OK, maybe just small breaths. Maybe small breaths will get me to where I need to be. Just sip some air and let tomorrow’s words find me.
Small breath . . . Patrick —
Small breath . . . was —
Small breath . . . Patrick was —
Small breath . . .
Useless. There’s no way I’ll be able to think of something nice to say by morning.
I hate this so much. Why can’t Patrick’s parents be the ones to talk about him? Even when he’s dead, I still lose to him.
At least it’s quieter in here. I know this is borrowed time, and any second a new awkward person will come through the entryway with more questions I can’t answer.
A pile of over-energized kids rushes in from the hall, storming my castle. The stale cookies won’t know what hit them. Time to go.
I get back to the entrance of the main parlor only to see that it’s even more crowded than before. Mom and Aunt Rose are still at the front door greeting people.
A lanky older man arrives. Mom greets him first with a hug and smile. Her arms turn slightly toward her sister to subtly guide the man to her. In perfect sync, Aunt Rose reciprocates by turning her torso to the guest being passed her way. They don’t look at each other through the exchange. Each half of the twin knows what the other will do. A silent communication flows between them as guests interact with the sisters. As much as their parasitic relationship bothers me, I have to admit it’s impressive at times.
“Oh. Oh, my. Girls, it has been too long,” a large woman boasts to Mom and my aunt.
Mrs. Whitehead walks through the entryway. In grade school she always ran the spring carnival. And the Halloween fest. And the book drive. She liked being in charge. I don’t know when the last of her kids went through the school, but no one had the guts to tell her she couldn’t be in charge of social functions anymore. She’s a beastly woman with gorilla-like man hands. Maybe those hands intimidated people and they were too afraid of them to say no.
Mrs. Whitehead hugs Mom first. As much as she tries, Mom can’t hide her discomfort of being in the warm embrace of this woman. Aunt Rose is next. She gets a similar hug with an added bonus: Mrs. Whitehead grips my aunt’s wrists as she comes out of the hug, almost like she’s afraid to let go. Aunt Rose grimaces, as she is probably losing circulation in her fingertips. I take a sick pleasure in this. She deserves a little pain for sacrificing me to the podium tomorrow.
Mrs. Whitehead finally releases her. Mostly. She lets one of Aunt Rose’s wrists go and slides the other gorilla club down to my aunt’s hand. Mrs. Whitehead smiles while pulling my aunt toward the other side of the room, making it clear she wants to show her something. It reminds me of the way our neighbor wanted to show off his new car. Aunt Rose doesn’t even need to look at Mom; she knows to follow and help her sister.
I remember in science when we talked about diffusion. We did this lab with carrots and water. Each of us got two carrots. One went in a beaker of water, the other in a beaker with nothing. We let the carrots sit overnight and examined them the next day. We had to answer the question “Where did the water go?” The carrot sitting in water was crisp, and crunchy (Hannah Verlander ate it against protocol), and full of water. The other was dry, soft, and bendable. The water molecules went where they found space. Whether that was in the carrot or in the air, they moved to open space.
By the law of diffusion, I’ll continue to go where there’s space. Thank you, Mrs. Whitehead, for creating space for me.
I creep my way to the newly minted clearing, hoping no one grabs me. The open space won’t last, but I’ll take any victory right now.
This wall is perfect to lean against for the remainder of my time here. I’ll have a few moments befor —
Something winks at me from the floor. Something shiny.
It can’t be.
I’ve never seen it in the open like this.
It sparkles against the dull beige carpet, almost calling out to me.
Aunt Rose’s beetle bracelet.
It actually isn’t a beetle, but a weevil, or at least that’s what Aunt Rose says. The story goes that their father gave the girls their own silver bracelets for high-school graduation. On each was a charm of something in nature that wants to be around the flowers they were named after. Lily got a butterfly, Rose a weevil. I think it’s a beetle and he just told her it was a rose weevil because it sounds more poetic, but she firmly believes that her hot-tempered, alcoholic father scoured the earth to find an abstract insect charm just for her.
