I climb the ladder, pull myself over the ledge, dodge around various piles of junk. Scoop the box up in my arms.
Hurry back.
Despite how careful I am, my shoe clips the edge of the fat computer monitor. It topples over with a clunk, screen-first. Then—unbelievably—its boxy rear end tips to the side, and in apparent slow motion, it falls over with an even louder smash.
My breath whooshes out of me.
My parents must have heard that.
For a split second, I’m frozen, unable to move. Unable to do anything. Then the air rushes back into my lungs, and I set the box aside to crouch and give the monitor a push, rolling the stupid thing to its original spot. But it’s heavier than it looks, and I’m struggling with it, clenching my teeth as it clunks in place.
Relieved, I stand and step back. Reach for the box.
Freeze.
No. No, this isn’t right at all. The computer wasn’t this far to the left when I first came up here. And the angle is wrong. It was facing the attic’s entrance, and now it’s twisted around in the wrong direction. This is clear evidence that I was here, that I was up to something.
I can’t leave without fixing it.
So I fall back into my crouch and push. As I heave the bulky monitor into position, it groans and screeches across the wooden floor. Uncle Phil’s voice roars to life in my head, spewing the words he uses to avoid cussing in front of me.
Shiitake mushrooms. Fiddlesticks.
Finally, the computer is settled. I’m still amazed by its size and weight. I can’t imagine using this ancient thing, and it’s almost impossible to picture it in our office down the hall. The computer we have now is sleek and bright, its keys slender and whispery.
This one is its opposite. Boxy and bulky, with a wide, chunky keyboard.
With my heart hammering wildly in my chest, I scoop up the other Edith’s box and scrabble down the ladder. Shove the ladder, slamming the overhead door shut.
And I bolt for my bedroom. Kick that door shut, too.
Fudge.
That was way too loud. Everything was way too loud.
But at least I have the box now. I take it to my closet and hide it inside my cedar art chest. I grab a pile of blankets and toss them over the closed trunk.
Then I sneak out of there and tiptoe back to the living room couch.
“Enjoy the bacon while you can,” Mom says as she slides a few more greasy strips onto my plate. “I think it might be on the list.”
We’re seated around the table for breakfast. Our plates are filled with golden-brown waffles, sunny-side up eggs, and clusters of grapes. The white cotton curtains are shielding us from the early sunlight. Toast pops up in the toaster. Dad twists the cap off a bottle of orange juice.
“Are you ready for tomorrow?” Mom asks.
I reach across the counter to grab my toast. “What’s tomorrow?”
“Your appointment with Dr. Ashworth.”
The toast drops to my plate. Mom leans back in her seat. Dad clears his throat as he pours orange juice into three separate glasses.
“Did you forget?” she asks in her gentlest voice.
“No. I don’t know.”
I touch my fingertips to my two front teeth. The small gap in between.
Dad passes me the fullest glass. “Are you nervous about the procedure?”
“Not really.” Should I be?
“It’s okay if you are. We know it won’t be easy for you.” He reaches across the table, brushes my knuckles with his thumb. “But it won’t last forever. We can go over the list and the schedule again, if you like. So that you’ll know to expect.”
I pull my hand away. “That’s okay. I’m fine.”
My parents exchange a quick, confused look. Then Dad starts slathering his toast in butter, while Mom takes a long sip of her orange juice.
“So.” He lifts his voice, forcing optimism. “How’s the short film coming along?”
“It’s going.”
“Did Serenity and Amelia like your drawings of the dog?” he asks.
I shrug. “Mostly.”
“Mostly?” The orange juice hits the table with a smack. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I shrug a second time. Grab my toast, dip it into the bright yellow yolk. The egg’s center bursts and spills all over my plate.
“How could they not love the little fellow?” Mom croons. “He’s such a great muse for the film project.”
“You didn’t love him, either.”
Her eyes widen with shock. “What?”
“The real dog,” I remind her. “At the reservation. You told me to get away from him.”
