Dedication
FOR CHRIS
Epigraph
There is a crack in everything.
That’s how the light gets in.
—Leonard Cohen
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
The Last Day
Actual Pants
Totally in Control
Extra Real
Sealed Up Tight
The Actual World
All Settled
A Certain Amount of Power
Complicated
A Softer Sort of Hum
Looking Up
A Quick Dip
The Vine Realm
Flaming Brains
The Whole Story
Far From Finished
In the Junk Drawer
The Whole (Other) Story
The Sad Game
Like Any Day
A Change in the Weather
Real Magic
Conversation O’Clock
Like Any Other Day
Acknowledgments
Back Ad
About the Author
Books by Laurel Snyder
Copyright
About the Publisher
The Last Day
The heavy doors of the school swung open, and we all burst out into the heat, scattering across the lawn. It was like something had exploded inside the building and hurled us into summer. Kids shouted and laughed and shoved each other. Kids flooded the sidewalk. Kids spilled into the bright sunlight of late May in Atlanta and squinted. They threw things—wads of paper and hot Cheetos and candy wrappers. Someone screamed. Someone was singing. Someone hopped on a bike and tore off down Emerson. But mostly everyone hung around.
This is the last day of school, I thought to myself.
This is kids having fun on the last day of school.
If you’re in a mood to laugh and shout, it’s a good time. If you’re not, it’s really weird to just stand there, in the middle of all that noise, watching and listening.
This is me, on the last day of school.
“Heads up, Leah!” Someone yelled my name, and I turned as a Frisbee flew straight at my head. I ducked, and it just missed me, sailed on, and banged into a tree. I turned back around.
The other three girls standing near me had been talking all at once, really fast and happy since we stepped outside, but I hadn’t been paying attention. It’s funny how, when there’s enough noise, you can sort of tune it all out, so that it blurs into a hum of sounds. But now Tess looked over and set a hand gently on my arm. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I said. “It’s just . . .” I didn’t know what to say. I never seemed to know anymore. “I guess I’m ready for vacation.”
“I know, right?” she said, smiling. “We were all just talking about that.” She looked at Lane and Minnah. They nodded.
“You’re coming to Morelli’s, yeah?” Minnah asked me. “For ice cream?”
“Of course she is!” said Tess, throwing an arm over my shoulder. “It’s the last day of school, after all.”
“Good!” said Lane. “It wouldn’t feel right without Leah.”
Then they all started talking again, and I tuned back out.
It was a tradition. The tradition of Tess and Leah and Lane and Minnah. The group of us walked home together after school every day, with a bunch of boys straggling behind us. Sometimes we talked to the boys and sometimes we didn’t. And on the last day of school, every year, we shared a banana split at Morelli’s.
Everything was a tradition in Ormewood Park.
The tradition of Friday-night neighborhood parties, with parents wandering loosely from house to house, beers in hand, and kids playing in the front yards.
The tradition of five-alarm Halloween chili at the Minkewicz place.
The tradition of the Eden Avenue Sledding Hill and Winter Olympics, on the rare occasion it snowed.
The tradition of Leah and Tess are best friends, and always have been.
New people who moved to Ormewood Park learned these traditions right away, because everyone was quick to share their stories. “Ormewood is a really special place,” someone would usually say. “It’s not like other neighborhoods in Atlanta. We’re one big family, really.”
And that was true.
But as I followed Tess’s backpack down Woodland Avenue, along the familiar cracked sidewalks, I found myself thinking about how it might feel to live somewhere different. Where it wasn’t always the same. Where you could go straight home, alone, on the last day of school, if you were feeling tired, no matter what the traditions were.
The truth was that, on the first last-day-of-school since last summer, it wasn’t the same for me at all. It couldn’t be. And the pretending was painful. Like I’d been carrying something very heavy for way too long and I just wanted to go home and set it down.
When we neared the ice cream shop, Lane and Minnah bolted ahead, and Tess followed them, turning to shout at me, “There’s a massive line, come on!”
