by K. A. Holt
“What?!” I say, feeling my heart start to pound. “No! Not a good plan. Terrible plan. The worst plan. I can think of something better, just—”
Dad sits at the table across from me and puts both his hands on it, palms down. He stares at me. “Nonnegotiable,” he says slowly and leans forward so that his nose is close to mine. “I am the boss of you still, and this is what I am currently bossing you to do.” He sits back and crosses his arms over his chest, a look of satisfaction spreading across his face. Mom stares at him like she has no idea who he is, but she likes what she sees.
“After school. Today,” Dad says, stabbing the table with his finger. “I’ll call Twitch’s parents to let them know.”
“And I’ll call Mrs. Grant to let her know you won’t be at the store,” Mom says.
I stand up in a huff, my chair squealing across the floor. “Not fair,” I say, trying not to panic at the prospect of having to go to the lake TODAY. “Not fair!”
Dad lifts his hands in a “what are you going to do?” shrug. “We are all familiar with the unfairness of life, Amelia,” he says. “I’ll see you this afternoon.”
I angrily gather up my school stuff and stomp out of the house. I turn back to see if Mom and Dad are gloating in the kitchen, but I only see the huge blue tarp mocking me. Aaaargh.
My pace is fast as I grouchily walk to school. I see Taylor walking ahead of me and think about running to catch up with her. Maybe she could help me figure out how to get out of going to the lake. But then I remember I’m mad at her. We have not yet broken a window together to make up. I sigh. I could run and catch up to her and tell her that I’m not mad anymore. I could ask her if we can go back to how everything was before. She glances back and sees me. I lift up my hand to wave, but she whips her head around and quickly jaywalks across the street to where Lacy and Katherine are motioning to her. Okay. Well, I guess we’ll have to talk later. For just a second I allow myself to imagine chasing after her and blocking her path to Lacy and Katherine and making her talk to me, but then … ugh. Who can blame Taylor, really? For three years I’ve been a sad mess of a friend. No wonder they seem so shiny and fun. A rock would seem shiny and fun compared to me.
I slow down a little now, because I don’t want to get to school too early. If I get there now, I’ll just have to wander around and stare at everyone hanging out together and be reminded of my tragic lack of friends. So much for being the queen of eighth grade. I feel more like the court jester, except court jesters are funny. Maybe I’m the guy who sings all the sad songs at the big castle dinners. The one with the cautionary tales of woe.
The woods are to my left, with school looming up ahead. Maybe I could go back in the trees for a few minutes and take a closer look at the art Twitch has been working on with the other boat kids. Right at that moment the wind blows through the tops of the trees and it sounds like a quiet “Yesssssssss” being carried on the wind. My mind jumps to the Ouija board and I feel my pulse quicken. Then I remind myself all of that was fake and stupid. Clara is not trying to talk to me. It was just the wind. Even so, I feel compelled to tromp through the leaves and undergrowth. I mean, I could hide out in the middle of a forest, or be early to homeroom. The choice is not difficult, by my calculations.
It’s a cloudy morning, and the cover of the trees makes it even darker. When I get to the clearing it looks different than last time. The blue is almost black and the stars don’t glimmer. The red surrounding the edges is deep and bleeds into the white of the teeth. It feels sinister today instead of sparkly and amazing. It makes me think of the lake, actually, and how on a hot summer day it shines and shimmers like a giant has thrown a handful of glitter over the surface. But then, on cloudy days, or at night, the water looks fathomless and black, with an eerie stillness. It’s so interesting how the same place can look so different.
I sit on a tree stump and run the sole of my shoe over the deep blue mosaic. They must have poured and smoothed concrete and then laid out all of these pebbles. Except, it looks like they painted the pebbles first, because when I lean closer I can see that the grout holding everything together is an ever darker blue. It is a magnificent piece of art, both beautiful and a little bit scary. Clara would have loved this. It’s just like her.
