by Phoebe North
But we can’t escape him, can we? After all, he’ll always be her brother, even dead and buried. And he’ll always be my first love, too.
“Anyway,” Annie says, stomping her feet down into her sneakers, which somehow came off at some point, “thanks for playing the record for me. You know, the Beach Boys. I don’t think I’ll ever look at them the same way again.”
She grins at that. I grin back. “No problem,” I tell her, then, stepping close, I brush the hair from her eyes and kiss her deeply once again. When she pulls away, she’s giggling, her fingers enveloping mine.
“Jamie’s girlfriend,” she says, and giggles again.
I wince. “I haven’t been his girlfriend in a long time.”
“I guess that’s true,” she says. “But I’ll always be his sister. And this is weird.”
“Does it feel weird?” I ask her.
She bites her lip. I want to taste it. I want to taste her. “Mmm, no,” she says. “Not really. Not unless I think about it.”
“Don’t think about it. You should let yourself be happy sometimes. You deserve it.” I mean it. When she’s happy, Annie is like a jewel, sparkling with light from the inside.
But somehow, my words don’t work. Because that light inside her flickers, then shuts off. Her eyelids flutter down. The edges of her mouth sag. “I can’t,” she says.
“Because James is dead?” I ask gently.
And then, just like that, the door that was open inside her slams shut. She steps away from me, running a shaking hand through her unruly hair.
“No, he’s not . . . I thought you understood.” Her voice is low and muttered, full of vocal fry.
“Sorry?” I offer. It comes out as more of a question.
“I don’t know,” she says. Which scares me maybe more than it should, because if Annie [Redacted] is anything, it’s always completely certain. “I should call my mom. My dad is waiting for me. I should go. My phone’s downstairs. Eli . . .”
She’s talking too much as she starts down the steps, away from my dad’s attic office, that magical space, that magical light. I follow, because it’s all I can do.
Annie waits outside for her mom. She doesn’t want me to wait with her. Somehow, I screwed it all up. My mom senses the change in the air. She sits with me in the living room with her laptop, her hip against mine, steady and reassuring.
“Sorry it didn’t go well. If she doesn’t want to be friends, she doesn’t know what she’s missing.”
I watch Annie run for her mom’s car, a lightweight autumn jacket streaming behind her.
“Yeah,” I say, but I’m not entirely convinced, even though it helps to hear my mom say it, I guess.
Ten
LOOK, MAYBE I WOULD HAVE forgotten all about her if it wasn’t for the dream I had about her that night. I’ve kissed plenty of people before, not just James and Keira, but also Lucas Bower, and Jill Wainwright when we were nine on the bus. Plus all those people I kissed playing spin the bottle at rock camp. Does that count? I never counted it before. Which is telling you something, I think, about how many people I’ve kissed and how it doesn’t matter to me, not usually. It’s only lips. Bodies. Spit and skin and all of that.
But that Saturday night, while Annie is sleeping at her dad’s apartment, I dream about her. We’re sitting together in a shelter made of cardboard and wire fence. There are bombs going off in the distance, and I want to kiss her and the whole world shakes with it. I pull her close, tangling my hand through her hair, and her mouth opens and her lips are pink and her tongue inside is bright red, like a ruby, like blood. We’re kissing and flowers are opening inside me and it’s like she’s my whole heart and then—
We’re not alone. James is with us, behind me, brushing my hair from my face, touching me with his soft hands. I pull away from Annie and look at him. He’s sad. Silent. Knowing. But then he smiles and touches Annie’s temple with the back of his hand. I almost see a star light up there, like a freckle, right where he touched her.
He’s giving her to me, I think. He’s telling me it’s okay.
Did Annie see him? I can’t tell as he gets up and walks off into the war-torn suburb, into the endless afternoon.
On the bus on Monday, I listen to “Life During Wartime.” All day, I look for Annie in the hall. But there’s no sign of that bark-colored ponytail. At lunch, Harper catches me darting my gaze all over the cafeteria.
“Vee,” she says, and when I don’t answer her, she adds, “Vee. VIDYA?”
