Wider than the Sky

by Katherine Rothschild

  “Oh, I have that in droves.” She swept around him, gracefully avoiding the wobbly tombstones I’d set.

  “Recite something for me,” Nate said, losing his accent a little.

  “You recite something for me.”

  “Oh, ladies first.”

  “Fine.” She sniffed. “You’re interested in death? I have something for you.” Blythe crossed her arms and swept across the stage, her gown flowing out behind her. “Because I could not stop for Death / He kindly stopped for me – / The Carriage held but just Ourselves – / And Immortality.”

  Nate followed Blythe across the stage. As he began to recite the lyrics from the Cure’s “Let’s Go to Bed,” I couldn’t help but look around for Kai. I didn’t have to look long—he was four seats over from us, toward the middle of the row.

  Kai watched, rapt, as they bantered. Blythe recited Emily, and Nate cut in with Robert Smith, and each time they tried to outperform each other. “The Carriage held but just Ourselves – / And Immortality.“

  “Just ourselves . . .” Nate gestured between them.

  “We slowly drove – He knew no haste / And I had put away / My labor and my leisure too, / For His Civility –.” She turned her back to him, but he spoke softly over her shoulder, his voice amplified and breathy over the speaker system.

  I looked back to Kai, who was watching, a strange look on his face. He looked a little like he did when we were reading a tough passage in French class. I stared long enough for him to notice, but his eyes were on the stage. I looked back to Nate and Blythe.

  Onstage, they both froze, and the audience hushed. Someone gave a single clap. Then Blythe turned and pushed Nate away from her with one strong shove. “We passed the School, where Children strove / At Recess – in the Ring – / We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain – / We passed the Setting Sun –” Nate took her hands in his and stopped her. Then he stole her line.

  “Or rather—He passed us –?”

  Blythe set her mouth and lifted the length of her dress, and the sheen of the fabric caught the stage lights and shimmered. Then she reached up and tore out the hairband holding back her wild curls. As her hair framed her face, Nate stumbled back, a hand against his chest. I’d envisioned this as a battle, but now it seemed like something else—like a story that begins with hate and ends with love. I had spent the past week writing what amounted to a love letter to Kai—a letter that acknowledged my part in us being a big mess . . . and asked him to forgive me, to keep me and the mess. But here, I was Robert Smith, and he was Emily Dickinson. Onstage, Nate cupped Blythe’s face. They turned to the audience, barely a whisper between them.

  Blythe tilted her cheek into Nate’s hand. “The Horses’ Heads were toward Eternity – toward Eternity—Eternity –” Nate moved imperceptibly closer to Blythe. A pause filled the space around them, and Nate turned Blythe’s face to his. I looked over at Kai and found him looking back. He opened his mouth to say something, and as Nate spoke, Kai smiled at me and said the last line with Nate:

  “Let’s go to bed.”

  Then Nate dipped Blythe and went to kiss her, but she squirmed away. “Sorry, Mr. Smith,” she said. “I like girls.” Nate held up his hands in surrender, and then they turned to the audience. Together they dropped into low bows.

  I was still watching Kai as howls and cheers erupted from the audience and the curtains were yanked closed. Kai was grinning. I placed a hand over my heart, and I felt my hope bird in there, still alive. Just barely breathing. I hadn’t heard the mash-ups that came before Blythe and Nate, but Rolly was filled with overachievers, so they were probably amazing. Still, the clapping for Blythe and Nate seemed very loud. The curtains opened, and all the contestants walked forward, but I kept glancing at Kai’s broad smile. He looked the way he did right before he laughed.

  Now the audience was clapping for all the contestants, and I turned my attention to the stage. I put two fingers between my front teeth and whistled. When Blythe heard, she grinned. I waved and lifted my hands, clapping as loudly as I could. I glanced again at Kai, but he was looking at his phone. My heart sank. Maybe him looking at me as he recited the last line hadn’t meant he’d liked it, or even understood what I was trying to do. I mean, I hadn’t really understood until I saw it onstage. Maybe him reciting the line just meant he really liked the Cure. I tried to push away disappointment and focus on Blythe, who was smiling widely with relief and pride.