“They’re making me go to the lake today,” I whisper. The trees rustle around me. I pull Clara’s letter from my pocket. “I’ve been trying to do some things for you,” I say, still whispering. “I figured out who Billy is, and by the way, you were super mean to him when you guys were small. I can’t believe he forgave you.” The painted stars sprinkled throughout the blue are different sizes. I didn’t really notice that before. I stand up and walk around the edge of the giant mouth. “I’ve been training for softball tryouts, too. How crazy is that?” I look up at the trees blowing in the wind. “Probably not as crazy as talking to myself in the woods.”
I fold up the letter and put it back in my pocket. “I don’t know about throwing a party, though. I don’t actually have any friends, expect for Twitch. And I don’t know if I can be nicer to Mom, because she’s colluding with Dad to make me go to the lake.” I’m quiet for a minute, just listening to the trees. “I miss you,” I say, my voice the smallest of whispers. Then, out of nowhere, there’s a huge crack of thunder so loud I can feel it slam into my chest. I duck instinctively, grabbing on to the stump I was sitting on a minute ago. As soon as the reverberations from the thunder stop, buckets of rain start to fall. It’s a deluge, what my grandmother would have called a frog strangler. And even sheltered by the trees, I’m getting sopping wet. I grab my backpack and run from the woods, knowing that when lightning strikes, you do not want to be standing under tall things that can transfer that electricity to your body. Of course, you also don’t want to be the tallest thing running back to school.
I burst from the edge of the trees just as it starts to rain even harder. I’m soaked to the bone now and laughing hysterically. Twitch and I won’t be working at Pits ’n’ Pieces today, because Dad doesn’t open the trailer in weather like this. No lake for me! Unless you count the lakes growing in my shoes.
I’m laughing and running and I’m sure I look like a crazy person, but I don’t care. I stumble up the stairs to the front entrance of school, but the doors are locked. What! I look at my watch. Oh my gosh, I’m fifteen minutes late. Is there some kind of time warp in the woods?! I pound the buzzer and wave to a woman in the front office who sees me standing there, drenched. She buzzes me in and I bolt through the door, running to class. I slip and slide the whole way, my shoes having turned into skates.
I barrel into homeroom and squelch into my seat, also trying to squelch my hiccupping laughter. Taylor stares at me with her mouth open, as does pretty much everyone except for Mrs. Henderson, who apparently didn’t see or hear me come in. How is that possible? She’s writing something on the board about parent-teacher conferences.
I lean back in my seat, water pooling on the floor around me, and I smile at the ceiling. I totally don’t believe in ghosts or the afterlife or anything like that. But I have to say, a spontaneous frog strangler occurring just after I whisper to Clara that I don’t want to go to the lake? Coincidence? Ha!
I take a long, slow bite out of Quiche Your Face, today’s special. It’s two thin pieces of bacon and spinach quiche acting like pieces of bread, with sharp cheddar cheese melted between them. Very messy. Very tasty. Very perfect for a rainy day.
“How do you like my experiment?” Mrs. Grant asks, rubbing her hands together like Doctor Frankenstein.
“I like it very much,” I say. And I do. Its yumminess is distracting me from Taylor, who’s standing just behind the curtains leading to the stairs. She’s staring at me and I’m pretending I don’t notice. I think of everything Twitch and I talked about, and how humans are lucky to be imperfect so we can keep trying new things. If he could forgive Clara for being such a terrible jerk, surely I can forgive Taylor, who wasn’t trying to be jerk but was one accidentally.
I look over at her and our eyes lock. Her eyes squint as we look at each other, and her lips pucker into a frown. She flips her long hair as she whips around and stomps up the stairs. Well, maybe now she’s trying to be a jerk? How did I go from being pretty sure I knew every thought in Taylor’s head to now knowing zero things banging around in that mind of hers?
Mrs. Grant has seen all of this, of course, and sighs. “This might be partly my doing.”
I look at her, startled. “How?”
“I told her about Rosalie the other day. And then I told her how, when I was young, I tried the Ouija board to contact her.”
My mouth falls open. Mrs. Grant holds up a hand. “I didn’t tell her to try that with you, I promise. But I’m afraid I gave her the idea. Also, she was upset that I told you about Rosalie but hadn’t told her.” She sighs again. “I guess I can’t blame her for that.”
The rain and my reprieve from having to go to the lake have put me in a good mood. I want Taylor to be in a good mood, too. I want to tell her that Clara made it rain. I want this stupid fight to be over.
