What Happens Next

by Claire Swinarski

  By Memorial Day, the tourists had arrived in full force and Main Street was packed. The Bash was our annual kickoff to summer, the biggest block party we had all year. The Cranberry Patch Gift Shop had a line out the door of people looking for real maple syrup and Lou’s cranberry coffee blend. Northern Lights had just bought an espresso machine so you could get more than a lukewarm cup of blah, and Hank’s Hardware and More had a sale on buoys and coolers. Music was blaring; I saw Caleb Evers playing drums and waved. He gave me a nod.

  Most years, I went to the party with Sophie and Lex from school. Moose Junction was so small that the three of us had to ride the bus for forty-five minutes every morning to get to Waukegan County Middle and those forty-five minutes got pretty long if you didn’t like who you were with. Thankfully, we did.

  “Abby,” Sophie said suddenly, as we stood outside Coontail’s with our newly purchased bottled waters, “is that—um, is that Blair?”

  After what had happened in the spring with her Joffrey audition, Blair had gone from Golden Girl to Ghost. She spent most of her time in her bedroom or at the ballet studio in Milwaukee. And following the prom fiasco, Mom had taken Blair’s car away and was driving her herself. It was a two-hour commute; I barely saw either of them.

  I had asked Blair that morning if she wanted to just skip the Memorial Day party all together.

  “We could do the paddleboards?” I asked her, standing in her doorway. “Or just hang out on the dock . . .”

  “Maybe,” she said. She was digging around in a bag of pointe shoes, trying to find a pair that wasn’t completely destroyed. She could go through a pair of them in a week, easy. My tank top seemed too cheerful and summery in her room; she was dressed in a thick gray Camp McCourt sweatshirt and a pair of jeans. She even had fuzzy gray socks on, covering her ripped-up feet.

  Mom popped her head in. “You girls should go to the party. It will be fun,” she said, trying to sound cheerful. I think she just wanted something to stay the same: after a year where it seemed as if all our plans and routines and order had flown out the window, this one thing, this one day, could stay the same as it always was. I didn’t blame her. But I also didn’t blame Blair, who was going to be the center of attention. She was always the center of attention, but it used to be because she was so talented. Now it was because everyone had heard about Joffrey and was doing that awkward don’t-ask-about-it shuffle around her.

  I shrugged. “It was just an idea. If you want to go to the party, go to the party.”

  Blair sighed, grabbing some jet glue and dabbing it on a slip of fabric that had been worn off the toe. “Yeah, I think I’ll go to Main Street. Whatever. I don’t even know where my swimsuit is.”

  That’s because you refuse to wear anything that shows your skin, I wanted to scream. We all stood there awkwardly for a beat before Mom went back to the laundry and I pulled out my phone to text Sophie.

  So there we were: at the party. All Blair’s shininess was gone. She was hollow, like an emptied-out tree in the dead of winter. She and I had the same brown hair—Jade got Mom’s blond genes—and while hers used to look thick and beautiful in a French twist with a spotlight on it, it was now so thin that a million bobby pins couldn’t hold it in place. She had kept her sweatshirt on, too, looking completely out of place at a beginning-of-summer party. Our family was pretty pale by nature, and it was spring in Wisconsin, but the skin on her face was nearly see-through. Ghost Girl. Like I said. I felt as if she could take a single step and crack into a thousand pieces, turning into Blair dust and floating around the street.

  She was talking to Joe from the hardware store. What are your plans for next year? That stupid question, over and over and over again, reminding us all that the answer was a big fat question mark—and not the Joffrey. Or college. Or much of anything.

  Blair just kind of shrugged, looking bored. “Not sure yet. I have a ballet competition this summer . . .”

  “I heard about that,” said Joe. “I’m sure you’ll do great.” I wished some of his hopefulness would wear off on the rest of us.

  “We’ll see,” said Blair.

  “You’ll figure it out,” replied Joe, patting her shoulder. “Don’t you worry.”

  She flinched when his hand met her shoulder.

  “I’m not worried.” But her voice was high and tight, as if she was trying not to cry.

