Love Over Matter

by Maggie Bloom

  I’m not sure this is a compliment. “Okay . . .”

  “Different in a good way,” he clarifies, sensing my confusion. “You’re so undramatic, if that’s a word. I feel calm around you. I bet”—he pauses as if he’s weighing his words—“I bet George did too.”

  A couple of crows land on an overhead branch and start chatting it up (sometimes I swear I can interpret their squawks, thanks to my good ol’ bird-friend Clive). I wait for the conversation to die down before responding, “I hope so.” The air is balmy, which explains the errant raindrops splattering my forehead. It crosses my mind to press George’s hoodie into service, but that would require releasing Aleks’s hand. And I don’t want to. “Can I ask you something?” I say instead.

  He nods, his fingers tightening around mine.

  “Do you ever sense him? Like, you know, how twins have that special bond?”

  He shakes his head so glumly that I almost regret asking. But I can’t stop now. “Remember how you promised to do me a favor, if I helped you catch them?”

  “Not really.”

  “Well, you did.”

  He shrugs.

  There’s no civilized way to say this. “Can I kiss you?”

  His eyebrows pull together. “Kiss me?”

  “It’s not what you think,” I rush to explain. “It’s just that . . . Have you ever heard of channeling?”

  “That’s not real,” he says flatly.

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do.”

  I wiggle my hand away from his and run it through my hair. “Can’t you at least try?”

  “For what?”

  Seriously? He’s going to make me beg? After all we’ve been through? “He might be able to use you,” I say, feeling a tad creeped out at the idea, “since you have the same DNA. I mean, it should be easier for him than inhabiting a stranger.”

  There’s pain in his voice. “Is that why you invited me here?”

  By “here” I assume he means Milbridge, not the cemetery. “Of course not.”

  “Sure sounds like it.”

  “What could it hurt?” I ask in a coaxing voice. “Just one little kiss?”

  “I’m not him. I can’t be him,” he says, his tone edgy.

  I give a frustrated sigh. “That’s not what I want,” I argue. “I just want him to have a chance, the best chance to . . .” After an awkward silence, I murmur, “I miss him.”

  He spends so much time studying me that I’m convinced he’s counting my eyelashes (a bold feat, considering they’re so white they’re practically invisible). “I guess we can try,” he relents, getting to his feet and leaning against a tree. The look he shoots me is too heartbreaking to bear.

  Please, George, I beg silently, my lips starting to tingle. Just this once. Do it for me.

  Soon I’m in position, my hands hanging on Aleks’s hips, my eyes closed, my face tilted in anticipation. I expect him to warn me, but he doesn’t. Like the snap of an angry fish, his lips land on mine. He kisses with authority and determination: sterile, robotic, devoid of passion.

  This feels wrong. I want to cry. Instead, I summon George’s smiling face and pretend. My mouth softens under the friction of his tongue, floods with tepid sweetness. But it’s not enough to overcome our weak chemistry or the finality of death.

  “Sorry,” I say, pulling away from him, “but I don’t think it’s working.”

  His eyes are sad. “If I’d known him—”

  I don’t want him to hurt like I do. “It’s not your fault,” I interrupt. I give his hand a friendly squeeze and then head for the motorcycle.

  In a quiet funk, he follows along.

  chapter 20

  We roar up to the curb in front of Opal’s house, the rumble of the motorcycle competing with the snarl of storm clouds overhead. “Looks like rain,” I say, glancing at the sky (and struggling for post-cemetery conversation).

  Aleks takes the helmet from me, hangs it over the handlebars. “A church?” he says, noticing the unusual structure the Maddens call home.

  “Yup.” I give him what I hope is a truce smile and wave at the Maddens’ front door, which is embellished with a banner in Ian’s honor proclaiming: We’ll miss you! “Shall we?” I say.

  As we hike the steps, Opal whips the door open from the inside, an exuberant grin on her face. “Come in! Come in!” she squeals, grabbing my arm and tugging me forward. (Note to self: Opal’s “migraines” are ironically about as reliable as the weather.)

  According to Haley, the stint Mrs. Madden served in jail, however brief, did her a world of good. In the last ten days, she’s sobered up, filed for divorce, prepped the house for sale (which explains the fantastically clean state the place is in today) and flooded the job market with resumes.

