DEDICATION
For Ellen Evangelista
and Kate Zaparaniuk
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One: Ava
Chapter Two: Ava
Chapter Three: Ava
Chapter Four: Ava
Chapter Five: Emily, Age Eight
Chapter Six: Ava
Chapter Seven: Ava
Chapter Eight: Emily, Age Eleven
Chapter Nine: Ava
Chapter Ten: Emily, Age Thirteen
Chapter Eleven: Ava
Chapter Twelve: Emily, Age Thirteen
Chapter Thirteen: Ava
Chapter Fourteen: Emily, Age Thirteen
Chapter Fifteen: Ava
Chapter Sixteen: Emily, Age Thirteen
Chapter Seventeen: Ava
Chapter Eighteen: Ava
Chapter Nineteen: Ava
Chapter Twenty: Emily, Age Thirteen
Chapter Twenty-One: Ava
Chapter Twenty-Two: Emily, Age Thirteen
Prologue: eugolorP
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Lauren Myracle
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Copyright
About the Publisher
I wish for the thing with feathers
that perches in the soul
and sings the tune without the words
and never stops at all.
—KLARA BLOK, AGE THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER ONE
Ava
“My Wishing Day is in two days,” Ava said. Somehow, incomprehensibly, her sisters seemed oblivious to the urgency of the situation. That’s why she’d called this emergency powwow under the ancient willow tree—only they still weren’t taking it seriously. “We have to figure out what I should wish for. I’m our last hope!”
“Our last hope?” Darya said. “Like Obi-Wan Kenobi?” She leaned over and rubbed the top of Ava’s head with her knuckles. “You are so cute.”
Ava ducked free. “I’m not cute. Stop saying that!”
“Natasha, we’re not allowed to tell Ava she’s cute anymore.” Darya held up her hands, palms out. “Her words, not mine.”
Natasha half smiled. “But you are cute, Ava. You’re adorable, inside and out.”
Ava wanted to thwack her palm against her forehead. Labels like “cute” and “adorable” drove her up the wall. They were so . . . small. There was no way a handful of adjectives could sum up Ava’s essence.
The same held true for her sisters. Fourteen-year-old Natasha, for example, was usually described as pretty, with thick, dark hair like Mama’s. But she was so much more than “pretty.” She was solemn, bookish, and compassionate. She believed in fairness. She wanted to make the world a better place. Didn’t those qualities matter more than what Natasha looked like?
Darya was the middle sister, five and a half months older than Ava and ten months younger than Natasha. If Ava was cute and Natasha pretty, then Darya—it had to be said—was stunning. Her auburn curls tumbled down her back, a torrent of liquid gold. People stopped her on the street and asked if they could touch it—for real. Darya rolled her eyes, but only for show. In truth, Darya lapped up the attention.
Darya was also impatient, opinionated, and prickly, especially if things didn’t go her way. And she was funny, and she was loyal, and she cared about things far more than she let on.
Ava struggled to untangle her thoughts, which flew all over the place when she grappled with the question of identity. Like why were girls, especially, judged on how they looked?
When Ava was younger, things were simpler. If someone had asked her who she was, she’d have said, “Um, I’m Ava,” and she’d have given the person a funny look.
Now that she was older, Ava wondered if anybody knew who they were, really and truly. Yes, Ava was Ava. Yes, she was probably cute, as Darya and Natasha insisted. To them, she was the cute sister, the dreamy sister, the baby sister.
But surely she was more than that. She had to be, because her family was broken, and she was the only person left to set things right. She leaned against the rough bark of the willow tree and sighed. She looked pointedly at her journal, whose pages she’d planned to fill with Natasha’s and Darya’s advice. It remained closed on her lap, its pages blank. She sighed again.
“Omigosh, enough with the sighing,” Darya said.
“Then help me!” Ava pleaded. “Don’t you want our family to be whole again?”
“Our family is whole again,” Darya said. “Mama came back. She’s not missing anymore.”