So I ran too. Because it didn’t seem fair not to. It wouldn’t feel right without Leah. But running gave me the funniest feeling. Like I was running with my feet, but my brain wasn’t running. My heart wasn’t running.
This is what Leah looks like when she runs, I thought to myself.
This is Leah running to join her friends for celebratory last-day-of-school ice cream. Just like always.
As we ate our banana split, everyone was full of summer plans. Lane was going to see her grandparents in Canada, and Minnah was visiting her family in Vietnam, and Tess was going to New York, like every summer. I listened to them talk and waited for what I knew had to come next. Sure enough, it did. Minnah turned to me, with a mouthful of fudge, and asked, “What about you, Leah? You going to camp like usual?”
I looked to Tess, and her eyes were wide, waiting to see what I’d say.
What could I say?
“No. I’m not really doing anything this summer.”
“Oh,” said Lane, looking a little uncomfortable. “Well, that’s cool. Then you can just relax, right? And maybe there will be some great last-minute surprise thing. A road trip?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so,” I said. “I don’t think my parents are up for surprises this summer.”
Then everyone was quiet for a minute, and we all peered down at our ice cream, scraped at the banana boat with our spoons, trying to find some last bit of goodness, even though it was really all gone.
Walking home from Morelli’s, just the two of us, Tess and I didn’t say much. What was there to say? I didn’t belong the way I once had. I had been a part of something, a puzzle piece, and now it was like a bit of me had broken off and I didn’t fit the puzzle anymore.
At my front walk, Tess stopped as I headed up the steps. Any other year, she’d have come in with me. We’d have hung out in my room, or maybe sat under the sprinkler. Probably she’d have stuck around for dinner, and then her parents would have ended up at our place, to grill some chicken. But it wasn’t going to happen today, and we both knew it. I felt sad about that, but also I wanted her to go. It was almost like I was allergic to this, to her. It was hard trying to fake it. Trying to be okay for someone else.
“Well,” said Tess. “I’ll see you tomorrow, right? At the Zyskowskis’ schoolwork burn?”
“I don’t think so,” I said, shaking my head. “I threw away almost everything at school. I don’t have any papers left to toss in the bonfire.”
“Really?” she said. “But it’ll be the first time without you since kindergarten, and it’s a tradition. . . .” Even as her voice trailed off, I could tell that Tess wasn’t really surprised. Not an
ymore.
A few years ago, Tess’s favorite necklace had broken off while we were tubing on the Chattahoochee River. There’d been no way to go back and get it. And I remembered watching her as she stared back at the churning water and the rocks, while our boat tumbled on forward into the next set of rapids. The river’s current had been unstoppable, and Tess had seen that and accepted it. Her necklace was gone for good.
The look on Tess’s face that day on the river had been the same one I stared at now. She and I stood there in front of my house, and it was like we were agreeing to something. Neither of us said a word, but I swear we were thinking the very same thought. Together. We were letting go. And we knew it.
Part of me wanted to change my mind, to not be thinking what I was thinking. Part of me loved Tess, and wanted to walk down the porch steps and hug her and make everything okay again. But I couldn’t do it. The river’s current was unstoppable. We had lost something precious, and we knew just where it was, but that didn’t mean we could turn back for it.
Everything was not okay, and I was done pretending.
I shrugged. “Sorry.”
“Well, then . . . see you around, I guess,” said Tess.
“See you around,” I said. And I waved goodbye, like in a movie. Like I was standing on a ship instead of my porch. Heading off on a long voyage.
Tess turned and walked off in the direction of her house. She didn’t glance back, just kept walking.
And I watched her go. I waited until I couldn’t see her anymore.
This is what it looks like when Leah says goodbye, I thought.
As it turned out, dinner that night was grilled chicken after all, but it came from Whole Foods in a cardboard box instead of the grill, and it was eaten inside, at the kitchen table. I’d spent all afternoon watching Lord of the Rings clips on my phone in my room and thinking about napping. So I’d barely registered when my parents came home, but suddenly there was a knock on my door and my mother’s voice: “Leah! Dinner!”
