Things You Can't Say

by Jenn Bishop

  “No one has to dress up as her.” Audrey shakes her head. “That would never work. Sheesh. Come on, Drew.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “We just need the interlibrary loan to get processed. I’ll e-mail the request—”

  “How?”

  She clicks below, opening up a page for Gmail where, sure enough, she’s set up an e-mail address: catladymuffin@gmail.com.

  “You’re officially insane.” I stand up. “I don’t think I can share a chair with you anymore.”

  “Come on, Drew.”

  “You’re nuts. This will never work. I mean, even if Loretta places the hold for you with whatever crazy story you come up with, what are we going to do when it comes in? Who’s going to pick it up, huh? What’s next? You place an ad on Craigslist for an old lady to pretend to be her?”

  “Hey, I didn’t think of that. That’s actually not a bad idea.”

  I’m shaking my head as I step away from the computer. I should’ve never told her. It was a mistake. She’s going to find a way to ruin this. Her plan is crazy. Plus, I don’t even really know her. I only met her on Monday—four days ago. Who’s to say she’ll keep this secret? I want to bury myself in a pile of puppets. Can’t we just go back to the beginning of the summer, where all I had to worry about was enough material for the zombie story hour? Not Phil possibly being my dad or why Filipe suddenly doesn’t want to hang out with me.

  “Drew.” Audrey’s chewing on her lip.

  “What?”

  “Where do you think I go every day during story hour?”

  “Huh?”

  “Haven’t you noticed I’m not in the room when you do that?”

  She isn’t? I guess I’m too busy telling the story to notice. Keeping the little kids happy doesn’t leave much room in my mind to worry about Audrey.

  “Mrs. Eisenberg has me go upstairs to help Loretta open up the interlibrary loans from out of state. Something about her getting too many paper cuts from doing it herself, I don’t know.”

  Oh.

  I sit back down. This time, I don’t care so much about our legs touching. “Why didn’t you say that first?”

  “Why did you assume I didn’t know what I was doing? I told you, Drew. I thought this all out.”

  “Okay, but can we make her name a little less crazy so she at least sounds like a real person?”

  “Yeah. Of course. Any name you want. This was just an example.”

  “Just an example,” I repeat under my breath. The whole thing is still a little nuts. And we could get caught. But it’s not like what we’re doing is so crazy. We’re not planning a bank robbery or anything. Just trying to track down a high school yearbook.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Muffinbottom, but I’m going to have to kill you.” Audrey presses delete on her record and, poof, no more Mrs. Muffinbottom. “So.” She turns to me. “Who do we want to create?”

  Heavy thumps come from the stairwell. Not like little kids, though. And then the door flings open wide.

  “Hey, what’s he doing here?” a familiar voice asks.

  It’s Theo … and Filipe.

  18

  I LEAP UP FROM THE chair, leaving Audrey behind.

  “I … I work here,” I say to Theo.

  Guess Filipe didn’t say anything to him. What are they doing here, anyway? I don’t think I’ve seen Filipe in the library since we were in second grade.

  “Wait, really?”

  Filipe heads straight for the computer area, plops down on one of the swivel chairs, and connects his phone to the computer with a small white cord. It’s Theo who walks over toward us.

  “Well, I don’t get paid, exactly …”

  “Then you don’t really work here,” Filipe says under his breath.

  Jeez. What crawled up his butt? Is he still upset about me being too quiet or whatever when we were playing Crash Landing yesterday?

  “That’s kinda cool, though.” Theo picks up one of Mrs. Eisenberg’s glass paperweights and tosses it casually in the air. Like it’s not completely breakable or anything. “At least this place has air-conditioning. Unlike my house.”

  “Heh.” I manage a little laugh.

  He clunks the paperweight back down on her desk right before I have a small heart attack.

  “You got it working okay?” Theo walks over to Filipe.

  “No. Ugh. I think it really died this time.” Filipe checks the connection on the cord and his phone.

  “Can I help?” Audrey asks.

  Before I have a chance to say it’s a terrible idea, Audrey’s already jogging over there. I’m caught between following her and staying right where I am. Both of them seem like the wrong choice.

