The Backward Season

by Lauren Myracle

  “We all love you, me and Darya, Mama and Papa, Aunt Vera and Aunt Elena,” said Natasha. “So, do you promise to make your wishes carefully?”

  “Natasha, we’ve talked about this,” Ava said. “Don’t you trust me?”

  For a microsecond, Natasha regarded her suspiciously. Then she smiled and shook her head, rolling her eyes at herself for thinking that little Ava would defy her older, wiser sisters.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Emily, Age Thirteen

  Emily fell hard and fast into the friendship Klara offered. Maybe it was because Emily had never had a best friend before. Maybe it was because Klara was so comfortable expressing her affection for Emily that Emily felt bold enough to do the same. There was no jealousy or jockeying for position, not that Emily could detect. For a little while, Emily stayed on the alert, wondering if all this was too good to be true. Could becoming friends with someone happen so naturally?

  As their friendship deepened, Emily realized she didn’t need to label whatever magical alchemy bound them together. Why ask why an orange was called an orange and not a lemon? Why ask why an orange was an orange, when the answer smiled coyly from its tangy pulp?

  An orange was an orange was an orange.

  Emily and Klara were Emily and Klara; Klara and Emily were Klara and Emily.

  Klara went home from school with Emily one afternoon during the first week of April, and Emily introduced her to Nate. They already knew who the other was, so it wasn’t a big deal. Klara’s reaction, however, came to Emily as a shock.

  Klara liked Nate, like in a crush sort of way . . . and Nate liked Klara. Their crush-feelings were too strong for Emily to block. Emily couldn’t decide whether to be amused or horrified.

  “The Academic Olympiad?” Nate said after Klara stammered something about how she and Emily were working on a school project due in May. “Yeah, I did that in seventh grade. It was a lot of work.”

  “Was it?” Klara asked. She giggled, her voice too high. “I mean, I know I won’t win, but I’ll do my best. Unless I get distracted. Sometimes I get distracted.” She blushed. “Please pretend I’m making actual sense.”

  “When I entered, I submitted a plan for how to build a lute,” Nate said. “It had nothing to do with any of the questions, but it was what I wanted to spend my time on.” His blush matched hers. “Does that count as distracted?”

  Klara giggled again, and Emily cocked her head, fascinated. Would a boy have an effect like this on her someday? Would she affect a boy like this someday? It seemed far-fetched, but here it was happening right in front of her eyes. Not to herself, but to her best friend. To her best friend and her brother!

  She didn’t mind, she discovered after poking and prodding her insides. For one thing, they weren’t ready for any sort of romance. Klara was a seventh grader. Nate was two grades older.

  Also, Emily trusted Klara’s feelings for her as well as her brother’s feelings for her. Emily wasn’t a third wheel. Instead, there were two overlapping sets of wheels: Emily and Klara, as best friends, and Emily and Nate, as sister and brother.

  The biggest reason she didn’t mind was because . . .

  She blushed. But if one day Klara and Nate did date, did fall in love, did, ah, get married . . .

  If that happened, what an abundance of love. She and Klara would be sisters, or sisters-in-law. She grinned, and Klara shot her an embarrassed grin in return.

  After settling down with snacks in Emily’s room, Emily asked Klara flat out if she liked Nate. She already knew the answer, but if she asked, and Klara answered, then there’d be less of a chance of Emily slipping up and referring to Klara’s crush by accident.

  Klara leaned against the end of Emily’s bed and pursed her lips. They were sitting on the carpet so that they wouldn’t get Dorito dust on Emily’s comforter. Klara’s hands rested on her lap, forming a bird’s nest for her chips.

  “I do,” Klara said. “But I’m not allowed to go out with boys until high school, so it’s not, like . . . you know.” She swiveled her head to look at Emily. “Do you mind?”

  “It’s weird, but nah, I’m okay with it,” Emily said.

  There was a knock on the door, and Emily’s mom entered before getting permission.

  “Well, hello!” she said in an overly bright voice.

  “Hi, Mom,” said Emily.

