“Has she responded yet?” I ask.
Serenity is hanging upside down over the edge of my bed with her feet propped up against the wall. She reaches for her cell phone, checks the screen. “Nope. Nothing.”
I sigh. Glance out the window. Force my fingers through my hair, detangling the long strands.
Serenity arrived at my house nineteen minutes after I sent that text. Meanwhile, Amelia hasn’t said anything. At all. Serenity and I have been waiting for over an hour.
What is up with her?
Serenity rolls over onto her stomach. “Are you really sure about this?”
“Sure about what?”
“Reading this stuff in private,” she says. “Instead of just asking your parents about her.”
“I already told you, they lied when I asked about my name. They’ll probably deny the rest of it, too.”
“I don’t know. They might surprise you.”
“They lied. They won’t tell me anything.”
“I doubt that.”
Serenity bites her lip. “I can see why,” she says. “But you shouldn’t give up hope.” She shifts again, sitting upright. “My parents kept the divorce a secret. For a really long time. I knew it was happening, and I thought for sure my dad would just . . . leave. In the middle of the night. I thought he’d sneak out and I’d never see him again. I used to go into his room and check the suitcase under his bed, to make sure he wasn’t packed yet.”
My fingers stop moving. I blink at Serenity.
I didn’t know she did that. I didn’t know she’d been afraid of him leaving.
“I know, I know,” she says with a sigh. “Obviously, he didn’t do it. He’s better than that. And when my parents finally told me about the divorce, and explained how our lives would be from then on, I felt stupid for even thinking he’d leave me. But it made sense in my head, when I knew they were hiding something so big from me.”
I look away. Swallow the rising lump in my throat.
“Parents can be weird,” Serenity says. “That’s for sure. They keep secrets. They don’t always do the right thing. They make mistakes. But they’re not trying to hurt you, Edie. If they lied, or they didn’t tell you everything yet—there’s a reason for it. And I think you should ask them about it, before we jump to our own conclusions.”
“I didn’t know you were afraid of your dad leaving,” I tell her. “I didn’t even know you knew about the divorce, before it happened. Why didn’t you say anything?”
She shrugs. “Talking about it made it seem more real. And I didn’t want to believe it was really happening.” She draws a short breath. Drops her gaze to her hands. “I didn’t want them to break up.”
Silence fills the space between us. It grows and deepens.
Then a loud knock against my bedroom window jolts us both.
“Let me in!” Amelia shouts from the other side of the glass. “Don’t start without me!”
I jump to my feet. Hold up one finger, to show her I’ll be at the front door in a minute.
Serenity huffs and throws a pillow at the wall. “Would it kill her to answer her phone?”
I’m out the door and down the hall. I pull the front door open for Amelia, and she waltzes in with a casual “What have I missed?”
“Nothing. What took you so long?”
She shrugs. “Just busy. Nice braces, how do they feel?”
“They’re okay. Busy doing what?”
“None of your beeswax,” she says playfully. “And does it matter? I’m here now.”
It matters. Lately, we’ve been so back and forth. One moment, she’s stepping in to help me when I’m panicking in the attic. The next, she forgets to respond to my texts. She’ll say that she likes my drawings, but she’ll roll her eyes because my ideas for our film are “too cliché.” She’ll insist on going through the box with me, but then she shows up late and gives me a sassy nonresponse to explain herself. I keep noticing all these little moments, and they’re adding up.
I want to be sure everything’s okay between us.
Amelia starts to cross the room. “Come on,” she says. “We’ll go through the box. Then you need to hear my brilliant idea.”
“Millie?”
She stops short. Her shoulder blades tighten beneath her shirt. This is a nickname I haven’t used in a long time, since the first day of fifth grade. When our new teacher called roll and asked for our preferred nicknames, Amelia didn’t correct him. He even clarified, Don’t you go by Millie? I met your parents on orientation night. And she shook her head over and over. Amelia is fine.