I shove the dripping toast into my mouth. Mom and Dad exchange looks again. This time, their expressions are full of silent alarm.
“That was different, sweetie,” Dad says. “That was a real animal. A wild, feral animal.”
I take my time to chew and swallow. “It was only a dog. A sweet little dog.”
“He was a gigantic dog,” Mom argues. “He might have hurt you.”
“But he didn’t.”
“We don’t know where he came from.”
“But we could have found out. We could have helped him.”
Mom flinches. Looks away from me. Lifts her hands to massage her temples. “There’s nothing we could have done,” she says. She unleashes a long sigh and adds, “I’m sorry.”
“You’re wrong,” I tell her. “You’re both wrong. We could have done something. We could have helped him find his way home.”
Dad says, “That’s our point, sweetheart. He didn’t have a home.”
“Then we could have given him one.” I rise from my chair. Carry my plate to the sink. “Thanks for breakfast, but I’m not that hungry.”
My parents say nothing as I walk down the hall and shut myself inside my room.
9.
Flip
July 6
The closet door glides open, and I lower myself to my knees. Push the blankets aside. Run my hand across the cedar chest’s smooth, polished surface.
Unlatch its hinge.
The top creaks as I pull the lid up.
The other Edith’s box looks wilted and old, with its worn cardboard and frayed edges. I lift it out, set it on the floor beside me.
Where are you from?
Amelia wants to go through this with me. And I promised I’ll wait, but the anticipation is killing me.
Maybe if I peek at the pictures we’ve already seen, it won’t count. My best friend said she wanted to learn everything about her. If I look in the box one more time, with a specific goal to learn nothing new, then how could she be mad? What could go wrong?
I lift the flaps. Reach for her head shot—the one with her faraway gaze.
If I were any good at drawing people, I would want to draw her. I would want to draw this. I wonder what she was looking at, what she was thinking about. I wonder when and where this photograph was taken.
I grab my nearest sketchbook and settle against the wall. Flip to a blank page and place it in my lap. Press my pencil to the center of the page.
A beat passes. Then I sketch a long, curved arc, followed by a second line in the same smooth motion. I draw a series of tiny lines between to connect them, all the way up the trunk. I pull my phone from my pocket and search for palm tree images to guide me as I draw its leafy head.
For the next hour, I sit and fill this sheet with palm trees along an imaginary shoreline. This sums up almost everything I know about Southern California: palm trees and sunshine and beaches. Hollywood and glamorous people and hazy sunsets. I also know they have numerous sports teams and amusement parks. But that’s it—nothing else.
And I know even less about the other Edith’s heritage. Her culture. Her people. Did she grow up in Los Angeles, or was she born somewhere else? Was she raised on a reservation? Did she know recipes for fry bread?
My phone vibrates with a new text from Serenity.
Serenity:
hey. how is everything? haven’t heard from u today.
Me: I’m okay. How’s your dad? How long will you be at his house? I brought the box down from the attic today. It’s hidden in my room, so we can go through it later.
Serenity: soooo i guess u haven’t brought it up with your parents? still sneaking around? and he is good. we’re going camping later this week.
Me: No. Not going to bring it up with them. I asked where my name came from and they both lied to my face.
Serenity: *gasp* :O
Me: Yeah. We need to figure this out on our own. When can you come over to help me go through the box?
Serenity: might have time tmrw. dad has the day off, he could drive me.
Me: Okay. Let me know if the afternoon will work. I have an appointment.
Serenity: what kind of appt?
Me: Tomorrow’s the day I’m getting braces.
I sigh and set my phone aside. Stare at the drawing in my lap. The trees have slight bends in their trunks, careful angles of their palm leaves. I gave them different heights to make it more realistic, just as I do whenever I draw the mountains.
And yet, this landscape feels incomplete. But I’m not sure what to add to it. I don’t know what else is missing.
10.
