Like Dr. Pratchett hears the bees too, he reaches across empty air and touches my hand, keeping me here. “We can discuss this another time if you prefer, Lily.”
I glance at the clock. It’s after time. “Maybe that’s a good idea.” I can’t hear what Hank said to Mom right now. Can’t hear it, can’t handle it.
“Just one thing before we end our session. When the phone would start ringing in your house, how would you make it stop?”
I don’t look up because I still smell whiskey. “I answered it.”
He waits.
“You think I should answer the buzzing?” I say to my hands.
“Did the phone stop ringing when you answered it?”
“Yes.” I look at not-Hank behind Dr. Pratchett’s chair. His whiskey bottle is gone. He stares at me with dead mantis eyes, then slowly holds up his hands, takes a mock picture of me. See you later. For the first time, I see him disappear. Click. Snap. Gone.
“What do you think will happen if you answer the buzzing?” Dr. Pratchett asks.
“I’ll disappear forever into the quiet place, end up a crazy homeless person talking to invisible people on a street corner. Or die.”
“You won’t die, Lily, and I don’t think you’re in danger of losing your mind.” Dr. Pratchett smiles. If he knew about the not-Hanks, he’d think something different for sure. “We’re here for you, your Aunt and I. I think answering the buzzing may be the next big step in your recovery. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Just one more thing before you go.”
“You said that last time.”
Dr. Pratchett smiles and gets up from his chair. “The joy of getting old, my dear.” He opens a drawer. “I have a workbook I’d like you to begin using as a companion to our sessions.”
“Homework?”
“Afraid so.”
“Summer school,” I mutter under my breath.
He laughs and holds it up for me to see.
“Margie has that one.” It’s the same workbook I saw on her shelf, the one I didn’t look at because I thought she might’ve written in it.
“It’s a good one,” he says without acknowledging Margie’s been a crazy here even though she told me.
Dr. Pratchett says to work through the book slowly, to not skip or look ahead. I can put it aside if it’s too much. I regard it with suspicion.
“It won’t bite, Lily, and I believe it will help you. I want you to pay close attention to what the book says about self-care. Sound good?”
“I didn’t bring a bag today.”
Dr. Pratchett looks confused.
“Sorry, I mean I’d rather not carry that around if it’s not in a bag. People are nosy enough without a book that tells them all about my problems.”
“Of course,” he says and grabs a canvas bag out of a drawer. “I’ve got plenty of these. You keep it. Carry the book back and forth in it. Okay?”
“Thanks.” I take the bag and read the stamped logo. “Twice Sold Tales. Margie and I went here once. It’s where Ha—” I look up fast. “It’s where this really cute cat decided to use me as a bed.”
Dr. Pratchett’s eyes go squinty. “Were you going to say something else?”
I shake my head and look down at the workbook in my hands. “I’ll start on it tomorrow. Okay?”
I don’t look at Dr. Pratchett again, but I feel him watching me. Push, don’t push. Right now it’s don’t push. I’ve made him late for his next appointment.
“Okay, Lily, sounds good.” He walks me over to the secret door. “See you next week?”
I think about Hank at the bookstore, in Margie’s apartment and almost say, “I hope so.” I manage to keep my mouth shut tight, though, and nod instead.
Fourteen
I trot fast to the elevator, then hit the down button over and over when I get there. I don’t watch my reflection or think about my almost telling Dr. Pratchett about the not-Hanks. I think only about Binka home alone and how if I don’t get downstairs fast, I’m going to miss my bus.
Finally the elevator doors sweep open with all their dramatic flourish. Empty. I ride down by myself and hit the lobby running. I stop only when I notice bright blond hair and a shiny turquoise blouse out of the corner of my eye. I stop, almost skidding into the guard’s desk. He smiles at me and then turns back to the blonde. Tiffany.
“Miss, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
Tiffany turns to an older version of herself with the same platinum blond hair, same expensive-type clothes. The woman who’s probably Tiffany’s mom smiles and tips her head. I don’t like her smile. There’s nothing soft or kind about her. She’s all hard edges and prickly barbs. “Now listen to me, Branson. I will not have you speak to my daughter this way.”
