I look up. The boy with the Roman candle is staring at me. He’s wearing a backward-facing baseball cap. A tuft of his black hair is sticking through the open gap. He’s also wearing a black T-shirt and basketball shorts. He looks like he’s around my age.
“Sorry,” he says with a grimace. “I wasn’t trying to point at your parachute.”
A green fireball shoots out of his Roman candle with a muted thunk. He doesn’t bother to watch it arc through the air.
“It’s okay.”
A blue fireball shoots out of his candle, and he still doesn’t look away.
“I’m Roger,” he says. He takes a step closer and holds his free hand out to me.
It seems odd to introduce myself to a boy in the middle of a war zone. But I accept the handshake anyway. “Edie.”
His palm is warm and soft. A purple fireball erupts from his candle, but I only see it in my peripheral vision, because we’re face-to-face now. His eyes are the warmest shade of brown I’ve ever seen. His teeth are a bright white flash as he smiles at me.
Butterflies surge in my stomach. My blush warms my cheeks.
He says, “Hi.”
He’s still smiling. His hand is still folded in mine.
“Hi.”
“You look Native,” he says. “But I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before. What nation are you?”
I blink fast and stutter, “Oh. I mean, yes, I’m Native, b-but—”
“Edie?”
I drop Roger’s hand like a hot potato.
Two silhouettes are moving through the thick gray fog. Bits of debris and shrapnel rain around them, like the little black spots that appear on-screen in old movies. As they come closer, I can see the relief on my parents’ faces.
“Oh good,” Dad mutters. “Sweetheart, you can’t just run off like that, okay? Come on, let’s go, it’s getting late.” As an afterthought he adds, “I’m glad you got your parachute.”
I respond with a mute nod and speed-walk away from Roger. My parents lead the way back across the field. I follow a few steps behind and risk a quick glance at Roger before he disappears in the fog.
He’s staring after me. His Roman candle is still poised in the air, but the tube is smoking, empty.
I lift my hand in a wave.
He smiles as he waves back.
My parents and I are in the car now, zooming down the freeway. Fireworks bloom all along the darkened hillsides. The sky is like a swath of indigo velvet.
I’m still thinking about the dog I saw. I wonder if he ever found his owners, his family. I hope someone was there for him. I hope he’s curled up in front of a fireplace right now, with a full belly and a cozy rug. Or maybe he’s standing in a bathtub, his tail whacking the tiled walls behind him, his fur lathered in fragrant bubbles.
Actually, these are some great images. Maybe this could be the topic of the story for the film Amelia, Serenity, and I are working on.
I whisk my phone out of my pocket and open our group chat. Happy 4th of July, I type. Movie meeting tomorrow? I got a new idea.
Serenity’s response is instant: happy fourth! yes, can’t wait. where should we meet?
I ask, Amelia’s house?
I stare at the screen for a moment, waiting for Amelia’s response. When it doesn’t come, I tuck the phone back into my pocket.
Maybe it’s only my imagination, but it seems like Amelia takes forever to reply these days. Sometimes, she doesn’t even answer at all. Since the summer began, the group chat has mainly been filled with messages exchanged between me and Serenity.
Mom giggles. “Look,” she says. She turns around and shows me her phone screen. “Phil just sent me this.”
Uncle Phil sent Mom two GIFs and a text message. The first is a fireworks GIF, the second is a wavering American flag. The text reads, Happy Fourth to my favorite sister, my favorite bro-in-law, and my favorite niece! Love you all (but especially Edie). Excited to see you soon for summer BBQs.
“Nice,” I say.
“Yes,” she agrees. “Very sweet.” Mom turns back around and starts typing her response.
“Hey, Mom?”
“Hmm?”
“Why are fireworks only allowed on the reservation?”
She stops typing. Looks up. I meet her gaze in the rearview mirror.
