by Julie Israel
We’re now calling matches for nearly every shoe we see:
“Gingersnap!”
“Peanut butter!”
“THAT PB PRETZEL ONE WE AGREED NOT TO CALL CAMEL POOP!”
—debates the club about a single woman’s tan-colored sandals.
We’re still watching the ground when a pair of classic Timberlands approaches.
“Deej?” a voice asks.
Nate looks up. His face splits into a wily grin. “Garrett Bowman!”
He stands, and Nate and the dark-skinned boy in hiking boots clasp hands and bro-hug. The rest of us exchange glances.
“Deej?” I ask.
“DJ,” Garrett offers, also grinning. “’Cause this kid can mix.”
“What? You mix music?” Angela is as surprised as I am.
“Not music,” Garrett laughs. “Drinks! Ask him to make you a mojito sometime. So what’s the deal, Nate? You living in Fairfield now?”
Nate darts a glance back at us, reddening. The three of us smile and promptly look away like we’re not listening, or if we are, aren’t judging.
“As of July,” he returns, still embarrassed.
Apologetically, he asks if we mind if he steps aside a minute to catch up with Garrett. He hasn’t seen him since his year in Aloha.
“Sure.”
Nate smiles and claps Garrett on the shoulder, guiding him away. Garrett asks, “July, huh? Anything to do with the Shark?” and for some reason I swear the tips of Nate’s ears go even redder.
I realize I’m leaning after him to overhear when a voice up close startles me.
“I hear you have gummy bear cupcakes.”
I jump in my seat. I’ve been so intent on eavesdropping that I failed to notice Brand Sayers stroll up, smiling, an unlit cigarette between his teeth.
“Wow,” I say.
“What?”
“I think that’s the first time I’ve seen you before I smelled you.”
The kid paying beside Brand, some freshman in a Stallions hoodie, guffaws. Brand silences him with a Remember,-I-have-mob-relations squint and he hastily scrambles off with his cronut.
I fold my arms. “Why are you here? Come to make fun of me?”
“Of your Betty Crocker Bakes gig with Booster? Never.”
“Go away.”
“You’re very egocentric.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. You see me and automatically assume I have no better way to pass a Sunday than to prod at you? Some of us came to do the shopping”—he holds up a plastic Lauer’s sack as evidence—“and, if all went uninsultingly well, to buy a pastry.”
I scoff. “You’re here to buy something.”
“I do have a life outside of you, Lemon. One that, if you’ll trouble yourself to remember, includes the occasional indulgence in gummy bears. So do you have gummy bear cupcakes, or not?”
I sigh and retrieve one from a carton in back. “Two fifty.”
Brand begins to pull out the bills, looks at the cupcake; sees another guy carry off six in a plastic to-go box; looks back at his single serving and frowns.
“How much for that?” he asks, pointing.
“Fourteen.”
“Fourteen . . .” Brand assesses his wallet. “A bit steep,” he says, removing his only twenty, “but I hear the cause is a good one.” He nods at the Help fund the St. Valentine’s Shaker! sign across our table.
I exchange the single for a half dozen, take his twenty, and give him change. He pockets it, takes the box, and starts to go.
“Brand.”
He turns, the cupcakes halfway lowered into his bag.
“. . . Thanks.”
For the briefest moment I see a hint of a smile. Then Brand salutes, lights the cigarette still in his mouth, and saunters off, trailing smoke.
“Did you just sell cupcakes to Brand Sayers?”
Kody and Angela are both watching me with rapt expressions.
“Heeey,” adds Kody, a thought occurring, “wasn’t it you who wanted to bake with gummy bears?”
“Y—yeah, but—” I falter under their gazes. “So?”
Angela and Kody chorus “Ohhhhh!” like someone’s just scored a goal.
“She blushes and does not deny it, Angela, repeat—”
“Does not deny it.”
“Whatever. It—coincidence,” I fumble.
“What would you call that color she’s turning, Kody?”
“I don’t know, Angela—‘Crushing Crimson’? ‘Denial Red’?”
My cheeks burn deeper. “You know what, I’m feeling kinda thirsty all of a sudden. I’m gonna go grab an iced chai at Pippa’s. You guys want chai?”
I get up without waiting for an answer. But I get one, anyway:
“But wait, she’s—yes—changing tack! An evasive maneuver toward Pippa’s—”
“Selflessly promising mochas for her friends—”
I’d promise them a finger if we weren’t out here for a school event.
I’m so flustered, I nearly miss Nate and Garrett over by the tamale booth. But then I hear Nate say “Thanks, man,” and see the two clasp hands and bump shoulders again. For a moment I think they’re saying goodbye; it’s the same way they greeted. But then the hug goes longer, fuller than their last—almost like they’re trying to squeeze something across it.
Almost like there’s something they’re missing.
∞
A few minutes later Pippa takes my order, and once I pay, I stand off to the side to check the bulletin board. If my Camilla Was Here print’s been buried, now would be the time to fix it.
The first thing I notice is that my keychain is still there. That makes me smile.
