For a long moment, Uncle Phil doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t do anything at all.
And then he lifts his gaze. And his voice is low and clear as he says, “I love it, kiddo. Thank you.”
Before he even bothers to try his slice of cake, Uncle Phil sets out on a mission to find the perfect spot in his house to display the painting. He settles on a blank spot above his fireplace, and he hangs it there, making the tiniest adjustments until the canvas is perfectly set against the wall.
Mom touches my shoulder and leans in to whisper, “So thoughtful, Edie.”
A knot tightens in my chest. Uncle Phil’s words echo in my head.
Please try to trust your parents, Edie. They’re only doing what they believe is best.
His advice was so similar to Serenity’s. They both want me to come clean, to tell my parents I found the box, to be honest with them about how I’m feeling.
But I just don’t know if I can. My trust has been broken.
16.
The Method
July 9
The moon is outside my window. Its face is full and round, skin blemished with craters, and white as milk. I can’t believe how close it feels, how big its presence is. I feel like I could cast a fishing line out into the sky and reel it in, tugging as it bobs through the currents of stars.
I flop over in my bed. Kick until my legs are free from the tangled blankets.
Serenity must’ve lost service in the woods. Her last text to me was, we’ve almost made it to our camping spot, and that was three hours ago. I’ve texted her twice since then: UNCLE PHIL KNOWS ABOUT EDITH GRAHAM! and For some reason, he refused to tell me anything about her. He said it should all come from my mom. I really wonder why.
I sent the same messages to Amelia, who said that we should hang out and discuss it tomorrow. She said that she has plans to go to Pike Place Market with her mom and brother, and I should tag along, which is what I’ll do.
Now I swing my legs over the edge of my bed, toes curling silently over the floorboards. I rise to my feet. My nightgown swishes around my calves. The closet door creaks as I push it open. I settle onto my knees and slide the box toward me across the floor. Silver moonlight spills through the window, illuminating the floorboards. The papers whisper against one another as I pick through them. I retrieve an envelope and tilt it toward the moonlight to read the delivery information.
The letter was addressed to a Mr. T. Graham, in Indianola, Washington.
It was written by a Miss E. Graham, from Los Angeles, California.
I release a hushed gasp. Brush my fingertips across the penned letters.
I slip my fingers inside the envelope and pull out the letter. It’s dated December 14, 1973. Ten days before Christmas Eve. I hold my phone up, beaming its flashlight across the page as I read:
December 14, 1973
Dear Theo,
I hope this message finds you well, big brother. I’ve heard you’ve had a terribly cold winter. How are you and Mom? How’s everyone back home? I miss you all so much.
These first few months in Los Angeles have been so interesting. I’m still working as a waitress, as I mentioned in my previous phone call. And I’ve also been taking acting lessons. My teachers are all very knowledgeable about the Method. Method acting emphasizes the need to “become” the character. To embody their experiences. To view the world through their eyes.
They’ve also told me about the star system. Movie studios used to sign deals with actors and actresses, in exchange for creating their personas and controlling their lives. Sandy, a girl in my acting class, claims it was easier to get gigs back then. That all you had to do was get discovered, and the studio took care of everything: your name, your image, which films you starred in, even who you went on dates with.
I didn’t say anything to Sandy, but in my opinion, the star system sounds dreadful. I would hate to let anyone control me that way. I much prefer the way things are now, even if it’s harder to build a reputation on your own. I’d rather take these lessons, immerse myself in the Method, and let my own storytelling skills do the work for me.
I truly believe that what you put out into the world comes back. And I am pouring my whole heart into my work. It’s possible that I won’t land any leading roles, or even supporting roles, but I feel good being here. I’m enjoying my acting classes. I even like bussing tables in the restaurant, chatting with guests when I have a chance, and swapping stories with my coworkers. Regardless of whether or not I achieve what I came here for, I believe I’m doing something, just being here. Being me.
