The shore is quiet and bare: no blankets, no coolers, no chairs, no people. Just that AVOID CONTACT sign, the sun reflecting off the metal.
My voice hasn’t come back either. It’s been three days. I tried drinking tea and honey, sucking on lozenges, and even gargling with warm salt water—which was disgusting—but nothing’s helped. My throat is still scratchy and raw. Mom told me if it doesn’t start getting better soon, I’ll need to go to the doctor.
I took a pad of notes from the Thought Wall and have been writing on them when I need to say something. I’ve been doing a sort of made-up sign language and mouthing words too. Dad said he’s enjoying trying to figure out my charades. He sometimes guesses the wrong word on purpose. When I cross my arms and frown, he says, “Just trying to keep it light around here.”
After dinner, when I’m signaling to Dad that I’ll rinse the dishes, Jess asks if Amy can come over.
“Of course,” Mom says. “We’re happy to have her.”
Jess texts her immediately. Ten minutes later, Jess looks at her phone, then bolts to the door, flings it open, and hugs the girl standing on the porch. “Aims!”
“Jessi-capital K-a!”
Amy’s as tiny as Jess, and her brown hair goes straight down to the middle of her back. Mom comes out from the kitchen. “Hello,” she says. “Nice to finally meet you.” Dad’s behind Mom. He waves.
Jess points to each of us. “My mom, my dad, my sister Annalise. She’s lost her voice.”
“Oh, too bad,” Amy says.
Jess grabs Amy’s hands and they twirl around the family room together, almost knocking over a lamp. Dad’s smiling but Mom says, “Careful!” They fall on the sofa, laughing, holding their stomachs.
“Looks like you two are made for each other,” Dad says.
Jess shouts, “Yeah, we’re peanut butter and jelly!”
“Ice cream and chocolate syrup!” Amy adds.
“Noodle and doodle!” Jess says. They collapse into giggles again as Jess pulls Amy toward the stairs. “We’re going to my room.”
“Nice meeting you,” Amy calls.
“Have fun,” Mom says, turning back toward the kitchen. Dad follows her.
As they walk up the stairs, I hear Amy say, “Any update? Can you go?”
Jess whispers, “No. I’ve been trying everything to get them to change their minds. I’ve promised to work at the cabins more and do extra chores at home. But they keep saying they made their decision and it’s final.”
“Oh, man,” Amy says.
They run up. As soon as the door to Jess’s room shuts, they start singing and laughing and talking. From the bangs and thuds on the walls and floor, it sounds like they’re jumping and dancing too.
Mom brings them a plate of cookies, and I hear Amy sing, “Thank you, Mrs. O! These cookies look delisho!” They keep it up, even after Dad knocks on the door a few times and tells them to “turn it down a notch.”
Later, when I’m in my room, I hear their giggly whispers in the hall, muffled footsteps on the stairs, then the front door opening and closing as Amy leaves. But I don’t hear Jess come back up.
I tiptoe down the stairs and peek around the bottom step. Jess is standing in front of the fireplace, quietly staring up at the family picture. Her back is to me. No matter where she goes one day, LA or anywhere else, she’ll always have this family tree behind her. These roots.
She turns and spots me before I have a chance to sneak back upstairs.
“What are you doing?” she says softly.
I shrug. “Couldn’t sleep,” I mouth.
She comes to the stairs and sits on the bottom step. I sit next to her. “I like Amy,” I mouth.
“Me too.” Jess picks at a thread on the bottom of her shirt. “Annalise, can I tell you something?” She sighs. “I did push Emily.”
“You did? Why?”
“Because she said something mean. Something bad.”
“What?”
“Before the three-legged race, she came up to me and whispered in my ear, ‘Your sister’s real mom didn’t want her, so she got rid of her.’ ”
Tears, fast tears. I bite my lip.
“Emily was going in the mud. I didn’t even have to think about it.”
I sniffle and reach for Jess’s hand. She gives mine a squeeze. We stay like that for a minute; then she lets go and stands up. “I didn’t tell anyone what Emily said.”
“Thank you,” I mouth.
She nods and starts to climb the stairs. “I just wanted you to know. G’night.”
I stay there on the step in the dark. Jess’s door quietly closes.
She complains to Mom and Dad about how they never get mad at me and creates a scene on every found day; then she goes and does this. It makes me think of one of the times I felt like we were there for each other. True sisters.
Jess was eight and I was ten, and we entered the kids’ pie-baking contest during the Fourth of July Fest. We combed recipe books, tested at least six different kinds until we decided to design our own—a chocolate pizza pie. Icing for cheese, red gummy circles for tomatoes, Oreo crumbles for sausage. Chocolate pudding for the filling. It was, as Jess kept saying, spectacular.
We both thought we’d easily win. There were basic pies—pumpkin, apple—and a few creative ones—a carrot cake pie—but nothing like ours. When we took fifth place, I was pretty upset, but Jess was steaming. A girl in her class, Isabelle, came in first with her pink lemonade pie. She served pink lemonade with it too.