  “Hi, Mrs. Blok,” said Klara.

  Emily’s mom smiled at Emily and Klara expectantly. Emily shifted uncomfortably. What did her mother want?

  Her mother’s smile grew strained. She gave Emily a meaningful look, and Emily pushed tentatively at her mother’s thoughts.

  Oh. Der.

  “Mom, this is Klara,” she said. “Klara, this is my mom.”

  “What a pleasure to meet you, Klara,” said Emily’s mom.

  “It’s nice to meet you, too,” Klara said politely.

  “I’m thrilled you and Emily are friends. I hope you’ll teach her how to talk to people without scaring them away!” She trilled a giddy laugh.

  Emily wanted to sink through the floor. “Mom.”

  “Klara knows I’m teasing,” her mom said, waving away Emily’s concern. “Or, I’m not”—again, that giddy laugh—“but I only say it out of love. You know that, Klara, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know,” Klara said. “Emily is pretty scary.”

  Emily’s mom blinked. Then she said, “Now you’re teasing me, you funny girl.” She pulled her features together in an odd way. “People don’t really think she’s scary, do they?”

  Klara shot Emily a look. Emily was too mortified to respond.

  “Everyone thinks Emily’s great,” Klara said with a shrug. “Plus, she’s the best artist in the school. Did you know that?”

  “Yes, Emily is quite talented,” Emily’s mom acknowledged. “I suppose artists have the right to be eccentric.”

  “I guess,” Klara mused. “Is she eccentric, though? She’s . . . just Emily.”

  She’s just Emily, Emily imagined her dad saying. For heaven’s sake, Rose, let her be herself.

  Longing stabbed Emily’s heart. She missed her father terribly.

  Emily’s mother studied Klara, noting her cute outfit, her cute hairstyle, her cute everything. Emily heard her thoughts loud and clear:

  If only Emily . . .

  Maybe Klara will rub off on her?

  It’s a start, at any rate.

  “She painted my nails,” Klara blurted. She transferred her remaining chips into one palm and held out her fingers for Emily’s mom to see. “She’s painted them three different times for me. She’s really good.”

  Emily’s mother put her hand to her chest and made a small sound, her mouth a perfect O. Eyes shining, she crossed the room, leaned over, and gave Klara a hug.

  “Mom!” Emily said.

  “I adored having mani-pedi parties with my friends when I was your age!” Emily’s mother gushed. “I am just . . . I’m so . . .” She made that small sound once more, an almost animal sound of gratitude. “You have fun, girls. And Klara, you are always welcome here, okay, hon?”

  Beaming, she backed out of the room and pulled the door shut behind her.

  Klara looked at Emily.

  Emily looked at Klara.

  Klara giggled. Her giggling grew, and Emily cast aside her horror and joined in. Their laughter was mutinous and exhilarating: Emily and Klara versus her mom. Emily’s chest expanded. The “and Klara” part made all the difference.

  “Your mom,” Klara managed when they’d passed the laughing-est part of their fit.

  “I warned you,” Emily said.

  “She hugged me for introducing you to the feminine art of nail polish,” Klara said. “Is she always like that?”

  Emily blew air out of puffed cheeks. “I’m not exactly the daughter she wants me to be.”

  “That’s ridiculous. You’re a great daughter!”

  “I know she loves me. Just, she thinks I’m weird.”

  “So?
What’s wrong with weird?”

  “I remind her of her mother.”

  “Does she not like her mother?”

  “It’s fine. Don’t worry.”

  Emily felt Klara’s gaze rake across her. Don’t hug me, Emily begged, knowing that such an act of kindness would undo her. Don’t do it, Klara.

  “Come here,” Klara said, sliding her arm around Emily’s shoulder and pulling her close.

  Emily fought back tears.

  “Shhh,” Klara murmured. “You’re okay.”

  Emily let the words wash over her, and she didn’t come undone after all.

  I wish I could go to Willow Hill again. I wish I could remember where Willow Hill is!

