by K. A. Holt
“What?” My voice comes out a strangled whisper.
“It was an accident.” Mrs. Grant’s voice is quiet, but strong. “We were at the lake. I wanted to go out on our canoe, but she didn’t want to. She said she was too tired. I was the youngest, though, and used to getting my way. I begged and begged, so she finally said yes. We took the canoe out to a little cove so we could swim, but it was a cove we hadn’t been to before. It was closer in, so we wouldn’t have as far to paddle back to the shore.
“I was still learning how to dive back then, but Rosalie was one of the best divers in town. She was so tall, and her body bent perfectly when she broke the surface of the water. Anyway, that afternoon, she stood on the tip of the canoe to show me how to dive properly, but what we didn’t know was that the water was more shallow than we thought. We didn’t know there was a huge boulder just under the surface that we had somehow missed paddling in. She dove in and hit her head.”
Mrs. Grant is holding my hand as she tells this story, and I look up at her and see she has tears in her eyes. “I waited for her to surface. It felt like years, eons. Then, when I leaned over the edge of the canoe, I saw her long hair, floating.” She stops talking abruptly and puts her hand to her mouth. Then she shakes her head, hard, as if to snap herself out of the memory.
“I’m sorry I never told you about Rosalie until now, Amelia. I’m terribly, terribly sorry. Taylor doesn’t even know about her. She’s been my special, painful secret for many years.”
My brain is whirling. I can’t figure out what to feel or what to say. I vaguely remember, after Clara died, there were some headlines in the paper about the last lake tragedy being fifty years ago, but I didn’t pay attention to any of the details. Everything was such a blur.
“I—” I start, but Mrs. Grant interrupts me.
“It’s okay, Amelia. You don’t have to say anything. I just want you to know that I really, really know how hard this is for you. I know it from the jagged depths of my heart, my dear.”
I swallow hard, and my voice comes out a wobbly whisper. “Is it ever going to feel better?”
Mrs. Grant takes the photo from me and lays it on the coffee table next to my untouched tea. She holds both my hands in hers and looks me straight in the eye. “The pain will lessen over time. I promise. But it will always be with you. This grief is part of you now, Amelia. It’s the thread that quilts together every other part of your life. I know that right now that must sound terrible to you. And it is terrible, Amelia. It’s terrible what happened to Clara. It’s terrible that you and your family have had to go through this tragedy. Never let anyone minimize that, okay?”
I nod.
“I can’t promise it will get better, but I can promise it will be different over time.”
I nod again and she wraps me up in a soft, strong hug. “Do you want to see the rest of the pictures?”
I nod for a third time and then we both blow our noses. She opens the photo album and lays it across both our laps as she turns the pages and shows me everything she can about her childhood with her sister.
I don’t know how long we’ve been sitting there when I hear footsteps coming up the stairs. It’s Taylor and Mom.
“What in the world are you two doing up here?” Taylor asks. “You’re going to get in trouble for violating child labor laws, leaving me down there like that.” She laughs and holds up her hand, mimicking the way Mrs. Grant does it. “But don’t worry. Mom is down there now so I can get some homework done.”
“Time to get home, Amelia,” my mom says.
They’ve both just burst in talking, without even bothering to see what we’re doing. Only now do they come over to us.
“What is that?” Taylor asks, looking over my shoulder.
Mrs. Grant closes the album quickly and stands up. “Just some old pictures.”
“Ready?” Mom says. “Dad needs our help tonight. He’s moving a bunch of equipment to the Airstream,” she tells Mrs. Grant. “He’s trying to get situated before all the hoopla with that TV show contest.”
I give her a look. She was so mad when he tricked us into going to the lake, and now she’s going back voluntarily?
Mrs. Grant just smiles politely. “See you tomorrow, Amelia?”
I keep looking at Mom, who nods and says, “Is that okay? I feel like I’m taking advantage of your generosity, Mrs. Grant.”
“Never,” Mrs. Grant says, walking to the door that leads to the staircase. She gives it a yank and it creaks open.
“Don’t forget about Kite Night!” Taylor calls after me. I can’t read the expression on her face. She doesn’t look mad, but she doesn’t look super happy either.
