“Really? Sylvie, that’s so cool! Why didn’t I think of that? It’s perfect for you!”
“When I told Daddy, he said I’m too young to know what I want. He said I’ll grow out of it. Flor, I’m growing into it. Why can’t he see that?”
Anger is Flor, not Sylvie. But her voice shakes with it, eleven-plus years’ worth of it. It’s like anger is the secret she’s kept inside, the way the blue-and-green Earth hides her fiery core.
“Now I know why he and Perry fight so much. I used to wish Perry would just do what Daddy said, but now I know. He can’t. Oh, Flor, how’d it get to be such a big mess?”
“What are you talking about, Syl?”
“My family. It’s been messed up for a long time, and this summer . . . Perry kept getting in more and more trouble, and then he said he was going to quit school, and my father said no way, and they were yelling at each other all the time, and my mother started getting drunk even in the daytime.”
“What?” Flor misheard. “What did you just—”
“That’s why I never wanted you to come over.”
Flor looks up. The pointy stars spear a passing cloud.
“They call it her bad habit, like she bites her nails or watches too much TV. It’s the same as saying somebody passed because you can’t stand to say the truth. They died.”
The stars shred the cloud.
“It kept getting worse, Flor. She’d turn into this horrible crying mess. Or else she’d just sit and stare at the wall like a zombie.”
How could Flor not have known this? She can’t believe her best friend carried around a secret this terrible.
“My father blamed Perry. He said it’s because Perry is such a big disappointment to Mom. And Perry said my father’s a bully and a dictator and no wonder my mother’s so lonely. I don’t know which one of them’s right, Flor! It doesn’t even matter. Because she just keeps drinking.”
Mrs. Pinch, always perfect, always beautiful. Flor was so used to seeing Sylvie’s mother that way, she never saw . . .
“One night Perry and Dad started fighting for real. Pushing and shoving each other. Grabbing and shoving each other, getting madder and madder. I tried to get them to stop, I begged them and begged them, but they wouldn’t.”
“Didn’t your mother do anything?”
“She was passed out by then.”
Mrs. Pinch, so perfect. Mr. Pinch, so powerful he owns the Earth’s guts. Even for the Pinches, it had to be hard to keep a secret like this. “That boy’s life is harder than people think,” Dad said. Did Dad know? Is that why . . . ?
“They both have such bad tempers, Flor. It was the most . . . I couldn’t stand it. I had to stop them. And we were upstairs, and you know the stairs, you know how they’re slippery . . .”
The stairs in the Pinches’ house are made of marble. Special marble Mr. Pinch ordered from a quarry in Italy.
“And my father told me to get out of the way, but Perry shoved him, and I don’t know, one of them . . . maybe both of them . . . They didn’t mean it! But somehow I fell down the stairs.”
“No! No no no.”
“They were both so sorry.” The anger drains from her voice. “They got me ice, and gave me Tylenol, and they kept saying they were sorry sorry sorry. Perry about died.” Her voice hushes, like this might be her fault. “He’d never hurt me on purpose. Never.”
“Only he did!” Flor cries. “On purpose or not! And you forgive him, right? You love him no matter what.”
“Of course I do! He’s my brother! What’s wrong with you, Flor?”
“With me? Nothing.” But jealousy twists deep inside her. Cecilia loves him too. Loves him and not her.
“Then Perry cracked up the car, and we all flew over to the mainland, and when we got back, my mother—” Sylvie breaks off. Someone, her aunt probably, is talking in the background, and Sylvie answers politely yet with a firmness Flor doesn’t recognize. Flor hears a door close.
“Anyway,” Sylvie goes on, “the next thing I knew, my father said I was going away to school. He said it would be better for me.”
“Sylvie.” Flor’s voice is louder than she means it to be. “How come you never told me?”
“I don’t know! I got so used to covering up about my mother. Every time I started to tell you, something stopped me. Like, I needed to protect her. Or . . .” Her voice catches. “So when my father made me promise not to tell about falling, I—”
“You should’ve anyway! You should’ve told me, Sylvie.”
“Maybe . . .”