Ava dragged her hand over her face. “Mama is back in Willow Hill, yes. But come on. She’s been hiding out in Aunt Elena’s apartment for over a year. No one knows except Aunt Elena and the three of us. Not even Papa!”
“So?” Darya said. “She isn’t gone anymore. That’s what matters. She returned from . . . well, wherever she was all those years. And for that, we have Natasha to thank.” Darya dipped her head at Natasha. “Thank you, Natasha.”
“You’re welcome?” said Natasha.
“And, Natasha didn’t force us into a group huddle before her Wishing Day,” Darya continued. “She made her Wishing Day wishes and moved on.”
“I don’t understand how you’re okay with this,” Ava said.
“I’ll tell you how. Because thanks to one of my Wishing Day wishes, Mama is going to tell Papa that she’s back,” Darya said. For just a moment, she faltered. “She promised.”
“She made that promise in October,” Ava protested. “It’s the middle of May, Darya. It’s been over half a year.”
Darya fluttered her fingers.
“Plus, Angela’s been added to the picture, also thanks to you,” Ava said. “I’m not saying that to make you feel bad, but it’s true.”
“I wished for Papa to be happy again, and he is. So sue me.”
“Happy?” asked Natasha. “Happier, maybe. But that wouldn’t take much.”
The three sisters fell silent, because when Mama disappeared so many years ago, Papa disappeared, too. No, he hadn’t abandoned them the way Mama had. He had probably even done his best to handle what had been thrown at him. Just, his best wasn’t all that great.
“For the record, I never intended for Papa to meet a hippie-chick jewelry maker at one of those craft fairs his life revolves around,” Darya grumbled. “She doesn’t even make good jewelry. Couldn’t she at least make good jewelry?”
“I like Angela,” Natasha said. She regarded the cuff bracelet circling her slender wrist. “I like her jewelry, too. That doesn’t mean I want her to be Papa’s girlfriend.”
Ava gathered her courage. “Mama hiding out at Aunt Elena’s is bad,” she said. “Angela hanging around Papa is also bad.” She tilted her head and studied the maze of leaves and branches above her. So many interwoven strands. Reluctantly, she brought her gaze down. “But the real problem is Emily.”
Darya’s jaw tightened.
Natasha pressed her fingers to her temples. “Ava, that’s a nonstarter.”
“A ‘nonstarter’?” Ava said. “I think it’s the opposite of a nonstarter. What happened to Emily started it all.”
“Mama needs to let go of Emily,” Darya said.
“How?” Ava asked. “Emily was Mama’s best friend.” She appealed to Natasha. “You understand. You’re the one who learned about Emily in the first place.”
Natasha shook her head. “Trust me, Ava, I’ve gone around and around about the Emily thing.”
“The Emily thing?!”
“But what do we really know? At the end of the day, all we have is Mama’s word.”
“So?” Ava said. “When you tell me something, I believe
you. When you told me about Emily, I believed you. I still do!”
“Ava,” said Natasha, and there it was in her tone again. Little Ava, cute Ava, gullible Ava. The baby of the family, too young for grown-up problems. “What if Mama made Emily up? What if she invented her, like an imaginary friend?”
Tears pricked Ava’s eyes. Like an imaginary friend?! For heaven’s sake, Ava was thirteen, not three.
“I realize it’s confusing,” Natasha said gently. “But it’s a possibility we have to consider.”
“Not me. I know Emily was real.”
“Except you don’t!” Darya said.
Ava fought her frustration. Darya wasn’t pretty when she was exasperated. Her teeth looked too little, her lips too twitchy.
“According to Mama, Emily was Papa’s little sister,” Darya said. “So why doesn’t Papa have any recollection of her existence?” She narrowed her eyes. “Little sisters are generally hard to forget.”
“The Bird Lady said Emily existed,” Ava said stubbornly.
“The Bird Lady?” Darya exclaimed. “You think she’s a reliable source?”
“I thought you liked the Bird Lady!” said Ava.
Spots of red bloomed on Darya’s cheeks. “I do. I’m just . . . all I’m saying . . .” She clamped her twitching lips shut.