  “Your phone?” she asks.

  “Yeah.” Filipe glances over at me, raising his eyebrows. Oh, right! I told him about Audrey. It was only a few days back, but man, it feels like forever ago. “It was working just fine, but then the screen went all black.”

  “Did you try a hard reboot?”

  “A what?”

  “Let me see.” Audrey takes over his chair and grabs his phone, which is still plugged into the computer’s USB port. “Yikes, this screen is really cracked. You know they make protective cases, right?”

  “No way.” Theo chuckles.

  “Are you like some tech expert?” Filipe leans back in his chair, putting his feet up on the table. Where does he think he is? Back in his living room?

  Audrey ignores the question. “All you have to do is press these two buttons and hold down until … see? Did you hear that?”

  “Maybe?” Filipe shrugs.

  “Hey, it’s working! She fixed it.” Theo raises his hand for a high five. Audrey cautiously reaches out her own palm and gives him a little tap. “That could use some work.”

  Audrey keeps her head down as she retreats to Mrs. Eisenberg’s computer.

  “So, you’re gonna text Sophia? See if she wants to meet us at the park?” Theo’s sitting on the computer table now, thumping the metal leg with the back of his foot.

  Who’s Sophia? Some eighth grader from soccer camp?

  “Yeah, yeah, I said I’ll do it, all right? Just … I need a sec. It’s still booting up.”

  “Dude, your phone is ancient.”

  “I don’t see you using your phone to text her. At least I didn’t drop mine in the toilet for, like, the fifth time.”

  “It was only three times,” Theo says, sliding off the table. “Jeez.” He scans the wall with the chart tallying the hours the kids have read each week, the one I helped Mrs. Eisenberg make back when school let out.

  “They still have these things? Like with prizes and everything?”

  “You mean … summer reading?” I ask. “Yup.” I gesture to the prize drawer.

  “That stuff is junk,” Filipe says, peeking at it. “I won this yo-yo, right? Thing broke the first day I brought it home. Come on, Theo. Let’s go.”

  “See you later, Drew,” Theo says.

  “Later.” I raise my hand to wave goodbye, but when it’s halfway up, I realize how absolutely stupid and unnecessary it is and try to lower it before anyone notices.

  The door has barely closed behind them when Audrey pipes up, “So, who were they?”

  “My friend Filipe and Theo.”

  “Wait a second. Friend?”

  “He lives across the street from me.”

  “Okay, that I believe. But friend? He didn’t even acknowledge your existence. His friend Theo was kind of okay. Not, like, going to be winning genius awards anytime soon, but—”

  “Audrey, just—can you stop? It’s not like you’re exactly popular.”

  Audrey’s smile disappears in an instant. The color drains from her face and for a second, I think she’s going to cry. She goes quiet, reaching up to adjust her glasses. “At least I’m new here,” she spits out.

  Without saying another word, she heads straight for the restroom, the door slamming shut behind her. Across the room, the nanny pokes her hea
d up, like she’s checking to make sure everything’s okay.

  Real nice, Drew.

  It was one thing to think it, but another to actually say it to her face. Especially after how helpful she’s been. I wish I could take it back. Rewind and do over the last minute. Or maybe rewind even further back, and start over again when Filipe and Theo came down here. Maybe it’s impossible to make Filipe think the library is cool, but I was definitely not doing the place any favors.

  Why is it that all of a sudden I can say hardly anything to Filipe? Maybe he wasn’t so wrong yesterday when he called me out for being so quiet.

  Across the room, the nanny is still sitting with the baby. Pointing at the pictures, showing her all the tiny details that she probably can’t even understand because she’s just some dumb little baby.

  It was Dad who used to take Filipe and me to story hour when we were little. Mom was pregnant with Xan and she had such bad morning sickness she couldn’t even work. Dad’s office assistant must have known not to schedule any root canals for that hour right before lunch. We’d sit downstairs on the carpet, Filipe and me, and listen to Mrs. Eisenberg’s stories before heading off to afternoon kindergarten.