  “Thank you to all our contestants today!” A teacher was onstage, holding a plaque. “We had so many strong contestants. But one pair stood out. Two students brought strange bedfellows together to show how violence, depression, and unexpressed desire are depicted in poetry and in musical lyrics. And they took a chance—breaking one of the time-honored rules to keep meter. But it was in such excellent service to the story that the judges had to credit the ingenuity. Blythe and Nate? Well done!”

  Even after her great performance, Blythe’s eyes bugged out in surprise. Nate took it in stride and strummed an air guitar. Blythe found my eyes and mouthed, Thank you! And suddenly it didn’t matter that I was so heart-twisted I couldn’t handle sharing Kai with Emma. I had Blythe. I had my sister and best friend. Beside me, Emma grabbed my hand and squeezed. And I had Emma, too. I waved at Blythe, grinning so hard my cheeks began to sting.

  Then my phone buzzed. It was a picture. Me and Kai in the Shakespeare garden. When I looked up, Kai was looking back. His eyes were somber, steady on mine. I swallowed, suddenly needing to get to him. I had to tell him that I still had feelings for him. Or, really, that I had bangings and crashings for him. I had to tell him—even if the photo was just a peace offering. I had to tell him that I forgave him for not being honest with me, for protecting Emma the way I wished he’d protected me. And that I was sorry I’d walked away, sorry for protecting my heart instead of giving it to him.

  Kai was pushing his way toward me. My heart pounded in my ears. This was my chance. I would say: Please. I would say: Give me a chance to make space in my heart. I stood to meet him. But everyone else stood, too. Emma took my hand and pulled me out of the row to make way for the other people, and as we stepped aside, I lost sight of Kai.

  Beside me, Emma was practically leaping in the air. “Didn’t the dress look great? I can’t wait to get some pictures. And they were so good. I can’t believe they won!” She dove at me, and we hugged, tight. She did deserve to celebrate—we both did. After she lost the costume contest for the first time ever, she deserved this win. When she pulled away, I looked for Kai in the crowd, but I didn’t see him.

  As I was about to go searching, Emma took my hand and led me to the man who had been sitting on her other side and introduced me. Her dad. He didn’t look like a drunk. He was wearing a suit and his face was clean-shaven. He had a sweet smile that looked a lot like hers.

  “Thank you for helping me and Emma,” he said, squeezing my hand. “We’re both very grateful.”

  I smiled. “We’re the lucky ones to have her with us. She’s like an in-house fashion designer.” Emma was saying something about how I was not a bad designer, either, but I was looking for Kai, and didn’t quite hear her. But he’d disappeared.

  Emma’s dad smiled down at her and touched her scarred arm. “Your work is amazing. Your mom would be so proud.” Her dad was talking about going to lunch together, since we had a half day in honor of the Poetic Mash-Up, but I shook my head when they asked me to join them. I almost gave Emma the excuse that I needed to find Blythe, but that wasn’t true. We had plans to meet after her class celebration in the quad and walk to the Berry Market for fancy apricot sodas this afternoon.

  Instead, I told myself to be brave and tell her the truth. I could no longer ignore the knocking of my heart. “I need to find Kai.” I started to explain why, but she knew.

  Emma’s cat-eye glasses winked under the bright house lights. She sighed. “That mash-up, you wrote it for him, di
dn’t you? All that Cure stuff?”

  When I nodded, she sighed again, fidgeting with the vertical ruffles of her skirt. “Try the library.” I released every pinch of the breath I’d been holding. I started to leave, then turned back to Emma.

  “There’s room for all of us, okay?” I wasn’t sure I knew what I meant, exactly, just that there was.

  “I know,” she said. “He’ll always be my best friend. But now I have you, too.” She gave me a little smile, and I leaned in to kiss her cheek. Then I said goodbye to her dad, turned, and pushed my way out of there.

  31

  THE HEART IS WIDER THAN THE SKY

  When I walked into the library, I looked to the couches where Kai had suggested that houndstooth was pictures of dogs, but they were empty. There was no one there except the librarian behind the reference desk. I was about to leave when she looked up and caught my eye. She jerked her head toward the stacks and lifted her eyebrows. Kai?