“I was just thinking,” I say. “About how fireworks are banned in our neighborhood, because of all the fire hazards. But there are still a lot of trees around that field. And there were houses nearby, too. And it wasn’t just, like, one or two houses. There were a bunch of them.” I scoot forward in my seat. “So why is it allowed there? Why don’t the same rules apply?”
She doesn’t answer, at first. I wait and listen to the ongoing whoosh of cars on the freeway around us. The dingy bellow of a truck’s diesel exhaust. The low, distant wail of sirens.
Finally, she responds with “It’s complicated.”
I wait for her to explain; she doesn’t.
“Have you ever heard of fry bread?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Have you ever tried it?”
“A few times.”
“Really?” I scoot even further, straining against the seat belt. “Do you know how to make it? What are the ingredients? Could we cook it at home? They were selling some at a booth, and I wanted to try it but didn’t get a chance to ask.”
“Maybe we can make it at home. I don’t know. We’ll see.”
“It’s a traditional Native American food,” I say excitedly. “We should make it at home.”
“Maybe.”
I lean back in my seat. The freeway curves around a bend. Bright white headlights gather behind us, around us. Their beams pierce the dark, illuminating the interior of our car in shifting strobes. Red taillights glow ahead, as we follow them home.
I think about Roger. He was the first person to ever say those words to me. You look Native. And it didn’t feel presumptuous. It didn’t feel like a wild guess.
It was like he recognized me. Like he saw something in me.
I wonder what that something was.
3.
Three’s Company
July 5
Amelia finally texts back the next morning, at 9:34 a.m. She says, My house is fine.
I’m sitting in the backyard with my drawing pad in my lap while Mom works in the garden, padding its perimeter with bark chips and seaweed. Seaweed is the secret behind her green thumb; she calls it Mother Nature’s Slug Repellent. Her flowers burst with color and fragrance. There are lush pink peonies, their petals delicately ruffled, like the folds of a tulle tutu. Sunset-colored dahlias, blooming atop slender green stems. And countless other blossoms and spikes of herbs I can’t name.
The morning sunshine is warm against my hair, my skin. I’m sketching an outline of this one flower in the garden. Its blooms are my favorite shade of purple: bright and soft, like lilac but not. Its petals are spread out in the shape of a star. Little yellow sprigs pop up from its pollen-filled middle.
A new message from Serenity: wow took u long enough! what time can we head over?
Seriously. I was starting to wonder if we’d even see each other today.
I have some drawings ready to share with them. I worked on them last night, after we came home. The dog from the reservation now appears across several pages in my drawing pad, in various positions: seated, sleeping, running, and carefree with a stick in his mouth. I’ve also drawn him into a few settings: sitting in the middle of the fireworks stands, in the forest, on the beach.
I feel like I should name him. But I don’t know what name to choose.
My phone buzzes again: Come over at 11.
Excellent, I type back.
This is good news. We really need to get to work, since we’re going to enter the festival this summer.
“Is that Amelia and Serenity?” Mom asks.
“Yep.” I set my phone aside. Pick up the drawing pencil. “We’re hanging out soon.”
“Are they coming over?”
<
br /> “We’re meeting at Amelia’s house.”
“Fun, fun.” Mom stands up. Brushes her gloved hands together, raining flecks of dirt all over the grass. “Can I see what you’re working on?”
“Sure.”
I erase the tip of a petal and redo it with a softer sweep. Some of the lines I’ve drawn are too sharp, too angular. The flowers I’m trying to capture are more delicate than this. I can imagine what Mrs. Barnes—my art teacher—would say, if she were here: Follow the lines, Edie. Don’t put too much pressure on your pencil. Just follow the lines, light and natural.
Mom, on the other hand, is never critical of my work. She peers down at the open page and declares, “Perfection.”
It’s not perfect, but I smile and thank her anyways.
It’s too noisy to talk inside Amelia’s house. Her little brother, Adam, is smashing his Legos and watching cartoons at top volume in the living room. And Amelia’s mom is vacuuming upstairs, the clunky machine roaring across the carpets.