The Gap
July 7
Before the summer began, I was looking forward to getting my braces. I was excited to get my teeth “fixed.” But now that I’m here in the orthodontist’s office, the thrill is gone. Completely.
I wait in the lobby as Mom fills out paperwork at the receptionist’s desk. I can hear her pen against the clipboard, checking boxes, scribbling her signature.
There’s an aquarium next to me, water glugging noisily through its filter. Bright blue rocks are layered over the bottom of the tank, with fake plants sprouting through them, coral reef ornaments scattered at random. Several goldfish hover near the glass walls, flat marble eyes flicking in their sockets.
The other side of the room is designated for kids. There’s a crate filled with board puzzles. A small table covered in activity sheets and crayons. A bead roller coaster on the carpeted floor. A toddler is playing with it, knocking beads together, chasing them along the loops and waves of colorful wires. His mother is seated in a cushioned chair nearby, with her young daughter balanced on her knee. She’s holding a copy of Dr. Seuss’s book Oh, the Places You’ll Go! propped open in the girl’s lap. The mother’s voice is soft as she recites the rhyming lines.
The door to the patient rooms clicks open. A woman in maroon scrubs peeks out into the lobby. “Edie Green?”
Mom whirls around to look at me. “Ready?”
I nod and rise to my feet.
The woman grins. Her hair is pulled back in a sleek, blonde ponytail. “Hi, there!” she says. “I’m Kylie. It’s so nice to meet you.”
I return the smile, just to be polite.
“Wow,” Kylie croons. “What a beautiful girl you are. So much like your momma. You guys must have some great genes in the family.”
Mom smiles, but I can tell she feels awkward, just as I do. “That’s sweet,” she says. “Thank you.” She steps forward, intercepting me in the middle of the lobby. Her fingertips brush against my forearm, and I stiffen under her touch. “Don’t worry,” she murmurs. “Everything will be fine. I promise.”
I nod. Clench my jaw. And follow Kylie through the open door.
“Open up!”
I stare up at the U-shaped mold in Kylie’s hands. I’m seated in a leather chair, in the center of a small room lined with white cabinets and glossy counters.
“Are you going to put me to sleep for the procedure?” I ask.
Kylie smiles. “No. The process of getting braces is painless.”
I frown, skeptical. “I thought they’d make my mouth sore.”
“Not right away, honey. You’ll probably feel a little sore for a few days afterward, but not while you’re here. Now,” she says, gesturing with the mold, “open up.”
I stretch my jaw, and Kylie leans in, positioning the mold over my bottom teeth.
“This is just for our records,” she explains as she holds it in place. It’s filled with a weird, pasty substance that oozes over my gums. “We’re making an impression of your teeth.”
She repeats the process, placing a mold over the top row. I can feel the press of the pasty substance as it hardens against my teeth. It almost reminds me of clay, or wet cement.
Kylie reclines my chair until I’m nearly horizontal. When she removes the molds, they make popping sounds, like suction cups.
“Excellent,” she says. “Here, let me clean you up.” She rinses and dabs around the inside of my mouth, removing the residue and remnants. “There. That’s better. So tell me, what grade are you going into next year?”
“Seventh.”
“Oh, fun,” she chirps. “That’s a good age. Enjoy it while it lasts; you won’t ever be able to go back.” She taps the corner of my mouth with a gloved finger. “Okay, open again. Thank you.”
She spends the next few minutes cleaning my teeth, alternating between pulses of water and dashes of a minty polish.
“You really are so pretty,” she says. “I love your hair color. It’s such a rich, chocolaty brown. I think I might dye my hair soon. I’m sick of the blonde, I want to go dark. Like yours.”
I hear the approach of footsteps, sneakers squeaking across the tiled floor.
“Dr. Ashworth,” Kylie says. “We’re almost done with the prep work. Our girl’s just about ready for her braces.”
