“You girls should go outside and catch some air,” George says. “Sunset should be happening soon.”
There’s a rope hammock in Clarisse’s backyard, slung between two orange trees. In kingdom Plantae, oranges belong to the genus Citrus. The early Spanish explorers, possibly even Ponce de León himself, planted the first orange trees near St. Augustine in the mid-1500s. They were happy to discover that the sandy soil in Florida was ideal for growing.
Clarisse throws herself into the hammock and stretches out, her hands behind her head like a pillow, her elbows pointing out. I sit on the patchy grass at the base of one tree and begin poking at a fallen orange, its skin dotted with dark spots that will soon become moldy and green.
“I don’t care about sunsets anymore,” Clarisse says. “So long and drawn out. Just bring on the nighttime already.” There is a heaviness between us. Not just the humidity in the air but the weight of the test, and everything we have left to plan.
“Maybe you’re just too used to them,” I tell her. “If you lived in one of those places where it’s dark for months at a time, then maybe you’d care about sunsets again.”
Clarisse rolls onto her side to face me. “I’d actually like to try that sometime. Living in total darkness.”
“Me too,” I say, and then we exist in silence for a few minutes until the sunset is complete and the katydids begin to sing, hidden in the trees all around us. Down at the bottom of the deep blue sea, there are creatures that live their entire lives in the dark. They are colorless, because color serves no purpose without light to see. They must survive extreme conditions, for the sea floor is a hostile environment, creatures mostly surviving on marine snow, a constant shower of organic leftovers that floats down from the upper layers of the ocean.
“Come here,” Clarisse says, patting the empty space next to her in the hammock, an invitation to lie down, an invitation I accept with my entire body.
“I’ve found the perfect target for you,” I say. We’ve taken to using this term when we talk about the test because it makes us forget that we’re talking about an actual person, a living, breathing human being, but also because it’s benign compared to victim and wouldn’t alarm someone immediately if they overheard us.
“Who?”
“My grandmother.”
“Wait, I thought your grandmother just died,” Clarisse says. “Isn’t that what the letter was all about?” The hammock sways, and I feel the rope give slightly under our collective weight.
“That was my father’s mother. I’m talking about my other grandmother. My mother’s mother. Emerald.”
“I thought you didn’t have anything to do with her.”
“I don’t. That’s what makes her so perfect.”
“I don’t know, Evelyn.” Clarisse is whispering, and I can feel her breath on my earlobe. “Wouldn’t she recognize you if she saw you?”
“She hasn’t seen me since I was a baby,” I say. In the photo albums of my babyhood, there is one picture of Emerald holding me. I’m very small and swaddled in a blue receiving blanket, only the very top of my head peeking out and giving me away. Otherwise you might think that Emerald is just holding a wadded-up blanket. In the photo, Emerald looks like my mother, but her hair is styled differently, all swept up and pinned into a bun at the top of her head.
“How can you be so sure? Maybe she’s seen you around town. Or maybe your mom posted pictures of you on Facebook. You know how parents have ruined Facebook.”
I laugh because she’s right—parents have ruined Facebook. No teenager wants to be anywhere near their parents in the digital world, which is why we’ve all migrated to newer platforms like Snapchat and Instagram. “This is the best part. She doesn’t live around here, hasn’t for years. I looked her up and get this—she lives in Celebration. You know that town right next to Disney World that Walt Disney invented?”
“She lives there? No way! George has been there before. He said it looks so perfect, it’s creepy. It reminded him of the fake town from that movie The Truman Show. And I thought Darcy Lake was bad. I guess it could always be worse.”
“I’m sure Emerald won’t recognize me, but I could always change my appearance a bit when we go there, just in case. And my mother doesn’t really use Facebook, so that’s not an issue. She’s not really into social media at all. Probably because of him.”