When I called her Millie during lunch, she sighed and said she was done with nicknames. We’re fifth graders now, she said. Almost teenagers. Millie sounds like a little girl, but Amelia doesn’t. That’s why I need to start using it.
And I remembered that request. From then on, she’s been Amelia to me.
But right now, I think I need to remind her how long we’ve known each other. How important our friendship is.
I draw my breath. “Are we okay?”
She doesn’t turn around. “Everything is fine, Edie. Can we go into your room and get started, please?”
I swallow. Push my suspicions and hurt feelings aside.
“Yeah,” I say. “Let’s go.”
12.
The Box
July 7
“Do we have a plan here?” Serenity asks. “Like, where do we even start?”
Amelia says, “First, let’s see if we can find her full name anywhere. Second, we’ll look for the earliest thing we can find. It looks like she included dates on everything she wrote.”
The three of us are gathered around the open box. We’re in the middle of my bedroom, cross-legged on the floor.
Serenity glances at me. “Does that sound good to you, Edie?”
I nod. “Sure.”
And so, we start going through the other Edith’s stuff. Her private journals are pried apart. Her handwritten letters are freed from torn envelopes. Her head shots and postcards are flipped over, inspected.
I reach for a notebook with a thick black cover. Its edges are worn. Its middle is swollen. As I peel the cover open, an avalanche slides out: newspaper clippings. Loose flyers. Napkins scrawled with notes. Ticket stubs from the movie theater. A faded marigold-colored bus pass.
I squint at the text on the bus pass. The ink is barely visible, and the words are wrinkled. But I can still make out the route information.
“She was from here,” I say. “Originally. She took a one-way bus from Seattle to Los Angeles.”
“Of course she did,” Amelia says excitedly. “She left to pursue her dream career!”
I nod my agreement. Scan the ticket. “This is dated October 1973.”
“Good work, Edie. I’ll see if I can find anything from before that.”
As Amelia surges ahead, I feel a sudden twinge of . . . something in my stomach. Guilt? Discomfort?
I guess the reality of what we’re doing just hit me. We’re going through the other Edith’s private belongings. Ripping through journals that might’ve contained her thoughts and secrets. Reading through letters that probably contained personal conversations.
Maybe we have no business doing this. Maybe this box should go back in the attic.
“I don’t think she was technically from Seattle,” Serenity says.
Amelia scrunches her nose. “What makes you say that?”
“Look at the envelopes.” Serenity holds one up in demonstration. “Her letters were all sent to the same address in Indianola, Washington. The postcards, too.”
They both look at me. I can’t help but shrink under their gazes.
Amelia asks, “Do you know anyone who lives in Indianola?”
“No.” I shake my head for emphasis. “I’ve never even heard of Indianola.”
“You’re sure? You’ve never been there?”
“Definitely not.”
Do my parents know where Indianola is? Have they been there before?
I sit in stunned silence as my friends continue to pick through this stuff. My chest feels clogged as I watch them unfold her letters, skim their fingers down the pages of loopy cursive. Amelia discards one of the head shot photos with a careless flick. Serenity squints at an official-looking document.
“Whoa,” she says. “Look at this report from her doctor’s appointment. It has her height and weight and everything. The last four digits of her social security number. Her date of birth.” Serenity glances my way. “Her full name.”
I go rigid. A bolt of ice pierces my gut.
“What is it?” Amelia demands. She clambers forward, scooting to look over Serenity’s shoulder.
I’m frozen, still processing the meaning of her words. It has her height and weight and everything. The last four digits of her social security number.
It’s too much. Too much information about a total stranger.
“Edith Anne Graham,” Amelia announces, loud and triumphant. “Google it. Let’s see if she was famous.”
“Keep your voice down,” I shout-whisper, but she ignores me. Her phone is already out, fingertips flying as she types.
All three of us hold our breath as we wait.
Then Amelia’s shoulders deflate. “No,” she says. “Zero results. It doesn’t look like she was anyone important.”