But I do have some news to share, big brother. An update that might become something, or could turn out to be nothing at all. I have an audition after the holidays. I’m trying out for a role in a major romantic comedy. The chances are slim to none, but that won’t stop me from putting myself out there.
I’ll be sure to tell you more, as I learn more myself. Let’s talk on the phone again soon. I love you.
Love,
Edith
My heart is beating hard and fast. She had an audition? For a major romantic comedy?
I know I should wait for my friends. I know I promised Amelia we’d go through the whole box together, but I can’t help it. I just want to find one more piece of information for the night. I want to see if she wrote about the audition again.
I’m skimming her letters from January 1974. Squinting at her cursive. It’s really neat and pretty in some paragraphs, then it gets all slanted and jumbled in others. It seems like her handwriting got sloppy when she shared exciting news.
Which is why it takes me five tries to read the letter she wrote after the audition.
I gasp in the silence. My hands fly to my mouth.
Amelia’s voice pops up in my head: Zero results. It doesn’t look like she was anyone important.
She was wrong. Google was wrong. This letter changes everything.
17.
Give Her a Chance
July 10
I have Edith Graham’s letter folded tight and tucked inside my deepest pocket. As I ride my bike to Amelia’s house, I can feel the wad press against my leg each time the pedals rotate. I bump over cracks in the sidewalk before I pull into her driveway. It’s still pretty early in the morning, and her front yard glistens with beads of dew.
I dash to the front door; she opens it within seconds.
“Hey. You said you had news about the other Edith?”
“Yes. Big news.” I kick my shoes off beside the welcome mat, among the strappy sandals and brightly colored sneakers. “When are we leaving for Pike Place?”
“Mom and Adam are still getting ready. Let’s go to my room to talk.”
We hurry down the hall and up the stairs. I scuttle inside her room, and she snaps the door shut behind us.
“Okay,” I say as I dig inside my pocket. “I found proof that she was in a movie. A huge Hollywood film.”
Amelia’s eyebrows shoot up. “Really? You have my full attention.”
I explain the first hint I found last night, about the audition for a role in a romantic comedy. “She didn’t get that part,” I tell her. “But they liked her, and offered her a role in a different thing they were working on.”
“Was she the lead actress?”
“I don’t think so. But they gave her a few speaking lines.” I open the letter and hold it up between us. Amelia steps close, and we read her words together:
January 7, 1974
Dear Theo,
I’m in! I wasn’t accepted into the original picture I told you about. But the producers liked my audition, and they’ve given me a role in their upcoming Western! Now, I know what you’re thinking. When I came here, I swore I wouldn’t do any Westerns. But this one is going to be different. They showed me the script, and it is so progressive. It’s called When the West Was Theirs, and I can’t wait to be a part of it. This will be my first time speaking on-screen!
Call me as soon as you get this message. I’m d
ying to explain in greater detail.
All my love,
Edith
“Wow,” Amelia says. “This is actually really cool. She must have been good, if they offered her a role in a different movie!”
“Totally!” I tell Amelia more about her previous letter, about her acting lessons and general determination.
“This is great stuff, Edie. Did you look up the movie she was in? When the West Was Theirs?”
I shake my head. Amelia whips her phone out and types the title into a web browser. She scrolls through the top hits: movie posters, critical reviews, a link to a trailer. She clicks on the preview and hits play.
An announcer’s voice talks over the footage. He describes the plot without giving too many details. Action shots flash across the screen: cowboys on horseback, pistols gleaming at their hips; quiet villages of tepees; violent war scenes; a kiss between a cowboy and a Native girl.
Amelia suddenly shouts, “That was her!”
She pauses the video with her fingertip. Drags it backward. Hits play.
I watch closely.
It’s another village scene, and the camera is angled to show several women seated around a bonfire. Sure enough, Edith Graham is among them. She’s wearing a tan dress, long beaded necklaces, and moccasins. Her hair is styled in two braids and her gaze is distant. Like she’s watching something happen from miles away.
