by Amy McNamara
Jack looks at me like I’ve issued a challenge.
“He left camp in the middle of the night. Anger rolls off that guy. Seriously, you can’t tell me you didn’t pick up on it. And what was with his face? Alice said he was beat up. Eves, come on. Do not get involved with that dude.”
“Why?”
“I just told you!” Jack leans way back in his chair and runs his hands through his hair like he can’t believe I’m not listening to him.
“Hardly. But, I mean, why’d he leave camp in the middle of the night?”
Jack rocks his chair forward again with an exasperated bang. “Who cares?” His eye does this little twitching thing at the corner when he’s nervous. “He acted superior the whole time, like he knew more than the rest of us.” He peels the corner of the label on his soda bottle.
“Well, maybe he did,” I say, remembering what Lazarus said. It comes out snottier than I mean it to.
Jack squints at me, critically. “God, what’s your problem? I’m not Em, you don’t have to act all bitchy with me. I’m trying to have your back here.”
“I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but I like him and you can’t wreck it for me,” I snap. “And Em was pissed at me, not the other way around.”
I clamp my mouth shut and look at the concrete slab under my feet. What a perfect place for him to take a mallet to my heart. Jack’s always been good at winning arguments by getting me on the defensive.
This is payback for the kiss. It’s not like we’re going to talk about it, but he’s obviously mad or hurt or both. I would be. I look at him again, his brows up like he’s waiting to see if he got through to me.
“Whatever. Thanks for lunch.” I stand and grab my backpack.
Jack’s face falls.
I walk out. I can feel his surprise at my back, his open mouth. I panic a second when I actually hit the street.
First Em, now Jack?
What am I doing, fighting with everyone?
String Lights
I’M IN THE BODEGA NEAR SCHOOL, picking up a little box of chalk for my pocket, when Em texts me from Ryan’s begging me to cover for her after school. There’s nothing like a second chance. I walk home from Bly rehearsing possible lies to use if her parents come looking.
Our apartment’s dark and cold when I let myself in. Jack says it feels sad in here, and today it totally does. My mom’s not big on organization, and the randomness of our hodgepodge looks more abandoned than homey. I dart around clicking on all the lamps, then head to the kitchen to make popovers. Salad and popovers is her favorite dinner, and the oven will heat up the place.
I sit on the kitchen floor in thick socks and my dad’s sweatshirt and stare through the cloudy glass on the oven door like it’s a window to someplace better. Emma was right. I totally worshipped Mamie. Still do. Easier to focus on that than it is to think about what happened at lunch with Jack.
Instead of working on my Investigation, or looking at the TeenART application link Ms. Vax keeps sending, I lie back and stare at the cracks in the ceiling until it comes to me.
It wasn’t a crazy idea to call her. Mamie liked me too. I’ll just do it, ask her to stop. I’ll tell her the project is hurting Emma. She’ll listen.
Recharged, I look for her online. It’s not like I can call Em for her number. Googling her feels weird. I kind of used to stalk her a lot. Like she was some ideal. A window into a possible future. Mamie and Patrick were friends and hot for each other. They were doing everything right, and still, look how that turned out. I haven’t seen her since the party that night. She left town after the accident. Emma said she went into hiding because it was her fault and she knew it. Jack’s brother said he heard she cracked up, stopped talking, and skipped college. People will say anything. She left, and I felt deserted, even though I’m sure she only thought of me as Patrick’s little sister’s friend.
If she thought of me at all.
The few results that come up for Mamie Wells are old. Patrick’s obituary, articles about the accident, human interest pieces about drinking and driving. That spring was a bad one for teens in cars on Long Island.
I click on Mamie’s page. Looks untouched, her profile photo still the one of the two of them, grinning cheek to cheek in a photo booth.
I close my computer and take a deep breath. Doing this brings up memories, makes me feel kind of sick. Patrick’s face mute and pasty at his wake was pretty much the most incomprehensible sight ever. He looked like a weird school-photo version of himself. Retouched. The wrong color. Even though it was the end of May, I couldn’t stop shivering. When we got home my mom wrapped me in blankets and hung string lights above my bed so I could sleep.