I wasn’t hungry, but dinnertime was a requirement, and if I didn’t show up in the kitchen, I knew it would be a big deal. So I found myself sitting at the old yellow table, poking at reheated grilled chicken and some sort of herby couscous or quinoa. I could never remember which was which. We sat in silence—the three of us—chewing loudly in the white-tiled room.
After a little while, Dad cleared his throat, and I looked up at him. Throat clearing meant he wanted to say something but needed to be prompted. Sure enough, Mom fluttered, “What is it, babe?”
“I was just thinking,” said Dad, staring at a piece of chicken on his fork, “if Leah isn’t going to camp this year like usual, she should take a class. Shouldn’t she? Or do something else? Something productive? Not just sit around?”
“Oh,” said Mom. Her brow creased. “Oh . . . you’re right, Paul. I don’t know how I didn’t think about it. I just didn’t.” She set down her water glass heavily.
“We’ve had a lot going on this year,” said Dad.
“Yes, well,” said Mom, waving away the excuse with a flick of her hand. “In any case, it slipped my mind. I wonder what’s still open. What kind of thing were you thinking about? I can make some calls tomorrow, from work.”
Dad shrugged. “I don’t know. Don’t they do something over at the zoo, with animals? I see lots of kids there whenever I drive past. It looks like a summer camp sort of thing. Or maybe she could learn coding?”
“Hmmm.” Now Mom was chewing her thumbnail.
I just sat, waiting. Watching them. In silence.
Sometimes parents are like wild animals. If you don’t make any loud noises or sudden movements, they’ll forget you’re there and leave you be. I was pretty sure that Dad’s something at the zoo was a day camp for little kids. Like a petting zoo with snack and nap time. And I did not want to spend the summer hunched over a computer, learning to code lame video games with a bunch of grubby ten-year-old boys. But I also didn’t think I was going to help my case any by arguing with my parents, so I kept my mouth shut.
Now Mom had her phone out and was scrolling through it quickly. I wondered what exactly she’d googled.
Aimless thirteen-year-old activities
Last-minute summer camp ideas
Moms who screw up and forget about vacation
After a minute, she glanced up from the phone to stare at me. “What do you think, Leah? What would you be interested in? Soccer, maybe? Or you could volunteer somewhere? Theater? You used to like putting on little plays, didn’t you? With Tess?”
I stuck a bite of chicken in my mouth and made a sound that might have been I dunno but also might have been leave me alone.
“The thing is,” said Mom, turning back to Dad again, “even if we found something, how would we get her there? Who would drive, if we’re both at work?” She looked at Dad. “Do you think you could manage to . . .”
Dad shook his head. “Maybe we could find something on the bus line?”
“Oh, Paul. Nobody actually takes the bus. But maybe . . . maybe she’s old enough to be alone. I was babysitting at her age. Do you think you’re ready for that, Leah?”
Before I could answer, Dad rose from his chair. “Hey, sorry,” he said. “I know I started this up, but can we figure it out tomorrow? I need to get to darts.”
“Darts” was the once-a-week dart game he played with some other dads on the block, in bars around town. It was a tradition.
“I guess—sure, that’s fine,” said Mom. She set her phone on the table and poked at whatever it was but didn’t take a bite.
Watching her, I couldn’t help thinking that Mom always needed something to do with her hands. She always needed something to hold. To fidget with. Why was that? Why couldn’t she ever just be?
Dad gave a quick wave to no one in particular and turned to go. Mom raised her water glass to him as the kitchen door opened and closed. Then the room was quiet again.
I set my napkin on the table, closed my eyes, and exhaled in relief. I could see now that Dad’s suggestion wasn’t going anywhere at all. It was probably too late to sign me up for anything worth doing, and it’s not like there was anything I wanted to do anyway. Dad was just trying to be a dad and Mom was just trying to be a mom. Even though neither of them could really remember how. In a few minutes Mom would wash the dishes and go turn on the TV or read a book. And then we could all stop pretending I was going to do anything more than nothing all summer.