  A girl from her old high school walked by, too. Jessica-Now-Jess, Blair called her, since she’d decided to reinvent herself by dropping the second half of her name and dyeing her hair blue. Like you could make a town the size of ours think you were a whole new person with a box of dye from Coontail’s and a new nickname. The two of them had been . . . lab partners? English project partners? Something or other, before Blair had opted for homeschool so she could focus on ballet.

  “Blair. Omigod, it’s been forever.” Jessica-Now-Jess threw her arms around my sister as if they were the best of friends. Blair didn’t look happy about it.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey. I heard about Julliard—”

  “Joffrey,” Blair corrected her with a tight smile.

  “Yeah. That tryout for the ballet school? That’s so awful.”

  Lex whispered something to Sophie, and my face got hot.

  “Yeah, that’s her,” I finally answered Sophie, looking away. “Come on.” I tried to pull my friends forward.

  “Wait, I needed sunscreen,” said Sophie. “Sorry. I’m so flipping pale right now, I’ll be like a tomato in an hour. Curse of the redhead. Don’t leave without me.” She ducked back inside, leaving Lex and me to watch the train wreck unfold.

  Jessica-Now-Jess was going on about how she was so sorry about the Joffrey Incident. She reached over and grabbed her elbow, which Blair yanked back.

  “You don’t need this sweatshirt. Omigod. It’s a million degrees out here.” She giggled. “All that time in dance practice? You could probably use some sun.”

  “I’m cold,” said Blair, getting agitated. I wanted to step in and whisk her away from this obnoxious girl. We’d all gotten good at managing Blair; avoiding certain topics and not commenting on her bizarre fashion choices. There were meanings under meanings, reasons under reasons, a sweatshirt hiding sharp elbows and keeping warm a girl whose body couldn’t even regulate its own temperature. Jessica-Now-Jess needed to move along.

  “Whatever you say,” she said, fanning herself dramatically.

  Thankfully, right as Lex glanced back into the store to see if Sophie had finished paying for her Banana Boat, Jessica-Now-Jess turned to leave, waving goodbye and shouting “I’ll text you,” which, hopefully, she wouldn’t. Blair looked like she’d rather be anywhere else. She should have just stayed home.

  Sophie emerged, holding a bottle of sunscreen. Finally. I crossed the street with the two of them to get closer to the music. Then I heard the commotion.

  “Just try it, girl. Good God, you’re skin and bones.” It was Miss Mae. She was shoving a chocolate fudge cupcake under Blair’s nose. Miss Mae sat in the front row of Mass every Sunday and rolled her eyes at half the things Father Peter Patrick said. She was always going off about communists. I wasn’t even sure what a communist was, but Miss Mae could convince you your own neighbor was one. She’d utter it like you would the words serial killer.

  But at that moment, she wasn’t worried about the communists.

  “I’m okay,” Blair was saying, pushing the cupcake away. “I’m—”

  “Listen, child, you are too skinny. Just a taste. You only live once. I mean, how can you even dance with those skeleton legs?”

  “I have a dairy allergy,” said Blair icily. “So thanks, but no thanks.”

  I held my breath. It was too much, all of it. The questions without answers, the Joffrey mention, the missing swimsuit, and now a cupcake, Miss Mae’s thumb leaving a fingerprint in the frosting.

  “It’s delicious. One small bite.” Miss Mae was loud. Too loud. Her voice was like a speaker with the volume turne
d up full blast. People were staring. My heart was thumping in my chest. Stop it, I begged her. Stop it stop it sto—

  “I said no thank you!” Blair shrieked. It was so intense the music stopped playing. Everyone was looking now, a sea of eyes—some we knew but most from Chicago or Madison or Milwaukee, here to swim in the lakes and grill hot dogs. Not to see a Ghost Girl lose it.

  It was Jessica-Now-Jess and Joe and a swimsuit versus a sweatshirt. The reasons under reasons had cracked to the core, revealing the truest reason: my sister was Not Okay.

  I ripped away from Sophie and Lex, but I wasn’t fast enough. Blair was screaming, thrashing, crying, and my mother’s arms were wrapped around her, and that was how the world ended: over a stupid half-melted cupcake.

  “Blair is going away for the summer,” Mom said.