Mom shoos me down the stairs before I have a chance to respond. She says good-bye for us both and soon we’re out of the apartment, out of the store, and driving away in Old Betsy. As we go past the lake, I hold my breath and stare at its black water in the twilight. It eats every fifty years, huh? Good to know.
Dad is tossing supplies into his truck when Mom pulls in the driveway.
“Just in time!” he says with a grin, wiping sweat from his forehead. “I’ve almost got everything ready and then we can head to the trailer. I want to get it set up and ready for tomorrow.”
I feel numb after my talk with Mrs. Grant. I can’t catch any of the thoughts flying around in my head except for one: I am not going to the lake.
“Go find some grubby clothes, Amelia,” Mom says. “We’ll follow Dad over there.”
Even if I wanted to help empty oil containers and fill sauce containers and stash wood for the smokers (which I don’t), I still wouldn’t go to the lake. No way.
“I have homework,” I say. My voice is monotone and I don’t look back as I push the door open and walk into the kitchen.
“Since when does homework ever take you more than five minutes?” Mom asks, following me inside.
“Since today,” I say, walking up the stairs now, still not looking back.
“Come on, Amelia. Get changed. We won’t stay for long, just enough to help.”
“HOW are you okay with this?” I ask her. “After that ambush?!”
She seems surprised at my bluntness, then she sighs. “Well … Dad asked this time. And he said he was sorry. This whole thing with the contest and the trailer … it’s important for the family. Especially with me only working part-time now. We could use the money the show might generate. If he needs our help, we should help.”
“Oh, Mom,” I say, feeling disgust rise up from my toes. “Way to stand your ground.” I shut my bedroom door and push the dresser up against it to prevent any unwanted bedroom breaches that might lead to heartfelt speeches or hugs. Nope. Not going.
It isn’t long before I hear a knock. “Amelia. Come on. What’s with the attitude?” Mom used to say that to Clara all the time. “Clara Peabody! What’s with the attitude?” She turns the doorknob, but the door only opens a crack because of the dresser. “What the—” I hear her loud footsteps as she storms off. A minute later, Dad is knocking on the door.
“What gives, Amelia? I’m not loving this behavior. Let’s go. Now.”
I refuse to say anything. If they can’t figure out why I’m so mad, then I’m not explaining it. I don’t even know that I could find the words to say if I wanted to say them. Other than No, Nope, No way, No how, Uh-uh. Dad sighs deeply and I hear his heavy footsteps go down the stairs. A few minutes later his loud truck engine roars to life. Old Betsy is quiet. Either Mom rode with him in the truck, or she’s still here. Doesn’t matter. I’m probably not leaving my room ever again.
Lying on my bed, I stare at the ceiling. Mrs. Grant seems like a perfectly normal lady. She always has, ever since I’ve known her, which has been forever. She’s funny and smart and always busy. Everyone in town loves her. It’s blowing my mind right now that, even though a horrible thing happened to her sister (a horrible thing she blamed herself for), she’s such a … regular nice person. She doesn’t have a cloud of Dead Siste
r around her everywhere she goes, like I do. People don’t whisper and point at her like they do to me. She goes about her everyday life in a way that seems happy … joyful, even. I mean, she whistles and sings to herself, and knows Beyoncé lyrics. HOW IN THE WORLD DOES SHE DO IT?
It’s like, for Mrs. Grant, having a dead sister is a thing she keeps inside her, not because she’s ashamed of it, or because it’s a terrible purple bruise she has to poke, but because, I don’t know. Because it’s just part of her? Like, Rosalie is alive, but as part of her own soul.
I sit up with a start. How can I make Clara part of me like that?
I hear a commotion out my window that’s louder than my racing thoughts. Tiny is barking like crazy, and there’s someone shouting. Sliding my curtains to the side, I see Twitch on the sidewalk, holding his skateboard like a shield while Tiny jumps at him and barks. Twitch looks terrified, his helmet all askew, but I can tell by the way Tiny is shaking his booty he’s trying to get something. I squint. Yep. There it is. Crumpled up next to the skateboard, gripped hard in Twitch’s right hand, is a paper bag from Big Boy Burger, Tiny’s favorite. I watch them dance for a second, but it doesn’t look like Tiny is giving up anytime soon, and Twitch looks like he might wet his pants. Where is Mr. Robertson?
