by Ali Standish
“Her long dresses and that parasol,” says Lily. “I thought she just liked dressing weird.”
“She was always so careful about her skin,” Dad muses. “Always. She used to say she burned very easily. I just thought she was being overly cautious.”
“But she had no pigment in her skin,” finishes Mom. “So she had to protect it from the sun. Or she could have done a lot of damage.”
“Now I know why she didn’t like talking about her childhood,” Dad says quietly. “But it’s easy to see where her imagination came from, isn’t it? It’s how she got through it.”
“I found her sketchbook upstairs,” I tell them. “It’s full of drawings of fairies and things that she did, probably when she was stuck inside. All her ideas.”
“Let me get this straight,” Lily says, running a hand through her hair. “You’re saying that our grandmother was a famous author? Or she would have been, except this Madeline woman plagiarized her story?”
“The ideas were all Gram’s,” I say. “But she was never angry at Madeline for using them. She’s been visiting her all these years. And I bet she was glad that Madeline got the book published. Otherwise, nobody would have ever gotten to read it.”
“I wondered why she liked that book so much,” Dad says. “She was always trying to get me to pick it up as a kid.”
There’s a knock at the door, and Boomer starts barking his head off.
Mom gets up. “That must be Fina’s parents.”
“What are you going to tell them?” Fina asks.
“Everything,” Mom replies. “But only when I call your mom tomorrow morning. Hopefully by then, you’ll have told them everything first.”
Fina nods. “Fair enough, Mrs. Talbot.”
Mom and I walk her to the doorway, and when we get there, Fina wraps her arms around me in a big hug.
“Being friends with you,” she says, “has turned out to be a pretty cool adventure.”
46
At long last, Jack and Sarah laid down their swords. The hobgoblin king had fled into the night with his queen, leaving his wrought iron crown to clatter to the ground. Sarah picked it up and flung it out the window after him. And then a most strange and wonderful thing happened. The sky, which had been black as an empty hearth since the children arrived, burst into a garden of color. Slowly at first, then all at once, it blossomed purple, then pink, now orange and gold.
Somewhere, the escaped fairy princess was laughing to make the sun rise, and Jack and Sarah began to laugh, too. From all over the kingdom came sounds of merriment and rejoicing. The curse was lifted, the darkness banished. Dawn had broken over the Goldengrove at last.
I feel goose bumps prickling up and down my arms. It’s late, but I can’t sleep, so I’ve been reading the last chapters of The World at the End of the Tunnel. It feels so different now, knowing that Gram is at the center of it all. I find myself looking for her behind every line. And for the first time since she died, I feel like I’ve found her again.
When I’ve read until the very end, and Jack and Sarah are tucked once more into their own beds, I creep out of mine. I go downstairs and look in the freezer. There’s mint chocolate-chip ice cream. Not exactly a warm slice of Gram’s apple pie, but it’ll have to do.
I take the carton, sit down in my usual seat, and look across the table at the one where Gram always sat.
And for a moment, if I close my eyes and open them again in the just right way—if I look through my eyes instead of with them, like Gram taught me—I can almost see her there. I can imagine her, at least. Her skin the color of clouds just before the sun starts to set, her long silver braid hanging down her back, a crooked-tooth smile dancing on her face.
“Can’t sleep, darlin’?” she says.
“No. My head is too loud.”
“Ah, yes. Thoughts can be pesky that way. Care to share one?”
I take a bite of ice cream, feeling the coldness of it seep into my tongue.
“I’m sorry, Gram,” I say. “I’ve been angry at you. For telling me all those fairy tales. For making me write them, too, and most of all, for making me believe in them. You always said there was truth in every story, but after you died, all I could see were lies.”
“Oh? What kind of lies?”
“Like how those stories always have happy endings.”
“And you don’t believe in those anymore?”
“I don’t not believe them,” I say, thinking. “But I don’t think they’re the truest part of the fairy tales. I think they’re just the part people remember.”
Gram’s smile deepens. “Go on.”
“The true part is that there’s always a battle. Jack and Sarah had to fight the troll army and the hobgoblin king. Hansel and Gretel had to beat the witch and find their way out of the forest. I don’t think you can know how your story ends, but the ending is always better if you’re willing to fight for it. That’s why you told me all those stories, and made me write my own. That’s what you wanted to teach me. To fight for myself.”
“Very good,” Gram says. “But there’s another reason, too. Can you guess?”
I think about this for a minute, digging my spoon around the ice cream carton to find the biggest chocolate chips. “Your sketchbook. Dad says your imagination is what helped you get through the time you were trapped inside.”
“Imagination is one of the greatest gifts we have. If we build it up strong enough, it can be anything we need it to be. A home. A friend. A whole entire world.”
She’s still smiling. Drinking me in with her eyes.
“A world like the Goldengrove,” I say.
Gram winks. “My secret is discovered at last, hmm? Was it wrong that I hoped one day you might uncover it?”
“No,” I say. “And I understand why you didn’t tell me about Madeline and the book. But I wish you’d told me about your vitiligo, Gram. It would have made it so much easier for me to know that you had it, too.”