  Mom, Jade, and I were sitting around the dinner table. It was a Family Meeting without two very impor-tant family members. Our dog, Obi, snuggled up against my feet. He was a Norwegian elkhound, bred to be a guardian and defender. He could sense our tension like most dogs could sense a squirrel. He was huge, but like Dad said, if you’re going to get a dog, go big or go home.

  “Where’s she going?” I asked.

  “A place that can help her get better,” Mom said gently.

  “Like a hospital?” Jade chewed on the end of her ponytail. The purple streak was new, but Mom and Dad hadn’t said a word. Jade could do anything she wanted. I could paint one of my fingernails purple and probably be thrown in prison. I don’t know why; that’s just the way it went. I learned sooner rather than later that when your siblings are messed up, you have to be the steady one. The last thing Mom needed was another daughter with Issues.

  “Sort of. It’s like . . . a therapy center. A place where she can get the treatment she needs, and doctors, and people to make her food . . . help her eat. It’s in Madison.”

  “How long does she have to go for?” I asked. “What about ballet?”

  Blair was a ballerina. She wasn’t just good; she was amazing. She’d been homeschooled for the past two years so that she could spend more time training at her studio in Milwaukee. I loved watching her dance. Jade did, too, I could tell. Even though she usually said it was lame and brought her iPhone and earbuds. I looked over at her screen once, though, and nothing was playing. She was just being a brat.

  “Initially, six weeks, then we’ll check in,” Mom said. “Maybe twelve. I’m not sure. And ballet isn’t important right now.”

  But ballet was the only thing that was important to Blair. It was her entire life. It was her future, she’d told me a million times, stretching her feet and pulling them above her head, toes reaching toward the ceiling. It was her destiny.

  “Yeah, right,” snorted Jade. “Tell the Sugar Plum Fairy that.”

  “Shut up,” I said. This was an old dance, me and Blair versus Jade. Three sisters, but we were unbalanced. Blair and I liked Star Wars and had brown hair and liked hanging out. Jade was ice blond, wanted nothing to do with us, and thought we read too much. And now I was losing my teammate, even though it hadn’t felt like we were on the same team for a while.

  “Girls. Please. I have enough of a headache as it is,” Mom said, rubbing her temple. “Blair’s upstairs packing. Make sure you say goodbye to her tonight. We’re leaving in the morning. Jade, I need you in the office tomorrow, and please don’t argue with me.”

  She’d already begun to open her mouth, but closed it.

  “Where’s Dad?” I asked.

  “On the phone with the insurance company,” Mom muttered, looking like her headache had just gotten ten times worse.

  “One more question,” said Jade, laying her hands flat on the table. “Does Blair want to go? Or are you making her go?”

  “A little of both,” she responded. “Sometimes that’s a mom’s job. To make decisions for you that are for the best even when you disagree. But Blair knows she’s sick. And she does want to get better.”

  All we could do was nod.

  Mom had to find some numbers for Dad, so I went upstairs and knocked on Blair’s door. Obi trotted after me, ready to snuggle away any tension.

  “What.”

  I pushed the door open. I’d always been jealous of Blair with her own room. All I wanted was to decorate mine the way I wanted, without Jade’s freaky rock band posters or dirty jeans on the floor. Blair’s room was painted a pretty mint color, and her furniture was all shiny white. She had a trunk that was filled to the brim with turn boards to help her perfect her pirouettes, and a poster of Misty Copeland tacked to the wall beside it. Her huge bag of beat-up pointe shoes was shoved in the corner, but besides that, the room was immaculate.

  “Mom said you’re leaving,” I whispered tentatively. This was Blair, my best friend, my fearless leader. I would have walked across burning coals for her a thousand times over. Now she felt like a stranger.

  “Yup,” she said flatly, shoving a bathrobe into a suitcase without folding it. Obi circled the room, sniffing out danger.

  “Well,” I continued, “I thought maybe you’d want to take this.” I held our notebook out to her. It was a black-and-white composition notebook, the kind kids in the 1950s had to take to school before we all got iPads.