Her words make me flinch. I drop my gaze to my hands.
This was a bad idea. I shouldn’t have brought the box down here. We shouldn’t be doing this.
I’m about to say so, but Amelia manages to cut me off.
“Look at this, though,” she says excitedly. “I found a journal entry from September 1973. One month before the bus ticket.”
And the curiosity wins out.
Amelia pulls the open journal into her lap and skims for a moment. Then she reads aloud: “Today,” she says, “my life takes on a new course and a new meaning. I’ve decided to take a chance and pursue my dreams.
“Earlier this year, Sacheen Littlefeather inspired me. She was the young woman who rejected an Academy Award on behalf of Marlon Brando. I’m still awed by the amount of courage it must have taken, to approach the stage with her head held high, to stand and speak before that booing audience. She was graceful and brave, and beautiful in her—” Amelia pauses, struggling with the next word. “Regalia? And it was terribly clever to use that platform to draw attention to Wounded Knee. The media has been mostly silent on the events unfolding there, until now. Thanks to Sacheen Littlefeather and her ally, these issues can no longer be ignored.
“Theo went to South Dakota in the spring. He joined the Oglala Lakota in solidarity with their cause. Theo has always been greatly involved in activist efforts. I wanted to join him when he protested at our own Fort Lawton a few years back, but Theo is fiercely protective of me. When everything escalated, he insisted that I stay home. And perhaps it was for the best, since so many activists were arrested. Including my big brother.
“But regardless of the risks, some part of me still wished to be there. I want to do brave, productive things in my life. Like the activists at Fort Lawton and Wounded Knee. Like Theo and Sacheen. I’m twenty-one years old now, and it’s time for me to stop living within my own little bubble. I love my home, I love my family, and I don’t mind my part-time job at the ferry docks. But there are bigger things I could be doing. Or at the very least, there are things I could try to accomplish.
“Which is why I’ve purchased a bus ticket for California. I’m going to Los Angeles to pursue a career in the film industry. I’ve always wanted to be an actress, ever since I was a little girl. No matter how unrealistic or idealistic the dream might be, I’ve secretly clung to it with my whole heart. I believe that Sacheen Littlefeather’s speech will open doors for us. Doors that have been shut too tight, for far too long.”
Amelia flips the page. Lifts her head. “That’s the whole entry.”
I blink at her. “I feel like I only understood about half of what she talked about.” I glance between my two friends. “Who’s Sacheen Littlefeather? And what are the Og—what was that term? Og-something? The protestors she talked about.”
She flips back to the previous page. “Oglala Lakota.”
“Right. What does that mean?”
“They’re a Native American tribe,” Serenity says. She has her phone in her hand, a web browser opened on the screen. “A part of the Sioux Nation. And Sacheen Littlefeather is a Native American activist.”
Serenity meets my gaze. Amelia glances my way, too.
My stomach rumbles, giving me an excuse to put everything away. “I’m hungry,” I say. “Let’s finish this later.” I reach for the scattered papers and scoop them all up, placing them back inside the box. “Do either of you want sandwiches? Or maybe Mom will order us a pizza?”
“No, thanks.” Amelia shifts onto her knees. “Don’t you want to hear my idea?”
“Okay. What is it?”
“Well, I was thinking—maybe the other Edith could be our inspiration for the film? We can reenact parts of her life, and cast you as the lead, since you look so much like her! Then our film would be ‘based on true events,’ which would make our mini movie super popular. People love stuff like that.” She shoots me a toothy grin. “What do you think? Am I a genius or what?”
An awkward silence. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out other than “Oh.”
“It would’ve been better if it turned out you were secretly related to someone famous. If that were the case, we’d probably get attention from news outlets, maybe even real reporters from Hollywood. But still, I think this could work, whether or not she was in any movies.”
“But—” I blink several times, staring at her. “But I can’t. Public speaking is one of my biggest fears.” My voice dwindles to a whisper. “That’s why I’m the animator. So I don’t have to be on camera.”