“Don’t let anyone eat this,” I say, taking one more bite and jumping off my stool. “I’ll be right back.” Mrs. Grant nods as if, of course, someone would wander by and attempt to eat a partially eaten sandwich.
Before I’m even halfway up the stairs to the apartment, Ratface is barking like I’m leading a herd of armed robbers to storm the building.
“I don’t want to talk to anyone!” Taylor yells through the closed door at the top of the stairs. It sounds like Ratface is throwing his barks at the door.
“I’m not coming to talk to you!” I yell back. “I’m coming to talk to Ratface. He seems upset.” I can hear him throwing himself now, bodily, up against the closed door. Tiny thwumps are like little commas between his barks. “I think he feels bad about the other day. Don’t you, Ratface?” The more he hears his name, the more frenzied he gets. I know Taylor hates this, and even though I feel sort of guilty, I love that I’m riling him up. “Ratface wants to say he’s sorry, doesn’t he? Doesn’t he?” I’m using my goofy talking-to-a-dog voice now, and Ratface’s barks are turning from ANGRY STRANGER barks to hellohelloyou’remyfriend barks. “Don’t you want to say you’re sorry for ruining a top-notch plan to fool me into thinking my dead sister was communicating with me from beyond the grave? Don’t you, Ratface?”
Ratface goes nuts, slamming into the door and barking. He’s throwing in a couple of whines here and there, and I’m starting to feel bad for teasing him.
“Amelia—” Taylor’s voice is calmer now. I hear her mutter, “Ratface, no!” She sounds closer to the door.
“Ratface, your voice sounds weirdly like Taylor’s. How do you do that?” He barks at me. “Did you want to say you’re sorry, Ratface? Do you want to use Taylor’s voice to say you’re sorry?”
“Amelia, I—” Taylor starts to talk but there’s a huge crash downstairs in the store.
What the heck?
I run down the stairs and see a bunch of people huddled by a collapsed display of homemade jams. Glass jars are shattered, and ones that aren’t are rolling around. Someone is on the ground, but I can’t see who because of all the other people. Someone yells, “Call nine-one-one!” just as I push through the people.
It’s Mrs. Grant. She’s on the ground, one arm splayed to the side, one leg bent in an impossible angle under her. There’s a big goose egg growing on her head. Her eyes are closed. Her face is the same color as the old gray ashes in our fireplace. It is not a color a human should be.
“TAYLOR!” I scream, but she must have heard the crash, too. She’s right behind me, phone already out. “She needs glucose,” she says to herself and runs behind the counter. Ratface is at my feet, no longer barking. He runs to Mrs. Grant and licks her face over and over and over again like he’s a prince and she’s Sleeping Beauty and maybe enough of his kisses will wake her up.
A siren wails in the distance.
“Amelia.” Mom’s voice is quiet, and she’s shaking my shoulder. “Honey, wake up.” I struggle to surface from a dream. Her voice is like the light you can see when you’re deep underwater, and I make my brain reach for it until my eyes slowly open. It takes a second for me to remember where we are.
The hospital.
I sit up straight, with a start. The waiting room is entirely empty except for me and Mom. Where are Taylor and her mom and dad?
“Did—” I start, feeling panic crash up through my chest like a tsunami.
Mom puts her hand softly but firmly on my arm. “Everything is okay. Taylor and her parents are in the room with Mrs. Grant. The doctors were able to stabilize her. Something happened with her blood sugar and she got dizzy and then hit her head when she fell. She’s going to stay for a few days, but should be fine.”
I wipe drool off my cheek from where my face had been smushed up against the armrest of my chair. How in the world did I manage to fall asleep while all of this was going on? “She’s … Mrs. Grant … she’s going to be okay?”
Mom nods and the tsunami of panic crashes over me as a wave of relief instead. She takes her hand off my arm and picks up her purse from where it’s been leaning against her chair. “We should get home and get some rest. You have a big day tomorrow.”
I stand up and rack my brain. Big day tomorrow? It’s not my birthday. It’s not Taylor’s birthday. No exams at school.