I spot Annie then, sitting down at the table with her skinny pixie friend. If she even remembers what happened on Saturday in my dad’s office, she sure isn’t showing it. She’s laughing and smiling and acting like life has just rolled on, as usual. Meanwhile, all I can think about is the taste of her mouth, how it felt to have her breasts against mine.
Harper hates to be ignored. She studies my expression, then follows the line of my eyes, and her mouth forms a perfect O. “Oh shit.”
“What?” I say, finally breaking my gaze and stabbing at my taco pie.
Harper nudges me a little. “You know what. What’s up with you and Annie [Redacted]?”
“Nothingsky!” I protest, trying to pretend like I’m playing with their name. But Harper won’t accept that. She knows it’s not a joke. Her mouth is a screwy line. So I sigh, and add, “We just kissed, is all.”
“You just kissed?”
“Yeah. So?”
“You just kissed your dead ex-boyfriend’s little sister.”
“We don’t know he’s dead,” I say faintly. Because it was thinking that James was dead and gone that got me into this mess. Maybe if let myself believe Annie . . .
“Yeah, well, that would be even weirder.”
“Yeah,” I agree, and continue to watch Annie from across the crowded cafeteria. She doesn’t notice.
She’s not at Madrigals on Tuesday. Fuck my life.
Vee: So I think I have it figured out.
Harper: What figured out?
Vee: How to win Annie [Redacted]’s heart.
Harper: Loooooooord.
Vee: What? I had a dream about her last night, you know.
Harper: Was her dead brother there?
Vee: Harp, u jealous?
Harper: I just think this whole thing is weird as hell.
Harper: But whatever, tell me about your dream.
Vee: I can’t. It’s too raunchy. But good!
Harper: I bet. You were always a sucker for that boy. Why would it be any different with his sister?
Vee: This has nothing to do with James. She’s really cute!!!
Vee: And a good kisser.
Vee: And interesting, too. Did you see that painting she did in the art show?
Harper: No, do tell.
Vee: Oils, all layered thick. A skull with a daisy in the eye socket.
Harper: Dark.
Vee:I know. I love it. She’s super weird. And tortured. Very Brian Wilson. Anyway, her birthday is coming up.
Vee: (I remember cause she and James had the same birthday and he was always complaining about how much it sucked to share it.)
Harper: Cool, you gonna get her something?
Vee: I thought I’d go to that witch store downtown. Get her a wand.
Harper: A WAND???
Vee: It sounds kind of dorky but she loves that stuff. Fantasy and all of that.
Vee: And so do I.
Harper: Sometimes I feel like I don’t even know you.
Vee: What’s that supposed to mean?
Harper: I’m just kidding. Mostly. I just think it’s not going to really work out between the two of you.
Vee: Why, because of James?
Harper: No, because of Annie.
Vee: What do you mean?
Harper: She’s not like her brother. He was cool, in his way. But Annie’s a goody-goody. Straight As and straight edge and everything. Everybody knows that.
Vee: That’s fine. I can live with that.
Harper: Can you?
Vee: YES. I like her, okay?
Harper: Ok, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Vee: Do you want to come with me to the witch store tomorrow or not?
Harper: Sure, I could use some more sage.
Downtown is a stretch of storefronts wedged between Main Street and the deep cavern that is the Wallkill. There are restaurants run by former Brooklynites, a yoga studio that changes hands every few years, an art supply store that Harp and I used to shoplift from when we were bored. And there, smushed between a vintage shop owned by a gay couple and a bagel place that’s always closed, is the witch store, the Faerie Realm. James and I used to go there, just the two of us. I always thought he was humoring me, since no one else would go. But maybe he liked it, too. I know it’ll be the perfect place to find something for Annie.
Thursday after Madrigals, Harper and I walk there together, even though the weather is getting bad. We wear the hoods of our sweatshirts up over our eyes and tuck the legs of our jeans into our rain boots and try to act like we don’t want to splash in the puddles like little kids.