  Sometimes you have to crash to reset things, I think, remembering a line from a recurring dream (or nightmare, depending on your point of view) uttered by a complacent George as he steered us (I’m in the car with him in this alternate reality) toward that deadly tree.

  In the case of Opal’s mother, though, the idea fits. “It’s beautiful in here,” I say as we snake our way to the church’s giant kitchen, where the heart of the party beats merrily away.

  Someone (Haley, Opal and/or Mrs. Madden, I suspect) has painstakingly draped a canopy of streamers across the ceiling in sweeping waves. In the background, a mishmash of old dance music—La Bamba has just bled into The Twist—zips along. I shoot a passing glance at Mom and Dad, who are twittering in each other’s ears like schoolchildren. Mom spots me and winks.

  At least they still love each other, I think, after all these years.

  I pull my gaze from my parents, only to spy another pair of lovebirds: Ian and Rosie. Until now, their romance has been nothing more than a ticking suspicion at the back of my mind. But his arm draped easily over her shoulder, her fingers dancing across his chest, their eyes locked in the sparkle of love leave no doubt.

  Opal grinds to a stop by an oversized island, which is mobbed by a spread of food: finger sandwiches, fruit plates, a tower of pastel-frosted cookies. “Have whatever you want,” she instructs, motioning at a tray of meats and cheeses. “There’s plenty more in the fridge. Oh, and the sodas”—she leans over and flips open a cooler—“are right here.”

  Aleks grabs a ginger ale, and I take a root beer. I’m just about to reach for a snickerdoodle when a boom of thunder hits my eardrums, making me jump. Aleks catches me by the waist one-handed, saving me from tripping over my own feet. “Oops,” I say, giving him a sheepish grin.

  He spins me to face him. “Jittery, are we?”

  A violent cloudburst breaks loose, drowning the Maddens’ small yard. Everyone stares moon eyed at the downpour.

  Haley is the first to get bored; she sidles up to Aleks and me with a smug face. “Long time no see,” she says, popping a grape in her mouth. “Ian’s looking for you.”

  I take her hint and extricate myself from Aleks’s helpful grasp. He follows me to an alcove by the pantry, where Ian and Rosie are curled obliviously around each other, making me doubt Haley’s recent proclamation. “Hey,” I say once Ian’s gaze connects with mine.

  He looks caught, as if snuggling with Rosie is a betrayal. “Oh, good. You guys showed up.” He nods at Aleks. “Thanks for bringing her,” he says, equating me with a bottle of wine or an invalid.

  “Nobody brought me,” I object. “But Aleks was nice enough to give me a ride.”

  Rosie rolls her eyes, revealing whose side she’s on.

  Aleks cracks open the ginger ale and takes a sip. “So when do you leave?” he asks Ian.

  “Move-in day is Thursday.”

  Rosie looks crushed.

  Ian returns the question to Aleks. “What about you?”

  “Right after this,” he replies, gesturing at the festivities. “As long as the rain stops, that is.”

  A spark of recognition hits Ian’s face. “You’ve got the bike, right?”

  Aleks nods. “
Yup. Unfortunately.”

  Lightning flashes through the sky, sending eerie shadows bouncing across the Maddens’ kitchen. Another clap of thunder echoes. “You can stay one more night, if you have to,” I say.

  He politely declines, on the basis that he’s due to help his dad wrap up that research study. By the day after tomorrow, I’ll have lost not only George, but Ian and Aleks too.

  But I can’t dwell on that now, because there’s celebrating to do. And one thing I won’t allow is a depressing sendoff for my next-best friend.

  The music has leapfrogged a few decades to Love Shack. “Wanna dance?” I ask Ian, offering my hand.

  Rosie practically shoves him at me.

  With a shrug, he says, “I guess.”

  Like I said, the Maddens’ kitchen is humongous (in its former life, it must’ve been the hub of the church-supper wheel). Ian and I shuffle over to an expanse of empty linoleum and, a little self-consciously (and ridiculously badly, I might add), begin hoppin’ and boppin’ and bringing the house down.