“Softball tryouts,” Mom says with a soft smile. “It’s been written on the calendar for months.”
Well, now I’m awake. With everything that’s been going on, I guess I hadn’t realized they were coming up so fast. Oh my gosh. Am I ready? Should I not do it because Mrs. Grant is sick and Taylor might need me here at the hospital? Is that just an excuse to not do it? I should do it. I mean, Clara made it rain for me, I should definitely get on the softball team for her. But … there’s no way she made it rain. She doesn’t exist anymore. So then, if I miss tryouts, it won’t bother her. Because she wouldn’t know. But I would know. I’m doing this for me, right? I look around for Taylor. I need her to talk me into this. I need her to remind me why I’m doing it. I’m breathing fast. Panicking.
“All that running. All that playing catch,” Mom says, taking my hand as we walk out of the waiting room. “The brave sacrifice our kitchen window made on your behalf.” Mom is quiet for a second. Then she says, “You’ve really put a lot into preparing for this, Amelia. I’m proud of you.”
My panic disappears and I want so badly, all of a sudden, to tell Mom that I’m doing this for Clara; it’s not really for me, I’m doing it because it’s a goal Clara never got to achieve. But Mom is looking at me with such hope, her eyes are practically screaming, “HALLELUJAH, AMELIA IS DOING A THING NORMAL KIDS DO,” that I can’t bring myself to tell her.
The lights in the hallway are so bright they make me squint. Rooms on either side of us have closed doors but big windows so the nurses can see in. I try to look ahead and not into the rooms, even though I wonder about the people in each of the beds, and I also wonder about the people sitting in the chairs next to the beds, or about the empty chairs next to so many of them.
At the end of the hallway are double doors. Mom and I stand dumbly in front of them, waiting for them to open, but they don’t. I push on them but they seem to be locked. Then I see there’s a big square button on the wall you have to push to open them. I smash my hand into it right when I hear slapping feet running behind us. I turn around and it’s Taylor, barefoot, hair flying around her shoulders. She runs right into me and we both let out a little “oof” as we stumble into the button I just pushed, which pushes it again, closing the doors this time.
Taylor is squeezing me tightly, a hug to rival all hugs before it. “I’m sorry,” she whispers into my neck. I can feel her hot breath and damp cheeks. “I was stupid, and I’m sorry. I won’t try to make you stop feeling sad and I won’t ever stop being your friend.”
I’m not sure what to say. Earlier
today, she was the one who was mad at me. Am I also supposed to say I’m sorry?
“It’s okay,” I manage to say. “It’s all okay. I’m not mad anymore. Are you mad at me?” Taylor releases me from her hug but doesn’t let go of my arms. She pushes me away from her so she can look at me. Her blue eyes x-ray through me for a few seconds, and then she pulls me into another hug.
“I was mad at you for being mad at me. And I was jealous of Twitch. And then I found out Gram was pouring her heart out to you, and it felt like everyone was just pushing me away and leaving me out of everything. Like, no one even noticed I was alive anymore. But now none of that matters. It’s all so stupid.” She’s crying into my neck again, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen Taylor like this before. She’s always the one who knows exactly what to do and say. She’s always the one in control. She’s never ever the invisible one. I hold on to her while she cries. We’re still leaning on the button and the big doors keep opening and closing until a nurse gives us a look and Mom gently pushes us away from it.
“Ratface says he’s sorry, too,” Taylor says with a sniff.
“Well, I’m never forgiving him, so that’s too bad,” I say. Taylor laughs.
“Poor Ratface,” she says. “He was only trying to help.”
“All anyone is ever trying to do is help,” I say. “Don’t you think?”
Taylor nods. She pushes herself away from me and wipes her nose with the back of her hand. We look at each other for a minute and I start to feel a little embarrassed at so much emotion spilling out everywhere.
“Good luck at tryouts,” Taylor says.
“Thanks,” I say, deciding not to tell her I had actually forgotten about them until about five minutes ago.
“You’re going to do great,” she says. “Clara would be so proud.”
Mom perks up at the mention of Clara and gives me a quizzical look.
“Tell Gram that we love her and hope she feels better so soon, it’s really yesterday that she’s feeling better.”