  Dad must’ve gone upstairs to browse because he’d come back down with a big bag of books every time. Back then I couldn’t believe he read so many pages—without pictures.

  What would Dad think if he could see how Filipe had come down here and pretended he barely even knew me?

  That’s the kind of thing you’re supposed to be able to talk to your dad about. If your dad didn’t desert you.

  I mean, Filipe. Of all people.

  When I returned to school after Dad died, Filipe was the only one who treated me like I was normal. For the rest of third grade, I didn’t get invited to a single birthday party. Not even one. Did they think they were going to catch something from me? That suicide was contagious? The only one who didn’t back away was Filipe.

  Until now. Maybe now that we’re older, Filipe’s having some of the same questions I am. Worrying that maybe I am like Dad, or I could be. If he is my real dad, I mean. That someday I could do what he did. Maybe that’s why he’s keeping his distance. Maybe that’s what he was trying to say about me being too quiet.

  Suddenly I hear a stampede of footsteps coming down the stairs. The zoo program must have ended and the kids are as amped as ever. I close all the windows Audrey left open on Mrs. Eisenberg’s computer and head over to the tables, already set up for this afternoon’s craft: paper-chain snakes with googly eyes.

  I’m helping Mrs. Eisenberg get the kids settled when the door to the women’s restroom finally opens. Audrey’s face isn’t red, but for how long she’s been in there, she must have been crying. I want to apologize, but she won’t even make eye contact with me. She beelines for Mrs. Eisenberg’s computer and immediately pops in her earbuds.

  Were we really just moments away from creating a believable fake-sounding person and requesting the yearbook? So much for that.

  19

  “COME ON.” XANDER WHIPS THE sheet off me the next morning, breathing warm maple syrup breath all over my face. “Come on, Doodoo. Mom says we can go to the beach today.”

  “I told you a billion times, I won’t be seen with you in public if you call me that.”

  When he was just learning to talk, Xan struggled with my name. He couldn’t get his Rs out right, so he called me Doo, and then Doodoo.

  “Fine!” he huffs, standing at the foot of my bed, waiting for me to get up.

  I should want to. It’s the beach, after all. Swimming until your arms ache (or you’ve swallowed too much salt water, whichever comes first). Lying in the warm sun. Watching Xan chase seagulls and fail to catch them. There’s no such thing as a bad day at the beach.

  But after how things ended yesterday, all I want is to skip over the weekend and fast-forward to Monday. After coming out of the bathroom, Audrey didn’t talk to me for the rest of the day. I know I deserved it, but still.

  “Okay, okay.” I jump out of bed and run over to tickle my brother.

  “Stop, stop!” Xan pants in between giggling fits.

  “You know I’ll do it again if you ever call me—”

  “I won’t! I won’t! Promise! Cross my fart.”

  I release him, and he zooms out of my bedroom, giggling, his tiny feet thumping the hardwood stairs. I flip open my front shade and stare across the street at Filipe’s house. Last summer I would have texted him at the first mention of the beach. But between how he acted when I tried to play basketball with him and Theo and how annoyed he got at me during Crash Landing the other day—never mind the library—I don’t know what to do anymore to make things go back to normal.

  If I don’t exist to him, maybe … maybe he shouldn’t exist to me either.

  I grab my phone off the bedside table and check to see if there are any messages. Nope. I toss it back on my bed and dig around in my dresser for my bathing suit.

  It’s Saturday, after all.

  * * *

  “Oh, come on. Another fire hydrant! You’ve got to be kidding me.” Mom groans.

  “Sorry,” I say. “That one came out of nowhere.”

  As we inch down the road leading to the beach in Westerly, I crane my neck, searching for an empty parking spot or someone backing out of theirs. We’ve made two loops already and still nothing.

  “I see one!” Xan yells. He points out his window, half-open to let in the salty air. There’s nothing like the smell of the ocean—nothing.

  “No way,” I say. But sure enough, on the other side of the street is a woman maneuvering her black MINI Cooper out of the world’s tiniest parking spot.