During the awards ceremony, Jess alternated between fuming and crying. I tugged on her sleeve and whispered that we should nab Isabelle’s pie. They were all on the judges’ table, and no one was there. The crime was, well, easy as pie.
We sidled our way over, ducked, and crawled behind the table. I reached up and took it. We shimmied through the grass by the tent on our stomachs, me with the pie held aloft in one hand; then we got up and ran as fast as we could. We plopped down in back of one of the cabins, laughing and giddy and delirious, and ate the entire thing with our fingers. It was good, maybe a second- or third-placer, but not as good as ours. We agreed that Isabelle only won because her mom was on the planning committee.
After we’d finished stuffing our faces, Jess said, “You’re the best sister ever.”
And I said, “So are you.”
We dug a little hole and buried the evidence—the gooey pie tin. I bet it’s still there.
The pie thieves, by the way, were never caught.
* * *
—
When I get up the next morning, Mom and Dad have already left and Jess’s door is shut. I put my ear to the door. No sound. I want to knock, wake her up, ask if she remembers the pie and giggle with her like she did with Amy. But will Jess do that, or will she get upset again about not going to the audition and remind me that Mom and Dad would’ve said yes if it was me?
I’m not sure. I don’t knock.
I get dressed, grab an apple, then head to the cabins. When I’m almost there, I see Vera walking toward Main, her purse over her shoulder.
My throat feels the same. I don’t even try talking. I pull a notepad from my pocket and scribble Are you leaving?
She nods. “Your parents said they can’t pay me right now, not until things get better.”
I frown.
She opens her purse and takes out a tissue, then blows her nose. “I was sitting on one of the picnic tables early this morning, thinking about that beautiful old lake, how it’s been here longer than you and me and any of us have been alive. My great-gran used to say that water is the mother of the land, nourishing everything. The root of a place, you know? When the water’s bad like this, the balance is upset. I’m just sick about it.”
I give her a hug and she pats my back. “I hope that bloom goes away real
soon,” she says.
I’m about to go into the office when I glance hopefully at the lake to see if anything’s changed. But it’s the same. Green, everywhere. The water bottle is still there, stuck to the surface. I don’t care about the sign and the warnings and what the health department people said. I’m getting that bottle off Renn.
I march toward a clump of trees, hunting for a long branch on the ground. I find one, drag it over, and stand at the edge of the water. Stretching as far as I can, I’m able to slowly guide the bottle to the shore. I almost gag when I see clumps of algae clinging to it. I’ll have to get something to pick it up with—a paper towel or a plastic bag—and I’m about to get one of those from the office, when I hear something. A sound. So soft, so whispery, it’s more like a breath.
Renn?
I quietly lay the branch down and listen.
Another breath? Or did I imagine it?
I scan the algae, thick and slimy everywhere. But then, in the spot where the water bottle had been, I see a tiny opening. Was that there before? I can’t remember.
I stand on my tiptoes and lean toward the water. Even if there is a small part where Renn might be able to hear me, I can’t say a word.
My favorite window display was the one Mrs. Alden made for New Year’s Day this year. I didn’t know how sick she was.
There was a big blue banner across the glass that said HAPPY NEW YEAR! Shiny silver snowflakes turned and glittered, hung from strings. They all had resolutions written on them. Usual ones, like Start Exercising! One said Be a Better Friend! and another had Travel to a New City!
But the one I liked best, in the very center of the window, said You Can.
Before the adoption went through, Mrs. Alden took care of me. Mom told me how she bought clothes, knitted blankets, and fed me from a certain kind of bottle because I was fussy. I slept in a cradle they’d used for their sons. She made different-colored bows for my curls, one to match each outfit.
I wish I’d gone inside the store, even just once. I wish I’d said thank you.
I picture her face now as I’m looking out at the lake. It’s like she’s there with me, the You Can snowflake turning slowly above her head.
I step closer to the water, the tips of my shoes inches from the green muck. I open my mouth. “Renn.”
My voice comes out raspy and gravelly, and it stings my throat. I peer at the tiny gap. “Renn, can you hear me?”
I wait, crossing my fingers, barely taking a breath. And finally, when I’ve almost stopped hoping, I hear the quietest sound.
Yes.
I gasp, clap a hand across my heart. “Tell me,” I croak, “what I can do to help you?”
Again, a long silence, then four slow words: The…answer…is…here.
“I don’t understand.”
Nothing.
“I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me.”
Nothing.
“Renn?”
The tiny opening is covered up again.
Zach. I’ve got to find Zach and tell him what I heard.
* * *
—
I rush toward cabin 8. I haven’t seen him since the meeting with the health department a few days ago. What if he and his dad checked out? What if he’s gone? He wouldn’t leave without telling me, would he?
I reach the cabin and knock on the door several times. Zach’s dad answers, and I blow out a relieved breath. His stubble has grown into a beard.
“I’m looking for Zach,” I say. My voice is low and hoarse and burns my throat a little, but it’s a semi-voice again. “Is he here?”
“No.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“He said he was going to the library.”
“Okay. If you see him, though, can you give him a message?”
“Sure.”
“Tell him that Annalise is looking for him. It’s important.”
He nods. “All right.”