The second is that almost all of the print is still showing. Only a flier for Oktoberfest has nosed up on it, and that much I can quickly remedy.
The third is what I see when I lift the flier: that somebody has written on the print.
That beneath the Dala horse and words CAMILLA WAS HERE in red are three words I am not responsible for, handwritten in black:
I miss You.
- 138 -
The message from YOU lights a fire under me. If knowing he still cares about Camilla is powerful, knowing he is local’s a powder keg. Here I’ve been, raiding my sister’s room and chasing old notes and interrogating Camie’s friends for clues to his identity, and all along I have overlooked something far more useful: the fact that if YOU is here in Fairfield, he could be talked to.
Why spin my wheels trying to learn who he is?
Why not reach out to him directly?
Maybe I have finally found a use for all the extra Dala horses lying around the Lemon house.
First I write an answer under YOU’s on the Camilla print at Pippa’s. Lightning’s already struck there once; maybe he’ll actually see it.
Then I start writing the same words on horses.
On Thursday, four days after I’ve discovered YOU’s message, Nate and I remember Camie at the local swim center. I tell him about how, when I was six, she taught me to keep my eyes open underwater with a game, dropping coins in the shallow end. Then I leave another actual Dala horse—this one larger than the keychain at Pippa’s—along with a print at the front desk. The girl on duty puts the image on the wall and says they’ll keep the horse out on the counter.
A note is written on its belly, right where the star on Bristol would be:
I have a Message for You. –J.L.
I watch Nate’s reaction carefully as I show him the words on the underside. If he is YOU, his easy nod and countenance do a hell of a job convincing me otherwise.
When we leave and Nate heads home, I spend the next couple hours leaving Message horses at all the places we’ve already been—
And then a dozen mor
e where we haven’t.
- 145 -
By the following Thursday I have left a horse and Camilla Was Here print at every place on my list within a thirty minutes’ drive, and even added some more mundane ones: the grocery store, gas stations, the post office. Putting them out and checking for replies makes me feel proactive, like I am finally making progress and closing the gap between me and YOU (even if he hasn’t returned the contact yet). Perhaps more importantly, that progress gives me strength today, on what may be the most embittering First without my sister yet:
Thanksgiving.
Touring the Places She Was and now isn’t, especially without Nate, it’s hard to see anything but the holes, let alone something to be grateful for. And Camie’s absence is extra sharp at home after Booster; if Mom didn’t want to talk about her before, now she won’t even look at me.
The words on my linoleum block become more mantra than ever: Camilla was here. Every time I put up a print I repeat them, reminding myself that their image—positive shapes on white paper—was only possible via contrast: by carving out the blank space around them.
Would I see more of Camilla, I wonder, if I focused instead on her absences?
Portrait of Thanksgiving Using Negative Space
Absence of aunts, uncles, screaming cousins, friends, and neighbors dropping in with tofurkey and pies and half a dozen stuffings all day
Absence of gaudy apple pie candle Camie won from school carnival one year and INSISTED on lighting every holiday since
Absence of sweet potatoes (Cam’s favorite with the candied walnuts)
The empty side of the table
Empty chair moved from kitchen to study
Absence of Mom’s stories about Thanksgiving growing up: the year Chevy got the turkey on the floor and carried off a leg; the Eggnog Potatoes Disaster; the time her brothers switched the salt and the sugar as a joke and everything but the cranberries was ruined, and Grandpa made them eat it all as punishment while the rest had dinner out
0 ads scoured, lists made, coupons cut for Black Friday
0 plans/strategizing for same
Absence of conversation
Absence of eye contact
Absence of “This year, I am grateful for__________________”
- 150 -
The one hope I hold on to through Thanksgiving is that five days later—today—I’ll finally be able to follow up on my Sponge/Camilla investigation. Mandatory Fiddler rehearsals start tonight, so if I’m lucky I might catch the cast and crew for questioning at Pippa’s after.
By 7:00 p.m.—when practice ends—I’m in place at a table.
By 7:30 I’ve seen a few people in Fairfield sweaters, but none I recognize from the theater department.
By 8:00 I am dispirited: even a hell director wouldn’t keep everyone this late on the first of eight full rehearsal nights.
Right?
My coffee goes cold. I get another cup.
When 8:30 rolls around, I decide to pack it up. Maybe I’ll have better luck tomorrow.
Gathering up the homework I have brought (but not made much progress on), I toss the rest of my coffee and head out.
It’s only when I start for my car that somebody says:
“Lemon?”
I turn around.
Brand.
“Hey.” Looks like he’s just heading into Pippa’s himself.
“Hey,” he says. His arm is on the door, but he doesn’t push in.
After a pause, Brand lets go. “Those gummy bear cupcakes were killer. From the bake sale,” he adds, like I might not remember.
“Good,” I return. “I’m glad you liked them.”
We’re both facing each other now.
“You, uh . . . here by yourself?” Brand looks around as though expecting to see someone else.