“Great.” Dr. Ashworth steps into view. Her blonde hair is streaked with gray, and tied back in a thick, cinnamon-roll-shaped bun. She’s dressed in a white lab coat. The lower half of her face is concealed behind a white gauze mask. Her gray eyes are so deeply hooded, she almost looks sleepy. “Hello, Edie. It’s so good to see you again.”
I don’t understand why they keep talking to me. It’s not like I can respond, with the orthodontic tools stuck inside my mouth.
“Can you believe she’s going to be a seventh grader soon?” Kylie chatters. “Growing up so fast!”
“I know,” Dr. Ashworth says. She pulls my file off the counter and starts flipping through its contents.
“And her smile will be so beautiful, with her teeth all nice and straight.”
“Yes. A lovely smile for a lovely girl.”
I can’t help but cringe a little.
Kylie finishes the prep work. Dr. Ashworth sets my file aside, sits in a rolling chair, and wheels closer.
“Can I ask you a question?” The inside of my mouth feels chilly and clean as I speak.
Dr. Ashworth peers down at me. “Of course.” Her voice is warm and honeyed, but her hooded gaze is purely clinical. Like I’m a frog she’s about to dissect on a lab table.
I fidget in the chair. “What exactly is wrong with my gap tooth? I mean, will it cause any problems for me later on, or is this whole thing just—?” I don’t want to say pointless, because it’s her job to give people braces, and I don’t want to hurt her feelings. But I can’t think of any other alternatives.
“Cosmetic?” she supplies.
“Yeah.” That works.
She tilts her head. “Gaps between teeth are typically a cosmetic issue,” she admits. “Most people find that they’re more confident and comfortable with their smiles once their gaps are fixed. But in your case, you also have a slight overbite. The top row of your teeth is protruding slightly over the bottom. It’s mild, thankfully, so it isn’t causing any real problems right now. But your braces will serve as a preventative treatment, to ensure your overbite won’t become problematic. People with overbites are more susceptible to tooth decay, and they are at a considerably higher risk for developing gum disease. We wouldn’t want either of those things to happen to you, Edie.”
I must look uncomfortable, because Dr. Ashworth places a gentle hand on my shoulder. “I understand if you’re a little scared. It’s perfectly normal
to get cold feet before the procedure. But I promise, the results will be worth it. You’re a big girl. You’ll do just fine with braces.”
Dr. Ashworth secures a mouth prop over me, a hard rubber tool that disables me from closing my mouth. My tongue goes instantly dry. My throat feels a little itchy, and my eyes start to water.
Then she plants the first brackets around my back molars, metal rings that hug my teeth and bite into my gums. Kylie hands her the tools she needs and shines a UV light around in my mouth as Dr. Ashworth works from the back to the front.
I stare at the ceiling as the procedure carries on. I’m wearing shorts, and my exposed skin is starting to sweat against the leather seat, all clammy and sticky. The inside of my mouth feels cold and dry and full. My cheeks are sore and pinched.
Dr. Ashworth reaches my two front teeth. I try not to flinch as she presses the brackets against them.
When these braces come off, will I still look like the other Edith? Or will my smile be completely different? Will I be completely different?
My eyes water as she tightens the wire.
11.
Do They Hurt?
July 7
“How do you feel?” Mom asks me.
I press my hand over my closed mouth. It feels like my lips are sticking way out. “Strange,” I answer. “It feels unnatural.”
Mom holds the glass door open for me as we exit the office building. The stone pathway leading back to the parking lot is dappled in shade and spots of sunlight.
“Do they hurt?”
“No.”
“Good. They might be painful tomorrow, and for a few days after. But at least they aren’t hurting you yet.”
When we reach the car, I buckle my seat belt and check my phone for missed messages.
Amelia: What are you doing right now?
Serenity: lmk when you’re done getting braces! dad and i are in the north end. he said we can hang out for a little bit.
Rather than sending individual texts, I go back to our group chat and type my response there: Done getting braces. Come over in 20 mins.
I remove the other Edith’s box from my art chest and place it on the floor between us.
I Can Make This Promise Page 4