have to walk a ways down the beach. I would drive you, but walking is quicker. The back roads here are weird. It’s about a ten-minute walk to the fort. He’ll probably find you before then. I texted him to make sure he wanted you to come.”

  I’m glad to not be unannounced. It settles some of the jitters I tried to blame on Mr. Larson’s coffee but know are from the prospect of seeing Endsley again.

  “Thanks, Alex,” I say.

  “No, thank you, Amelia. It’s unusual for him to have any kind of company. Just…” He looks more than a little lost as he tries to articulate what he’s thinking. “Just remember that you are visiting my unvisitable friend and I would very much like for him to still be intact when you leave. Okay?”

  Today is a day of forgetting. I have also forgotten that I am only in this place temporarily, borrowing six days from Texas, and my future, and all the responsibilities that roll out before me in a blanket meant to comfort but that feels more like prolonged smothering.

  I look out the window of the truck and try to ignore Wally’s distant excited barks. It’s a demanding sound, an insistent come-and-play, but I feel like my conversation with Alex isn’t finished.

  I’m about to get out of the truck and let the moment pass when Alex says, “Amelia?”

  “Yeah?”

  He’s staring at me again, like I’m a puzzle and if he can just flip the correct switch I’ll be complete and whole.

  “What?” I ask, when he doesn’t say more.

  “Nothing,” Alex says, and he leans back in the seat and starts the engine. “Nothing. I’ve got to get back to working on the bazaar. We’ll see each other later.”

  There’s a smile hiding in his eyes as I slip from the cab. I give a halfhearted wave to Alex and walk down the rocky slope to the sand. The truck roars into motion as soon as I’m out of sight.

  Wally’s barks float from the trees and my eyes trail upward to where the wind is pushing the branches sharply away from the water. The distant dark clouds promise buckets of water, should they make it across the lake to Lochbrook. How strange that one day I am in Dallas, tucked neatly into my untidy world, and the next I am transported to an entirely different place. There are no tall buildings here, no police sirens, no smell of asphalt melting in the Texas sun, and no lingering suggestions of Jenna’s presence, like her house or Downtown Books.

  The whales drift, their underbellies skirting the tops of the trees, before swimming off toward the storms with a confidence that comes from being too immovable for weather or time or a girl’s problems.

  “Amelia?”

  I jump, a hand flying dramatically to my heart like a goofy southern belle from a movie.

  “Nolan.” His first name is startled out of me at his sudden appearance. It’s what Alex and Valerie call him, when Valerie isn’t calling him “that boy,” and I find it’s what feels most right.

  He doesn’t correct me.

  He’s managed to sneak up on me by emerging from the foliage that lines the beach, appearing like one of the tree knights from the Orman Chronicles, from one of his own books. He stands beside me, following my gaze to the trees, a look of confusion on his face.

  “Bird-watching?”

  It will do me no good to pretend I am the bubbly book-loving person I once was. In a matter of days, I will wake up in my mom’s tiny house, as alone as a person can be without actually being by oneself. I will look at the pizza in the fridge and decide it is probably too old even for me and will order a new box. I will put away Jenna’s books I ruined, empty my mother’s ashtrays, and prepare to start the rest of my life.

  I will go to Jenna’s college prep course. I will tread faithfully down the path put before me and I will be grateful for the privilege of it and I won’t care so much about what I study. I will listen to the battle cry of my heartbeat: I am I am I am.

  But for now I will be my truest, most unadulterated new self. I am Jennaless and I am broken, but I still have my wits and a healthy dose of curiosity about Nolan Endsley, and I will guilelessly use both to see what he remembers about Jenna, or if he knows anything about the 101st edition I left tucked under my pillow in Valerie’s guest room. I will use every bit of charm in my arsenal to collect this piece of Jenna to store in the mausoleum of my heart.

  What do I have to lose?

  So, in lieu of coming up with a socially acceptable answer like I was watching the trees, or I was lost in thought, I tell him the truth.

  “More like whale watching.”

  Nolan Endsley doesn’t miss a beat, squinting hard at me and back up to the sky. “In the trees? Are they flying whales?”

  “Sometimes,” I say. I am surprised but glad that he is joining in my game. “Most of the time I think of them swimming way out in the middle of the ocean.”

  The wind rattles out another symphony of rustling leaves, accented with the staccato huffs of Wally’s heavy breathing. He’s skirted the trees to stand between Nolan and me.

  Nolan and me.

  “I come down here once a week and never have I imagined whales flying through the trees,” he says. His eyes are trained upward. “What kind of whales?”

  I frown. “Usually they’re orcas, but today they are most definitely blue whales.”

  “Did you know that orcas aren’t technically whales? They’re part of the dolphin family.” He’s still peering up, like he can really see what I see. He’s not smiling, not totally taken by my whimsy, but he’s not dismissing me, either.