  My heart rate doubled and I hurried down the stairs but slowed at the book-theft detector, telling myself to calm down. He’d sent a photo, not a proposal. And I still had to somehow tell him in nonpoetry how I felt. Breathe.

  I found Kai in the last row of the stacks, writing in the flap of a book. I smiled. “Defacing school property?”

  His head snapped up, and he closed the book. “Just some light doodling.”

  I searched for something funny to say, but my heart was cracking at the edges. “How did you find it?” I asked. “The picture of us?”

  He lowered his eyes. “Emma sent it to me before she deleted it. I thought it was from you. Then last night, after I told her I quit the team, she told me about deleting the picture.” I sucked in a sharp breath. So they’d really talked. And she knew he probably wasn’t headed to Los Angeles with her.

  “You really quit?” I held on to the side of the tall mahogany stack, feeling light-headed.

  He nodded. “I thought my coach might cry. I almost did.” He bounced the book he was holding in his hands, probably wishing for something to throw. He looked both forlorn and a little proud, and I wanted so much to hug him.

  I took a step closer to him. “Would you rather hear I’m sorry, or Good for you?”

  “I think the latter.”

  “Good for you,” I said.

  “Thanks.” We stood there, too far apart, looking at each other. I pulled at my hem. He bounced the book.

  “I saw you in the theater.” I waited a beat, but he didn’t fill in the blank. “Did you like it? Is that why you sent the picture?” I was watching him so hard I saw his Adam’s apple bob. Then he gave me a half smile that made me miss his real smile.

  “It was awesome,” he said. “You wrote it?”

  “It was sort of . . .” I swallowed the words love letter. “An apology.”

  “To me?” He hugged the book to his chest, stopping his nervous, bouncing hands.

  “Well,” I said. “You were right about Robert Smith. He is a poet.”

  He grinned. “She finally caves.”

  I crossed my arms. “This by no means is a free pass for all lyrics,” I said. “Just his.” He saluted me with the book and laughed, shaking his head. He looked so good, I could barely concentrate, but I had to focus. No matter what he said back, I had to tell him how sorry I was. “I couldn’t fit it into the sketch, but I’m sorry for running out on you on Halloween. And for not trusting you with Emma. I thought I was protecting myself, but really I was hurting you.”

  Kai shook his head and folded his arms over his chest. I had the sinking feeling that this was the real breakup. Right here. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that I knew how Emma felt. I said we’d tell each other the truth, and I didn’t.” He blinked hard and met my eyes. “When Emma told me about deleting our photo, I realized I’d been messing with your head by pretending it was all cool.”

  “And my head’s already a pretty messy place,” I said, leaning my head against the cool stacks.

  “No.” He took a step toward me. “It’s a beautiful place. I love your poeting because it lets me look right inside your mind.” He closed the space between us and handed me the book. “I’ve been keeping this in here. I got it for you before the Halloween dance. Better than a corsage, right?”

  I curled my hand around the book, feeling an expanse within my heart growing wider and wider. “Better than heritage roses,” I said. I pressed my lips together, thinking of what Emily said about the sky being wide . . . the brain is wider than the sky. I turned the book over. It was a slim volume of poetry called The Father by Sharon Olds.

  “Nothing against Dickinson,” he said. “I just thought you could mix it up.” I held it in my hands for a long time, thinking of the day I pulled Emily’s book off my dad’s bookshelf. This had that same feeling—of holding someone’s soul in your hand. “I really like this one poem.” He reached to open the book. “It’s called ‘I Go Back to May 1937.’ It’s about when her parents met. And she thinks she wants to stop them from meeting, because they hurt each other and they’re wrong for each other.” He flipped the page and pointed. “But then she says she wants to live. She says that she’ll tell their story. I liked that.”

  My cheeks warmed, and I looked up at him, standing very close to me. “I love it. Thank you.” I opened my mouth and closed it, wondering how to tell him that my heart was painfully full. “Emily was wrong,” I said. “It’s not the brain.”

