Starla inched closer, and as she did, George instinctively tightened his grip on the picture. “Hold on,” he said.
“Sorry, I was just wondering,” she said, “wondering if I could see the barrette you mentioned.”
George frowned.
“I know which one Audrey would’ve put in there,” she said. “I got it for my first semiformal. I used to love that thing, that’s all.”
He looked at me for advice, but I didn’t have any. He sighed and dug out the barrette, which was shaped like a butterfly and studded with black rhinestones. A black butterfly. After turning it over between his fingers for a minute, he tossed it to her. “You can keep it,” he said.
Starla caught the barrette and immediately put it in her hair. When she did, something melted away from her, and I could almost see the excited girl who was getting ready for her first dressup dance.
“This sure brings back memories,” she said dreamily, her eyes half-closed. “My dress was black silk, backless, and I had butterfly earrings too. They played ‘What a Night’ and ‘Forever Young’ and they turned off the lights for ‘Dance with Me.’ My feet were killing me in those four-inch heels, but I didn’t care. It was wonderful.” When she opened her eyes, they were misty.
For some reason, I reached over and touched the lock of hair taped to the backside of Starla’s photo. It belonged to a girl who’d once had a real life and real princess dreams. A girl who was denied that life and those dreams through no fault of her own. A girl who was long dead, but whose hair still felt fresh and supple. I pulled my finger away. George detached the lock.
“Here,” he said to Starla. She walked over to accept it, but George took it back. “Hold on, just a second,” he said, dividing the lock in two. “Okay, here you go. Just, you know, in case.”
She took the half-lock in her cupped hands. For a long time, she simply peered at the yellow strands, mesmerized. Maybe she was trying to remember what it felt like to have a living body. Maybe she was trying to recall what it was like to be a two-year-old. Or maybe she was just stalling.
Finally George said, “Do you…know what to do from here?”
She looked up at her son. Nodded slightly. Tried unsuccessfully to form a convincing smile. Blinked. “I wish you a long life, George. Long enough to give you time to forgive me.”
“Goodbye, Starla,” he said, a little bit compassion, a little bit command.
“Goodbye.” She held the lock tightly in one hand and smoothed her hair with the other. The black butterfly barrette fell to the floor with a light ping. And she was gone.
First things first, but not necessarily in that order.
—Doctor Who
George eventually picked up the butterfly barrette, which looked small and childlike in his hands. He ran his fingers over the black rhinestones. It was still real, still solid, not vapor like its owner.
“So,” I asked, “do you think you’ll ever forgive her?”
“I don’t know,” he said, his eyes trained on the hair piece. “I don’t know if I should.”
“You should.”
He looked up. “Why?”
“Because. Because she can’t hurt us anymore. And she’s your mother. And besides, they say forgiveness is the best revenge.”
“I’m gonna need some time on that one.” He sat beside me on the bed again and picked up the white box. “Funny how Ma never showed me this.”
“Yeah.”
“I wonder what Starla was thinking. She was so sure she knew Ma’s reason.”
I looked in at the memorabilia. “She probably figured your mother was jealous.”
“Of a dead girl?”
“Of a girl who shared your blood.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think that’s it. Why would Ma have given me the moon necklace then? I think she was trying to protect me from finding out how young Starla was. Like it would be harder knowing I was the result of some backseat high school fling than a respectable mistake between adults. The necklace, it’s real jewelry, it could’ve belonged to anyone, but this, this is all kid stuff.”
I put my hand on his thigh. It felt good to touch him just to touch him, not to make him see a spirit. “I hadn’t thought of that,” I said. “I’m guessing Starla didn’t either.”
“Probably not.” He put the barrette in the box and closed the lid, then got up and deposited it unceremoniously under the pink sofa. “There,” he said. “All done.”
“All done, really?”
“For now. Come on, let’s go downstairs. I need to get out of here.”
That was the best idea I’d heard in a while. We closed Bubbles’s door behind us, took the narrow steps to the second floor, and headed down the hall to the winding staircase. As we passed the Lilac Room, George said, “I can tell you one thing. I don’t care if I ever see another ghost again.”
“That might not be possible if you’re with me, you know.”
He stopped. “Are there any other ghosts I should know about?”
“Not that I’m aware of. But you never know.”
“Well,” he said slowly, “I’d say we’re a pretty good team if we need to be. I’m not worried.” He kissed me lightly, then tilted his head toward the Lilac door. “It’s still yours for a night,” he said. “Do you want to…?”
Of course I wanted to. But all at once, the irresistible aromas of Rita’s magic glided in. I took a deep breath, and I could smell it all—everything sweet and savory, rich and airy, potent and mild, exotic and familiar. The bouquet was spellbinding, like a command that somehow feels like your own idea.
“Hey,” I said, “How about first we…”
“Excellent idea,” he agreed.
We kissed one more time and headed straight to the kitchen.
About the Author
About the Author
shirley reva vernick’s interviews and feature articles have appeared in Cosmopolitan, Salon, Good Housekeeping, Ladies’ Home Journal, national newspapers and the publications of Harvard, Johns Hopkins and Boston Universities. She also runs a popular storytelling website, storybee.org, which is used in schools, libraries, hospitals and homes all over the world. She lives in Amherst, Massachusetts.
In 2012, her debut novel, The Blood Lie, was named to the American Library Association’s list of Best Fiction for Young Adults. It received the Simon Wiesenthal Once Upon a World Children’s Book Award and was an Honor Book for both the Sydney Taylor Book Award and the Skipping Stones Award.
Other Books by Shirely Reva Vernick
Other Books by Shirley Reva Vernick
Remember Dippy
“An enjoyable and provocative exploration of the clash between ‘normal’ and ‘different’ and how similar the two really are.”
—Kirkus Reviews
The Blood Lie
“A powerful—and poignant—reminder that no person can live freely until all people can live freely.”
—Lauren Myracle, author of Shine
Table of Contents
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
About the Author
Other Books by Shirely Reva Vernick
The Black Butterfly Page 20