I don’t remember my dad’s funeral, but I’m pretty sure I didn’t see him all laid out in his casket. Death felt more conceptual before I saw Patrick like that, there but not there. His waxy face. A gray suit, like he was going to some kind of luncheon instead of ceasing to exist for the rest of time. That’s when I really understood. Death is part of the deal. For all of us.
I open my computer again and stare at Mamie’s timeline. More like a time capsule, her last update was two days before Patrick died. Not that it stopped everyone else from posting. It’s an endless scrolling memorial, an electronic spool of insincerity, people one-upping each other. Do they really think she’ll read it? Each comment tries to outdo the ones before: sappy condolences, clichés about angels and heaven, weird messages directly to Patrick himself, as if he’s lounging bored on a cloud somewhere, checking in from the afterlife, and not totally flying around using X-ray vision and listening in to people’s thoughts, like any self-respecting ghost would do if they had the chance.
I lie back on our cushy kitchen rag rug and stare at the collection of flies trapped in the ceiling fixture. Then I pull my laptop onto my stomach. The last photo she posted of them together has over 150 comments, more comments than there are upperclassmen at Bly, every one of them angling for a claim on the doomed pair, grabbing a little disaster for themselves. People are so clueless. No wonder Mamie ditched her page.
My popover timer dings and I almost toss my laptop. I laugh at myself. Spooked by a friendly ghost. I pull the pan out. The popovers are golden, full of promise. I wish I still felt hungry. Twenty minutes until Mom comes home, and I should make salad, but tragedy-trawling killed my appetite. I shoulder through the kitchen door and down the narrow hall to my room.
Up in my loft bed I look at Mamie’s page one more minute, then close my computer and lie back. I won’t find her there. Total waste of time, especially considering how much work I have for school. I squeeze my eyes shut and press on my lids until I see stars.
Possible new map: Evie’s inner galaxy. Dark matter.
Then I remember something.
I sit up.
Emma said she changed her name.
I stare out the window at the gray and darkening sky and try to remember if she said what the new name was. I roll on my side and reach for my phone.
Changed her name to what?
We’re on the same wavelength. Em’s reply’s instant.
Wren.
Then, before I can reach for my laptop, another text from her.
Why?
Gonna get her to stop the project.
. . .
I hold my breath and wait. Maybe it’s a mistake, even mentioning Mamie.
Her texting dots disappear. I’m about to set my phone down when this comes through:
Almost home, late again but had FUN! Stopping for
some mouthwash! :o !
I send XO back.
“Wren Wells” doesn’t bring up much, but I find a photo account with a profile picture of a rocky coast. I click Follow before I see the account’s private.
Her name also shows up on a list of student shows at RISD, but there are only a few low-res images of blurry paintings, and I can’t even tell if they’re hers.
I search everywhere, using every name combination I can thin
k of, but she has no footprint. She’s a ghost.
“Evie? You home?” My mom’s voice floats down the hallway. She sticks her head in my bedroom doorway. Her cheeks are rosy. It must be getting colder outside again. “Sorry I’m so late tonight! Something smells terrific. Tell me you made popovers.”
“I made popovers.”
“Aaah, best kid, ever! What did I do to deserve you?” She climbs up my ladder a few rungs to plant a kiss on me, her face tired but happy. “Whole bunch of college mail on the table by the door.”
“Mm-kay,” I say, noncommittal. I know what’s there. I’m the one who brought it in.
Her eyes linger on my face another second, but she lets it go.
“You working on homework?”
“Yeah,” I lie.
“All right. I’ll change and get started on the salad. Good day?”
“Good day.” I smile back at her. “Emma and I walked in together this morning. Fight’s over. Tell you more at the table.”
She leaves and I close my laptop. It was a good day. Even counting my lunch with Jack. Emma and I are back on track. That’s really all that matters.
