by K. A. Holt
Neither Mom nor I say anything. Though deep, deep down in the dark caves of my soul, I can kind of, sort of, maybe, possibly, see his point. Maybe.
I’m eating sausage—not breakfast sausage, actual mesquite-smoked sausage, with jalapeños in it—when the phone rings.
“I can’t believe you can eat that first thing in the morning,” Mom says, walking to the phone. I shrug, dunk my sausage into Dad’s special vinegar-based barbecue sauce, then wrap the dripping mess in a tortilla. I take a huge bite and feel my mouth water as the sausage and sauce bite back. Another man’s football game snack is my delicious breakfast.
Mom’s voice is ratcheting up in volume as she says, “Yes,” then “Yes!” then “YES!” and I know this must be the school counselor calling about physics. Mom looks at me as I chew my spicy mouthful and she gives me a thumbs-up. I just stare at her while I chew. Sometimes, out of the blue, I get these flashes of her at the funeral. When she was crying so hard her whole body shook in waves, like human earthquakes. She made this animal noise … this wailing … that still makes the hairs on my arms stand up when I think about it. I look at her on the phone, giving me a thumbs-up, and for some reason, that’s what I see. The sausage in my mouth has turned to dust. I look away.
I hear the beep of the phone hanging up, and in a nanosecond, Mom is by my side, breathless. “You did it!” she says. I can hear the smile in her voice, but my brain is still seeing her wailing at the funeral. “They’ve arranged for you to start this afternoon. Mrs. James will let you out of history ten minutes early so you can walk over to the high school. Go to the front office, check in, and then go to Mr. Robertson’s class. You remember where it is, right?”
“The high school?” I ask, playing dumb.
Mom’s face darkens. “You aren’t happy about this? No excitement?”
Somehow, all of her excitement seems to be stealing mine away. I wonder if Mr. Robertson’s physics lectures can explain that to me.
“I remember where the classroom is,” I say, wiping my mouth and standing up. “And I am excited. I promise.” I try so hard to smile for Mom, but I’m afraid it must look like I’m being electrocuted. She smiles back at me, looking dubious.
“I have to go,” I say. “Don’t want to be late.”
“Don’t you want me to drive you?” she asks as I open the kitchen door.
“Nah,” I say. “Extra exercise.”
She looks at me in this way I can’t really describe. Like maybe I’ve turned into a very disappointing alien. I flee the kitchen. The cool air outside smacks me in the face and I take huge, deep breaths. Is Mom always going to remind me of the funeral? Is everything?
“Heeeeeeey!” Taylor jogs up next to me. She’s back to her flowy dresses, just like I’m back to my T-shirts and jeans. So much for our Sandy-taking-over-the-school attire. Taylor links her arm in mine as we walk down the sidewalk. “You coming to the store after school?”
I nod. “I might be a little late, though.”
“Okay, cool. I’m going to be late, too. Lacy and Katherine asked if I wanted to hang out after school.” Her cheeks flush and she looks at the ground. I think of Lacy and Katherine, the inseparable duo who always seem to be giggling in a corner somewhere. Does Taylor want to be giggling in a corner somewhere instead of hanging out with me? “I mean, you could come, too, if you want …” she adds quickly. I can tell by her voice, though, that I wasn’t part of the original invitation.
“It’s all right,” I say. And, truly, it is. As much as it makes me feel a little itchy to think of Taylor not wanting to hang out with me, I would much rather be studying physics than trying to giggle in a corner. I lift my nose in a snooty way, to make Taylor laugh and lighten the awkward mood. “I’ll be late because I’ll be coming from the high school.”
“From the—? Oh my gosh! You got into the physics class?” She stops walking and grabs my other arm. “Amelia! That’s so awesome!”
I smile. “It is, isn’t it?”
She grabs me up in a bone-crushing hug. “Good work, you!”
I can see her eyes drifting off as a million ideas come to her at once. “You’ll be like our high-school spy! You can tell me everything that’s happening over there. Who are the cool kids? Who are the ones to avoid? What clubs are the best for meeting people? Who are the cutest boys? Lacy and Katherine are going to pass out when I tell them we have a high-school infiltrator on our hands! Amelia! You’re like a spy AND an explorer!”