  It was filled with pages and pages of our finest creation: Planet Pirates. It was a comic we’d come up with that had everything we loved: space and princesses and even ballet sometimes. Blair and I loved Star Wars—hence why our dog’s full name was Obi-Wan Kenobi McCourt—and we were convinced we could make something just as epic and become millionaires. She sketched first, and I wrote the stories to go with her pictures. Blair was an even better artist than she was a ballerina, but she didn’t think so.

  For years we’d been working on Planet Pirates. We’d sent Captain Antoine Moonbeard on adventures to Mars and the moon and the Milky Way to save Princess Stardust. Not even Jade was allowed to touch the notebook. This was our thing, the thing that connected us through food being pushed around plates and bloodied-toe tights being pulled off too-thin legs. We’d spent less and less time on our comic over the past few months, but it was still there, waiting to be filled with our stories.

  “It’s your turn,” I said lamely. “I thought you’d want to see what I wrote for your last few drawings. I know we haven’t worked on it in a while, but . . .”

  She stared at the notebook, and then at me. I thought maybe she would yell or tell me to get Obi out; he was shedding all over her comforter. But instead, she put her head in her hands and started to cry.

  Blair the bold, Blair the strong, Blair the tough. People thought ballet dancers were flimsy little fairies, but Blair had punched Isaac Frank in the nose when he called her a sissy in fourth grade. She could perform onstage in front of hundreds of people and not even feel nervous. Yet here she was, crumbling to pieces in front of me.

  That wasn’t the Blair I knew. I couldn’t even look. It was like staring into the eclipse without glasses. Your eyes could burn off.

  I ran out into the hallway. When I reached my room, I slammed my door shut and locked it, even though that wasn’t allowed. Our family doesn’t lock our doors, Mom had reminded us a thousand times.

  Blair hadn’t needed to lock a door, though, to keep this secret.

  I turned my fan on full blast and pulled a blanket over my head, squeezing my eyes closed.

  The night went on but I stayed in my room, unlocking the door only for Jade, who came in and went to sleep without saying a word. The next morning, Mom called for us to come down and say goodbye. I ignored her. When she came up and poked her head in our room, I pretended to be asleep.

  “It’s fine, Mom. I said goodbye to her yesterday,” Blair said.

  I heard the car doors open and shut a few times. Then Dad’s truck started and pulled out of the driveway, crunching over gravel. Just like that, she was gone.

  I stayed there, under my covers, willing everything to go back to how it had been.

  But it wouldn’t
. Blair got diagnosed with anorexia, which sounded like a person to me: Anna Rexia, an evil witch who hides under your bed and sets your hair on fire. If I had Blair’s artistic talent, I would have drawn her—a super-skinny woman, almost see-through yet covered with fur, with red eyes and spiky hair. Anna Rexia tricked the scale and whispered lies into your ears and pointed out how many calories things were. She tripped you in ballet class and poured salt into your eyes so that you couldn’t see what was real and what wasn’t. Anna Rexia had found my sister and taken her hostage. Even when Blair left, Anna was there—hiding behind curtains, humming softly. If you stopped to listen, you could hear her.

  3

  AUGUST, PRESENT DAY

  Twelve years old

  The morning after spying on Dr. Leo Lacamoire, I was woken up by Obi.

  “Ugh. Kibble breath.” I hauled him up onto my comforter and snuggled him tight, but he wiggled out of my grip. Obi wanted your love and affection right up until the moment you gave it to him.

  “Abigail?” Mom called. “Up and at ’em. I have to run into town, so you need to be in the office.”

  “Child labor laws are a thing, you know,” I yelled back.

  “Do you have anything better to do?” she asked.

  Low blow. But point taken.

  I got out of bed and yanked on some shorts and a tank top before quickly brushing my teeth. As I did, I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror. Tall, white, brown hair, medium weight: a handful of traits that didn’t really say much about me. Blair thought she was fat, even though she obviously wasn’t—she didn’t even weigh a hundred pounds. Did that mean she thought I was fat? I had asked Mom that one time, and she quickly shook her head, saying that wasn’t how eating disorders worked. It was more about control than judging other people. It had never crossed my mind before, except when Sophie and I went swimsuit shopping and sucked in our stomachs in the mirror. I was a normal weight for my height, which was too tall already and kept creeping up when I wasn’t looking. I was probably skinnier than half the girls at school and fatter than the other half.