Harmony

by Carolyn Parkhurst

  “You know what I’d get you, if I could get you a Father’s Day gift?”

  He puts down his book and smiles at me in one of those weird parental ways, like he’s proud of me just for asking the question, when I haven’t even told him the answer yet.

  “What?” he says.

  “A newspaper.”

  He laughs, surprised, and puts his hand on the top of my head, stroking my hair. “I would love that,” he says. “I really would.”

  Then Tilly walks in from the bedroom and starts talking to us, the way she always does, like we’ve been with her in her head for the past ten minutes.

  “So how come we know so much about like George Washington, but nothing about the guy who was his blacksmith or whatever? Or the blacksmith’s wife and kids? Even if someone never gets to be president or a famous general or something, that person still lived a whole life. They were still important to their family and the people they loved.”

  “Well, that’s a good . . .” my dad starts to say, but Tilly isn’t done, so she just talks right over him.

  “I mean, why can’t there be a big giant statue of George Washington’s blacksmith or like Napoleon’s cook? And if there could be a giant statue of Napoleon’s cook, then there could be a giant statue of you or me. Our whole family.”

  “Well, there can’t be big giant statues for everybody, obviously,” I say. “We’d run out of space.” It’s a cool idea, though. I’m picturing a humongous Iris statue standing on top of a mountain somewhere. High up, where people could see it for miles around.

  “I see what you’re getting at, though, Tilly,” my dad says. “All of these billions of people have lived on the earth, and most of them have been just ordinary people. But if you don’t do something that makes you famous, your story gets kind of lost.”

  “I wish we were famous,” I say. “Maybe we could start a band or something.”

  “Yeah,” says Tilly. “But why can’t we just be famous because we’re awesome people? Or just because we’re people, period.” She starts pacing, the way she does when she’s thinking about something. “The Hammond Family,” she says, like she’s seeing the name all lit up on a billboard or something. “There could be books about us and movies. There could be a whole museum—the Museum of Hammond Family Artifacts.”

  My dad smiles. “What do you think it would have in it?”

  “There could be baby pictures of us, and those envelopes with a little bit of hair from our first haircuts,” Tilly says. “Things we did in school, and souvenirs from our vacations, like that snow globe I got in North Carolina with the lighthouse in it . . .”

  “What about the Galaxie?” asks Dad. “Would there be room for it?”

  “Of course!” says Tilly. “It would be in its own special display area, and people could get inside it, like we always did.”

  The 1971 Ford Galaxie was this old car that we used to have in our house in DC. When I say “in our house,” I mean it literally, because we had this garage that was actually part of our basement. I don’t really know why we had the car—I think my dad bought it before I was born, because he likes old cars, but as far as I know, it never worked enough for anyone to turn it on. I didn’t even know about the Galaxie until I was three or four. And then one day, Tilly showed it to me, and it was like one of those dreams where you’re in your house, and you discover a room you’ve never seen before: Really? This was here all the time?

  Tilly and I used to go inside the car and play in it. It was really big, wider and roomier than most cars I’ve been in. And it had this really big steering wheel, and jump seats in the back that folded up when you weren’t sitting on them, and funny cranks to put the windows up and down. We used to pretend we were old enough to drive, or else we’d pretend that it was our own house, where we lived without any grown-ups. There were all these random toys in the backseat, ones that we’d brought in to use as props and never took out. We didn’t go in the Galaxie as much as we got older, but suddenly I wish that we could go inside it now. I wish it more than anything.

  I’m starting to feel sad, and no one’s noticing. I feel like I might even start to cry. “So what you’re saying”—I pause, waiting until I have their attention—“is that the museum would have all the stuff we left in Washington. All the stuff Mom and Dad got rid of or put in storage.”

  Dad makes a sympathetic little sound. He sits up straighter on the couch and puts his arms around me. “Poor sweetie,” he says, his voice muffled against my head. “I know you miss a lot of the things we left behind.”