“This is amazing,” Amelia says proudly. “Good work, Edie. We can definitely use all this new information in our film. We’re going to have the best story in the entire festival.”
I glance at her, eyebrows lifted. She smiles at me awkwardly.
“I mean, if we decide to go with her story. Which I really think we should.”
Before I can react or say anything, the doorbell rings downstairs.
Amelia exits the video and stuffs the phone inside her pocket. She bites her bottom lip, the way she does whenever she feels guilty or anxious.
“Oh,” she says. “By the way, I forgot to tell you. Another friend is going downtown with us.”
“Did Serenity come back from her dad’s house early?”
“No, not her. Someone else from our grade.”
“Who?”
The doorbell rings again, long and drawn out, like someone is holding the button down.
“Edie,” she says. “Please, don’t judge. Just give her a chance.”
Amelia throws her bedroom door open and pounds back down the stairs. I follow at the same pace, confused and a little hurt by her words. Don’t judge? Why would I judge her for wanting to invite another friend? I skid to a stop at the bottom of the staircase, at the same moment the front door opens.
Libby.
Amelia’s voice goes high and squeaky as she greets her. “Hi! I’m so glad you made it!” And now she’s stepping aside, gesturing for Libby to come in.
My heart kicks violently inside my chest.
Libby comes in and removes her shoes on the doormat like she’s supposed to. She doesn’t even ask first, and it’s as if she knows the rules in Amelia’s house. As if she’s been here before. Libby smiles and says, “Sorry I’m late.” And Amelia is insisting it’s okay, no worries at all, she’s just so glad she’s here. And I’m watching and listening, but I can’t believe it. What is this? What’s happening? Libby finally looks up and realizes I’m here. Our gazes lock and I can’t move. Her grin turns smug, like a crocodile lurking in murky waters.
She nods once, and says, “Edie.”
Amelia turns to me. Her smile is wide and forced. “Libby is coming downtown with us. We’re all going to have so much fun.”
Libby says, “I heard you got braces.”
And I can’t form words. I can’t even breathe.
“Well,” Libby says, baring her own teeth at me. “Can I see?”
I guess I don’t have a choice. I open my mouth, pulling my lips back from the brackets.
Libby’s eyes gleam, and her lips twist into another version of that creepy smile. “Nice,” she says, in a falsely sweet voice. “That’s good. You needed them.”
Then Amelia’s mom and brother come downstairs, and we’re ushered out the door and into the car. The back seat is cramped with Adam in his booster seat, me in the middle, and Libby’s giant legs sprawling into my space. I’m blinking and stunned, trying to catch Amelia’s gaze in the rearview mirror, but she won’t look my way. Her mother reverses out of the driveway.
I wasn’t expecting this. I didn’t see it coming.
18.
Pulling Away
July 10
Libby and I were almost friends, once. Before she started calling me “Granny.” Before she had any problems with me.
She was the new girl in fourth grade. Our first seating chart was alphabetical, and Libby was behind me, because her last name is Gast. I remember our laminated nameplates—Liberty G. and Edith G.—printed in cursive fonts, with graphics of yellow pencils and shiny red apples. I remember asking her if she’d like to sit with me during lunch, since she didn’t know anyone yet, and she smiled wide and accepted my offer.
So we sat together for lunch. And we hung out at recess. And she seemed to fit in well with Serenity and Amelia, and everything was going great.
Until I caught her copying my classwork.
We would both get in trouble if the teacher found out on her own, which was why I told her what had happened. It was the right thing to do, and I don’t regret it.
But our teacher contacted Libby’s parents. She was banned from tryouts for our school’s play, and she was sent to detention for two recesses.
She’s been cruel to me ever since.