“I knew you would have a battle to face one day,” Gram says. “But I didn’t know it would be this one. If I had, of course I would have told you. But I didn’t want to worry your father or you about something I didn’t think would happen. And I didn’t want anyone to worry about me or treat me any differently.”
I nod. “Yeah. I get that. But, Gram? I’m really sorry for what your parents did. I thought I had it rough with Mom, but I was wrong.”
I’ve been wrong about a lot, come to think of it. I was so set in my own way of seeing things that I forgot that there is always another way to look at them.
Gram flicks her wrist. “It’s just like you said, Emma. We all have our battles. I fought mine, and I won. Now you’re fighting yours. And I’m so proud of you.”
“Madeline says that each one of my spots is more proof of my love for you.”
Gram’s eyes sparkle. “And proof of your courage and strength.”
“I never needed a lot of those things until you died.”
“Well, the battles we fight always change us. When we’re fighting them, all we can see is how they wound us. But they can change us for the better, too.”
I wonder how different Gram would be if she’d never gotten vitiligo. If she ever would have imagined the Goldengrove or grown up to paint the world full of color.
I wonder if she would have been so kind to an outcast like Madeline if she had never known what unkindness felt like.
Maybe without her vitiligo, she wouldn’t be the Gram I know. Maybe she would have turned out to be someone else completely.
“It’s getting late,” she says softly.
“I don’t want to leave you, Gram,” I reply. Tears fill my eyes.
“It’s all right. You know where to find me now, Emma. And for what it’s worth, I did get my happy ending. I got you.”
I blink back my tears, and when I open my eyes again, she’s gone. I’m the only one sitting here at the table.
But somehow, I don’t feel alone.
47
We huddle together by the corner of the building, trying to stamp away the cold. “All that time, Emma, you’ve been playing in the Goldengrove. The Goldengrove! And I’ve been there, too!”
“I know,” I say, smiling. “And you recognized it. Remember? You said the sycamore tree reminded you of the Council Tree. I bet it was. And the stream was the Ivory River, and Throne Rock was Fernlace. It’s funny, I never thought about any of that until you pointed it out. But you saw it right away.”
“I guess sometimes you can’t see things that are right in front of you,” she replies. “I mean, your own grandmother—she invented the Goldengrove. Aren’t you freaking out?”
I laugh. “It’s weird. I probably should be, but I guess . . . it doesn’t feel like that much has actually changed. I always knew Gram was amazing at coming up with stories.”
“Yeah, but I mean, don’t you wish she’d told you? That she came up with that story?”
“I don’t think so,” I say. “Because she couldn’t have told me without telling me about Madeline, could she? She didn’t want to betray her friend. Besides, if I’d only ever thought of the Spinney as the Goldengrove, I never would have come up with my own stories, you know?”
“Okay, good point,” Fina says.
I feel someone looking at me, and sure enough, when I glance around, there’s a girl standing by the flagpole, staring. It’s Skyler, the same girl I caught staring at me in math class last week. I try to ignore her.
“Were your parents mad?” I ask.
“A little,” Fina says. “But then my mom found out that my dad still hasn’t gotten a turkey for tomorrow, and she kind of forgot to be mad at me anymore.”
“Um,” squeaks a voice.
We both look up. Skyler has moved closer. She’s standing almost right next to me, clutching her books tightly to her chest. “You’re Emma, right?” she says. “I think we have math together.”
“Yeah,” I reply, glancing at Fina.
“I’m Skyler,” she says. “I, um, I like your boots.”
“Oh, thanks.” I look down. I’m wearing the same boots I wore yesterday, and they’re still splattered with mud from walking up and down Briar Hollow Lane. I have a feeling that Skyler did not come over here to talk about my boots.
“You guys are new here this year, right?” she says, her ears turning scarlet as she speaks. “I just started this month. This girl in my gym class, Ruby, she said—well—it’s stupid—but she said I should come talk to you.”
By now, Skyler’s voice is little more than a nervous whisper. She watches as Fina and I exchange a bewildered glance. Ruby sent Skyler to talk to us? But why?
Fina waves to Skyler. “I’m Fina.”
Skyler tries to wave back and ends up dropping some of her books. Fina and I both lean down to help her with them.
“Hey!” Fina says, picking up a book called The One and Only Ivan. “I love this one!”
“Oh! Me, too,” says Skyler, breaking into a toothy smile. “It’s my third time reading it.”
I hand her back her social studies book and a math worksheet. “Mr. Owens assigns a lot of homework, huh?”
“Yeah,” she says. “There’s way more homework here than at my last school. Or maybe that’s just seventh grade.”
“Maybe,” I say. “Hey, why did Ruby tell you to come talk to us?”
Skyler looks sheepish. “I told her I was, um, having a hard time making friends. And she just said you guys were really cool.”
So that’s why Skyler walked over here. Why she’s been staring at me. Not because of my patches or my boots. Because she wants to be friends.
Fina and I share another look.
“Well, even Ruby is right about something once in a while,” Fina says, grinning. “Where are you from?”