I push her off of me and laugh a little. “No. I’m just a big nerd. But thanks for your confidence.” I want to tell her that Lacy and Katherine totally won’t care, but it makes me smile that she wants to brag about me. Even if it’s because of my access to high-school secrets.
Taylor stares at me like a parent stares at a kid on graduation day. “First this, then you’ll get on the softball team. Soon, you’ll be asking out boys and hosting parties. My little Amelia is growing up.” She pretends to wipe away a tear.
“Oh, good grief,” I say. “Not everything is about that stupid letter, you know.”
“It’s so not stupid!” she retorts. “You’re already coming out of your shell! High school, Amelia! OH EM GEE.”
I hate it when she says OMG.
“This physics thing is totally separate from the letter,” I remind her. “Clara didn’t even know I was good at science.” My voice catches at the end of the sentence. Great. Am I going to cry? It feels like I’ve avoided that travesty for the past few days. Ugh.
Taylor hears the waver in my voice and she stops talking. We walk through the front doors of school together and say nothing as we head to our lockers. Lacy waves at her from down the hall and she runs over, linking arms with Katherine along the way. I take a deep, wavering breath, push open my locker, and grab my stuff for first period.
“Everyone,” Mr. Robertson says, his deep voice booming through the lab. “This is Amelia Peabody. She’ll be joining us for class this semester.”
I hear a murmur go around the room, and several instances of people saying, “Peabody?” and “Clara’s sister?” and “You remember that girl who …” and suddenly the shiny surfaces of the lab tables, the glimmer of the equipment on the shelves, the bright colors of the posters on the walls … it all dims. My mouth goes as dry and dusty as the firewood for Dad’s barbecue smoker. How did I not predict this would happen? Of course, everyone in this class knew Clara. They were all in the same grade.
“Sorry I’m late,” comes a voice from the doorway behind me. I turn and look. It’s Twitch! He moves past me, drops his backpack on the floor beside a lab table, and pulls up a stool. “Got caught up in art.” The glaring eyes painted on the sides of his helmet stare at Mr. Robertson, but Twitch smiles.
Mr. Robertson frowns. “Second tardy this week, Mr. Lewis. You know you only get so many each semester before—”
“I know,” Twitch interrupts. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“As I was saying,” Mr. Robertson continues while all eyes swivel from Twitch to me, “Ms. Peabody will be joining us this semester. I expect everyone will treat her with just as much—or more—respect than you treat one another.” His “or more” was directed at a girl and a boy across the room who were very clearly not paying attention.
“Amelia, you can take that seat there.” He points to the stool next to Twitch and I feel a surge of relief. No questions about Clara with Twitch as my lab partner.
“How interesting to see you here,” he whispers as we both take out our textbooks.
I smile. “Looks like you just got some hours added to your babysitting job.”
He rolls his eyes and stifles a laugh. I’m ready to laugh with him when I see his notebook on the table. In the right-hand corner, scribbled in blue ballpoint pen, it says, “Billy Lewis.”
Twitch is Billy?!
Oh em gee.
How did I not know Twitch is Billy? I mean, unless there are two Billys in town? But I’d know if there were two Billys
in town. Except … there’s one Billy in town and I didn’t know THAT.
“Amelia? You okay over there?” Twitch looks at me, his forehead wrinkled in concern. I must be hyperventilating or something. The words from Clara’s letter bang around in my brain like I’m an unstable atom. “Ask Billy to a dance. (OMG. Billy. Sigh.)”
Clara liked Twitch? How could that be? I remember her bossing him around, teasing him, always challenging him to silly competitions that she knew she’d win. “Who can eat three Oreos fastest?” “Who can swim to the pier and back first?” “Who looks better in that dumb helmet?” All of that meant she liked him? And now I have to ask Billy to a dance?! He’s like seventy-nine years older than I am! Well, three years older than I am, but still.