  Out of mercy—or perhaps pity—Aleks and Rosie join us. Then Haley and Opal. Dad invites Mrs. Madden onto the floor, leaving Mom to sift through the five or six teenage partygoers (Ian has friends other than me, and the proof is right here) who are lingering around the periphery swapping nervous laughter. Somehow Mom coaxes Eva Ryan, Milbridge High’s star softball player, into serving as her dance partner with hilarious results. Soon even the looky-loos cave and, for three or four songs straight, we all gyrate around in a stew of feverish movements that would make a Tasmanian devil proud, the ongoing thunder enhancing the beat of the music, the lightning generating a natural strobe-light effect.

  Eventually, Mom tires out, her face flush and her hair matted with sweat. I get a jolt of worry over her heart, but then I remember that the cardiologist has given her the all clear.

  Little by little, the rest of us peel away from the dance floor and congregate around the island, greedily replacing the calories we’ve just burned off. “How’s it going?” I ask Mrs. Madden as she fills up on Swiss cheese beside me. The furrows in her face have miraculously relaxed, making her appear ten years younger.

  She waves my question away. “Oh, you know . . .”

  I repeat my earlier statement. “This place looks great.” But I fail to think through what I say next. “Too bad you have to sell it.”

  Her eyes—and somehow only her eyes—flinch. “I will miss it here,” she responds wistfully.

  I rush to backpedal. “A fresh start will be nice too, though,” I try. “Right? And you and Opal can come visit anytime. Haley would be thrilled.”

  Her gaze hangs on Mom and Dad. “We just might take you up on that,” she says, patting my arm with her still-papery fingers.

  Someone (if I had to bet whom, I’d put my chips on Haley) has duct taped a donkey poster to the inside of the Maddens’ back door. How I’ve overlooked the thing until now I’m not quite sure. “Here,” Opals says to Aleks, passing him a golf-themed necktie pilfered, I assume, from her stepfather’s wardrobe. “We’re using these for blindfolds.”

  Aleks looks amused. “Okay,” he says, being a sport. He gives the tie a shake. “Thanks.”

  Apparently, the golf-themed accessories run deep, because I get a kelly green neckerchief that is sprinkled with nine irons. I’m not so gracious about accepting it, though. “Uh, I don’t know. Is there going to be spinning involved? I don’t do well with rotation.” This isn’t just a lame ploy to get out of playing pin the tail on the donkey; when I chanced riding the teacups at Six Flags, I morphed into The Exorcist’s demonically possessed girl-child, projectile vomiting and all.

  Opal shrugs and moves on with her basketful of blindfold substitutes. Once everyone is properly attired, the fun begins. “Please form a line here,” Mrs. Madden instructs in an elevated tone that barely surmounts the torrent outside.

  Haley is first to oblige, then Opal. Mom and Dad squeeze in next, followed by the unit known as Rosie and Ian. Aleks and I are wandering over to fill out the middle when the remaining guests rush in and take our place, leaving us solidly at the end of the line. “What do we get if we win?” I mumble, trying to find the upside of such a nausea-inducing activity.

  To answer my question, Mrs. Madden brandishes a glass replica of a giraffe that reminds me of a giant bejeweled scepter. “Closest to the . . . well, the buttocks,” she says, making the word sound more risqué than seems possible, “gets to take Mr. Lincoln home.”

  The giraffe is named Mr. Lincoln? As in our sixteenth president? If I squint, I guess I can see the resemblance.

  Mrs. Madden is exempt from competing, but the rest of us are issued push-pin-studded “tails” (narrow slices of cardstock that more resemble crescent moons than mammal appendages), each in a distinct color.

  “I hope I don’t get sick,” I mumble, clutching the hot-pink tail to my chest.

  Aleks pats my back reassuringly, and I begin to relax. “Look,” he says, pointing over my shoulder at Haley, who, after twirling like a top for thirty seconds, is wobbling back our way instead of forward at the donkey. “Your sister’s not doing so hot.”

  He’s trying to cheer me up, and it’s working. “True,” I agree with a chuckle.

  Before Haley gets too far out in left field, Opal latches on to her arm and redirects her, resulting in what could be the winning tail placement.

  “Woo-hoo!” someone (Mom?) yells. A number of people clap and whistle as Haley, looking a bit green in the face, staggers to a chair and collapses.