Clarisse grabs a strand of my hair and twists it between her thumb and forefinger. “I still don’t know. Shouldn’t it be a stranger? It seems like that would be easier. I mean, even if she’s not in your life, she’s still your grandmother. Wouldn’t you feel bad if I actually, you know, go through with it?”
This is the part of the test that we haven’t really talked about, and that’s because I know that Clarisse will pass the test. So there’s nothing to discuss.
“But she is a stranger to me, Clarisse. She doesn’t mean anything to me. She abandoned my mother and me a long time ago. So she’s perfect. Plus, she’s old—seventy-seven. The average life expectancy in the United States is seventy-eight point seventy-four years. What are the odds that she’ll live much longer anyway?”
“Why did Emerald abandon you and your mom?” Clarisse asks.
“She didn’t approve of my mom being in a relationship with Shea. Isn’t that awful? Can you ever imagine doing that to your own child? The only thing my mom has ever said about Emerald is that she’s a hateful person.”
I tell this lie because I know that Clarisse needs to hear it. If she believes Emerald is a bad person, she will be able to take the test. But the truth is, I’ve never been sure why Emerald is no longer in our lives. I know that she was around when I was born, but her presence disappeared after that one photograph when I was a baby. I don’t know if she abandoned us or if my mother was the one who ended the relationship. I only know that we don’t speak of her so there’s never been a chance to find out.
“Okay then, target acquired,” Clarisse says, and she rests her chin on my shoulder. “Now I need a weapon.”
“Well, I’m thinking it has to be a knife. If you want to re-create the conditions of his crime.”
“But I thought we gave up on that rule. I think it can work without being so specific. Plus stabbing is so messy. I was thinking a gun would be so much easier.”
“No, guns are for cowards. Anyone can stand there and pull a trigger. That’s not testing anything. My father was a coward; that’s why he used a gun. He didn’t have the nerve to walk up to a stranger, get close enough to stab them. Plus stabbing is more physical work. It proves you’re serious.” The hammock swings, making its own small wind. “Plus, do you have a gun?”
“True. And if I use a knife, I can just take one from the kitchen. George has a lot of knives. Really sharp ones too.”
“You can’t just use a kitchen knife, Clarisse. You need to get a new knife, specifically for this. Something that can’t be traced back to either of us. Don’t you ever watch crime shows?”
“Making a purchase is traceable too. It creates a record. Don’t you ever watch crime shows?” I think for a minute, letting the drone of the katydids hypnotize me. “Hey, I’ll just steal a knife from Walmart,” Clarisse says. “Samantha and I stole a can of duster from the one in Valrico before. It’s pretty easy. They don’t have a store detective there, but you do have to be aware of the security cameras. They’re on the ceiling.”
“Detectives? Stores actually have those?” I ask.
“Yes, most stores do. Samantha says they’re usually fat older guys, but they can look like anybody. It’s their behavior you need to watch, not just their appearance. Samantha steals shit all the time. She never gets caught.”
The katydids get louder and louder, a chorus multiplying in the night. I close my eyes and make a silent wish—that Clarisse will pass the test.
Chapter Seventeen
I open a private browsing tab on my laptop, find Emerald’s address through White Pages. It really isn’t difficult to find most people,
especially if you know their full name and the city where they live. I type the address into Google Maps and click Enter. In street view, I use the arrows to spin myself around, getting my virtual bearings straight.
Emerald’s house is a sky-blue bungalow on Teal Avenue in Celebration. Her front lawn is impeccably groomed, like all of the others on the street, with blades of grass sheared so short it looks like soft green carpet. Emerald’s front porch is full of potted plants—hydrangeas and bromeliad and hibiscus and what looks like jasmine, although I can’t be sure.
I click myself down the street, past the parked Mercedeses and BMWs, their license plates blurred out for privacy. The only people in the street view are landscaping workers and pool maintenance staff, men in jeans and dark T-shirts who tend to the tasks the homeowners have outsourced. It’s a quiet-looking street. There shouldn’t be too many people around to notice us.