We’ve already decided. We’ve discussed this so many times.
“I know,” Amelia says stubbornly. “But how often does stuff like this happen? Why would we want to come up with our own story when we could use something real? Something interesting and cool and different.” She gestures at the box. “We’ve read one journal entry. We have a lot left to learn about her, but this girl left everything behind to pursue her dreams in LA. Don’t you want people to know about her? Don’t you want her legacy to carry on, somehow?”
Serenity shifts beside me. “I don’t know about this.”
Amelia reaches for my hands, gives them a squeeze. “Think it over,” she urges. “Please.”
And I promise her I will, because really, what else could I say?
13.
Uncle Phil’s Birthday Party
July 9
I hate my braces. I actually hate them.
My teeth are so sore, I can feel their aching roots deep in my jaw. And I didn’t know it was possible for the tips of your teeth to feel sensitive, tender to the touch. But oh, it is. It hurts to chew. It hurts to brush my teeth. It hurts to smile.
And everyone keeps telling me to smile.
Including Uncle Phil.
“Hoo boy.” He gives a low whistle. “That’s a lot of metal in there, kid! The gap already looks a little smaller. Must be one he—I mean, one heck of an orthodontist you’ve got.”
My parents and I have just arrived at his house, for his birthday party. Uncle Phil’s blond hair is mussed, and his blue eyes are bright with mischief. His cheeks are reddish, and his nose is sunburned and flaking.
“Do they hurt, kiddo?”
I shrug, because he might tease me if I say yes. He used to poke fun at me all the time. Not because he’s mean or anything; that’s just his sense of humor. When I was little, he used to pinch my nose and pretend to pull it off my face. Then he’d poke his thumb out of his closed fist and say, “I’ve got your nose!” He never actually tricked me, but he thought my straight-faced reactions were hilarious.
Uncle Phil grins, approving. “Tough girl.”
He lea
ds us through his house, into the backyard. Hamburger patties are sizzling on the open grill. The sun-bleached patio bakes beneath my sandals. A funny little garden gnome stands guard by Uncle Phil’s squash patch. And he has a kiddie pool set up for his pet duck, William. He’s the only person I know who has a pet duck, and it’s one of my favorite things about him. Two men linger on the patio, holding brown glass bottles in their hands.
“Chuck, Bran—this is my sister, Lisa, and her husband, Donnie.” He claps my shoulder. “And my all-time favorite niece, Edie.”
Chuck and Bran greet us with nods and hellos.
“I hope you guys are ready for some burgers,” Uncle Phil says as he steps in front of the grill. “We’re feastin’ like royalty tonight.”
We eat dinner inside.
The adults spend at least twenty minutes talking about traffic. Traffic. Uncle Phil and his friends go on these huge rants about their daily commutes, and the construction on a local bridge that has been clogging up the freeway, and Mom and Dad chime in with their own stories about driving around the area. Then their conversation switches to taxes. Which is confusing and dull. Even though they all have strong opinions about “their tax dollars.” Our tax dollars should be going to this, not that. Our tax dollars shouldn’t do this particular thing at all. Our tax dollars are clearly out of control. Our tax dollars are blah blah blah.
I’ve never been so bored in my life.
And I’m losing patience with my parents.
I’ve given them so many opportunities to come forward with the truth. I keep dropping hints and hoping for answers about Edith Graham. Amelia, Serenity, and I didn’t learn much more, beyond that first journal entry. Serenity’s dad came to pick her up after our late lunch, and Amelia left around the same time she did.
So I put the box away and took my drawing pad out to the backyard, where Mom was gardening. I pretended to work on sketching stuff while I asked her seemingly random questions, like: Hey, Mom, have you ever been to Los Angeles? Do you know anyone who lived there?
And instead of telling the truth, she played dumb again.
I don’t understand why the other Edith is such a big secret.
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