“Yeah. I was just . . .” But I can’t tell Brand why I was really here. He was weird when I connected Sponge’s poem to YOU before. “Studying.”
“You do that often? Come here to study?”
“Sometimes.” Or at least, I used to with Lauren or Camie. “What about you?”
“Just picking up dinner. It’s an easy stop. I mean—on my way home from practice at Keegan’s.”
I nod. “Kind of late for dinner, isn’t it?”
“Not when everything in the case is half price before closing.”
“Good point.”
Brand looks off to the side, considering something.
“But maybe . . .” He frowns, wads his hands in his pockets. “Maybe I’ll come a little earlier next time. Catch you for a coffee break or something.”
“Y—yeah,” I fumble. Glad it’s dark out. Hopefully he can’t see the heat I feel flooding my cheeks. “Coffee.”
Maybe I should start studying here again.
“Cool,” says Brand. “See you round, Lemon.”
“Yeah. See you.”
With a hand goodbye, we turn back to our respective business. As I start toward my car, it’s with a tiny smile.
I didn’t get what I came for tonight.
But I no longer feel I’m leaving empty-handed.
- 168 -
Eighteen days later, my YOU leads are looking dismal. When I finally did catch the Fiddler gang at Pippa’s, nearly half were underclassmen and never knew Camie, those who did just shook their heads when I asked if they’d ever seen her behind the scenes.
I’ve gone back there a couple nights since to study, but I haven’t seen Brand.
Perhaps most discouraging of all is that it’s now been a month since I started leaving Message horses everywhere and I still haven’t heard from YOU. I’m losing faith that I will. In fact, I’m close to pulling my hair out. All the horses I’ve smuggled out of the house or ordered online; all the places I have visited and left them; all the time and energy and hope I’ve poured into this, and for what? To see it fall through like Heather and Sponge and Shawn and Brand and As I Walked Out One Evening?
What kills me is knowing that YOU was at Pippa’s—that I was this close to him and missed him. Maybe I’ve been that close to him since, I don’t know. I hate not knowing. I hate that all I can do is broadcast. I hate just sitting around and hoping and waiting for YOU to bat the ball back!
The Saturday before Christmas, when Mom and Dad leave the house for a special Grieving Parents’ Support Group, I am frantic for new blood: something—anything—that might be linked to YOU or could help me reach him.
And as soon as the garage door touches down, I shoulder into Camie’s room to look for it.
I start with the computer, now desperate enough to guess passwords. I remember Camie posting some pics from the last year online; fun with Heather and Melissa downtown, sightseeing with Bristol, trips including New York, our cousin’s wedding, and even Chiapas, where Camie’s real albums stop. There have to be others—ones she didn’t share publicly—in her files.
Now if I could just find that bloody charger already—
I ransack the desk again with no luck. Failing that, I try other likely places: backpack. Large handbags. A duffel for sleepovers.
No dice.
In a rage, I throw open the closet. Hangers, jackets, purses fall before me as I shove aside coats, rip down sweaters, pull out shoes and folded pants and hats and toss it all on the floor after turning out pockets. Screw the charger; I’ll take whatever I can find.
I root through her laundry.
I empty her drawers.
I check beneath her mattress, in the pillowcases.
I unlatch her guitar case so fast, the instrument thrings, muting only when I grab it by the neck to see what’s under it (nothing).
I return to the shelves I have already raked, now removing their contents altogether.
No secret photos. No cryptic messages.
No evidence of dates or anniversaries or even Bristol.
It’s only when I take apart the nightstand that something falls from a photo album: a Polaroid. It isn’t of some Mystery Man—I recognize myself, Lauren, Camie, and Heather all showing off cat eyes—but just enough of it slips under the bed to make me lift back the edge of the blanket.
Revealing, in a coil like a dusty snake, Camilla’s laptop charger.
Bingo.
Hurdling the mess I’ve made, I finally plug it in and power up. On comes the password prompt. With a squint, I venture:
Bristol
Wrong.
callalilies
Denied.
But of course:
Paris
Now a tiny line of text appears below the login box:
Hint: You know . . .
asdfhgklh;rweogb
I shove myself away from the desk. This is starting to feel like one of those infinity paintings where all the stairs chase each other and you can’t tell which way’s up and which is down: no beginning, no middle, no end. Just a labyrinth of unanswerable questions.
Unless . . .
Maybe this is a chance to test a few theories.
Hopeful, I scoot back to the computer. Fingers poised, I try:
natesavage
Nothing.
NateSavage, NATESAVAGE, NATHANSAVAGE
Nope.
brand, Brand, BRANDON, BrandSayers
sponge, LawrenceTorres, lawryT
Auden, WHAuden, itsnouseraisingashout
And nothing.
Finally an unbidden thought occurs, catching me like a sock to the stomach: I really didn’t know my sister.
I close the laptop.
∞
When I finish picking up the disaster I have made, I return to my own room and collapse onto the bed. In moments, laptop propped against my knees, I’m clicking through the most recent of Cam’s public photo albums: “NYC,” from her trip there with International Club last spring break.