“Don’t get caught putting it back,” she said. I turned to find her watching me. Her eyes flicked under the bed, but instead of calling me out, she gave me a little smile. “If Dad were here, he’d give us all the grit on Charlie.”
“He would have roasted him. That slick hair?”
“Laminated. And the reef tuck? He probably has a diagram for folding shirts.”
I imitated Dad’s Southern lilt. “And his teeth and shoes are shined to a bright ne-on.”
“Yeah.” Blythe smiled a little. All at once her eyes filled with tears. She stared hard, not blinking. Then her tears dissipated and my own eyes filled, as if she had somehow transferred them to me. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”
I shook my head. Me neither. I sat down hard on the new chaise. Just days ago, we’d chosen Dad’s final resting place. His drawer. That’s what they look like: drawers with cheap Little League trophy plaques. At the mausoleum, we’d gone from one alcove to another, through hallways decorated with soothing fountains, ferns, and plaque after plaque. All had awful sayings, such as, “They’re always with you . . . in spirit.” My mom talked the whole time, narrating.
“He wouldn’t want to be across from those cheap American flags. He’d want to be near a window. Under a window.” As if Dad would be there any moment to make the final decision. But as she perused the list of prices, she revised his opinions. “He’d want to be not too far from a window. And not too close to the administration, because it’s noisy.” It was like she was choosing a table in a restaurant.
Blythe had kept silent, stoic. I just kept thinking, Who wants to spend the hereafter in a drawer? I guess I’d imagined someday spreading my parents’ ashes in a field of wildflowers or into crashing ocean waves. Never had I imagined a new-agey building with fake-marble walls.
That building should be banned along with those dumb plaques. The dead weren’t with you in spirit. I didn’t feel my dad’s presence. I could barely feel my own. I felt empty of spirit, any spirit—as if once there had been a whole city inside me, buzzing with life, and someone had come along and blown it up. Boom. Now there were just ashes. And not even a drawer to put them in.
I must have dozed off because I woke to a clang. I jumped and looked outside. The willow tree was coated with the yellow light of dusk, and my mom and Charlie were just beneath it. The sound blared again.
“Is that the doorbell?” Blythe removed her headphones.
“I’ll get it.” I hurried downstairs, thinking of movers.
On the other side of the glass door was a long-limbed old woman in a wide gardening hat. I opened the door. I caught the smell of mice and wondered if we had an infestation, or if that smell was her.
“Has your mother finally arrived?”
“She’s in back,” I said. “Can I help you?”
“I’m Mrs. Bernadette McMichaels, president of the Thornewood Beautification and Historic District Society. Mr. Parker likely mentioned me.” I opened my mouth to say that actually, he had, and that I was to call him immediately. But she didn’t give me the chance. “Beautifying is a life’s work. Once my father passes, I’ll be able to dedicate even more time to Thornewood beautification. This place needs full-time help.”
I peered outside. What was she talking about? Thornewood was beautiful. It was all arching street maples and big white houses and corner pocket parks full of bougainvillea. Our house was the only eyesore.
“You’re Mrs. McMichaels?” Maybe she had something to do with the “plan” Charlie was so excited about. I held the door open for her.
She stepped into the foyer and wrinkled her nose. The space was now filled with boxes and plastic-wrapped furniture, but it didn’t look much better than it had a few hours ago. Maybe worse. Backstepping, Mrs. McMichaels jerked open her tote bag and pulled out a thick envelope. “I have documents for your mother to sign,” she said, her eyes flicking over the room. She shoved the envelope in my hands and pulled out a clipboard. “Can I trust you to give these to her and not leave them between the couch cushions?” With a big, startlingly fake smile, she held out the clipboard and tapped for my signature.
“Uh, sure?” My eyes swam through a sea of fine print. “You work for the city?”
She snorted. Not delicately, either. “I do not work. I volunteer to ensure our taxes are going to the schools, where they should. That’s been my platform for thirty years, and it will be for another thirty.”
I nodded and scribbled my name in what seemed like the right place. “So, what do the schools have to do with the house?”