  —EMILY BLOK, AGE UNKNOWN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Ava

  As Ava escaped from her sisters, it occurred to her that there was a benefit of being labeled the baby of the family: No one was scared of babies. No one looked at babies suspiciously, wondering if they might be up to no good. If the baby wasn’t crying, then great. The baby was fine and no need to worry.

  Stealth mode. Ava could work with that.

  It took her fifteen minutes to walk to Tally’s house. When she reached the cluttered yard of Tally’s foster parents, she slowed from a purposeful stride to a purposeful . . . stall.

  No, she told herself, straightening her spine. No chickening out!

  She stepped over a miniature plastic grocery cart that lay on its side and punched the doorbell.

  “Hi!” said the woman who answered the door. “Can I help you?” She had short, grayish blond hair, cut so that the front hung longer than the back. She was small and plain, but her smile was warm.

  “Hi,” Ava said. “I’m—”

  “One of the Blok girls! Everyone knows the Blok girls!”

  Ava braced herself.

  “Let’s see, you’re the youngest, aren’t you?” Tally’s foster mom said. “Come on in. I’ll call Tally.” She opened the door wider, revealing a hoarder’s heaven of magazines, overflowing boxes, and random appliances. A microwave sat on an old-fashioned square TV.

  “Tally!”

  There was a patter of footsteps, and Tally appeared in the hall. Scowling, she brushed past her foster mom and grabbed Ava’s upper arm. “Bye, Deanne,” she said, pulling Ava with her.

  “Bye, Mrs.—” Ava broke off. She didn’t know Tally’s foster mother’s last name. “Tally,” she said, stumbling as she tried to keep up. “Tally, what’s wrong? Will you please slow down?”

  Tally released Ava’s arm, but maintained her speed walker’s pace. “Why are you here? Where’s Darya?”

  “I’m not attached to Darya by the hip, thank you very much.”

  “At the hip.”

  “Huh?”

  “The expression is at the hip.”

  Ava considered. Tally might be right, since being attached at the hip would describe two people with their arms around each other, for example. Being attached by the hip would be like saying attached by a string, which would imply, like, dangling. Ava did not “dangle” from Darya or Natasha.

  “Whatever,” Ava said.

  It was May. It wasn’t yet hot, but it was warm enough to make Ava’s hair feel heavy against her neck. She pulled a ribbon elastic off her wrist and gathered her hair into a bunch. Deftly, she swooped her hair through and twisted the elastic. She repeated the process until she was left with a nice, tight ponytail.

  Tally side-eyed her.

  “What?”

  “You reminded me of someone for a second.”

  “Who?”

  Tally shook her head. “Listen, I don’t like people coming to Deanne and Troy’s house.”

  “Deanne and Troy are . . . ?”

  “My foster parents.”

  “Why? Do you not like them?”

  “I like them fine. I just don’t like people showing up unannounced.”

  “Got it. Sorry.”

  Tally took several brisk strides, then exhaled. She slowed down, though not by much.

  “What’s going on?” Tally asked. “What do you need me for? Does it have to do with Darya?”

  “It kind of does. But . . .” She steered the two of them to the left instead of continuing straight ahead. She checked over her shoulder. Tally followed, but looked put out.

  “I thought we could go to the lake,” Ava said.

  “Why?”

  Because, Ava thought. Because of life, the universe, and everything, and because that’s where I need you to help me.

  “Will you tell me about your mom?” Ava asked.

  “My mom? Why?”

  Because of life, the universe . . .

  “Because today’s my Wishing Day.”

  Tally cut her a look. “Whoop-de-do,” she said. She had moved to Willow Hill when she was thirteen and a half. She hadn’t been granted a Wishing Day.

  “I want to make my wishes carefully,” Ava said. “I have to. For one thing, it’s my only chance. Also, you may not believe in any of this, but my wishes have a good chance of coming true. I know that sounds dumb, but it’s something that runs in my family. The magic, I mean.”

  Ugh. She was babbling. She lifted her chin and said, “In my family, the magic tends to work. My ancestors are the ones who brought it here.”

  “If you say so,” said Tally.

  “It’s not that I say so. The magic says so.” She shrugged. “Magic is weird.”