  “I did know,” I say. “You, on the other hand, have never seen the flying whales before.”

  “And now I have,” Nolan says simply.

  “And now you have,” I echo.

  I peek at him, not wanting to stare outright. He’s calmer outside the bookstore, less calculating and hard. He’s still a storm, but it’s a muted one that promises only heavy rain instead of torrents of wind and destruction. It’s as if la
st night and the photos of Wally, Alex, and trees have floated away with the whales and we have been left new and unsure in their wake.

  But this is all I am guaranteed. Who knows if he will even want to see me after today. So I force myself to break the silence. “Alex said you have a fort?”

  Nolan snorts. “Fort.”

  “Is it not a fort?”

  Nolan Endsley doesn’t deign to reply. He begins to walk up the beach, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, his brown sweater making his frame look bulkier than he is. Wally trots obediently behind him and then sprints ahead, his impressive leg span reaching full gallop.

  I half expect to walk behind Nolan the entire way, but he suddenly pauses to let me catch up. After, we walk side by side, our feet crunching in a sloppy tune.

  I miss walking with Jenna this way, to classes or through rows of books at festivals and libraries and bookstores. She always said she preferred to browse alone, but she never argued when I insisted on linking arms with her. She would act annoyed, but she became very efficient at browsing and opening books one-handed. I did, too.

  For a moment, I forget that I am walking beside N. E. Endsley, and he morphs back into the boy on the rug with the crappy cell phone. For a moment, I push away the voice insisting that I am too devastated, too pathetic, to be anyone’s friend, and I boldly push my hand into the crook of his elbow.

  He stops and my heart catches. I’ve ruined it all before it had a chance to begin. This is too forward, and he doesn’t want to be touched, certainly not by me.

  But he only says, “Amelia,” and it sounds less like a warning and more like a simple acknowledgment.

  “Nolan?”

  He looks down at our linked arms. “You’re short,” he says.

  “That’s relative,” I say. We haven’t resumed walking, but he hasn’t dropped my arm yet, either, so I pretend I am brave enough to look him in the eye without blushing. My cheeks do not obey—I can feel my face flushing an unflattering red—but my eyes are steadfast. I can see the dark forest behind his eyes again, but there is a spark, a borrowed bit of magic from Orman glittering from the depths. It gives me hope.

  “She warned me that you are persistent,” he says.

  He says it offhandedly, a slip of the tongue, but I recognize it for what it is. He does remember talking to Jenna, and what’s more, they talked about me.

  A thrill goes through me, that they spoke long enough for her to tell him I’m stubborn. I feel buoyed, like Jenna is reaching forward from the past to hold my arm in the crook of Nolan’s elbow, insisting I stay by his side long enough to find out what was said, to figure out how she sent the book to me undetected. The whales in the lake sing their songs as they joyfully breach.

  “I am,” I finally say. “Persistent, I mean.”

  Nolan Endsley nods like he believes me, or maybe like he’s made a decision. I hope the decision is to not hate me.

  “Okay,” he says.

  “Okay,” I say.

  I don’t even mind that there are pebbles in my shoes as we begin to walk.

  chapter nine

  The “fort” ends up being a renovated boathouse that sits downhill from a rather large blue-brick house toward which Nolan nods. “Home sweet home.”

  “That is your house?”

  He drops my arm, like my wonder has offended him somehow, and sighs. He sighs a lot.

  “It’s my family’s house.”

  “But you live here?”

  “Yes.”

  “With Alex?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does your family live here, too?”

  “No,” he says. It’s a hard, sharp word that fills me to the brim with curiosity and chagrin, but I have no time to question him because Wally is barking and running between us and the boathouse like it’s Christmas morning and he’s waiting to open gifts of squeaker toys and rawhides.

  We work our way up the stairs from the pebbles and sand to the fort, which is about the size of my living room. I worry it’s going to smell grimy and damp, like old seawater—Not the sea; not the sea, I remind myself—but when Nolan unlocks the door, it creaks open to reveal a cozy room humming with the modern luxuries of electricity and central air.

  Despite the bland exterior, the inside of the fort looks like it belongs in one of those high-end children’s room decor magazines. A children’s tent sits in the far corner with folds of blankets and throw pillows spilling through the opening, an oversize stuffed bear guarding the entrance with a dopey smile. One of his ears looks damp and matted and I suspect Wally is to blame. The other corner is stacked high with beanbag chairs, the large kind that you can buy at shopping malls for the price of actual furniture. I used to lust after them. I even tried to convince Jenna to buy one for our dorm room, but she said they were “unsanitary and ridiculous.” She did, however, buy me a much smaller, less expensive version from Target not two hours later.

  Jenna is still not here, but my curiosity about Nolan and my reluctance to think about the world that awaits my return is something of an anchor, and for once I feel truly present.