“Thornewood has high standards.” She snatched the clipboard and shoved it back in her tote. “So, as far as I’m concerned, our town is obliged to restore this house to its former glory.”
I glanced up at the creaking chandelier, then behind me at the mahogany telephone booth. “That would be awesome.”
She stiffened and smiled the tiniest smile. “As you say.” She tipped her hat. I waved as she stomped across the porch boards, afraid she’d fall right through. When she was gone, I closed the door and leaned against it, sighing. I glanced at the envelope in my hands. What could this be about? I listened to the quiet house for a count of three. Then I flipped the envelope open and yanked everything out.
On top was a bound document: “The Thornewood Historic District Neighborhood Preservation Rules and Guidelines for Owners/Renters.” Owners was circled in red ink. I flipped through.
Page 72: Acceptable house paint colors are Benjamin Moore’s Eggshell, Egg-white, Ecru, Off-white, Dandelion White, London Fog, Decorator’s White—
Page 106: All shrubbery must be boxwood or similar, such as Myrtus communis ‘Compacta’—
No wonder Thornewood looked so perfect. I dumped the whole packet on the foyer table. A loose page beneath the rule book skimmed off. I picked it up.
To: Mrs. Maryann Braxton & Mr. Charles Parker, as if they were a couple. As if they were married. Agreement to Adhere to Historic District Codes and Rules of Project Review.
“In engaging with permitting for projects on a property zoned residential, owners must remain in compliance with all rules and guidelines at all times or risk the fines and liens capable of being placed by the city of Thornewood until such a time as the property is rezoned.” It went on. And on. I skimmed to the end.
At the bottom was a “permanent reconciliation date” of November 3 and Charlie’s graceful signature, Charles Parker, Esquire, and there beside it was a blank space for Maryann Braxton. That sliver of ice I’d felt when he walked in came back. How could all this have been set up in just a week? It was almost as if it was planned . . . as if Charlie had been waiting for our mom to get here.
Or . . . waiting for our dad to die of unexplained causes so he could show up in his hospital room and whisk his family away. A chill ran down my arms. I pulled out my phone and searched for: Charles Parker.
Every entry was a variation of: “Charles Parker was a jazz musician who played the saxophone and went by the name ‘Bird.’ He died in 1955.” Great. Even his name was a mystery.
I looked over the documents for something that would tell me what he had planned. And why my mom was so angry about it. But it was just a bunch of historic rules and regulations. Nothing to tell me what I really wanted to know.
Why were we here? And what did Charlie want with us?
4
WELL ENOUGH FOR HIGH SCHOOLS
Blythe and I stood outside the Rolls Edward admin building, waiting for first bell. I scanned the crowd, not quite believing what I saw. Was there anyone who looked remotely like our friends back home? Anyone who didn’t look outfitted to attend an interview at an Ivy League college? Or a hedge fund? But there was nothing but plaid and pastel. What kind of dress code was this?
“See any non-lemmings?” I asked.
Blythe glanced up from her class printout. “Are there ever?”
“Should I have worn jeans?”
“Do you own jeans?” She was right. I owned exactly one pair of jeans. Today, I was wearing a sparkling silver sweater dress and unignorable tall black boots because: that’s me. And Blythe had on her usual drawn-on hoodie/jeans combo because: that’s her. We hadn’t dressed the same since I could pull out dresser drawers. Being different was always better than blending. Except, maybe, at a new school.
Blythe leaned into my shoulder. “Bean. You look more like me than you do like them. Does that help?”
I relaxed against her side. “That helps.” I might be at an unfamiliar school in an unfamiliar life, but I still had the most familiar thing. I had Blythe. Blythe—who I hadn’t yet told about sneaking a peek at the suspicious house documents. But I would. Today. She pulled away, holding up her printout. She had Honors Bio first. I had French.
“Why didn’t we take the same language?” I grumbled.
“I don’t want to be late.” Her eyes were sparkling. Of course. She was excited, about to have new adventures in biology.