“Earth to Amelia, psssshhhht, over.” Twitch mimes like he’s talking into a walkie-talkie, then waves his hand in front of my face. His shiny bracelet catches my eye and snaps me out of my spaciness.
“Huh? Oh, sorry …” I stammer. “I just … I was … what page are we on?”
“Twenty-five,” he says, looking at me out of the sides of his eyes as he bends his head over his textbook.
“Great. Excellent. Perfect,” I say as I quickly flip to the right page and thank the Universe that he can’t hear my heart beating at supersonic speed.
“Amelia.”
“Taylor.”
“Amelia.”
“Taylor.”
I have just told Taylor that Twitch is Billy, and watching her reaction is like watching Ping-Pong balls labeled O, M, and G fly around behind her eyes. At one point, she lets out a squeal so sharp and loud I’m pretty sure a dolphin somewhere just looked up and said, “Huh. Did someone just call my name?”
“Taylor.” I’m trying to keep my voice low and calm.
“Amelia!” Taylor grabs my shoulders and nearly shakes me off my stool. Thank goodness Mrs. Grant is in the storage closet right now, though surely she can hear us. “We are learning so much about Clara. Doesn’t this excite you? It’s like a new discovery every day!”
“Well, I wouldn’t say every day—”
Taylor squeals again. “I love this! Mystery! Intrigue! Amelia, you’re like a one-woman reality TV show!”
Mrs. Grant walks out of the closet holding an arm-ful of folded paper napkins. “Who’s on a TV show?”
“Amelia!” Taylor shouts with glee. “Well, I mean, she’s not. Not yet, anyway. But her life is so exciting, it’s like she’s on one!”
“Taylor. Good grief. My life is not exciting. It’s basically boring with a heaping helping of terrible.”
Mrs. Grant gives me some side-eye that looks a lot like the side-eye Twitch gave me in physics. “What’s going on?”
Taylor opens her mouth to blurt the whole thing, but I hold up my hand. It’s my story. I’m going to tell it. “Remember how I’m trying to do all the things on the list my sister made before she … before she …”
“Yes,” Mrs. Grant says, interrupting me so I don’t have to say the part I don’t want to say.
“Well, one of the things on the list is to ask this boy, Billy, to a dance. He’s some guy she really liked, I guess.” Then I tell her everything I’ve just discovered. She points to the chalkboard with the day’s special on it. It’s the Romaine Calm. (Gruyère with butter and crisp, cold romaine lettuce to finish.)
“I’m totally romaining calm!” I shout.
“Yes, I can see that,” Mrs. Grant says with a laugh. “Would you like me to make you a sandwich?”
“Do you even have to ask?” I say, running my hands through my hair.
“You know Kite Night is only like a month away,” Taylor says, sipping a milk shake.
“I’m not asking Twitch to Kite Night. The dancing is lame. Plus, that’s like asking my dad to a dance. If my dad always wore a shark-attack skateboarding helmet and was fourteen feet tall.”
“It is not like asking your dad, you goof!” Taylor says, shaking her head. “It’s totally not. Look at Beyoncé.”
“I love to look at Beyoncé,” I say, trying to make it look like I have heart eyes.
“That’s not what I’m talking about!” Taylor is getting frustrated with me now, and I like it for some reason. “Twelve years, Amelia. That’s how many years separate her and JAY-Z.”
“I have to say I’m on Amelia’s side in this argument,” Mrs. Grant says from the griddle. “Middle schoolers and high schoolers should not date.”
“Gram,” Taylor says, exasperated. “Amelia is going to be a high schooler next year. Plus, she’s practically half a high schooler now.”
I’m so tired of talking about this. Sometimes I think if I could just muster half the energy for things that Taylor can, then I would be so much more … I don’t know. Just so much more. Taylor is like the human equivalent of the word jazzed.