Ava considered what she knew about the Bird Lady, which wasn’t much. She was as old as a mountain and as wrinkled as a prune, and the reason everyone called her the Bird Lady was because wherever she went, birds followed. Sometimes they perched on her shoulder. Sometimes they nestled in the thick white tangle of her hair. If she was wearing a hat, they rode jauntily on its brim.
Ava didn’t know what the Bird Lady’s real name was, she realized.
Did anyone?
“The Bird Lady mentioned Emily to both of you around the time of your Wishing Days,” Ava said. Her eyes met Natasha’s first, and then Darya’s. “Are you sticking to that part of the story, or are you taking it back as well?”
“The Bird Lady did tell me about Emily,” Natasha admitted. “But I’m with Darya. I’m not sure how much we can trust her.”
“Why?”
Natasha stretched out her legs, and the willow’s fronds rustled, making the sun cast dancing shadows on her shins. Ava thought Natasha was going to dodge the question, but Natasha said, “I asked her to leave me alone, but she wouldn’t. She disguised herself as a school cafeteria lady to trick me into talking to her.”
“What?” Ava said.
“She stole one of the school’s serving spoons. She wore a fake mole.”
“A fake mole?” Ava echoed.
Darya snorted. “When she tracked me down, she was wearing an enormous sombrero with felt balls dangling from the rim.”
Fake moles, felt balls . . .
“But she said that Emily was real,” Ava insisted. “She said that to both of you.”
“What if she was lying?” Darya said. “Or fibbing. The Bird Lady is more of a fibber than a liar, I think.”
“Meaning what?”
Natasha drummed her fingers on her thigh. “She doled out information in half-truths,” she said, and Darya nodded. “She was . . . cagey. I always had the sense she was hiding something.”
“Me too!” said Darya. “At one point, I asked her flat out what she wasn’t telling me, but she clammed up and did one of her disappearing acts.”
“Her disappearing acts,” Natasha repeated wryly. “Another example of why she’s not the best source.” She cocked her head. “Darya, did you ever get the sense that she wanted to say more, but for some reason she couldn’t?”
Darya’s eyes shifted. She gnawed on her thumbnail.
“Did you get that sense, Natasha?” Ava asked. “You must have, or you wouldn’t have asked.” She knew she was onto something, because a new emotion charged the air. “You said ‘couldn’t.’ You said you got the feeling that the Bird Lady wanted to say more, but couldn’t. What would keep her from saying something she wanted to say?”
Natasha put her hand on her collarbone, a gesture Ava knew. It meant Natasha was nervous.
“Do you think she made a promise to someone?” Ava pressed. “And, like, she couldn’t break that person’s trust?”
Natasha shrugged.
Darya held herself still, looking fixedly at nothing.
“Omigosh,” Ava exclaimed. A pure white space opened inside of her, and she knew. She knew what her sisters thought, but weren’t allowing themselves to say. “You think someone put a curse on her!”
Neither Natasha nor Darya contradicted her. Neither even flinched at her use of what most would consider a “babyish” concept: a curse. And not a symbolic curse, but a literal one.
“If someone put a curse on her, that means magic was involved. If magic was involved, then it had to do with Mama and Emily!”
Natasha blushed.
“You’re making connections out of thin air,” Darya said. “Also? Curses only exist in fairy tales.”
“Riiiiight,” Ava said. “Whereas magic and wishes and Wishing Days, on the other hand . . .”
“What if the Bird Lady’s nuts?” Natasha said in a rush. “Not just kooky, but diagnostically crazy?”
Darya pursed her lips. “Like Papa’s mom’s mom? The one with the weird name?”
“Elnora,” said Natasha.
“Great-Grandma Elnora wasn’t crazy,” Ava said indignantly. “She was eccentric, and because of that, she and Grandma Rose had a rocky relationship. That’s what Papa said. Like, Great-Grandma Elnora never hid the fact that she believed in magic, and as we all know, Grandma Rose—”
Ava broke off. “Grandma Rose! Holy fudge nuggets!”
“What?” Darya said.