Flor jumps up. She kicks a rock. “I told you all my bad stuff!”
“Flor.” Sylvie’s voice tenses. “I’m telling you now.”
“All that time you pretended everything was okay.” Flor kicks another rock. Kicks thin air. Startles some lurking night creature, who races into the field. “How could you do that to me? That’s as bad as lying!”
A pause.
“I can’t believe you,” Sylvie says quietly. “Do you know how hard it was?”
“That’s exactly why you should’ve told me!”
“I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. And you know what? This isn’t about you.”
Sylvie’s words sting. But Flor knows who’s right.
“You know I’m right! How could you just smile and act like everything was fine? You betrayed me. You—”
“Like you’re the main one who got hurt? That’s so Flor. That’s so selfish and bossy and hateful!”
“That’s better than being a soggy wimp like you!”
“In case you didn’t notice, I’m not anymore!”
Click. Sylvie hangs up. She’s gone. Flor stares at the phone. How can this be? She’s lost her best, her perfect friend twice.
Flor feels like she’s falling. Losing her balance, pitching forward into dark air—it’s her dream, but now it’s Sylvie’s too. Falling, tumbling, reaching for a bottom that isn’t there.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Friday morning, the island’s in the grip of a wind so fierce, the seagulls hang motionless in the air. Rain sweeps across the back field, wave after wave, like an army marching in formation. Dad drives them to school, then speeds off to check if the road to the neck is flooding. Inside, the big radiators clank away, and the air steams with the smell of wet socks. Fog wraps their classroom in a silver cocoon.
At the end of the day, Cecilia waits for her and Thomas. Flor could faint.
“It’s dangerous out,” Cecilia says. “Lots of wires and trees are down. Thomas, hold my hand.”
Across the road, the wind yanked an oak out of the ground like a rotten tooth. It’s a shock to see how shallow the roots are on such a massive tree. Branches lie all over the place, and chain saws whine near and far. The temperature must have dropped twenty degrees.
This is the island that summer people never see. The steely sky, the dark lake flexing its muscles. The air spits at you. Nothing is gentle, nothing is kind.
Queenie pulls up and says hop in quick. Two Sisters is usually closed Friday afternoon, but she’s on her way to open. People are going to want kerosene and candles, not to mention a place to swap information about the storm.
They pass a tree resting against a roof like it fainted. A lawn chair somersaults across a front yard, and the campground sign is upside down. Cottage wind chimes clatter and clang. At their house, a cracked branch of the lilac sweeps back and forth like a witch’s broom. Queenie looks worried. Stay inside, she tells them. Don’t move till their father gets home.
“Mama’s coming,” Thomas says. Queenie looks surprised, then sad.
“The way that fog’s rolling in, hon, I wouldn’t count on them making the evening run.”
The electricity is out. Cecilia switches on the emergency lantern, and they all pull on extra sweaters. Dad calls Cecilia on her cell to say he’s got his hands full helping people, will they be okay if he doesn’t come home for a while yet? This makes Cecilia so indignant, Flor could faint for the second time
in an hour.
“I’m here, Dad. I’ll take care of them!” Old Cecilia is back. She’s taking charge. “I know, Queenie told us. . . . No candles,” she says. “Got it, Dad.”
She strikes a long wooden match and gets the oven going for heat, then peers into the cupboards, tapping her lip, frowning her familiar prim frown. Soon she’s flipping pancakes, every one perfectly round, no lumps, and so much for being a vegetarian, because she eats four strips of bacon. Applesauce, warmed up, with cinnamon on top. Thomas finishes his milk and for once doesn’t use his shoulder for a napkin. From the look of him, he’s as grateful as Flor to have his big big sister back. The house is getting cold, but warmth steals through Flor. Her shoulders, which feel like they’ve been hunched around her ears forever, relax.
Cecilia runs a hot bath for Thomas. When he gets out, she tells Flor to take one too.
“It’ll raise your body temperature,” she says. Just think—this kind of bossiness used to make Flor angry! “And you can use my body wash if you want.”
Cecilia’s acting like she loves them. It’s uncanny.