Mom and her sister have an undeniable bond, but this is one area they differ.
Aunt Rose never took her bracelet off; Mom never put hers on. I asked her about it once. It went on my list of questions that are quickly dismissed. The same happens when I ask anything about my grandfather. Grandma Mutz will sing like a canary about him, but Mom locks up and moves on. I even asked where her bracelet is and only got “in a safe place.”
The rose weevil bracelet, however, is as much a part of my aunt as her own thumb. She is never without it and would be devastated if it were ever lost. It’s like her Achilles’ heel. Except, she’s not really that strong to start with. And she cries over anything. Still, it’s one of her weaknesses.
It must have fallen off when Mrs. Whitehead held on with her mighty ogre-like hello. This is so surreal, to see it somewhere other than on Aunt Rose’s wrist. I’ve seen her without her wedding ring but never without her bracelet. Her emotional throttle will go off the charts if she thinks it’s lost. I should get it back to her before a disaster happens.
I should get it to her now.
I really should.
Or . . .
You know what?
Let her come unhinged.
She wants me to step up to a mic tomorrow and make things up about a person who has tortured me all my life while she sits quietly in a pew, judging what I say. She wants to set me up for failure by putting me on display for all the world to see because she’s too scared to do it herself.
No.
No, I should help.
I should.
Besides, if she doesn’t find her bracelet, she’ll drag Mom into her mess. Then Mom will be upset because her sister is upset because Aunt Rose could never just be upset by herself. Then Mom would be an anxious mess trying to calm Aunt Rose down.
Mom . . .
The one who told me I was doing this speech for Aunt Rose no matter what. The one who thinks I can perform like a circus monkey and doesn’t want to hear anything else from me. The one who smacked me down when I told her I didn’t want to do it.
Actually, if Aunt Rose lost her bracelet . . .
I shouldn’t interfere.
I move strategically from the wall and stand in the center of my newfound space. The silver beetle is securely out of sight, resting in the crevice between the front of my heel and forefoot. I don’t want to break it — I just want to watch someone besides me experience panic for a moment.
With hands in pockets and my best casual face on, I look toward my aunt to see if she’s noticed. Nothing yet. Mrs. Whitehead still owns her hand and is going over some of the pictures. There must have been one from a school event that caught her eye from across the room. Mom is trying to break the bond without physical contact, but she may be out of options.
Mom’s finger points toward the crowd while she looks to be explaining something. I’m sure she’s telling Mrs. Whitehead they’re needed somewhere. Mom does the shoulder touch on the Yeti and it seems to work. Aunt Rose gets her limb back and forces a smile to Mrs. Whitehead while trying to discreetly rub life back into her hand. Aunt Rose’s eyes dart to the side, seeing a horrible image only for her. She looks to her wrist, at the curveball she can’t hit.
Showtime.
Aunt Rose’s left hand, naked wrist and all, grabs Mom’s forearm. She tries to whisper to Mom what happened, but her emotions won’t allow a quiet voice. In the same way they greeted and passed guests, the twins work
as a team, with all four eyes in perfect synchronization, darting on the ground below them.
Still clutching Mom, Aunt Rose murmurs something to herself. Their shoulders tense upward together. Both necks crane higher, almost as if they’re trying to float so they don’t disturb the crime scene. Their eyes work as a unit, and I watch the desperation set in. I envision an imaginary improv teacher instructing them, “You’re on a rickety ship, and if you move too much, you sink. Go!” Aunt Rose’s face crinkles, Mom’s is frantic, confused.
Good.
Now they know what it feels like.
Any second now, they’re going to retrace their steps and head my way. I won’t be able to pretend I didn’t know I was stepping on it.
With my eyes forward, I pivot off my heel and slide the guilty foot slightly back. Not too far, just enough where a quick swing of my toe will knock it to the wall and leave me clean.