Ava raced to put her thoughts in order. Papa’s mother, Grandma Rose, lived in a nursing home. Grandma Rose was the only grandparent the girls had a relationship with, because Mama’s parents had died before the girls were born, and Papa’s father wasn’t really in the picture. He and Grandma Rose got divorced when Papa was a teenager. He lived in California, and his name was Dave. Grandpa Dave, who she and Natasha and Darya had never met.
Darya snapped her fingers in front of Ava’s face. “Ava. Why the holy fudge nuggets?”
“Because Grandma Rose, who is Great-Grandma Elnora’s daughter, believes in Emily,” Ava marveled. “Want to know how I know? Because she called me Emily once!”
Natasha crinkled her forehead.
“And you can’t write off Grandma Rose as being kooky or nuts or eccentric, at least not in the ‘believing in magic and curses and stuff’ way,” Ava said, her words tumbling over one another. “Grandma Rose rejects all of that stuff. Think about it: What’s Papa’s one rule for when we visit her?”
“That we don’t bring up magic,” Darya said grudgingly.
“Because she’s not a believer,” Natasha added.
Ava’s pulse fluttered. “But she called me Emily. At the nursing home, Grandma Rose called me Emily.”
“When?” asked Natasha.
“The last time we visited. We’d taken her to the common area for bingo, remember? She had that yellow blanket over her lap, because she always got so cold.” Ava saw the scene in her mind, Papa standing behind Grandma Rose in her wheelchair while Ava and her sisters perched on folding chairs on either side of her. Ava could practically smell the nursing home’s distinct scent, a cloying mix of dying flowers and cleaning products.
Natasha tapped her lower lip. “The prize cart.”
“Yes, the prize cart,” Ava said. “That’s the only reason she wanted to go.”
“Grandma Rose does love that prize cart,” Darya said.
It was nothing but a metal cart on wheels, the sort librarians used when reshelving books. After each round of bingo, an aide wheeled the cart to the elderly winner, who got to choose from a variety of inexpensive prizes: costume jewelry, bookmarks, little packets of tissues. Sometimes bananas, although what kind of bingo prize was a banana?
> “I pretended to sprinkle winning-number fairy dust over her bingo cards,” Ava said with a frown. “That’s seriously all I did.”
“Omigosh, yes,” Natasha said. “And Grandma Rose sucked in her breath so hard that I thought she was choking.”
“She said, ‘Emily, no,’ and slapped my hand,” Ava said. The slap had stung, but more than that, it had hurt Ava’s feelings. It had made her feel like Grandma Rose was a stranger.
“She started, like, rocking in her wheelchair,” Natasha said. She moved back and forth, mimicking Grandma Rose. “She picked at her blanket, practically tearing it to pieces—”
“And that bossy aide demanded to know what we’d done to distress her,” Darya said. Her expression confirmed that she remembered too. “The aide with the huge glasses and big hair, who always smells like onions.”
Ava nodded.
“She told us we should leave, because clearly we’d overexcited her,” Darya continued. “I was like, ‘Where do you get off, acting like you know what’s better for our grandmother than we do?’”
“We did leave, though,” mused Natasha.
“And we haven’t been back since,” said Darya. She frowned. “That’s really sad.”
It was sad, Ava thought. Maybe, after her Wishing Day, she’d ask Papa to take them to visit her.
“But it was the fairy dust that upset her,” Ava said. Goose bumps rose over her arms. “Because, you know . . . magic.”
Her sisters didn’t respond for several seconds. Then Natasha cleared her throat and said, “Aunt Elena is trying to make Mama go see Papa.”
“You’re changing the subject,” Ava said.
“She agrees that it’s ridiculous how Mama keeps living in denial,” Natasha persevered.
“Only I think we’re all living in denial,” Ava said. She slid her hands under her thighs, determined not to fidget. “But once we find out the truth about Emily, there won’t be anything left to deny.”
“Ava . . . ,” said Natasha.
Ava’s breath caught. “No. Don’t say my name like that.”
“I do want our family to be a family again, Mama included,” Natasha said.
“Yes! Good!”
The Backward Season Page 1