A summer of nothing sounded exactly right to me.
Actual Pants
The next morning, I woke up to the sound of silence. There was none of the usual racket of songbirds, so I knew it must be late. I reached for my phone and checked the time: 10:27. I guessed that meant my parents had decided I was old enough to do nothing, all by myself.
I smiled and let my eyes fall shut again. Then I lay there, feeling the heaviness of my limbs on the bed, the sheet light and cool above my body. Feeling nothing. It was officially summer, and the only place I really wanted to be was here, in bed, half asleep. For days. Weeks. Months. In this bubble of fuzzy morning, with the sun up and slanting through the blinds. I could never remember my dreams these days—only the glow of not quite remembering. Only the vague shine of sleep.
I let myself drift back into it.
It was perfect. Exactly what I’d hoped for. I’d wake up each day in the yellow light of late morning, with dust motes floating over my eyes, and Mr. Face purring softly beside me. I’d pet him for a minute, then drift, dream, and fall back asleep. But finally, about noon, I’d get to that point where no matter how long I stayed in bed with my eyes closed, my brain wouldn’t stop clicking, working, turning over, and wanting to get up.
Then I’d drag myself out of bed and change from pajama pants to leggings, so that if Mom came home for lunch unexpectedly or something, I’d look semi-dressed. After that I’d make something to eat—a Hot Pocket, maybe, or cheese and crackers. Then I’d go lie down on the couch, to watch movies on
the TV—one day it was My Neighbor Totoro, another A Wrinkle in Time—or just flip around in my phone, staring at my classmates’ pictures from vacation. From the looks of it, everyone was having an outrageously good time. Lots of grinning and shoulder posing and exotic Popsicles.
By late afternoon, my eyes would glaze over with what Mom called phone brain, so I’d switch to reading. Mostly books I’d read before, in elementary school. The kinds of books where regular kids had magical adventures in their own backyards. Breadcrumbs, The Jumbies, The Seventh Wish. I liked wishing books best of all. Books that made it seem like incredible things might happen to anyone.
And then, later, when I heard keys jangling in the door and Mom and Dad poked their heads in, I got good-kid points for the fact that I was reading on my own.
“Who says kids don’t read anymore?” Dad might say.
“I told you she was mature enough to stay home alone,” Mom might add. “Our Leah makes good decisions.”
Then dinner would happen, and eventually bed. So that I could fall asleep and start all over again the next day.
After a few days, when Mom asked me how my summer was going, I answered “couldn’t be better” in my most cheerful tone.
This is what “fine” sounds like, I thought.
“Fine” didn’t last long, though. About a week into my new routine, something shifted, and the drifting didn’t seem to work anymore. I woke up one morning, early, and couldn’t go back to sleep. And lying there in my bed, the sheets all tangled and bunched and sweaty, I found I was totally, absolutely, incredibly bored.
So I got up and wandered around the house, but that didn’t help. I was still bored. Bored with myself. Bored with the house, and my books, and dumb YouTube. A few times that day, I found my phone full of texts, group messages from people I never talked to anymore but who hadn’t thought to leave me off. They were boring too, mostly just different versions of Hey! and How’s your summer going? I never replied, but I still scrolled through them, to see what people were up to. And—I couldn’t help it—to see what Tess was doing.
Ever since we were really little kids, Tess and I had done everything together. Preschool. Girl Scouts. Dance class. We’d shared a fort in my backyard, and licked each others’ lollipops, as gross as that seemed now. And every Saturday night, up until last year, we’d had a sleepover. We took turns telling each other bedtime stories, and slept tip to toe, with a pillow at each end of the bed, so I’d wake up in the morning staring at Tess’s feet, and that seemed normal. I’d kept pajamas at her house and a toothbrush.
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