Casual look, hands still in pockets, three-two-one, swipe . . . and success. I turn on my heels in the direction of the bracelet to see it resting perfectly against the trim. Not too hidden, not too hard to find. I’ll let Mom and Aunt Rose stew for a bit more. If they still can’t figure out it was Professor Plum with the wrench in the library, then I’ll act like I found it and tell —
Sofia?
How long was she standing there?
Did she see me kick the bracelet? I swear that girl is part cat.
I give her a wave, trying to not look like I just performed an incredibly cruel act against her mom. She nibbles on the remains of a back-room cookie. She must have ducked in there after I left. She waves back with her Norman hand. I can’t read her face.
I’m turning. Yup. It’s happening. I’m Hulking out. But instead of going green and gaining strength, I go red and sweaty. Maybe she didn’t see. Maybe she just got there. Maybe I’m overreacting.
Wait. Aunt Rose and Mom aren’t retracing their steps? I thought for sure they’d come over here and see it and this would be done. Where are they going? Oh, no. She’s going to get Uncle Mike.
She’s going to cry to him and he’s going to get overwhelmed. And angry.
Then Mom will tell Dad to defuse the situation.
Then he’ll get overwhelmed. And frustrated.
That’s how it always goes.
Aunt Rose makes it to her husband. He and Dad are standing by Patrick’s casket. Her hands are no longer under control as she explains what happened and gives my uncle the task of “Just fix it somehow.” The familiar look of submission takes over his face. Mom talks to Dad but in a more controlled manner. It isn’t his fight, but he’s in it now.
It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.
All four of them start talking at once. The couple in line takes a step back. I can see their indecisiveness; they aren’t sure if they should continue to wait or just move straight to the casket.
Guilt churns from deep in my stomach. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I just . . . I don’t even know. I need to walk away. I need to not be here right now. I’m red and sweaty and can’t breathe and want new pants and to not be here and —
“Oh! Thank you, sweetie! Thank you!” shouts an exuberant Aunt Rose.
Aunt Rose gives her daughter a tight hug while the husbands exhale that the crisis is over. Before the chaos hit the masses, before the imaginary ship sank, the bracelet found its owner.
Sofia. Without anyone seeing her assassin-like movements, she scooped up the lost treasure and returned it to the rightful owner.
Did she see me after all? She doesn’t miss much.
My face likely has traces of guilt, and I decide to stay put and out of their way. Sofia holds her mom’s hand as the sisters return to their post at the entrance. The husbands get the line moving again. All seems right in this world of wakes and funerals as if the last four minutes never happened.
I didn’t do anything wrong, though. Right? I’m not the one who knocked it off her wrist. I didn’t totally hide it. I didn’t initiate anything. I shouldn’t even feel bad. I just . . . let things happen.
Why didn’t I see it playing out this way? Aunt Rose is always the first domino to fall, followed by Mom, Uncle Mike, then Dad. Patrick was the one who always started this chain reaction.
Now I’m the one who created the chaos.
Maybe I’m no better than Patrick.
Aunt Rose always thought if Patrick had a creative outlet, he could get himself under control. Sports were usually out, because they require teamwork (a lesson learned in soccer when he head-butted a girl in our first-grade league), and so was anything dealing with art (as that involved Patrick sitting still, which was nearly impossible). Aunt Rose mentioned Scouts once. Uncle Mike kept eyes on her while he turned his head to the left, and mouthed, “Knives?” then to the right, “Fire?” She nodded in compliance.
When the flyer came home with all third-graders for a nonathletic, noncompetitive club, hope was renewed for Patrick to find a calling.
And so, the common theme of my childhood appeared again in the form of Young Engineers Club: another organized group, run by volunteers, that would be “really good for Patrick.”
Patrick seemed genuinely excited for it, though. If he joined, that meant Mom would make sure I was soon to follow. I actually was kind of interested, too. I just wished my parents would have asked me instead of telling me.