I push aside my dresser, throw open my door, and run downstairs. It only takes me a couple of seconds to run through the house and get outside.
“Tiny!” I shout, clapping my hands like Mrs. Robertson does. “Cut it out, nerd. You’re scaring Twitch!” Tiny turns to look at me for a split second. He assesses that I don’t have a Big Boy burger and he goes back to barking at Twitch.
“TINY!” I shout again, marching up to him and grabbing his collar. “Stop!” He looks at me again and then lunges, licking my face all over. That makes me laugh and splutter. I’m trying to fend him off and signal to Twitch that he’s safe.
“Get that burger out of here.” I laugh. “You’re torturing the dog.”
“I’M torturing HIM?” Twitch asks, dropping his skateboard to the sidewalk and holding the burger bag behind his back. “I thought he was going to eat me.”
“He just wants your burger. Those are his favorite.”
“His fav—” Twitch looks at me, wrinkling his forehead. “You guys are tight, huh?”
Tiny is sitting by my feet now, though he’s still nearly as tall as I am. He’s happily panting and sniffing around for the burger, giving my face a lick here and there even as I try to shove his enormous head away from me. “We’re BFFs for sure,” I say. “You okay?”
Twitch gives a sheepish smile. “I’m fine. Maybe my ego is a little scraped up.”
“Wait there,” I say. “I’ll be back in a second.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Twitch says with a salute. Such a dork.
I hook my finger under Tiny’s collar and lead him to Mr. Robertson’s backyard. I kick open the fence door and lead Tiny over to the covered porch where I know there will be a bowl of food and water for him. “Here you go, Tiny. It’s no Big Boy burger, but it’ll do.” He gives me a look like, “NOPE,” but he doesn’t follow me when I go through the gate and shut it behind me.
Back on the sidewalk, I ask Twitch, “Did he jump over the fence?”
Twitch nods, his eyes huge. “It was like some kind of dog-shaped missile heading right at me.”
I start to laugh. I can’t help it. The image is too funny. Twitch’s cheeks turn pink. They’re almost the same color as the shark eyes on his helmet. “What are you doing over here, anyway? I never see you skate by.”
“Oh,” he says, his pink cheeks getting redder. “Actually, there are two burgers in this bag. One for you.” He hands me a burger. “You looked a little freaked out in class today, so I thought I’d come by and see if you’re okay.” He follows me to my front porch, where we sit. “I’ve discovered that a Big Boy burger can momentarily erase all memories of people in physics classes acting like dummies.”
He starts to eat like he hasn’t eaten in weeks. I take a small bite out of my burger. It’s warm and juicy and yummy, but I’m not that hungry.
“So how are you doing?” he asks, wiping ketchup drips off his chin with the back of his hand. “Is physics blowing your mind?”
I shake my head and roll my eyes. “Physics is the easiest thing of all the things in my life right now.”
He pops the last bite of his burger in his mouth and says, “Well, I guess that’s good, then.”
I shrug and put my burger on the crumpled bag. I stare across the street at the setting sun. The sky is turning bloodred and orange. It’s beautiful. “How come I never knew your name was Billy?” I ask.
Twitch squints and turns his head a little to the side. “Are you asking me why you don’t know my name? Because I don’t know how to answer that.” He laughs quietly.
“I just mean … did Clara call you Billy or Twitch? I never heard her call you Billy.”
“Are you talking about her letter? The part about asking me to a dance?”
Now it’s my turn for my cheeks to turn pink.
Billy looks at his sneakers. They’re old black Converses, and he’s drawn a super-cool-looking, intricate pattern all over the white rubber that covers his toes and the sides of the shoes. “When we were together, just the two of us hanging out, she called me Billy. But when we were with other people she called me Twitch like everyone else.” His finger traces the designs on his shoe. He pinches his lips together in a straight line and looks up at me.
“Pretty sure I came by to see how you were doing. And now we’re talking about me. How do you do that, Amelia? You’re some kind of magician.”