Flor lies in the tub. How quiet this world is, the world where nothing mechanical hums or ticks. If only the power would never come back on. She wants to live here, in this moment lifted free of the rest of time. Climbing out of the tub, she feels toasty, smells delicious. They’re drinking cocoa when Cecilia’s cell rings again.
“Hey. Yes? All . . . hey!” She yanks it from her ear, puffs a breath. “Dead!” And now she can’t recharge it. She gives the phone a mournful look. It was You Know Who. Don’t think you can fool Flor.
But Cecilia promised Dad she’d stay. Maybe Flor shouldn’t believe her, but she does. When Dad comes home, he’ll get the emergency generator going and take over, but till then, the three of them are stranded on a desert island and no one can leave. It’s crazy how happy this makes Flor. Even Mama not coming tonight is okay, with Cecilia here.
Even though she’s regarding them with those dark stranger eyes. Even though she’s starting to look stricken with regret. Even though her face is growing so sad, you’d almost think she was gazing on her brother and sister for the last time. Before she tells them good-bye. Before she runs away.
Flor jumps up, spilling her cocoa. She grabs her sister’s hands.
“Let’s go upstairs! We should go upstairs right now.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Candlelight spins a yellow web in Thomas’s room. They’ve lit every candle they could find, including Cecilia’s aromatherapy lavender and the holy ones Lita gives them every Christmas, with pictures of the Sacred Heart and the Merciful Virgin of Guadalupe. Officially Thomas is in bed, but the top half of him hangs over the side. The old lilac bush tap tap taps the side of the house, trying to deliver a message. To remind them of something.
“Remember Town?” says Flor.
Her little brother crashes out of bed onto the floor.
“Can we play can we play please please pretty please with a cherry on top?” He’s on his knees, begging like Petey. He remembers Town? He was barely human the last time they played.
“Get back in bed this instant,” says Cecilia.
“Can I be the fireman?”
“I’ll be the doctor,” says Flor.
Cecilia sighs. She half smiles. “You know who the mayor is.”
Their town has so many problems. Snowball needs an ear transplant, a tricky operation. Fire breaks out in the bathtub, and Thomas has to rush to extinguish it. When a bad guy tries to steal Cecilia’s purse, Officer Thomas has to catch him, and Judge Flor sends him straight to jail. Hungry, the workers order takeout Oreos and milk, special delivered. All the while, Mayor Cecilia sits at her desk, issuing laws and writing proclamations.
“All citizens of this town must be abed by eight thirty p.m.,” she abruptly declares. “Which is immediately. By illustrious order of your illustrious mayor.”
“Let’s vote!” says Thomas. “I vote for fifteen more minutes!”
“Me too,” says Flor.
“Two to one!”
“Mayors exercise veto power.” Cecilia studies the ceiling, considering. “But since I’m so benevolent, I grant your petition.”
Farmer Thomas plants a field of plastic dinosaurs, but what do you know? A noisy construction crew plows straight through it, laying down a new highway. Meanwhile, the mayor puts on her makeup. Blush, lipstick, that smoky eye shadow. Flor watches in the mirror. And then the mayor lifts Flor’s chin and brushes color across her cheeks too. She angles her head, considers, wipes it back off.
“Your skin’s too nice the way it is,” she tells Flor.
“It’s sickly! It’s the color of a cauliflower!”
“No. It’s the color of ivory. You look romantic, like a princess captive in a tower.”
“Really?”
“All kinds of boys will fall in love with you, Florita. Take it from the wise mayor of Town.”
In the mirror, their heads nearly touch, and for a heartbeat, in the candlelight, it’s hard to tell who’s who. They merge, they crisscross. Hermosa, Flor thinks, and it’s like the electric lights suddenly flare on, only inside her. Someday, she will be as old as Cecilia is right now. Future Flor is there in the mirror, waiting, beckoning. This feels so surprising, and the fact that it’s surprising is most surprising of all, because of course, of course Flor’s always known this. That she will grow up. That she will get older, taller, she hopes smarter, and maybe, possibly, by a miracle, prettier. But up till now, she also knew this: she’d always be the same inside.