“Have fun.” I waved, and she was off. I gripped my leather backpack straps more tightly. People were filling the breezeway and sending me curious looks. Being new and alone = no good. Head down. Move. My legs obeyed, and I found my classroom without having to raise my head to eye level. I slipped inside to lean against the wall, waiting for everyone to file in. My face tingled from the pressure of everyone’s eye scans. The bell rang, and I could see only two empty seats—both in the front row. Great.
“Bonjour!” Monsieur Cade called out and shut the classroom door. He introduced himself and welcomed me to French III, then gestured to the front corner desk. I sat down, a wall on one side and an empty desk on the other. Monsieur Cade pronounced my name the French way, “Sabina,” then started talking about how a whole group of people were once named Sabine. He called them a colony. I was pretty sure I wasn’t the only one thinking I sounded like a disease that had been quarantined in this corner. I could feel eyes on the back of my head, probably imagining it rolling off. From colony disease. I was seriously considering making a run for it when the door flew open. Kai, Mover Guy, jogged in and sat down. Next to me.
He was breathing heavily, like he’d run to school. “Pardon, Monsieur Cade.”
“Pas de parler, Monsieur Thompson.” Monsieur Cade leveled his dark gaze on Kai. The silvery wings in Monsieur Cade’s hair flared. Note to self: he doesn’t like to be interrupted. Kai muttered something under his breath and glanced over at me. He did a double take, then lifted his hand in greeting.
I bit my lip to keep my smile from becoming scary.
Monsieur Cade was talking, but all I could think was: Mover Guy was here. Mover Guy—Kai—went to my school. And sat at the desk beside mine. I mean, I’d have to get Blythe to calculate the odds, but I was pretty sure they were slim. Finding him sitting beside me in my first class was like something out of a novel, or a poem—stop! No thinking about poetry. No poeting. I imagined sealing my lips closed to keep myself from word-vomiting all over the classroom.
Midway through class, Kai slipped a folded piece of paper under my spiral-bound. I waited until Monsieur Cade was writing on the board to open it.
His handwriting was neat and tidy.
S— Want a Rolly tour guide? —K
He knew which twin I was. What did it matter that I’d already had a tour? I crossed out want and wrote in desperately need. Then I slipped the note back. He glanced at it but didn’t smile. Maybe the word desperate wasn’t funny. It was just desperate. I slumped as far as my spine allowed.
At the end of class I lingered, but Kai was talking to a guy wearing a Rolly Soccer sweatshirt. So I hefted my bag and headed out. Then at the door, I looked back.
He was watching. My heart hammered. He mouthed: Find me at lunch.
I waved and ducked out, afraid my smile would outgrow my face and fall off.
I wasn’t able to talk to Blythe until we were in line for what Rolly generously called “haute cuisine.” The cafeteria did smell a little better than our old school’s. As we moved up in line, I thought of telling her about the house documents, but instead blurted everything about seeing Kai. “He said to find him at lunch.”
Blythe looked approvingly at her chicken in a bun with a side of fries. “I’m thinking this place is a seven. If our old school was, like, a three.”
“Did you hear what I said?” I frowned.
She rolled her eyes. “Yes. We’ve been at this school for four hours and you already have a crush.”
“I met him yesterday,” I said, knowing this was as much encouragement as Blythe was capable of. “Fine. Your talking time.” She hesitated for a single second before it all fell out: she hated her honors lab partner, which alone accounted for Rolly being a seven and not an eight. She loved her bio teacher, the Guru, who wore aloha shirts. Then she paraphrased his lecture until I made her stop.
“Four hours, and you already have a teacher crush?” I teased.
“More like four minutes,” she said. “It was my first class.” We laughed, but it was short-lived. The quad was crowded, and there was no sign of Kai. I searched the picnic tables (made of fancy hewn wood Maryann Interiors would appreciate), but they were packed with guys in navy team jackets and girls in pale sweaters. It was very Bay Area, with a mix of people of lots of different races and hair colors—but none of them blue. Or lavender stripes, like the underside of Blythe’s. And their clothes. It was like the unofficial dress code was pastel color wheel. And everyone held textbooks; it didn’t matter if they had a big ’fro or a sleek ponytail, or were wearing navy or a petal pink, they had a book. We’d been warned about the rigorous motto in the office: “Achieve the honorable.” Or maybe it was: “Achieve the impossible.” Whatever.