My eyes wander to the big window at the front of the store. People walk by quickly and I wonder where they’re all going. Probably, they’re going home to cook dinner. Or maybe they’re going to take their kids to piano lessons. I see moms pushing strollers, and I wonder what the babies are thinking. Are they happy, hungry, sad? Which one of these people walking by will be the lake’s next meal? What will be their last words? These babies who haven’t even said their first word yet will have last words one day. Hopefully, they’ll be old when that happens. But maybe they won’t be. What will be the thing they say last? Will it be, “Oh good grief, no you can’t come on the boat. You’re such a baby.” And then will the person answering yell, “I hate you! I hate you! I never want to see you again!” And then will that person always wonder whether she caused the accident to happen with just the will of her voice? Even though she knows that’s impossible? Even though a million doctors and therapists and adults have told her it’s definitely 150 percent not her fault?
“Amelia. Honey.” Mrs. Grant’s soft voice makes my eyes move from the window to her face. I didn’t even realize I was crying. Taylor is behind the counter now, apron on, not looking at me, wiping down the work surface. Her mouth is open slightly and I can see her poking her tongue at the roof of her mouth, like she wants to say something angry, but is holding back.
Mrs. Grant takes off her apron and comes to my side of the counter. She puts an arm around my shoulder and helps me off the stool like I’m the old lady and she’s the Good Samaritan. “Taylor, can you keep an eye on things?”
Taylor nods without even looking up. I wipe the tears off my face and catch some snot with them. Lovely. Mrs. Grant pushes aside the curtains hiding the stairs, and leads me up to their apartment. She throws her hip into the unlocked door and it opens with a bit of a crunch.
“This old building shifts every time it rains,” she says. “One day we may not be able to get this door open. We’ll have to live in the shop. Which we practically already do.” She smiles at me. I can’t quite find a smile to give back.
Mrs. Grant leads me into their small living room. I love it in here. It’s so worn and comfortable. The Grant family has lived in this apartment since Mrs. Grant was a little girl. You can barely see what color the walls are because there are so many pictures everywhere. And every surface is covered in framed photos and little knickknacks. It’s like visiting a very personal museum. I love that you can feel this history in every room. Even the pink bathroom, with the sink that only sometimes works and the tile that’s cracked around the bathtub, has this heavy feeling of knowing so many secrets. I like to think that when Mrs. Grant was my age she looked in the mirror in that bathroom and wondered about her future.
“Take a seat, love,” Mrs. Grant says. She hands me a tissue and I blow my nose. I feel like such a loser I can’t even find the words to apologize. Three years, Amelia, my brain tells me. Three years means you need to stop crying like this. Taylor is right. You have to move on. You are stuck in the mud. I feel the tears well up again as Mrs. Grant brings me some boiling-hot tea and sits next to me on the couch. I can’t even sip the tea because it’s so hot, but the warmt
h of the mug feels really good as I hug it with my hands.
Mrs. Grant’s hair is especially flyaway today, a tornado of white. She’s tried to catch it with a purple scarf, to pull it back in a kind of ponytail, but without much success. She’s holding a big old book on her lap. The leather cover is brown, and you can tell that years of being opened and closed, or even just touched, have made the edges a darker brown. She opens the book, and inside there are black-and-white photos stuck to black paper pages. Paper triangles on the corner of each photograph hold them in place. Mrs. Grant carefully slides one of the photos out of its triangles and hands it to me. I put my tea on the coffee table and take the photo.
There are two girls who look younger than me, though not by much. They have their arms around each other and are wearing swimsuits and laughing. The picture is wrinkled, but I recognize the lake behind them. The pattern of the trees on the far shore was the same then as it is now.
“That’s me,” Mrs. Grant says, pointing to the girl on the left. I hold the picture closer, and even though it’s just a smidge blurry I can tell it’s her. The crazy hair is a giveaway. “This is my sister, Rosalie.” She points to the other girl. The shape of their mouths is the same, but otherwise she looks completely different. She’s tall and super skinny, whereas Mrs. Grant was shorter and rounder. Her hair is long and straight, and even though the picture is black-and-white I can tell it was much darker.
“I didn’t know you have a sister,” I say, looking from the photograph to Mrs. Grant.
Mrs. Grant’s face softens. Her eyes close for a second, and then she opens them, but it’s like she’s looking at something far away. “Rosalie died when she was fourteen,” she says.