Now, with Cecilia’s face floating beside hers, she can’t be sure. When Thomas gets in trouble, he cries and says he didn’t mean it. Can you change into another person without meaning it? What if your own heart becomes a mystery, a map that leads you where you never meant to go? In the mirror Flor can see their breath, hers and Cele’s, white moths fluttering around their lips. Little ghost breaths.
And then Cecilia slowly turns away.
“We’ve got to put this monkey to bed.”
Thomas has fallen asleep on the rug, surrounded by dinosaurs and road graders. Cecilia’s hands go under his arms, and Flor takes his legs. When did this monkey get so heavy? He swings between them like a lumpy little bridge, and they both start laughing so hard they almost drop him. Cecilia smoothes his hair, tucks the covers up around him.
“Now you,” she tells Flor. “Beddy bye.”
Shadows lick the walls. A queasy feeling makes Flor sway on her feet.
“I’m not tired.”
“You still have to go to bed. I promised Dad.” Cecilia picks up her dead cell phone, rubs the screen like she’s trying to bring it to life.
“Cecilia! How can you love him?”
“Dad?”
“No! Perry!”
Startled, Cecilia presses the cell phone to her heart. She really thinks Flor didn’t know! Thinks Flor is a blind creature crawling in the mud.
“He hurt Sylvie. Do you know that? She fell down the stairs because of him!”
“I know. We don’t keep secrets from each other.” Cecilia tucks her chin against her shoulder. She won’t look at Flor. “He’s not perfect. So? Are you? Is anybody?”
“You are!” Flor’s voice is loud inside her head, like her hands are over her ears. “I mean, you were! Till he messed everything up!”
The lipstick Cecilia put on in the dark is crooked, and her mouth looks too big, like someone else’s lips took over hers.
“He didn’t mess anything up! You don’t know the real story.”
“Yes, I do! Don’t go with him. He’s dangerous!” Desperate, Flor grabs her sister’s arm. In a flash Sylvie tumbles down marble stairs, crumples in a heap on the bottom. A car slams into a tree. Cecilia lies in a coffin, a wild rose on her chest.
“Stop it.” Cecilia’s eyes are bright with tears. “I have to live my life!” She tries to pull away, but Flor’s grip is iron.
“Hello? What’s going on up there?”
Dad. He’s standing in the downstairs hallway. Holding the lantern, he peers up at the two of them. His cheeks are raw with wind, his boots and pants caked with mud.
“Are you all right? Cele, are you crying?”
Her eye makeup is all smeared. Now, now he chooses to start noticing things!
“I tripped in the dark,” she says. “I hurt my arm, but I’m all right.”
She’s Cecilia—Dad believes her. He’s trudging up the stairs.
“What a night! Every time I thought I could head home, something else went wrong. The ferry landing took a hit—two pilings washed out. Flossie ran out into the storm; Betty Magruder chased her and got locked out of the house. The road to the neck’s under half a foot of water, so I had to check on Violet. To top it off, fog’s socking us in. It’s a good one, too.”
He massages his wind-burned cheek.
“On my way back here, the darnedest thing happened. I lost my bearings.” His features look blurred, as if a giant eraser rubbed them. “It was like a bad dream. I should be able to find my way blindfolded.”
His boots track mud all the way upstairs. Cecilia asks if he’s hungry. But no, Queenie gave him a sandwich.
“You lit candles,” he says, sniffing the air, and they don’t deny it. Well, he better get outside and start that generator. Back down the stairs he goes, gripping the handrail, doing his old-man imitation. At the bottom, he turns to look back at them.
“Mama won’t be able to get here tomorrow either. Not till the crew can fix that ferry landing.”
“Did you talk to her?” asks Flor, but Dad just keeps going.
Cecilia heads straight to her room and shuts the door. Flor sits on her own bed, flicking the flashlight around, spotlighting this and that—her shelf of books, the fossil from Sylvie and the one from the Fifes, her backpack on the floor. She makes the light jitter across the ceiling like a star having a nervous breakdown.
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