I text Em.
IHYB.
She sends a heart back.
I’ll find a way to get Mamie to leave her alone. I’ll think of something. I have to.
Brilliant, Contagious
5:20 A.M. MY PHONE BUZZES ON the shelf overhead.
I squint at it, then fumble for my glasses.
Be on ur corner in 10.
It’s Em. My stomach shimmies.
U ok? I text back.
HURRY.
I sit up so fast I get a head rush, then nearly miss a rung on my ladder. I land on the side of my foot funny and limp around my room, groping for a pair of jeans. I tuck my sleep tee in and pull on my dad’s sweatshirt. While the weird cousins of excitement and dread slap me awake, I brush my teeth and pull my fingers through my hair. I’m on my corner in under ten.
Emma’s nowhere and it’s cold out.
I pull my sweatshirt in tight around my still sleep-warm body and look for her, up and down the block. I should have pulled on a jacket. Winter’s back. I’m ready to head toward her place when a yellow Mini Cooper zooms up alongside me.
“Hop in!” Emma says, leaning out a back window and smiling like she won the lottery or she’s about to tell me I did. She throws open the door.
“What’s with the car service?” I slide in next to her.
“Nice ’do,” she says, patting my sleep-challenged hair. Emma’s one of those people who washes their hair before bed because sleep just makes it prettier. Mine looks like I’ve fallen down a steep ravine and wrestled something dangerous at the bottom.
“Drink.” She hands me hot coffee in one of her mom’s big mugs. It’s the perfect color, sandy brown, made with heavy cream, exactly how I like it.
I sip it carefully and watch her from the corner of my eye. Her face is all joy, like someone’s taken a photo and cranked up the luminosity, brightened her until she became her own glow. Her hair’s in two fat, tousled braids and her lips are cherry red, an old favorite, a color I haven’t seen her wear in a while. Emma looks completely reborn. I won’t ask, because I don’t want details, but she obviously did have fun at Ryan’s yesterday.
“Um, where are we headed?” I ask as the car pulls onto Eighth and starts cruising uptown. I regret how it sounds the minute it’s out of my mouth. Ever the buzzkill. But Emma’s not fazed.
“You’ll see.” She smiles mysteriously.
While I sip my coffee and watch the city stir, she pats me on the leg and laces her skinny white fingers through my other hand. She’s bitten her nails super low, but painted them a pale and sparkly silver. My heart does another happy skip.
I have no idea what’s going on or how it happened, but this is more like it. Emma’s back from crazyland. Or maybe still in it a little, but she’s leaning against me, smelling like her perfume, steering us out on a zany errand—this is the Emma I know. A sliver of rising sunlight angles in low across her face until she’s blinding to look at, brilliant, contagious. I close my eyes, sink back into the seat, and finish the coffee she brought, trying not to laugh.
Whisper
THE CAR LETS US OUT AT Grand Central.
I hesitate a second, worried now about what she has planned.
“Wait, where? I don’t—” I start, then stop. “I’m not dressed for a trip!” I try to make it sound like I’m game for anything. I mean, I’ve got my phone. I’m not going to wreck this, whatever it is. Not yet. Not until I find out what she’s got in mind.
Em’s at the door already, but when she sees me hesitating on the curb, she rushes back to me, takes her mom’s mug from my hand and chucks it in a trash bin, then wraps her fingers through mine.
“Got the jimjams?” She laughs in my shocked face.
“What?”
She pulls me across the sidewalk and toward the station.
“SAT word of the day, Dummy. On Dr. Foley’s door? Means worried. Jimjams. Isn’t it great? Perfect for you!” She laughs, then shuffles us both into one triangle wedge of the revolving door.
She’s not trying to hurt my feelings, but she does, a little.
“Come on.” She tugs me along, her grip tight. We cut across the marble floors under the zodiac ceiling, darting through the still-mostly-unpeopled place, until she brings me to a domed intersection on a lower part of the terminal.