We’re surging down I-5 with our car windows cracked, wind pummeling through the open spaces. Freeway bridges curve in toward the city’s heart, the dense, gleaming skyscrapers. The Space Needle looks like a flying saucer with ivory legs rooted in the ground. Seaplanes circle and dive, skimming across Lake Union’s blue surface.
Adam has a portable video game console in his lap, his small fingers clicking the buttons impossibly fast. Amelia’s mom mutters something profane about drivers not using their turn signals.
“I hate this city,” Libby says. “Seattle is so annoying. I can’t wait until I graduate from high school and I can move literally anywhere else in the world.”
“I kind of like it,” Amelia says. “But I can also see why you hate it.”
“It’s the worst. I want to go someplace that’s sunny year-round.”
“At least your house is nice!” Amelia looks at me. “You would love Libby’s house. She lives on that hill by Golden Gardens. She has the best view.”
Libby shifts her attention to me. “Do you actually like Golden Gardens?” She scrunches her nose. “Because ew. It gets so crowded and gross, especially during the summer.”
I stare at her, unsure of what to say.
Amelia clears her throat. Her thin blonde eyebrows are drawn together. She looks annoyed with me. Which is fine, because I’m even more annoyed with her.
Libby asks her, “Does she ever talk?”
Amelia says, “Sometimes.”
And now we’re exiting the freeway. The shift in direction forces Libby to lean into me; a frustrated Adam slams his console against his lap. Amelia turns around, her slim ponytail whipping.
The air smells of car exhaust and sun-warmed garbage. It’s unpleasant, but I’m grateful for the lack of urine. The last time I came downtown, I could smell pee everywhere.
We’re crossing a crowded intersection. The red hand is flashing, urging us to stop, but we keep moving. An elderly, dark-skinned man is playing the saxophone on the street corner. A cardboard sign is propped up by his feet, with the words “Anything helps, God bless” penned in blue ink. Libby and Amelia are in the lead, followed by Amelia’s mom and Adam, followed by me. They all zip past the saxophonist without a glance or a coin to spare, so I do, too, even though I don’t feel very good about it.
Amelia’s mom passes aroun
d sticks of chewing gum. She extends one to me, shoving it into my hand before I can decline her offer. I sweep my thumb across the silver wrapper. The gum bends, wilting from the heat of my palm.
We turn down an alley, just below the main entrance to Pike Place Market. The brick walls are covered in posters and stickers, all bright and colorful, abstract and strange. I slow down to stare at the collage. There are grinning skulls; a ghoulish, blue-skinned woman with glowing yellow eyes; a caricature of a great, horned animal; illegible graffiti signatures; advertisements for local bands and theater productions.
And gum.
As we continue down the alley, flecks of gum appear on both sides.
“This is so cool,” Adam crows as he dashes forward to get a better view.
Amelia shrieks, “Ewww.” She clasps her hands over her cheeks. “Why do people do this?”
“This is sick,” Libby says.
They’re all still way ahead of me, so I’m going to assume no one cares to hear my opinion. Since we left the car, Amelia hasn’t stood beside me once. She’s barely even looked at me. I slow down even more, allowing the gap between us to widen. Just to see if she’ll notice.
She doesn’t. The Gum Wall has captured her full attention.
An entire stretch of the alleyway is coated in chewed pieces of gum, a sticky, pointillist rainbow across the bricks. A window ledge is covered in stretched, dangling strips that look like melted wax. Someone arranged blue bits into squiggly initials: JC + CC.
Adam is the first to pull his gum out of his mouth and stick it to the wall. Libby and Amelia follow, squealing and pushing each other. Except while Amelia pushes playfully, Libby gives her an actual shove. Almost like she wanted her to fall back against the Gum Wall.
And Amelia seriously wants to be friends with her? I don’t understand. Not at all.
“Enough roughhousing,” Amelia’s mom says. “Let’s all pose for a picture now.” As an afterthought, she glances at me. “Aren’t you going to add to the Gum Wall, Edie?”
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