Then I check Letters from the Death House, and find a new entry has been uploaded, a letter from Andy written on yellow legal paper. He begins on the first blue line, his handwriting small and neat.
Dear Sis,
A search team tore up my cell this morning, hunting for contraband and excess property. They were nice enough about it so it didn’t bother me. And it only took me a few minutes to put everything back together. Having a cell that’s only 6 x 9 makes it pretty easy, I guess. After I fixed everything up, I looked out the window and realized we got a light frost last night. The crows pecking around out on the yard looked like they didn’t know what to do about it!
I’ve been keeping myself busy with reading and writing. I’m on the third Harry Potter book right now. I’ve liked them all so far, and I hope I can get my hands on all of the movies to watch once I’ve read the whole series. The books actually inspired me to start writing some fantasy stories of my own. I have one story that Kimmy might like, about unicorns and dragons. Maybe I’ll send it to you when it’s ready, and you can read it to her.
I might get one of the guys to make some artwork for it, too. There are quite a few guys in here who know how to draw. I’m sure my actual writing isn’t very good at all, but it’s nice to get lost in my imagination and make up stories. It gets my mind off things. It feels good to create. Turning a blank piece of paper into a story makes me feel like anything is possible.
Thanks for sticking with me all these years, sis. And thanks for putting my words online. It might sound silly, but it makes me feel less alone.
Love,
Andy
Maybe I should post a comment, telling him that he makes me feel less alone too. Maybe it would mean something to him just to know that I’m out here and reading his words.
My phone buzzes, and I look down. It’s a text from Clarisse.
Call me. It’s about the test.
Clarisse and I have agreed not to discuss the test over text or e-mail or instant messenger. Phone calls are okay as long as we don’t speak in specific terms, just in case.
“Do you remember Clue? The board game?” Clarisse asks me as soon as she answers. We are beyond hellos and good-byes.
“Sure. I always had to be Miss Scarlett because my favorite color was red.”
“There were six weapons in the game. Remember? You had to move the little pieces around to the different rooms. Candlestick, knife, lead pipe, revolver, rope, and wrench.”
“Yeah, and they were all made of metal except the rope, which was made of plastic.”
“Yeah, well, it just got me thinking, that’s all. I think there’s a better option. Something that doesn’t leave so many clues behind. I thought maybe you’d want to think about it too.”
“You’re a genius,” I say.
“I know, right?” I can tell she’s smiling. I hear it in her voice. “Good night, Ev.”
“Good night.”
The weapon is the last decision we need to make. My first suggestion was a knife, but the more Clarisse thought about it, the more squeamish she became. Too much blood, she decided. So I came up with the idea of bludgeoning Emerald to death. But with what?
This is where our collective imagination stalled. Many ordinary objects could be used to kill someone, but we want something tried and true. We didn’t want to conduct a Google search for “good objects for bludgeoning,” even in a private browser window, because computers can be seized and search histories scanned. Casey Anthony searched for fool-proof suffocation methods on the last day her daughter was seen alive, and although she was acquitted, the court of public opinion has rendered her eternally guilty.
I close my laptop and tiptoe out to the kitchen to find the toolkit my mother keeps in the cabinet under the sink. I unzip the red nylon bag, sorting through several screwdrivers of various sizes, a pair of pliers, and a roll of plumber’s tape until I finally see an adjustable wrench lying at the bottom. It has a red handle and jagged silver teeth. I reach for it, and the small light above the stove hits its body, making it shine. I feel the weight of it in my hand. It’s heavy and surely able to do harm if wielded with enough force.
I imagine Clarisse raising the wrench above her head, and my pulse quickens, my breath catching up to match. For a moment, a paralyzing fear washes over me, and I’m frozen, my feet planted firmly on the cool kitchen tile. My imagination halts because I know Clarisse will pass the test. She’ll lower the wrench, sobbing and running from the darkness of it all. And just like that, the fear releases me, and I can move again, for this is just a game and Clarisse and I are just tokens making our way around the board. I’m just Evelyn, in the kitchen, with the wrench.