So we’re in the backyard, lying on the black woven surface of her trampoline. Serenity is examining my drawing pad, her brows furrowed in concentration. Amelia is flat on her back, her eyes unfocused, long blonde hair fanned around her head.
“These are great, Edie.” Serenity touches the mangy, graphite-sketched fur. “I love it.”
“Thanks,” I say. “We need a name for him.”
“He looks like a Bruno to me.”
“Bruno! That totally fits him.”
She gestures to Amelia. “Wanna see?”
Amelia sighs and lifts herself up onto her elbows. “’Kay.” She takes it, gives it a quick glance. “I like the drawings,” she says. “But this story is played out, don’t you think? The lost dog, looking for a home. A million of these movies already exist.”
“We can still make it our own,” Serenity says. “And besides, it’s not like we’re going to Hollywood. This is for a youth filmmaking festival. It’s small and local and people would love this story.”
“Exactly,” I chime in. “It’s about a dog. Everybody loves dogs.”
“Yes!” Serenity says. “Except for people who are allergic to them. Obviously.”
Amelia shrugs, unimpressed. “I just think we can aim higher. That’s all.”
Serenity and I exchange uneasy glances. Amelia is acting weird today. We don’t know what’s up with her.
“Okay,” I say, treading carefully. “Well. We can keep brainstorming.”
I reach for my drawing pad, and she gives it back. I flip through the numerous pages I’ve filled with this dog. I thought for sure they’d both fall in love with him.
“We can go back to the Rapunzel-inspired story,” Serenity suggests. “The princess trapped in a tower.”
“But that’s cliché and overdone, too.”
I bite my lip. “I’d rather keep an animal as our main character,” I say. “I’m not the best at drawing people, remember?”
I’m way more comfortable with drawing creatures, plants, landscapes. The stuff you find in nature. I’m not nearly as good with human portraits. My faces tend to come out lopsided. The bodies I draw always look stiff and awkward. And hands are the hardest part of all. I can’t help but draw them with crooked fingers, weirdly shaped palms, or unnatural bends to the wrists.
Mrs. Barnes tried to help me with this, in our after-school art club. But even with her guidance, I lost patience for it. I know what I’m good at, and I know what I suck at.
I suck at illustrating people.
“Why don’t we shoot our own footage and act it out, like everyone else?” Amelia asks.
“Because my dad already downloaded the animation software,” I tell her. “We couldn’t change our minds after he did that for us.”
This whole plan has been in motion for a while now. Amelia is the director and lead vocal talent, Serenity is the screenwriter and side vocals, and I’m the animator.
“But the animation is making this ten times harder than it needs to be.”
“We’re challenging ourselves,” I say optimistically. “And it will make our film the most unique.”
Amelia scrunches her nose. “Fine. We’ll figure it out later, I guess.” She flops back on the trampoline, and we all bounce slightly with her shifting weight. “You know what sounds incredible right now?”
“What?”
“A Popsicle.”
“Ooh,” Serenity says. “That sounds amazing.”
“Too bad Adam ate our last one yesterday.”
An idea pops up in my head. “Hey, you know what we could do? We could go to my house and make our own Popsicles.”
My two best friends gawk at me.
“You know how to make your own Popsicles?” Amelia asks. Her voice is a little scornful, like she’s mad at me for withholding this information.
“My mom bought a Popsicle mold last year, at the end of the summer,” I explain. “We only used it once, but it was awesome. We used real fruit and berries.”
For the first time today, Amelia beams at me. She nods and says she loves the idea; she insists that we leave immediately.
Finally, all three of us agree on something. I feel triumphant as we leave the trampoline, but also a little concerned. Something is up that she’s not telling me.
4.
A Stranger So Familiar
July 5
“Are you sure we should be doing this without telling your mom?” Serenity asks as I lower the attic door and unfold its ladder.
“It’s fine,” I say. “She won’t mind.”
The Popsicle molds weren’t in the freezer, and we couldn’t find them anywhere else in the kitchen, so I reasoned they had to be up here. And Mom didn’t respond to us at all when we came in through the front door. She’s probably still gardening in the backyard.