Tiffany gets this satisfied look on her face, her eyes glittery in the bright lobby. She watches the guard’s face closely.
Tiffany’s mom leans forward, unfurls a long, tapered finger with a long, tapered fingernail. “You find that necklace, Branson. If you don’t, I’ll be forced to believe some not-so-nice things about you, young man.” She pretends she’s joking.
“Ma’am—”
“What have I told you about that word?”
Poor Branson has moved into dangerous territory. Tiffany’s mom’s head is lowered like a bull and she’s watching him through her eyelashes. She’s about a second away from either launching herself across the high countertop to strangle the guard or ask in her fake calm voice to talk with his boss. It’s hard to tell which.
“So sorry, Mrs. Spangler,” Branson says. It’s obvious the security guard’s an old hand at this. I imagine Tiffany and her mom give him lots of crap all the time. He’s younger than the other guards and has a tattoo on his neck. I’m guessing getting a tattoo on your neck sets you up for a pretty high pain tolerance. Two unhappy, spoiled ladies probably just barely make his radar.
Tiffany’s smile is getting bigger and bigger and she’s watching Branson with a shiny glint in her eyes, like she’s hungry to see him get in trouble.
“Now, my daughter says she left the necklace on this counter. It’s a ten-thousand dollar item, Branson.” She looks him up down, up again. “I’m sure you can appreciate its value.”
“Of course, ma—Mrs. Spangler.”
“I’d like you to tell me where it is.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know.”
“My daughter says you were the one working when she left it here.”
“It’s quite possible.” Branson keeps his gaze steady, his focus on Mrs. Spangler.
“You realize this could mean your job?”
“I didn’t take your daughter’s necklace.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Quite sure.”
“What, pray tell, do you believe happened to it?” Mrs. Spangler’s gone full sarcastic.
“I imagine your daughter forgot where she put it. Perhaps it’s in your apartment. Or tucked away in a purse for safe-keeping. Like the ring she lost last month.”
Tiffany leans back, crosses her arms and stares hard at Branson. “I didn’t put it somewhere, you idiot.”
Mrs. Spangler turns to Tiffany and pats her on the arm. “There there, dear. Nothing to worry about.” She swivels back to Branson and there’s none of the sympathy she showed her daughter two seconds ago. “I’d like to speak to Mr. Peabody immediately,” she says in a hard voice.
“He’s off today.”
“Call him at home.”
“I’m afraid he’s unreachable. He’ll be in tomorrow, however. I’d be happy to relay your message then.”
Mrs. Spangler pauses to decide if she should keep throwing a fit, but even she can see that Branson is intractable. “Fine. You may have Mr. Peabody call on me at two o’clock sharp tomorrow afternoon. Not a minute late.”
“But, Mom—” Tiffany’s whining now, not wanting the confrontation to be over.
Mrs. Spangler shakes her head slightly. It’s enough to shut Tif
fany up until she sees me at the other side of the counter, watching her.
“What do you want, homely?”
Mrs. Spangler turns and gives me the head-to-toe sweep like Tiffany did in the elevator last week. “A new friend of yours?” she says.
Mrs. Spangler and Tiffany laugh like they’ve both just heard the best joke ever. They walk off arm-in-arm to the elevators, whispering and laughing between them, stealing glances over their shoulders at me. I hear “She wore that ratty thing last week” and “God, she’s pathetic, isn’t she?” and “Why doesn’t she comb her hair?” and “Did you ever see such black eyes? Terrible.”
Branson walks over to me, a kind smile on his face. I see he has lots of places for piercings, but none in. Empty holes where shiny, pretty things should be. I think people like Mrs. Spangler probably make him keep them out. His collar almost covers his neck tattoo, but not quite. It’s an intricate Celtic design that speaks of a patience Tiffany and Mrs. Spangler couldn’t hope to understand. “Are you all right, miss?”
“I’m okay. Are you okay?”