I run to the library and look up and down every aisle and in all the reading rooms, but no Zach. I search everywhere in town. Each tree around the lake where he could be examining something with his magnifying glass. The vacant tent with all the canoes stacked up on the racks. Where could he be? There aren’t that many places to hang out in Renn Lake. Maybe he’s seeing a movie or he’s in one of the stores? Why didn’t we ever exchange phone numbers!
Just then, weirdly, my phone buzzes. It’s a text from Maya. “EMERGENCY. Tyler’s lost his lightsaber.”
What I want to respond: This is not important! The world as we know it is about to end!
What I do respond: “Oh no. Sad.”
“No, this is a major disaster,” she replies. “He’s going nuts. Won’t stop crying. You’ve got to help me look. We need to find it ASAP. Where are you?”
“I’ll meet you at the picnic table by the office in twenty minutes.”
When I get there, she’s already by the table with the boys. Tyler is red-faced and sobbing uncontrollably. Maya’s rubbing his back and talking in a soothing tone. “We’ll find it, I promise. Annalise is going to help us. This’ll be like that treasure hunt we did, remember?” But Tyler keeps crying. Henry’s next to him, holding his lightsaber at his side, pointed down.
“Where have you looked?” I ask.
“Everywhere we’ve been this morning and yesterday,” Maya says.
Henry nods. “Evil forces in the universe took it.”
We walk around the lake, Main Street, and the park, with Tyler’s bawling quieting into gulps and sniffles. As I’m helping them look, I keep trying to figure out what Renn meant. The answer is here?
We don’t find the lightsaber. Finally, we return to the picnic table and Maya gives them some pretzels. “I thought I’d gotten this babysitting thing down,” she says softly to me.
“You have. It wasn’t your fault.”
“His mom won’t think that.” She drops onto the bench.
“Maybe you can offer to buy him another one?”
She waves a hand. “These were limited edition or something. They’re not available anymore. I guess I can search online, but who knows if it’ll be the exact same kind.” She laughs a little. “My aunt would call this tsuris.”
“What’s that?”
“Serious trouble. She’d be waggling her finger at me too.”
“Sorry. Maybe it’ll turn up.”
“Wait, you got your voice back.”
“Yeah.”
“One good thing that’s happened today, at least. Even though you sound like my grandma. She’s smoked since she was fifteen.”
“Thanks?”
Zach suddenly strolls out of the office, an open paperback in his hand. The one place I didn’t look! I rush up to him. “I’ve been trying to find you all morning!”
He tilts his head. “You were? Why?”
“We have to talk. Something happened.”
His glasses reflect the sunlight. “What?”
Maya comes over to us. “What’s going on, guys?”
“Nothing,” I say.
She glances from me to Zach. “Right. I can spot a secret a mile away. Spill.”
“It’s nothing. Just something with the lake. The algae.”
“Tell me. Maybe I can help. You know I’m a natural problem-solver.”
I nudge her. “Like finding a lost lightsaber?”
“Okay, except for that.”
“Maya!” Tyler shouts. “We forgot to look in the candy shop! When we got the dinosaur eggs!”
“Okay, let’s go there now.” She grabs the empty pretzel bags. “You know I’m going to get it out of you”—she grins—“eventually.” She leaves with the boys, walking backward for a bit to keep an eye on us.
“So what happened?” Zach asks.
&
nbsp; “I moved that water bottle with a branch, and there was a little opening in the algae. I heard the lake!”
His eyebrows jump above the top edge of his glasses. “Whoa! What’d you hear?”
“ ‘The answer is here.’ ”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know. I asked Renn what I could do.”
He nods. “Fascinating.”
I scan the grass, the trees, the sandy dirt, the billions of invisible molecules. “We have to figure this out, Zach. Renn was definitely trying to tell me something. You’ll help, right?”
“Do you even have to ask?”
I grin, then look down at his shoes. “I think you lied to me, and you never learned to tie your shoes.” I kneel and tie the laces. Bunny ears, like I learned when I was little, and double knots. I stand up when I finish, and he has this crooked smile on his face.
“Why’d you do that? I told you, they’ll just untie again.”
“And I told you, not if you do double knots.”
He takes off his glasses, blinks several times.
I gently knock his shoulder with my fist. “Come on. We have a puzzle to solve.”
Zach and I huddle on the sofa in the office for the next hour with our phones, reading everything we can find online about algal blooms in lakes.
I read more about the treatments they mentioned at the meeting. They’re supposed to kill algae, or at least stop it from growing. But they all sound complicated, and sometimes more harmful than the algae itself. And anyway, none of them give me a clue about how the answer can be here. Renn’s words are a mystery.
I look up and notice Mom standing in front of us. I rub my eyes. “Hi.”
She smiles. “Oh, thank goodness. I thought you were in a coma and I’d have to call nine-one-one.”
“Ha. But actually, sort of.”
“Dad and I have been tackling some projects we usually don’t have time for. When you’re ready to take a break from whatever you two have been so intent on, would you mind bringing the items in the lost-and-found bin over to Castaway? It’s time we got rid of it all.”
Hello from Renn Lake Page 9