“But we could ask her where they are,” Amelia says. “She’ll probably know for sure.”
“If we don’t find them on our own, we’ll ask her.”
I motion for them to follow as I climb the short ladder and crawl into the attic. It’s stuffy and hot in here. And surprisingly dark, despite the midday sun streaming through the square window. Bare wooden beams form triangles that hold up the ceiling. Cardboard boxes and plastic storage bins are stacked everywhere in haphazard piles. An old computer monitor gazes up at me from its spot on the floor. Its black screen is bloated and curved, and its boxy white backside is propped against a dartboard. It’s the fattest computer I’ve ever seen.
“Whoa,” Amelia whispers as she emerges through the attic door. “There’s so much stuff up here.”
“Yeah,” I murmur as I look around. “I haven’t been up here in ages.”
Serenity crawls in next, and immediately points at the computer. “What the heck?” she says. “That’s a huge computer.”
“Vintage,” Amelia agrees. “Super weird.”
All three of us stand and stare around the space. The storage bins are stacked in small towers. The cardboard boxes are bulging and worn. I see a rolled-up newspaper, a collection of picture books I read when I was little, a bin filled with Christmas lights in tangled clusters. A box of souvenirs from Disneyland, including Minnie Mouse ears with my full name embroidered on them.
My friends and I move in different directions. For some reason, we tiptoe across the floor and peek inside boxes with slow, careful movements. I’m not sure where this urge to be quiet is coming from, but we all seem to feel it. There’s something about this place. Something about this tiny room.
“Edie?”
“Yeah?”
Serenity is staring at me, squinting like she’s trying to solve a puzzle or a difficult math equation. “Could you come here for a sec?”
I frown. “Sure.”
I make my way toward her, meandering through the narrow path, stepping over the clutter.
“What’s going on?” Amelia asks.
Serenity waves her over. “You come look at this, too.” Then she holds her hand up,
stopping me. “Wait right there, Edie. I want to see something.”
My frown deepens. “What are you talking about?”
Amelia reaches her side, and Serenity holds up a large white rectangle. A photograph. She extends her arm, keeping it in their line of sight, as they both face me.
“Do you see what I see?” Serenity asks.
Amelia stares for three full seconds before she says, “Oh. My. God.”
Together, they both look up at me. I can actually see their pupils dilating.
“What?” I snap. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Edie,” Serenity says. “Do you know who this is?”
She flips the photograph to face me.
I squint at it. Take a step closer.
“No,” I say, because I’ve never seen this picture before. It’s a black-and-white modeling head shot. A young woman gazes at the camera, her head tilted at a slight angle. She has dark hair, cut in a short, fluffy bob. She’s standing in front of a white wall. And she’s smiling.
It’s the smile that makes me stop short. It’s the smile that makes me look a little closer.
I’ve never seen her before. I’m still certain of that. And yet, her face is so . . . familiar. My mind is scrolling, trying to place where I’ve seen her before. I feel like I recognize her. Like I know her from somewhere.
But I don’t make the connection until Serenity voices it.
“She looks like you,” she says. “She looks almost exactly like you.”
Those words chill me to the bone.
For a split second, the world seems to tilt on its axis, like it’s about to roll right off its designated ring in the solar system and float aimlessly into outer space.
She looks like me. She’s a complete stranger, but she has my face. Her eyes are shaped like mine. Her nose resembles mine. The apples of her cheeks are pronounced and a little pudgy as she smiles, and she has a gap between her two front teeth. Go downstairs and you’ll see a whole hallway lined with photographs featuring that same exact smile. In every one of my school pictures. Every single family portrait.
“Look at this,” Serenity urges. “The box I found it in.”
She grabs me by the wrist, tugs me forward. It’s a cardboard box, marked with a capital E in black Sharpie. The top flaps are fraying around the edges, and layered with tape that isn’t sticky anymore.
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