Branson smiles and shows me his very white teeth. “Thank you for asking. Yes, I’m fine.”
“My name is Lily,” I say. I offer my hand to shake. I think we’ve bonded, Branson and me. We’ve both been harassed by the Spangler duo.
Branson envelopes my hand in both of his, squeezes, then lets go. “It was great meeting you, Lily.”
I walk fast toward the glass doors. Before I get there, though, I turn back and give Branson a little good-bye wave. He’s nice and I don’t know if I’ll see him again since Tiffany’s mom might get him fired. He waves back and gives me another big smile. I think maybe I’ve made his day a little better.
I don’t feel too bad about that.
Fifteen
I’m walking fast past the water fountain, late for my bus. The water’s taking a break from all its dancing—quiet now, gone to its own nothing place.
“Hey, Lily!”
I turn toward the voice and see a familiar face. “Oh hey. Rick, right?” Not Rick. Nick. Like Andros. Anders.
His black hair waves back and forth when he shakes his head. He’s got that surprised look on his face again. “Nick, actually.” His expression says, how could you forget my name? His mouth says, “Still up for Pike’s?”
I think about last week and try to remember if I said I would go to Pike’s with Nick. I don’t remember promising.
“Oh, sorry,” I say. “Not today. I’m late.”
Nick looks taken aback. I’m a little annoyed he’s so sure of himself. Or me. Or girls in general. “Sorry,” I say again and start walking toward the bus stop.
“Wait,” Nick says. “We could still head down.”
“I’ve got to get home.”
“Not ‘Aunt Margie’s’ anymore?”
“Sorry?”
“Last week you were calling your place ‘Aunt Margie’s.’ This week you’re calling it ‘home.’”
“Yeah, okay.” I’m uncomfortable with his scrutiny, his notice. I stare at him and wait.
“Come on. I won’t keep you long, I promise,” he says. The confidence is back. He’s sure I’ll say yes.
“I can’t. I’ve got to catch my bus.”
“How about I give you a ride home then?”
“No. That doesn’t work for me.”
He grins. “I’ve never met a girl so comfortable with the word ‘no.’”
“Guess you have now.” I turn toward the bus stop again. My bus is pulling away. “Crap.”
“What’s wrong?” Nick asks. He’s sidled up beside me. I step away because he’s too close.
“There’ll be another one in half an hour,” I mumble.
“Let me give you a ride home.”
“No thanks, I’ll wait.”
Nick rolls his eyes. “Fine, then walk with me down to Pike’s. I’ll have you back here in time for your next bus.” He presses his hands together and starts to walk backward, like playing cute will make me go. “Please.”
“It’s that close?”
“I walk there all the time.” Nick’s halfway down the big concrete steps leading away from Dr. Pratchett’s building, grinning and beckoning with his hands. “Come on—no one can resist flying fish. Seriously, as far as fish throwers go, these guys are the best.”
I already saw the fish throwers with Mom last summer, but I don’t say this. I look around, trying to memorize where I am, making sure a not-Hank or real-Hank isn’t following. I’ll have to pay attention now.
I follow Nick like I’m a normal person shopping for some produce or a CD or a new scarf, maybe a tie-dyed T-shirt if I’m in the market. We walk into the main arcade and Nick goes right over to the flowers and buys a big bunch. I think his mom’s sent him on a flower-getting mission until he hands them to me. They’re Gerber daisies. He can’t know they’re my favorite.
“For you,” he says.
I haven’t caught up yet and say, “Won’t your mom want those?”
“Um, I bought them for you.” He’s smirking now, giving me his lopsided grin.
I take the flowers. “Thanks.”
“You don’t like these?”
I look at some pomegranates in a box to my right. Bright red orbs with two bees buzzing around them. Not my buzz. Their buzz. “They’re great, my favorite, actually. Thanks. Really.”
“You’re welcome.” I look up at Nick when his tone turns shy. He’s smiling like he’s just won the lottery. I guess he thinks picking my favorite flower is a pretty amazing feat. Seems like his being shy is the amazing feat.