“You don’t want to talk about this, huh?” I say. I understand.
“Are you going to eat that?” Twitch points at my burger with only one sad bite taken out of it. “You can have it,” I say. “I had a sandwich over at Grant’s not too long ago.”
Twitch nods and takes my burger. He eats it slower as we both watch the sky changing colors. “So you’re doing fine in physics, then?” he asks finally, swallowing the last bite.
“The physics part is fine,” I say, watching a cloud race by. “It’s just … I guess I never thought about the fact that the class would be full of kids who used to have class with Clara.”
“Yeah,” Twitch says. “Welcome to my life.”
“Do you want to go to Kite Night with me?” I blurt.
“Huh?” He turns and looks at me.
“The stupid town party thing—”
“By the fountain, with all nighttime kite flying and the terrible DJ and the corn dogs? Yes, I know what Kite Night is, I just mean … uh … no offense, but …”
“Uuugh, nooooooo.” I shove his shoulder hard. “Not like a date, dummy. Just, will you go with me?” I reach into my pocket and pull out Clara’s letter. I unfold it and point to number three.
3) Ask Billy to a dance. (OMG. Billy. Sigh.)
He flushes, and his mouth opens and closes without making any sound.
“It’s. Not. A. Date. Dummy,” I say very slowly. “Boys. Are. Gross. And. Girls. Run. The. World. But. Please. Help. Me. Cross. One. Stupid. Thing. Off. This. List. Please.”
“Okay, okay, you don’t have to turn into a robot. Fine. But it’s not a date. Sophomores don’t date middle-school kids.”
“It’s not a date!” I shout. That makes Tiny bark from all the way in Mr. Robertson’s backyard.
Twitch laughs. “Fine, fine. Excellent. Don’t sic your dog on me.”
“Not my dog.” I laugh. “But I will if I have to.”
Twitch holds his hand out for a shake. “Yes, Amelia Peabody, I will go with you to Kite Night so that you can cross one stupid thing off your list.”
“Excellent,” I say, and we shake hands so hard his helmet wobbles.
Twitch’s phone chirps and he looks down at the screen. His eyes widen for just a second and then go back to normal. “I gotta jet. But you’re okay, yeah?”
I nod. “You’
re okay?”
He nods and stands up.
“Wait!” I say. “I’ll be right back.” I run into the house, upstairs to my room, and back down in record time. I hand him the softball and two gloves. “You left these the other day.”
He takes them from me. “Aha! I was looking all over for them. Thanks.”
And then he’s off, skating down the street, gloves on both hands like a dork, ball nestled in one glove, empty Big Boy Burger bag stuffed in his back pocket.
“You did not.”
“I did.”
“You did not.”
“I did! Also, I’m having déjà vu.”
Taylor shoves a book into her locker and primps in the mirror that hangs next to a picture of Beyoncé.
“Well, was it weird? Did you get nervous? I can’t believe you guys are dating.” She makes a face in the mirror like she smelled a spoiled hot dog. Though her eyes are sharp and pointy as her reflection stares at me standing behind her.
“I told you. It’s not a date.”
“Well, then it doesn’t count.” She slams her locker shut and smacks her lip gloss.
“Of course, it counts,” I say. “The letter didn’t say ‘Ask Billy on a date,’ it just said ‘dance.’ ”
Taylor makes a gimme motion with her hand and I sigh. I pull the letter out of my pocket and hand it to her. “Exhibit A,” she says, jabbing at the letter with her finger. “ ‘OMG.’ ” She looks at me pointedly. “And exhibit B.” She jabs with her finger again. “ ‘Sigh.’ ” She folds up the letter and hands it back to me. “She was clearly … feeling feelings for him, Amelia. It has to be a date.” She stops walking dead in the center of the hallway and I run into her. She whips her head around to stare at me. “You ARE sure Twitch is the right Billy, aren’t you?” She wrinkles up her nose. “It’s just very hard to believe.”
“Yes, he’s Billy. No, it’s not a date. Yes, it still counts.” I’m starting to get irritated with Taylor. Has she always been this bossy?
“I’ll see you at gym.” I wave as I walk away, my back to her.