I’ve known Harper since we were little kids, actually, and she’s always been like that. Trying to pretend that she doesn’t know how to be silly. She barely tolerated my weird fantasy geek stage and would never have joined Madrigals if it weren’t for me. So far, all of the above has been true for Harper. Look, I don’t mind it. It’s who she is, and she gives good romantic advice and always passes to the left without having to be nagged.
But watching her drip her way through the witch store is funny as hell. When James and I used to come here, we always got really quiet, like the whole place was sacred. Not Harper. She doesn’t belong here. She’s like a dark rainstorm surrounded by a thousand crystal doodads, and she keeps picking up geodes and ugly sterling silver necklaces and waggling her eyebrows at me. When the store owner, a thick-bellied dude with a long scraggly beard, comes by to ask if we need any help, Harper starts outright flirting with him, stroking his age-spotted hand and cooing about his aura. I roll my eyes, slipping away.
There’s a fat golden cat sitting on the bookshelf in the back. I curl my fingers and offer them to her, and she sniffs at me, then rubs her teeth against my hand. I feel myself smile. I’ve always liked cats, but Dad’s allergic and Mom doesn’t like dealing with animal fur. I knock my knuckles against the cat’s spine, watching her arch her body into me. In a strange way, it reminds me of Annie. It’s getting all mixed up in my head now, what parts of our encounter I dreamed, and what was real. But I do know this: her body answered my body like she’d been waiting for me. Like an animal, starved for someone to touch her fur. Like there was a connection between us. Real.
I wander away, but the cat follows me, tangling around my ankles.
“Is Demeter bothering you?” the shop owner asks.
Harper starts to crack a joke, but I say, “No, it’s fine,” just as I almost trip over the cat. I reach for a nearby counter to steady myself. That’s when I see something inside. It’s just a glint of silver under the lights at first. I have to bend low to see it, nestled there with a bunch of wands with crystals hot glued to their handles.
It’s a knife, about the size of my forearm. It has a swooping, scalloped blade and a white hilt made out of some kind of resin. I guess it’s supposed to look like ivory or even whalebone. Scrimshaw. That’s what they call this stuff. There’s a red stone at the bottom, and an image carved into the surface. It’s a rabbit, leaping toward a crescent moon.
A hare, I say to myself. Didn’t Annie say something about a hare? I’m searching my mind but coming up empty. I swear there was something about a hare in Gumlea. Her familiar. I think that’s what she said. . . .
If I asked Harper, I know she’d say that the knife was cheesy. And it looks cheesy, glinting under the fluorescent lights. But not really. Because if you squint, you can almost imagine it tucked into a girl’s hand as she stalks through the forest. In Annie’s hand. Harper would laugh at it, but Annie—Annie would understand.
“Can I see this knife?” I ask. Demeter is still braiding herself between my ankles but I don’t even care. The bearded dude comes over and unlocks the glass case. He sets it on top.
“It’s not a proper athame,” he tells me. “The hilt should be black. If you’re going to cast a circle—”
“Oh, she’s not going to cast anything,” Harper says, rolling her eyes. The bearded guy looks a little embarrassed.
Ignoring them, I pick up the knife. It’s got a nice weight. It feels good in my hand. I imagine it tucked against Annie’s palm. Her hands were small and cold against my body, surprisingly smooth considering all the time she spends outside. I think the knife will feel warm against her skin. I imagine her squeezing the hilt. In my mind’s eye, the red stone glows. I know then that this is it. She’s going to love it.
I feel a thrill when I correct myself: she’s going to love that I gave it to her.
“It’s really more of a dagger than a knife,” the guy says.
I ignore him. “How much?”
A long pause. Demeter mewls and wraps her fluffy ginger tail around my calf.
“Are you eighteen?” the guy asks.
I’m a good liar. I look at him like there was never any other answer. “Yeah,” I say.
He doesn’t even ask me for my ID. “Seventy-nine ninety-nine.” I do my best not to wince. Mom would kill me if she knew I was spending that much on a birthday present for a girl. But I earned that money myself—stocking shelves in the music store in Elting all summer, rearranging the picks, sorting guitar strings, just about dying of boredom. It’s mine. And she’s worth it.