“Let’s walk around a bit?” he says.
I hold the daisies close to me so they don’t get crushed by the crowds. My hands are full between Dr. Pratchett’s bag with the book that tells about my issues and Nick’s daisies. We make our way down aisles of fruit and more flowers, Nick leading the way. There’re a lot of people browsing, picking things up, putting things back down. I notice the mothers and daughters the most, how sometimes the kids are impatient when their moms try to get them to look at something, how they just want to be left alone with their cell phones and iPods. I want to tell them to spend the time and don’t worry about how it looks to their friends. If they just spend the time maybe they won’t regret so much later on.
Pretty soon we hear some guys hollering—the fish throwers. Nick’s standing a little close, but I don’t mind so much right now. We watch fish fly through the air and guys with rubber aprons laughing like it’s the best time of their lives.
Nick pulls me away just as a wayward fish flies by.
“Sorry, kids!” one of the fish guys hollers. “Free fish for the lovebirds!”
Nick holds up his hand. “No thanks. We’re fine.”
We move on so we’re not almost hit by more fish. Nick’s arm is around my shoulders and I don’t mind so much. He’s warm and where he touches feels alive. It’s the only place that does. My skin: alive from Nick’s touch. There are no flutters inside, though. No room for nerves. All seats taken. “Thanks for pulling me out of the way back there,” I say.
He drops his arm and says, “Guess you’re lucky I was available, not off saving the world or something.” Nick’s chin is up, his chest out like he’s going to show me the big S he’s got painted there. “I’ve heard of people getting killed by flying fish.”
“I think maybe you’re full of it.”
Nick gives me an exaggerated look of hurt. “You save a girl’s life—”
“You saved me some laundry,” I say and point at Mom’s sweater.
Nick shakes his head. “So ungrateful.”
There’s easy silence between us as we head out to where the street performers and artists are selling their stuff. Nick stops at a musician’s booth to look through some CDs. The guy pictured on the cover is sitting on a wooden stool a few feet away. He’s holding an acoustic guitar and singing softly into the noisy crowd. I watch him and after awhile he watches me too. He’s singing someth
ing I’ve never heard before. I’m listening to this guy with a long white beard who’s wearing a hat I’m pretty sure I’ve seen on an old TV show—a panama or something—and he’s singing about shouting down the wind. Shouting down the wind like he can make a difference. He doesn’t get that something as constant as the wind can’t be changed. Rain, lightning, wind, bullets—none of it can be changed. You can’t shout down anything. You can’t win.
I look away from the old guy with too much hope and see Hank standing behind him, watching me with his flat mantis eyes. Watching and waiting. His shirt is the same as what he wore at the bookstore—black button down. No jeans, though. Khakis this time. His work boots are the same, splattered with dried paint. He lifts one hand and waves. I think he tries to smile, but it’s something else, something not right. His head tilts, his eyes roll to the side and I see he’s busy listening again. Not to the music, though. Hank’s listening to something else and by the look on his face it’s something he doesn’t want to hear.
Hank’s whole face is frowning and he’s turning away when Nick comes along and bumps my hip. “Wanna sit by the water?”
Light green, Nick’s eyes, and full to the brim. He wouldn’t agree with me about not being able to shout down the wind. I think inside Nick there’s a lot of hope and happiness and sureness. Something behind it all too, I see now—something that makes me a little curious. I look back to where Hank or not-Hank was standing. He’s gone now, disappeared into the crowd or thin air. I don’t know which.
“Okay, then I have to go,” I say to Nick.
We’re walking toward the water and Nick’s touching my back lightly with is fingertips and I feel that aliveness again—little dots of light even through Mom’s sweater.
I stop a few feet behind a bench. This is where Mom and I sat when we visited last summer. The bench is where she told me our trip to Seattle wasn’t a vacation, that she’d already contacted a lawyer. The bench is where she told me we were leaving Hank.
“You okay?” Nick is asking.
“I’m okay.”
“Want to sit on that bench?”
I walk toward it.
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