  He lifted one eyebrow, hesitation in the set of his mouth. “What’s not?”

  “She said ‘the brain is wider than the sky.’ But it’s not.” I closed the space between us and tapped his chest. “It’s the heart. The heart is wider than the sky. It’s wide enough to hold the whole world. Wide enough to hold fear and love, to break and to mend again.”

  He exhaled and lowered his head until our foreheads touched. I felt the steady rhythm of his heartbeat and breathed in cinnamon. I could do this. I could hold all the fear and all the love at the same time. “Tell me you came here to give me a choice.” His words fell against my cheek.

  I sucked in a breath, feeling the sting of tears. “You always have a choice.”

  “Tell me I can choose you, Sabine.” His lips grazed my cheek. I trailed my fingers down his arm and swept the inside of his wrist. I felt the same rush I did when plummeting down the park’s cement slide, the same breeze in my hair, and the same openness in my heart—wider than the sky.

  “Not if I choose you first,” I said.

  He smiled. And I smiled. And our smiles met. And as we kissed, I didn’t hold back. I didn’t stop myself from falling into him, from feeling his heart beat against mine. I leaned in and pressed against him and held on as my heart grew and grew.

  32

  FORGIVENESS IS LIKE FLYING

  Saturday morning, after days of silence from city hall, we found a single piece of Thornewood letterhead taped to our front door. Beneath the fancy insignia was one sentence.

  All fines, fees, and expenses incurred on number six Magnolia have been dropped subsequent to the acceptance of all permit applications filed in the past seven calendar years. Permit fee due upon receipt: $982.

  Charlie read it aloud three times. “Does this mean what I think it means?”

  My mom threw her arms around Charlie. “Whoever you spoke to really came through.” Mom said. “Well done!”

  Blythe sauntered over and snapped the piece of paper out of Charlie’s hands. “Bean has something to say.” I lifted my eyebrows. We hadn’t prepared for this, but . . . Blythe gestured for me to go ahead.

  I looked between Mom and Charlie. “It was me and Blythe. We got Mrs. McMichaels to rezone the house,” I said. “And as payment for our services, we want to change the plan.”

  Charlie sighed, crossing his arms. “I admit it must have been you two,” he said. “I couldn’t even get in to see the mayor, but if you think tha
t—”

  “Wait.” Mom held up a hand. “You two did this? You convinced Bernie McMichaels to drop the fines?” Mom looked between us like we’d both been accepted to MIT.

  “And we demand payment,” I said. Blythe jumped in: “In the form of a new plan.”

  Charlie shook his head. “No. That’s out of the question. We already—”

  Maryann Interiors put a steady hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “You need to listen to them.”

  “For real,” Blythe said, looking as haughty and annoyed as I’d wanted her to all those weeks ago, when we found out that there was no easy way out of this number-six-Magnolia situation.

  I took a deep breath. “We aren’t arguing with you, Charlie, about turning number six, which is way too big for a single family, into transitional housing. But we want a home. Something just for us, and for Mom.”

  “It would help our mental health to have a stable home,” Blythe said. I met her eyes and smiled. Then we turned to them.

  “We want the garage apartment,” we said. We glanced at each other, and I went on. “Turn the bottom floor into two more bedrooms and a bathroom, and let us move in there.”

  Charlie held up his hands, trying to interrupt, but Maryann Interiors slapped his hands down. I almost laughed out loud at the affronted look on his face.

  “And,” Blythe said, “Bean promised we’d keep the telephone booth and the period-specific signage. So we might need to keep some of the first floor as it is. And, you know, we have to paint the place white.”

  “And we want the garden redone as a memorial,” I said. “The Mission Project can have the house and the main garden. But we get the apartment and the garden outside of it.” Charlie’s mouth hung open. He groped for words, but nothing came out.

  I seized the opportunity. “We could use the upper terrace to make a circle of friends around the willow tree. Just like the National AIDS Memorial Grove.” I looked at Blythe, and she continued. “That way, we’ll have a house with a piece of our dad in it, a place for all of us to remember him, and Charlie—you’ll still get his dream.”