Chapter Eighteen
Florida heat is brutal. You don’t need to live here long to know that. I’ve lived here all of my life so I’ve grown accustomed to a thin layer of sweat coating my skin at all times. My mother and Shea don’t mind the heat. In fact, they seem to enjoy it. They love going to outdoor concerts even on the most sweltering days. Today we’re at Vinoy Park, a waterfront park on Tampa Bay, for a folk music and food festival, the sweet and spicy smells of barbecued meats traveling through the warm air.
My mother and Shea are in line at the beer tent while Clarisse and I sit on a blanket in the field. There are families with toddlers waddling around. There are babies sleeping in strollers, canopies shading them from harsh ultraviolet rays. There are older couples holding hands, white shorts to match their white hair. There are rich people who have docked their boats at the nearby marina, their gold watches glinting in the sun as they walk by.
“So I’ll come get you tomorrow morning around nine. Bright and early.” Clarisse is going over the details of our trip to Celebration one more time. Onstage, a guitar player closes his eyes as he plucks the strings, fuzzy amplified tones emanating from two speakers stacked on either side of an elevated platform.
“That’s fine with me,” I answer. We’re both sitting with our legs stretched out in front of us, leaning back on our palms. Concertgoers walk around us—women in sundresses with spaghetti straps, men in skinny jeans and fitted tees that look like magazine models. A girl in all black—black linen shorts, black tank top, and black gladiator sandals—walks in front of us. Her eyes are on Clarisse until I notice her staring. Then she looks away.
“It will be fun to see the mermaids again,” Clarisse says. “I remember wanting to be one so bad when I was a kid, but I was sure I’d never be able to grow my hair long enough.”
She’s playing along with the story we’ve made up about the trip we’re taking tomorrow. Of course our mothers don’t know we’re going to Celebration. They think we’re going to Weeki Wachee Springs State Park, a tourist attraction about an hour north. The park’s most famous feature is an aquarium-like setting where you pay to watch women in mermaid tails swim in circles beneath the clear natural spring water. Clarisse and I both went to Weeki Wachee as kids so we’ll have a frame of reference, believable stories to tell about our trip when we return. We’re going to see a mermaid show and then ride the glass-bottom boat on Weeki Wachee River.
Clarisse shakes her head, trying not to laugh. She touches the top of my hand with hers and then takes a sip of the giant plastic cup of fresh lemonade that sits between us, sold from a stand at the edge of the park. You stand in line and watch as they load lemons into a stainless steel press and pull the lever to squeeze. They scoop ice into a silver tumbler, pour in water and sugar, and shake it up. Then they finally hand you a sticky cup of refreshment—so cold, so sweet.
There isn’t a cloud in the sky today, nothing to block out the sun, that ball of white light beating the tops of our heads at high noon. Onstage, they are between bands, instrumental music playing while they tear down and then set up for the next act. The woman in all black walks past us again, this time smiling at Clarisse and then taking her phone from her pocket and tapping the screen as if she’s sending a text.
“Do you know her?” I ask Clarisse.
Clarisse puts her hand to her forehead to form a visor to shield the sun from her eyes, squinting in the distance to consider the woman. She shakes her head no.
The next band takes the stage, and I can see my mother and Shea are right in front, where they usually are at concerts, if they can help it. Shea is standing behind my mother, her arms wrapped around my mother’s waist as my mother holds their plastic cups of beer, one in each of her hands.
The woman in all black walks past us one more time. Maybe she’s lost her friends. Maybe she’s a little drunk or a little stoned. Or maybe she’s just trying to sneak another look at Clarisse. Does this woman know who Clarisse is? Her identity isn’t secret, and if you follow the stories of murderers, of their families and their victims, you might be able to recognize her. There is nothing to protect her, to protect me, and why should there be? We are both a part of history, another entry in the archive of facts about our fathers and what they did.
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