  Tilly comes over and wraps herself around us, making a three-person hug.

  “Don’t be sad, Iris,” she says. “Just pretend it’s all in the museum. And we can go there and see it anytime we want.”

  We stay like that for a minute, and then Tilly gets another idea, and she’s off, walking in circles around the room.

  “Hey, what do you think they would sell in the Hammond Museum gift shop?” she asks. Her voice is all happy and excited with ideas. “They could have postcards with pictures of us, and jewelry with our birthstones . . .”

  “Snow globes with us inside,” I say, because I like the idea, and I know it will make Tilly happy.

  • • •

  We all have secret assignments to lay out werewolf clues, in addition to all our chores, and the plan is to get them all ready by Wednesday. My thing is, I’ve got an old T-shirt of Tilly’s that we ripped up and spattered with fake blood. We had some trouble figuring out how to make the blood, because of course there’s no artificial food coloring here. So we tried mixing together some honey and cocoa powder, because Candy said she had heard that in the movie Psycho, the blood they used was actually chocolate syrup. And then we smushed in some cherries, and blended it all together. It actually looks pretty good; it’s a little bit thick and chunky, but that’s okay because that makes it more gory, like there might be . . . I don’t know, bodily tissue or something in there.

  So I’ve got a big piece of T-shirt crumpled up and hidden in my pocket. A little while after breakfast, when I’m supposed to be feeding the chickens, I walk into the woods and leave the shirt on the ground at this one place we picked out yesterday. I can see that Tilly’s already been here, because her job was to stick little bits of hair and fur around in different tree branches. (The fur is from this stuffed gorilla that belongs to Ryan’s little sister, and the hair we just pulled out of everybody’s brushes and combs, so it’s all tangled and gross.)

  I spend a minute or two deciding where to drop the shirt. It’s really quiet here, and I like being on my own for a few minutes. When we first got to Camp Harmony, I thought there was going to be a lot more time like this, just hanging out in all the pretty nature and chilling. I mean, half of what my parents said about moving was that we’d all benefit from being able to roam around freely, and hear our own thoughts without a million computerized distractions or whatever. But really, most of the time we’re with all these other people, doing exactly what Scott tells us to.

  There’s rustling behind me and I turn quickly, worried that I’m about to get caught. But it’s just Ryan, coming with some chicken bones and the rest of our fake blood to dribble on leaves and rocks and stuff. As we pass, we both smile and give the secret signal Tilly came up with: cross your fingers on both hands and then tap your index fingers together twice. I walk out of the woods and go back to my chores, feeling that happy-sneaky feeling of knowing that I have a secret.

  • • •

  My favorite chore is taking care of the chickens. We have six little chicks—there were supposed to be eight, but one died and one egg didn’t hatch—plus a full-grown hen named Henny Penny. Kind of a stupid name, but Scott had everyone vote on it, and all the littlest kids got two votes instead of one. Most of the time, we just call her Penny.

  Penny’s my favorite. I never thought I would like a chicken. Like before we c
ame here, I don’t think I’d ever even seen a real live chicken, and I figured they wouldn’t have much personality. They’re not particularly cute, and you can’t play fetch with them or anything. But Penny knows who I am, and maybe I’m just making this up, but I swear she clucks in a special way when she sees me coming.

  So on Thursday, I’m hanging out with the chickens, and some kids’ voices start drifting in from the woods, close to the area where we left all the werewolf stuff. I look around to make sure there are no adults nearby, and then I put down my bag of chicken feed and duck into the trees.

  When I get to the place with all the fur and fake blood, I see there are two boys there: Ryan and a guy named Lincoln, who’s one of this week’s visiting kids. He’s older than me; about thirteen, I think. Tilly’s age.