But we couldn’t achieve even the slightest noticeability. And we were twins. At our old school, we got a lot of attention. Like people asking if we had superpowers. Or if one of us was evil. Or if we could we read each other’s minds. But here? Nothing. Nothing but the occasional fish-eye.
Was it my dress? My boots? I knew it wasn’t my gigantic hair. Other people had bigger hair than I did. I glanced at Blythe, wondering if she noticed our invisibility. She did not look concerned. I took in her hoodie and the half a quadratic equation on her sleeve. Oh. It wasn’t her fading purple streaks. No, the problem was Blythe’s bold admission that she was a walking GPA threat. My heart sank. There was no way we were finding a friendly table.
I was about to slink back to the cafeteria when I saw him: Kai. He was with a lanky Asian guy with spiked black hair and a blond white girl with rhinestone cat-eye glasses and a black beret. Finally! Someone who knew khaki was only acceptable for the Boy Scouts.
I started toward their table, but Blythe caught my elbow. “No way. That guy’s in my Honors Bio. He’s an idiot.”
I shook her off. “Blythe. That’s Kai. He helped us move in, remember?”
“Not him. The guy next to him.” But I didn’t wait for her to come around. I made my way through the picnic tables, my eyes on Kai. I was hoping he would look up and wave us over. I was hoping that we’d plan the most amazing tour, not just of Rolly, but of all of Thornewood, and it would include a romantic viewing of a vista with—
“Watch it!”
Icy liquid hit my chest with a punch, and icy pellets smacked my face then trickled down over my silver vintage found-in-a-thrift-store Alexander McQueen. One-of-a-kind Alexander freaking McQueen. I froze, blinking. Three girls stood before us, two holding trays of lunch detritus, one no longer holding anything, because her tray, alongside mine, and all of their contents, had landed on me. And then the ground. Everyone in this school just saw me get double tray-splattered. Words started bubbling up inside me, and Blythe pinched my arm, hard, to get my attention.
“Bean? Are you okay?” I couldn’t look. I couldn’t m
ove. My silver dress. They’d all seen. Kai. Beret girl. Everyone.
“Bean? Like jelly bean?”
“Like lima bean?”
“Garbanzo bean?”
“Pinto bean?”
“Coffee bean!”
“Navy bean!”
I blinked through the sting of carbon filtration; I couldn’t hold the words back anymore. I dropped my empty lunch tray and swept my thumbnail across my lower lip.
“It’s well enough. It’s well enough. For high schools, for my life, for schools, for my high schools—” Blythe hooked my arm and pulled me back.
“Don’t open your eyes. Just keep walking.” Her voice was strong. Calm. “We’ll get paper towels.”
I kept my eyes closed tightly as she led me through the jeering and laughter of the quad. When it was quiet around us, I opened my eyes and saw Blythe and I weren’t alone. The blonde who’d been sitting with Kai was walking with us.
“I have something for you, new girl.” She smiled. “A dress. An Emma McMichaels original.”
She had me at dress. I glanced at Blythe, who shrugged, and we followed Emma into the school’s costume room. She went straight for a clothes rack holding everything from T-shirts with detailed seam stitching and pinwheel necklines to full-length dresses with ruffled layers. She glanced at me and pulled down a black dress with a knee-length golden vertical ruffle skirt and a black T-shirt top with a single line of gold stitching down each arm—one long sleeve, one short—like all her designs.
“Gold will bring out your eyes,” she said. I felt like I could breathe again.
“Did you . . . make this?” I reached for the dress, forgetting my damp, sticky fingers. I quickly pulled back. “I don’t know how, but even your ruffles are sexy.”
She laughed. “Unfinished seams. I’m hoping to get a scholarship to FIDM”
I smiled at her. “I bet you will.”
Emma’s blond hair was straw-straight from too much peroxide, and a long nose made her face serious. But even without the beret, she’d have une certain je ne sais quoi. She brushed a hand over the nearest dress. “This is my admission collection.” Then she held out the dress. For me to wear. On my body.
Wider than the Sky Page 3