  I can smell the lake and the trees and the dampness of Wally’s huge paws. I can feel the pebble in my shoe rubbing against the side of my foot. I can hear the waves lapping against the long stilts of the renovated boathouse. I’m here, in this space, with the N. E. Endsley, and I sense that he’s at least not not trying, and I can work with that.

  The aforementioned world-famous author drags two beanbags from their stack and into the center of the floor, which is covered by a large area rug made to look and feel like the world’s softest grass. I can’t help but watch him, curious how he moves and breathes and exists. He’s taken off the bulky sweater and his muscles move beneath the sleeves of his shirt. I look away, embarrassed for noticing. Authors are supposed to be wan and tormented, not flushed and leanly muscular.

  Nolan gestures for me to sit, an invitation. Still feeling like I might as well push my luck—Six days; only six days echoing in my mind—I drag my beanbag a smidgen closer to his before sitting.

  “So. This is your fort?”

  “This is the fort,” Nolan says. He’s looking around the room, too, like maybe he’s trying to see it through a newcomer’s eyes. I can almost see the inability, his eyes blandly running over the familiar kid’s tent, the rug, Wally already snoring in a dog bed that sits beside the writing desk, the bulletin board full of thumbtacked sheets of stationery and greeting cards.

  “Fan letters?” I ask.

  A grim shake of the head. “Of a sort, I guess. They’re thank-you letters. From my publisher.”

  “Really? So many?” There are at least a dozen.

  “The sales of my second book warranted a Christmas bonus for some of the employees directly involved in the business stuff. Many thought it was thank-you-note worthy.”

  “That’s amazing,” I say, shifting forward. I move to stand and examine some of these letters, but before I can rise, before the thought is even fully formed, Nolan juts his arm out and pulls me back down.

  “No,” he says. “Don’t.”

  I hear what he doesn’t say: he doesn’t want to talk about his books.

  “Okay,” I say, holding my hands up in mock surrender. I give a pointed look at where his hand still grasps my arm.

  “Sorry,” he says, quickly dropping his arm back to his side. “Sorry. I’m not used to being around…”

  “Girls?” I finish for him.

  “People.”

  This I should have known, but there is plenty I don’t know. And as Alex reminded me in the truck, there’s not much time to find out. I try to warm up with an easy question.

  “You lived in New York, right?”

  “I did,” he says.

  “And now you live here?”

  He looks at me impassively, his eyes having lost all traces of the spark I saw on the beach. Maybe he’s like Alex, worried I am some crazed fangirl on a quest to steal snippets of the final Orman book.
>
  Maybe this will never work.

  “I live here now, yes,” he says, but he’s waited too long. My mood starts to sink.

  “Okay, different question,” I try. “Is the pen collection real? Everyone says you have a pen and journal collection, but you’ve never talked about it in any of the interviews I’ve read.”

  God, that does sound too fangirl. But I feel a need to fill the silence, so I recalibrate quickly.

  “Sorry, that was creepy,” I admit. “I can get that way sometimes. You’re not good with people and I’m not good at holding conversations, I guess.” I laugh awkwardly and trudge on through this marsh of one-sided dialogue. “Do you miss New York?”

  Again, blank staring from him, a slow burning crossness from me. Where is his playfulness from earlier with the whales? Did I already manage to say something wrong or offensive? And even if I did, am I only given the one chance and then he shuts up like a clam holding on to the world’s most exquisite pearl?

  Orman is wonderful and successful and all those things, but he doesn’t get to be a jerk or withhold information about my best friend.

  One last chance.

  “Nolan, are you going talk to me? About Jenna?”

  Whales become extinct in the time it takes Nolan to fiddle with the rug and finally look up and say, “I thought we were talking.”

  I stand up, restless.

  “Is this how the day is going to go?” My voice is rising, as last night’s desperation comes creeping back and Nolan’s mask breaks enough to show a small amount of alarm. “Because this is useless,” I continue. “This isn’t helping you or me or anybody.”

  “Helping?”

  “Yes, helping,” I say. “I came because of Jenna … because of you, really. I mean…” I scoff in disbelief, gesturing between the two of us. “You met her and now I’m here and you won’t even talk to me. What did she say to you? What did you say to her? I know you talked, because who else would have told you I was persistent? Did she mention anything about sending me a copy of your book? Just say something.”

  I’m standing over Nolan Endsley with my hair falling everywhere and my shirt sticking out at odd angles because of the beanbag. I look unkempt and probably irrational in front of the person I once had the most ambition to meet, but I don’t care. I’m suddenly and inexplicably furious at everything. At the world, for taking Jenna away and leaving me with such a strange, unlikely, and poor substitute as this, the author of my favorite books. I’m angry at myself, for not having cultivated backup friends, ones waiting in the wings to take Jenna’s place should she—most probably—grow tired of my antics or—least probably—die in Ireland.