  It takes a while to get through the eight or nine people in front of us, but eventually Aleks and I are on deck. “Ready?” he asks, tugging the neckerchief from my hand and preparing to fasten it over my eyes.

  I shoot the donkey a last-minute glance, noting the cluster of tails pinned around Haley’s early attempt—and slightly southeast of buttocks central. “I’m never gonna be able to . . .” I complain, my vision going dark.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Aleks whispers. “I’ll help you.”

  His hands feel more familiar than they should as they cup my elbows and shimmy me forward. We stop, and he gives me two slow rotations. The tail is ready for action, but he steadies me for a few extra seconds before letting go. “Straight ahead,” he breathes into my ear.

  As easy as he’s taken it on me, I still feel woozy. I hold one hand out and risk a couple of awkward steps, my fingers landing on the poster with ease. Once I find the sea of tails, I aim northwest and give a careful stab. Then I whip the blindfold off and grope along the wall until I’m in line with an empty chair, where I flop down beside Haley and close my eyes.

  Aleks is up last. Everyone hoots and hollers and cheers him on. I can’t open my eyes, lest the bubble of nausea in my gut multiply. Still, I hear Mrs. Madden announce that the game has ended in a tie: Aleks and I must share Mr. Lincoln.

  Is he okay with joint custody? I wonder. And liberal visitation rights? Should we vacation together, for the sake of our giraffe?

  I focus on my breathing, try to keep down the egg salad sandwich I’ve recently consumed. When I pry my eyelids apart, it’s obvious that the weather has done a one-eighty. Instead of the gloomy, rain-drenched atmosphere that existed before, the Maddens’ stained-glass window now overlooks a sparkly Eden (everything is glistening, as if dipped in dew) in the grip of full-summer sun.

  With an extra shot of determination, I lurch out of the chair and speed to Aleks’s side. “I’ve gotta get some air,” I blurt.

  His eyebrows pinch together in concern. “Oh. All right.” Furiously, he scans the kitchen for . . . someone to babysit Mr. Lincoln? “Mind watching this?” he asks Haley, already pressing the kitschy thing into her hands.

  My sister’s reaction is nothing if not predictable. “Whatever.” She sighs and rolls her eyes.

  When we reach the Maddens’ cozy, plant-filled yard, the steam lifting off everything gives the impression we’ve just landed on a tropical jungle-planet. “Phew,”
I say, wiping away the beads of moisture already speckling my forehead.

  “This might not be a good idea,” Aleks tells me. “It’s so muggy out here.”

  He’s right, of course. “I’ll be okay,” I argue, not knowing if this is true.

  For reasons unknown, Aleks looks lost. Sad. Lonely. He treads the twenty feet between the church and the white-picket boundary fence, where he peers sullenly into a copse of trees abutting the Maddens’ property.

  I feel like a voyeur. An interloper. The violator of a sacred trust. Whatever is weighing on him is clearly painful, and I haven’t earned the right to witness it yet.

  But I trace his steps anyway, because he’s George’s brother—and my friend. “Hey,” I murmur, the dense air thickening further with emotion. I fumble for his hand and squeeze.

  What happens next reeks of hallucination. Delusion. A wounded girl’s desperate grab for Xanadu on the horizon.

  Spilling from the sky like a child’s hopeful finger painting is a glittery rainbow, which terminates at our feet. Aleks steps into its glow and wraps me in a protective hug. “I lied,” he tells me in a tone that is both apologetic and consumed by relief.

  My eyelids slide shut, my mind’s eye opening.

  “I sense him,” he whispers, exhaling a dizzying cloud of cinnamon. “All the time. If you want to try again . . .”

  He must be referring to the kissing. “Sure.”

  In my imagination, a healthy, carefree George glides across the rainbow and coasts to a stop over Aleks’s shoulder.

  I tip my face up, my arms clasping reflexively around Aleks’s back. The kiss begins the same as before: foreign and mechanical.

  But then something . . . happens.

  The Maddens’ humid backyard falls away, leaving George and me locked in a tender embrace, my feathery gown shimmering in the moonlight, his bowtie marginally askew. I reach up to straighten it. “You look so . . . perfect,” I say.

  He responds with a grin, takes my wrist and gives me a twirl. For a long while we’re whirling, our movements perfectly matched, violin music rising to meet us.