We met every Thursday night for two hours at Monroe Grade School. Each session had a routine: the volunteers gave us a set of materials and a building task. The first week’s challenge was to construct a bridge that could hold a one-pound weight; the next week it was a working pulley that could lift the same weight. Since the group was open to anyone in grades three through six, the older kids typically could complete the task while the younger kids struggled not to spill glue.
Patrick actually did all right there. He was a little riled up at first, but once we’d get our task, he managed fine. The difference between Young Engineers and every other group Aunt Rose threw him into was this club didn’t follow the cardinal rule of youth organizations: cooperation was not required. As each task was unveiled, we could work with whomever we wanted, or alone. Patrick and I worked parallel to each other — but not necessarily together. For once, it worked. Patrick still hung the imaginary “__ days since last incident” sign around his neck, but so far this group didn’t entice his episodes by forcing him to work with others.
However, that counter went back to zero when we had the pinnacle of every Young Engineer’s experience: the YE Glider Launch.
It was mentioned at each of our previous meetings. The buzz from the older kids spoke for itself that this was the biggest night for Young Engineers.
All Young Engineers, regardless of age, were equal in the eyes of the Launch. The winners could be from any group. It was all about which glider flew the farthest. Trophies were awarded for first-, second-, and third-longest flights, plus one for most creative design.
When the night arrived, Patrick confidently strolled in with his dad, armed with a paper bag of supplies.
“Hey, Jimmy! You ready to see me win?” he exclaimed with a just-struck-it-rich grin while setting his bag down as if it were the first-place trophy.
“Sure. But I doubt that’s going to happen,” I responded, scanning the older groups with their toolboxes and various contraptions ready for their gliders. Having been here before, they clearly had an advantage on what would work. “I think these guys know what they’re doing better than us.”
“They don’t know what I’ve got in mind,” he said, looking at his prized paper bag. His eyes were alive, a look I knew well. It was the look that meant he’d been cooking something big in his brain. Sometimes this was a bad thing, but if he got fixated on something creative, it could be pretty cool. I could tell he’d mapped something out. Whatever he was planning to do with his glider, it got me curious.
The rules of the night were simple. Every Engineer was given a kit with the exact same components. Each box containe
d:
1 cylinder of wood for the body
1 set of wings
2 nails for the wings
We had one hour of work time to meet the specifications required. It had to weigh at least three ounces, fit in the confines of the measuring box, and use all the kit materials. You could also bring extra components, paint, or whatever you wanted. Besides the dimensions, anything was fair game to create a glider that could outfly the rest.
One more rule echoed through our ears that every participant was told to follow. A rule that required the honor system, which was the core of what it meant to be a Young Engineer:
Thou shalt not have thy parents build for thee.
When the volunteer mom passed out the kits, she was very direct that it should be our project and not our parents’ work.
“All right, Young Engineers! Listen up!” the head parent announced. “Before we get started, here’s what your task is for the Glider Launch. Next to me is an example of simple engineering I created myself for tonight.” He stood next to a small machine sitting on a cart. His pudgy hand rested proudly on it. I pictured his son in place of the device.
“This here is our launchpad. Built her myself with some basic knowledge of engineering. Started with a tennis-ball shooter and made some changes for our needs. Now we have a fully functioning glider launcher of our own.” His free hand rose, awaiting applause. While enjoying his reception, “I should start selling these on the side” was casually conveyed to another dad on his left.
“Here’s how it works. I turn it on, set your glider in, and we watch her fly.” The proud creator of the launcher placed a wood cylinder from a kit into the machine. He gave it a nudge and we watched as the shape took to the air.
“And yours truly,” he boasted, hand on his heart, “will be your Launch Coordinator for the evening.” His hand raised, again, for applause.
“All right, Young Engineers, you have one hour. The clock starts”— he paused, soaking in the power of his moment — “now!”
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