“Will you take seventy?” I ask, because somehow it feels more worth it to spend that much if I know I’m getting a deal.
He watches me for a long moment. Then a reluctant smile warms his furry face. “Sure,” he says, “Any friend of Demeter’s is a friend of mine.”
I fish my wallet out of my bag.
Eleven
I CAN’T BRING THE KNIFE to school. Zero tolerance and all of that. So that Friday, the day before Annie’s fifteenth birthday, I write her a note.
I’m sorry I was a jerk,
it says.
I believe you about James. If you say he’s alive, then he’s alive. I know it doesn’t make up for what I said, but I have a present for you. I thought we could maybe meet in the cemetery after school today? At the empty grave. I think you know what I mean. No pressure. I know it’s your birthday tomorrow. Maybe you already have plans. But it would be nice to see you, and it won’t take long.
I’m not brave enough to put it in her hands myself. I squeeze it through the vents in her locker between classes and brace myself for rejection, telling myself, well, at least I tried.
I don’t expect her to be there. I take my time walking west across town after the bus drops me off at home. The leaves have started to change now, going bright and flaming against the clear blue sky. I should feel fucking great, but I don’t. I’m just kind of heavy and resigned as I walk, trucks rushing by me, the knife a solemn, gift-wrapped weight at the bottom of my bag.
I walk through the wrought-iron gate, thinking about James. The truth is, I’m not sure if I believe that James isn’t dead. But I guess it doesn’t matter. Annie believes that he’s out there somewhere in their magical kingdom, past the veil, whatever that means. Stuck. And if I want to support her, to kiss her, to hold her, well, I need to believe her.
Or at least I need to keep my big mouth shut about whatever it is that I believe.
I climb the hill leading to his grave. To my surprise, there’s Annie waiting for me. Or not strictly waiting, really. She’s building another stone tower on top of the grassy earth. Her hair is down in her face as she works the soil beneath it. When I come close, she shields the sun from her eyes with one dirty hand.
“Hey,” she says.
I crouch down in front of her. “What are you doing?”
She smiles a little, like she’s been waiting her whole life to tell someone this. “It’s a cairn. An ancient trail marker. I’m trying to tell Jamie how to find his way home.”
I remember the word cairn, and the rocks she stacked on top of James’s grave at the funeral. “If he’s in Gumlea,” I begin slowly, “then how can he see it here?”
She looks at me with hard eyes, not answering. The sunlight is bright and the freckles are bright across the wrinkled bridge of her nose. I imagine tilting her head back and kissing her. Instead, I just sit back on my heels. And I only have one thought then: God, she’s pretty.
“It’s almost your birthday,” I say awkwardly. “Happy happy.”
Her eyes are still hard when she says, “I’m never happy.”
“I know. But you will be.”
Without hesitating, I put my bag on the ground in front of us and unzip it, digging through until my hand hits the wrapped box. I’ve put some silver curling ribbon around it, but I’m terrible at wrapping things. The seams show. There’s tape everywhere. Annie takes it, sitting cross-legged in front of her cairn, and starts to tear the paper.
I’m holding my breath as she opens it. It’s only after the wind rustles through the trees above us that I realize that she’s holding her breath, too. She’s staring down at the knife, not moving, one hand over her mouth.
It’s only when her shoulders begin to shake that I realize that she’s crying. I wonder if I should hold her. I wonder what it’s all about.
“Do—” I begin hesitantly. “Do you hate it?”
She sort of snorts through her tears. Laughs a little, but it isn’t a funny laugh.
“No,” she says, wiping the tears on the back of her hand. “It’s perfect. Where did you even get this? For years, I’ve been searching . . .” She trails off, but looks up at me, her eyes wide and wet and bright.
“That witch store downtown,” I tell her, feeling suddenly awkward. “I hope you like it. I don’t know why, but it made me think of you. Something about the rabbit—”
“Hare,” she says. Even though her eyes are still wet, the corner of her mouth edges up a little.