“Florida,” says Skyler.
The bell rings, and the three of us walk in together, swapping stories about our old schools. Fina is still hobbling a little. Her mom and dad took her to an urgent care place last night, and it turns out Madeline was right. She sprained her ankle but not very bad.
“What happened to your leg?” Skyler asks.
“It’s a long story,” Fina says.
“There’ll be lots of time to tell you later on,” I add.
It turns out Fina and I aren’t the only ones too distracted to pay attention in school today. In all my classes, everyone is talking about Thanksgiving break. At least some of the teachers are smart and decide to let us watch movies instead of actually trying to teach us stuff.
The one person who doesn’t seem excited about the long weekend is Edie. I steal glances at her table during lunch that day while Fina is telling Skyler about her plans to initiate her into the New Kids Brigade, which include an elaborate secret ceremony, apparently.
My eyes keep going back and forth between Edie—dragging her fork through her food, her eyes glued to the table—and Ruby, who is talking to one of the Graces.
Halfway through my tacos, Ruby catches me looking at her. For just a second, she holds my gaze. Then she gives me the tiniest nod and looks away. And I think that maybe her saying those things to Skyler was her way of apologizing to me. Of trying to tell me that she wishes she hadn’t done what she did.
Edie doesn’t look up at all. I wonder if her dad is going to have dinner with them tomorrow, and if not, if Edie’s thinking about what it’s going to be like having Thanksgiving without him. I wonder if she’s told any of her friends, but my guess is she hasn’t, since she asked me not to tell anyone about seeing her crying.
I feel a pang of sympathy for her. Because I’ve just realized that, no matter how popular Edie seems to be, in this moment she is just as lonely as Madeline Mitchell.
48
I take the school bus home that afternoon, and when I walk into Morning Glory Cottage, Mom is on the phone in the kitchen.
“Sounds good,” she chirps, waving at me when I appear.
Lily is sitting at the table reading something. As I draw nearer, I see it’s The World at the End of the Tunnel. Not my copy. This one looks like she just bought it from the bookstore.
“Thought we were too old for books like that?” I ask.
Her lips twitch into a smile. “Okay, okay. You were right about this one. It’s pretty good so far, actually. Even for a highly sophisticated college applicant like me.”
“Great,” Mom says. “We’ll see you tomorrow! Two o’clock.”
“Who are we seeing tomorrow?” I ask once Mom hangs up.
“Well,” she says, smiling mischievously, “I called Ms. Ramirez this morning to check in about last night. Turns out Mr. Ramirez forgot to buy a turkey. We got to chatting, and we thought we could do a joint Thanksgiving.”
“Really?” I squeal. I haven’t said anything to anyone about it, but I’ve been kind of dreading tomorrow. The empty spot where Gram should have sat. Having Fina there will make it so much better.
“Both our families are missing people this year,” Mom says. “So it seemed like the right thing to do.”
She plants a kiss on my head, then goes upstairs to find a recipe from some old book.
I feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. But annoyingly, I find my thoughts drifting back to Edie and the empty spot that will probably be at her table tomorrow. Even though I know she’s the last person I should be feeling sorry for, I do. It’s hard enough to miss someone you’ve lost. I can’t imagine how hard it is to know that that someone doesn’t miss you back. At least, not enough to come home.
“Hey, Lily?” I say suddenly.
“Yeah?”
“I need a favor.”
She looks up from the book, raising an eyebrow.
“I need you to dri
ve me somewhere. Tonight. And I need to borrow your book.”
I think my luck may be finally starting to change, because just before ten, Mom realizes that she got buttermilk instead of heavy cream and says in an irritated voice that she’ll have to go to the store.
“We’ll do it,” Lily and I say together. This is much better than sneaking out yet again.
Mom stares at us suspiciously. “It’s too late,” she says.
“There’s no school tomorrow, Mom,” I argue. “It doesn’t matter if we go out.”
“We just want to help,” Lily adds convincingly. “You’re already doing so much.”
Here are two things you should know about Lily.
1.She is a great liar.
2.She is an even better sister (see #1).
“Since when do you girls do things together?” Mom asks, putting a hand on her hip.
“Honey,” Dad says, looking up from the movie we’d been watching with him on the couch, “don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”
“Oh, all right,” Mom says. “But drive slow.”
“We will,” Lily replies, chancing a smile at me. “Very, very slow.”
Five minutes later, we’re in the car.
“I still don’t understand why we’re doing this,” Lily says.
“I know,” I reply.
But Gram would understand. She would say that what I’m doing is right. That sometimes the best thing you can do is forget about your own battle for a while and help someone else. Especially someone who is fighting a losing one.
Soon, we pull up in front of a big house with a yawning front lawn of grass that, even in the dark, you can tell is neatly clipped. All the lights are off, but somewhere on the first floor, blue television light splashes out from the windows.
“Just wait here,” I say. “It’ll only take a sec.”
Then I climb out of the car, into the freezing-cold night, clutching the book tightly to my chest. Silently, I walk up to the porch, and I’m just about to set the book down there when the door swings open.