  “That’s going to be a tight squeeze,” Mom says.

  “You can totally do it. Want me to hop out?”

  Mom doesn’t look very certain. “If you really think so.”

  I get out and direct our car into the spot. Sure, it might be a five-million-point turn. And we might be three centimeters from touching the bumper of the car behind us. But, technically, we’re in.

  “Don’t know what I’d do without you.” Mom pops the trunk to get our beach towels and the cooler. “My navigator.” She ruffles my hair.

  I squeeze a dollop of sunscreen for my face, and then I grab my brother’s hand while we half walk, half jog down the street. Xan likes to run ahead of Mom, which means I have to chase after him. Once he gets a view of the beach and the carousel, there’s not much that can slow him down.

  The beach can get crowded on summer weekends, but if you get here early enough, like us, you can still snag a good spot. We lay our beach blanket a few yards from the lifeguard tower. Mom tries to get Xan to put on sunscreen before dashing into the sea, but like usual, he makes a big fuss about it.

  I dart after him as he kicks up sand. “Hey, watch out for other people’s blankets,” I remind him. The sun makes me squint, even in my sunglasses.

  The funny thing about my brother is, no matter how excited he is about the beach, every time he reaches the water, he slows down. There’s something about the ocean. How tremendous it is … and how you can’t control it. Xan respects that. I know I do.

  Xan stays in the shallow water, jumping over the small waves as they crash into the shore and picking up particularly grody pieces of seaweed. Mom makes her way toward him, haloed by the sun.

  Once she has her eye on him, I wade in deeper until I’m up to my chest, and then I let the water just hold me as I float on my back.

  Down the way a bit are two teenage girls in bikinis, splashing each other. One is mad that the other messed up her hair.

  Has Audrey been to the beach yet in Rhode Island?

  I can’t imagine her here. For one, she’s exactly the type of person who’d get squeamish if one bit of seaweed clung to her arm. Or worse, if she got some sand in her bathing suit. And she definitely has the kind of skin that’ll burn lobster red if she isn’t careful with sunscreen.

  Wait.

&nb
sp; I’m not even at the library. Why in the heck am I thinking about Audrey?

  I swim out a bit farther, watching as a yacht cruises by in the distance, until I’m so far out I can barely see my mom. She doesn’t need to worry. The whole reason we come to Watch Hill instead of Misquamicut in the first place is because the waves are so tame here. No undertow at all.

  Last summer Filipe made fun of us for still coming here. Called it the kiddie beach. He said all the high schoolers went to Misquamicut, and now that we were in middle school, we needed to go there too.

  Whatever.

  Maybe it’s better here without him. I don’t need someone telling me what’s cool and what isn’t every five seconds.

  I tread water for a while, watching as a seagull by the shore dive-bombs the blanket of someone who left their food unattended. A woman runs out from the water, yelling and waving to get the seagull out of her stuff. I hope someone’s recording this for YouTube.

  One time when I was little, after a long day at the beach, I asked my dad if I could have a seagull as a pet. I guess somehow I’d convinced myself that a seagull was a beautiful bird, like a penguin or a peacock or something. It happens when you’re little—you think you’re really onto something, except no one else agrees with you. Dad had laughed at me. Not an odd reaction; I’m sure he couldn’t help it in the moment, but I guess it’d been a long day and I was tired and hungry and I just—I lost it. I cried and cried about it the whole way home.

  And then a few mornings later, when I woke up, there was a new stuffed animal nestled in my arms. I don’t know where my dad found a stuffed seagull, but he had.

  I’d forgotten about that day until just now. Most of the things I remember from being a little kid, they’re not because I really remember them. They’re because we still talk about them. That’s what keeps them alive. The story of what happened replaces the memory. Or maybe the story strengthens it.

  If you don’t talk about things, eventually you forget them. Completely.

  I stay in the water a long time, only coming out because my fingertips are raisin-y and my stomach is growling. Back by our blanket, Xan and Mom are hard at work on a sandcastle. Xan slopped a bunch of seaweed onto the turrets, giving the castle kind of a creepy Hogwarts vibe.