I follow her, laughing. Impossible not to, she’s practically dragging me. We dash through the space like maniacs, Em pulling my arm like she’s going to free it from its socket.
“Stand here.” She squares my shoulders and pushes me into a corner. Shoves me right in so my nose is nearly touching the place where the stone walls come together, like I’m a kid in trouble made to stand in the corner of the classroom.
“Kinda bossy this morning,” I say to the wall.
“Shush! Now stay right there,” she says, a teasing laugh in her voice. “Don’t move. Stay just like that. Okay? Trust me!”
I turn to look at her while she darts off. She stops, hands on her hips. “Evie. Face the wall. Come on. Haven’t you ever done this?”
I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I turn back and wait.
“Spain,” she says, standing right behind me again. Just the one word. I whirl around to face her, but she’s not there.
She’s on the opposite side of the gallery, facing a corner herself.
“How’d you do that?” I call across to her.
I heard her as clearly as if she whispered it over my shoulder.
Her laugh rings out. “Turn around!”
I do and I swear I can even hear her breathing.
“Patrick and I tried this once when we were younger. Then I saw it again on that Mysterious New York TV show last night. It’s so cool. The arches in here are nearly perfect. They carry the sound.”
“Why Spain?” I ask the corner, still stunned that this even works.
“We’re going, baby. Together. You and me.”
My stomach drops. I’ve been doing everything in my power to pretend this trip’s not even happening. I lean into the cool stone corner. It’s supposed to be our cultural betterment trip, full of art and architecture, like the Casa Milà, the Sagrada Familia, and the Picasso Museum, in Barcelona. It ends on Ibiza, a World Heritage Site, which is really, according to the people who’ve gone before, a giant party place with midnight dinners and dancing in clubs and nightly evasions of the super-lax chaperones. And I won’t be there.
“Stop it, Eeyore! I can hear your despair from there!” she laughs. “We’re going. I’m taking you. It’s my treat.” Emma’s voice floats to my ears from nowhere, startling me again with its clarity. “My parents were so glad to see you the other night, you know? Start working on your Spanish, because we’re on our way, chica!”
I whirl around to face her again. People are passing between us now and she looks farther away, popping in a
nd out of my sight as morning commuters hustle through.
She leaves her side and darts through the morning travelers to join me.
“¡Hola, chiquita! Tapas! Midnight dinners! Hello! Who’s going to Europe? We are!” she singsongs as she comes close.
I turn toward my corner again. This conversation would be easier if she’d keep to her post. She rests her chin on my shoulder. Digs it in a little to make me relax, but I feel really weird now.
“I can’t let your parents do that,” I say, keeping my voice low.
Em and I don’t really talk about money, mostly because it makes me feel unequal. Uncomfortable. They have more than we do. But she knows, she gets how I feel. How hard it is sometimes. I’m convinced that some of the clothes she buys, then decides look better on me, are things she’s really just buying for me.
She slips to my side and wedges her face in so I have to look at her. She’s beaming at me, willing me to catch her mood. This Em is night and day from the person I sat next to on her bed the other night.
“We’re going.” Her voice sharpens, almost betraying her smile. “We deserve this, Evie. After eleven long years at Bly? Think of the maps you can make over there! I’m not going to Spain without you.”
I turn and lean back in the corner a second and let myself imagine it. Spain. Totally more my speed than snorkeling anyway. Europe. A dream trip. Em and me together. And let’s face it, no matter what she says, no school that takes Em is going to take me too. And even if it did, we couldn’t afford it.
“Anhedonia, they destroy ya.” She sings it like the Kinks.
Now Em’s the one staring at me, waiting for me to be happy. Weird how fast the tables turn.
“Oh my God, I’m going to Spain!” I laugh.
She dances around me singing, “Silly girl, ya self-destroyer!”
The nightmare of our recent fight recedes like muddy floodwater, and in its place comes a dream of a sunny somewhere else, with centuries of history, small delicious plates of food, and cathedrals that look like they’re alive or melting or both. Feels too good to be true.