  They see me before I get to them, and Lincoln leans over and whispers something into Ryan’s ear, and then the two of them start laughing crazily. I hate when kids do stuff like that. It suddenly changes everything, you know? Like a minute ago, things were all normal. I was on my way to talk to these other two kids, and everyone was . . . equal, pretty much. I mean, there were various ways you could group us together, like those activities teachers used to give us in kindergarten: you have three beads, and none of them is exactly the same. If you group them by color, then the two red ones go together, and the blue one is the odd guy out. Or you can group them by shape, and then the two square ones go together, and now one of the red ones is the odd guy out, because it’s the only one that’s round.

  So right then, it seemed like it didn’t matter that they’re both boys and I’m a girl, because Ryan and I are both permanent camp kids, plus we’re the same age. Lincoln should definitely be the odd guy out. But now I feel all worried, because I don’t know what they’re saying about me. And if anyone’s the odd guy out, it’s definitely me.

  “Hey, guys,” I say when I’m close enough to talk in a normal voice. “What’s up?”

  “Not much,” says Ryan. “Lincoln wanted to show me this weird stuff he found.” He’s pointing at the fake blood, and trying not to give me a knowing look, so that evens things out a little again.

  “Huh,” I say.

  “Oh, fuck that,” says Lincoln. “It’s obviously fake as hell. We were just shooting the shit.”

  Tilly and I used to have a secret swearword bingo game when we were watching grown-up TV shows and movies. Lincoln would only need a “bitch” and a “damn” to win the whole board.

  “Anyway,” he’s saying, “things are a lot more interesting, now that you’re here.”

  I can feel my mouth drop open a little, and I concentrate on closing it again. I don’t know where to look. It’s a compliment, but it’s not. Because the way he says it kind of creeps me out.

  “I’m going to go back and finish feeding the chickens,” I say.

  “No, wait,” says Lincoln. “You should see this.” He puts his hand into the pocket of his shorts. “I found a little baby mouse.”

  “You have a mouse in your pocket?” I’m confused and, honestly, worried for the mouse. I don’t think it would have a lot of room in there.

  He turns away from me a little, still moving his hand around in his pocket. I’m feeling a little bit anxious, but only because I’m wondering if he’s going to show me a dead mouse. I’m not expecting at all that when he turns back he’s going to have his pants unzipped and be holding his penis in his hand.

  “See, look,” he says, making a move toward me. I step back. “Isn’t it cute? Do you want to pet it?” And he laughs uproariously.

  I feel nervous inside and a little like I might throw up. But I also don’t want to run away like a scared little girl. I try to think of what Tilly would do in this situation.

  “Asshole,” I say. It sounds stupid and wishy-washy. When Tilly says it, you can tell there’s real feeling behind it.

  “Ooh, hot,” says Lincoln. “I like a girl with a potty mouth.”

  He’s rubbing his penis a little, and I can see it getting hard, which is kind of fascinating, even if it’s also the most repulsive thing I’ve ever seen.

  “Show me your tits,” says Lincoln. “If you’ve got any.”

  I say, “I don’t, really,” which is really not the right thing to say, because it’s like I’m joining in this conversation with him. Like maybe I’m acting like I like him or something. I should just turn around and go. But there’s part of me that doesn’t want to be rude, if you can believe I’m actually thinking that. And there’s part of me that feels a little flattered, or at least like I’m supposed to feel flattered.

  “I’ve seen ’em,” Ryan says. It’s the first thing he’s said since all of this started.

  “You have not!” I yell. I’m furious at Ryan, suddenly, way madder than I am at Lincoln. I mean, it’s easy; I know how to be mad at Ryan.

  “Last week, when you were changing for free swim in the bathroom at the dining hall,” he said. I can see he’s totally torn here. He almost sounds apologetic for a minute, but then he remembers he wants to be all tough to impress Lincoln. “You know how there’s that lock that’s a hook, and it doesn’t always close all the way?”

  “So how were they?” asks Lincoln.

  Ryan looks back and forth between me and Lincoln, before saying “small” in a low voice that he doesn’t think I can hear.