  “‘Magic is weird’?” Tally said. They reached the footpath that cut through to City Park, where the lake was. “Ava, your whole family is weird.”

  “I know!” Ava said. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you. That’s why I need you to come with me to the lake.”

  “Ava—”

  “That’s why I asked about your mom,” Ava said hurriedly, her heart rate bumping up. “I’ve seen the picture you drew of her.”

  Tally’s eyes darkened. She stopped walking. “What picture?”

  “I think you know, but . . . here.” From the pocket of her cutoffs, Ava pulled out a drawing Tally had torn up and thrown away months ago. Darya, without Tally’s knowledge, had retrieved it and taped it back together. Ava, without Darya’s knowledge, had later appropriated the drawing for reasons of her own.

  She passed the folded piece of paper to Tally, who accepted it reluctantly. When she unfolded it, the color drained from her face.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “It is your mom, right?” Ava asked. “You drew it based on a photo of her. I heard Darya say so.”

  Tally started walking. Ava stayed by her side, matching Tally’s pace as they neared the lake. In the distance, Ava could spot the rustic bench swings she’d always adored.

  “My mom recognized her from your drawing,” Ava said. “My mom recognized your mom, whose name is Emily. Her name was written on the back of the photo.”

  “So?”

  “So, my mom’s best friend was named Emily, as you know.”

  “Only she never actually existed, according to Darya.”

  “And my dad had—or hopefully has—a little sister.” Ava swallowed. “Her name is Emily, too.”

  Tally tightened her jaw.

  “And your mom, whose name, you know, is Emily, doesn’t remember her past,” Ava said.

  “She remembers her past,” Tally said. “Just not well. Not all of it.”

  “What does she remember?”

  Tally didn’t want to talk about it, Ava could tell. “She lived with her dad’s grandmother for a while. Then I guess she got kicked out or something. Sometimes she lived on the streets. Sometimes in foster homes. What does this have to do with you?”

  Ava felt the blue, blue sky pressing down on her. Maybe Tally’s mom remembered her past; maybe she didn’t. That didn’t matter. What mattered was that Tally’s heart hurt. Tally was lonely and full of pain.

  The words Ava needed were right there, if only she could grab them.

  She jogged forward and grabbed Tally�
�s forearm. “Tally, wait up.”

  Tally shook Ava off. “What?!”

  “You said my family’s weird,” Ava said. “I said you’re right.”

  “Fantastic,” said Tally. “And I care because . . . ?”

  “Because I think you’re part of my weird family. I think your mom is my dad’s little sister.” She took a breath. “Tally, we’re cousins.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Emily, Age Thirteen

  “You’re going to win, you know,” said Klara.

  “Oh, please,” said Emily. It was the beginning of May, and she and Klara were lying on their backs at City Park. They’d turned in their Academic Olympiad projects that afternoon, and Emily felt light and airy. She thought of starfish and snow angels. She imagined rising into the sky.

  “You oh, please,” Klara countered. “You’re, like, the smartest girl in our grade.”

  “First of all, ha. Anyway, I didn’t even answer the final question, the one about freedom or whatever.”

  “Freedom of expression: Is it worth fighting for?” Klara said in a stuffy, scholarly voice. “What does it mean to be ‘free’? Illustrate using examples from the past, present, or future.”

  Emily groaned.

  “You wrote something,” Klara said.

  “I wrote nothing.”

  “You left the page blank? For real?”

  “I didn’t leave it blank. I drew a picture.”

  “Shut up,” Klara said. “Are you serious?”

  Emily let the sun warm her skin. “I am as serious as a . . . oh, I can’t even think what I’m as serious as.”

  Klara laughed. “No. Way. Emily, you’re brilliant without even meaning to be.”

  “Um, not following.”

  “Instead of writing some boring essay about how important freedom of expression is, blah blah blah, you freely expressed yourself, and you did so by actually illustrating . . . whatever you illustrated.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I’m not.”

  “It’s just a dumb contest,” Emily said. “Honestly, I don’t care about winning.”