  Lincoln practically collapses in fake laughter, bending over with his penis still in his hand. “Did you hear that?” he asks me. “He said they were small.”

  “Yeah, I know. Just like I already said.”

  “You know, Ryan’s got a little mousie, too.” Lincoln says. “Go ahead, Ryan. Get it out. I bet Iris wants to see it.”

  “I do not,” I say. My voice is quiet but vicious. I stare at Ryan, waiting to see what he’s going to do. It’s suddenly really important for me to know.

  Ryan looks scared. Actually scared. He looks at me with his face almost crumbling, like he might cry. But what he says is, “Okay,” and he reaches for the snap on his shorts.

  And no. No freaking way, no FUCKING way. I am not going to stand here and let Ryan show me his penis. “Fuck you,” I say to him. I lunge forward and shove him back into a tree. His head makes a big thunk against the wood. I hope it hurts.

  I turn around, and then I’m running out of the woods, back to camp. I don’t want to see anybody; I don’t want to talk to anybody. I don’t stop until I get to the door of our cabin, which I open and close with a smash. My mom’s in the kitchen, but I don’t answer her when she asks me why I’m crying. I don’t have a single thing to say.

  I slam the door of our bedroom and lie down on the bed. It’s quiet, except for the noises I’m making, which keep going for a while, no matter how hard I try to stop.

  After a few minutes, Tilly comes into the room. She walks over to my bed and tries to give me a hug, but since I’m lying down, it turns into her practically lying on top of my back. It doesn’t feel bad, though, that heavy weight pressing me into the soft mattress. It feels like she’s getting between me and everything else in the whole giant, stupid world. It feels like she’s my big sister, and she’s protecting me.

  chapter 29

  Alexandra

  May 2011: Washington, DC

  This spring, it’s clear that puberty has arrived, full force. Lately, you’ve had to remind Tilly (over and over again) not to rub herself idly through her pants. The concepts of “public” and “private” have always been difficult for her, especially as they relate to her body. But the stakes are higher here than picking her nose or lifting up her shirt to scratch her belly; somehow, you have to get it across to her that she cannot touch herself in front of other people.

  “I don’t like it,” she says to you one day. It takes you a minute to understand that she’s talking about sexual arousal. “It’s annoying; it kind of hurts, almost. It feels like I need to pee or
something, but there’s no way to make it go away. At least if I rub it, it doesn’t feel as bad.”

  You speak to her frankly about masturbation, you give her a few books to look through, and you tell her to spend some time alone in her room. A half hour later, she emerges, red-faced and pissed off. “I can’t do it,” she says. She’s almost in tears. “I don’t know how to have an orgasm. It doesn’t work. Can’t you help me? Can’t you show me or something?”

  You close your eyes, take a breath. She’s asking a genuine question. She doesn’t understand why you won’t. You’ve just told her it’s natural and normal; you told her everyone does it, and when she pressed further, you admitted that you do, too. From her perspective, here’s what just happened: you told her she needs to learn a new skill, but she can’t ask anyone to show her how it’s done. From her perspective, you’re being kind of a bitch. Add it to the long list of anecdotes you’re never going to post on Facebook.

  Josh, at least, is appropriately horrified.

  “I mean, what are we supposed to do,” you ask him, “buy her a vibrator?”

  He lets out a strangled groan, half fake, half real. “Stop it,” he says, covering his ears and making a face. “Good God.”

  You sigh. It seemed natural that all the period stuff should fall to you, but there it was a lot clearer what the “right way” was.

  “Well, okay, so what if she were a boy? What would we do then?”

  “If she were a boy, I don’t think she’d be having this problem.” He shrugs. “Or if she did . . . it’s a lot easier to explain using metaphors and crude hand gestures.”

  In the end, you say fuck it and you order her a damn vibrator. You find a few educational websites and YouTube videos, and you walk her through it without actually . . . walking her through it. Eventually, she gets it and you all move on to the next step. Which is apparently learning not to tell your family about your orgasms at the dinner table.