Not that I ever admitted that to anyone. Sentimentality is for the weak. That’s a lesson I learned early on.
Anyway, the curtain: I honestly have not thought about the thing in years.
Curiosity forces my hand. I reach out and pull back the curtain. The strands move easily, making a familiar series of clicking sounds—beads knocking into one another. The sound is soothing. And this is interesting. Apparently, even though I cannot touch another human being, I can move objects, or at least this object—the beaded curtain.
How do double doors in the gymnasium lead to a sourdough bread tunnel that leads to the beaded curtain from my old room? I don’t know, but feel the need to investigate. So I take a deep breath and walk through the curtain.
Sure enough, I find my childhood bedroom. Same pink shag carpet with a blue nail polish stain in the corner. Same rainbow mural on the far wall, and under it, a cozy-looking twin bed covered in fluffy pillows and the most gorgeous quilt you have ever seen in your life.
Opposite that is a bookcase crammed with stuffies in all shapes and sizes: cats, dogs, turtles, orangutans, and most important, Ursula, my unicorn. With her big, violet eyes, her swirly rainbow-striped horn, and her white fluffy fur, Ursula was my favorite.
But it’s not the furniture or the decorations that truly shock me, the details of my room preserved as if I’ve stepped into a life-sized time capsule. It’s the two eight-year-old girls on the floor making friendship bracelets. Marley Winters and Ellie Charles.
Yes, that’s right. Me and my former best friend are there, in the flesh, sitting right in front of me.
My heart is in my throat. I feel ill, and am suddenly desperate to flee, because I have walked smack dab into the middle of that night. That dreadful night I would do anything to forget.
I cannot watch this. Who is this crazy Girl in Black? And why did she bring me here? How did she know? Is she even responsible? Was it her idea? I don’t know who else to be mad at, so I will blame her.
Still, as much as I want to close my eyes and look away, I am also curious.
I haven’t seen Marley in years, but when I was young, we didn’t spend any time apart.
Marley was my best friend. Yet, saying that she was my bestie isn’t enough. Marley was more like my sister. We were friends since birth, practically. We lived across the street from each other and our parents were all good friends. Both only children, both girls in a sea of grownups, we had each other. Always.
Anyway, all that’s history. I don’t want to go backward. Things change. Sometimes stuff happens and it’s beyond your control.
Why linger on the past? There’s no point. And that’s when I realize something: Sure, I walked into this soon-to-be-mess by myself, but there is no reason for me to stay here.
I turn around and try to flee, but I can’t. It’s so stupid! All I have to do is walk back through the beaded curtain, except it’s impossible. Physically, I mean.
It was simple enough to walk in through the curtain. I did so without a second thought. But now? Well, this makes no sense. Something is stopping me from moving through it. I can touch the curtain, but it isn’t loose or flexible. It is no longer a normal beaded curtain—one that moves and sways. At this point the beads are stiff, and as strong as steel, like prison bars.
I am trapped.
“Hey, Girl in Black? Where’d you go?” I shout. “You told me to follow you and you’re not even here, which is so not fair.”
“I’ll see you later,” the Girl in Black replies. Finally! I hear her voice, but I can’t tell where it’s coming from.
“Where are you?” I scream, frustrated, as I push harder on the curtain bars. This is unbelievable. I am literally imprisoned in a cage of my childhood. “You need to let me out immediately. I can’t be here. I don’t want to see this.”
I hear a laugh from above and then silence. I sense that she is gone.
This is one cruel trick and I don’t like it. But I am here, so I turn around. I face the two girls, who are sitting in the middle of the floor. They can’t see me and have no idea I’m watching them, of course. It’s just like before, back in the gym. This scene is happening in front of me, but I am not a part of it. I am like a ghost, powerless, forced to witness events I cannot control.
I lean against the wall and sink down to a seated position. Hugging my knees, I watch eight-year-old Marley and me. Our hair is in matching braids hanging over our shoulders, both with neat, center parts. Hers is dark brown, almost black, and mine is light brown, but otherwise the same. We always planned stuff like that back then. We are in matching outfits, too. Pink, fuzzy sweaters and jeans with heart patches on the knees. We sewed the heart patches ourselves—learned how to do so in an after-school sewing class.
Marley is teaching Ellie how to do a chevron braid. “Pink and yellow yarn okay with you?” she asks, holding up the two strands.
“Sure,” eight-year-old Ellie says. I’ll call her EE for short. Her voice is chipper and bright, like she hasn’t got a care in the world. And she doesn’t—not yet. She has no idea how bad things are about to get.
“Thanks for showing me what to do,” EE tells her bestie.
Marley’s voice is sweet and gentle as she explains. “Okay, take four pieces of embroidery thread and make sure they are about three feet long. A little shorter is okay, too. Then you fold them in half and make sure that each piece is the same length. After that, make a loop knot at the top to secure everything together. Then, safety pin it to something so it’s easier to braid. Do you have a safety pin?”
Her sweetness pierces my heart, makes me ache inside.
“Hold on.” Eight-year-old Ellie, I mean EE, jumps up and goes to her dresser. She digs through a drawer and comes back with a safety pin. “How about you pin it to your jeans, like at the knee?”
“Won’t that make a hole?” asks Marley.
“Maybe a small one, but it’s totally worth it, don’t you think?” EE asks.
Marley nods. “Good point.” She takes the safety pin and carefully attaches the string and then fastens it to her jeans. “It’s V shaped but it’s called a chevron braid, I’m not sure why…”
She’s patient, as usual—generous with her time and talent.
EE scoots closer to her, leans over her shoulder, and squints at the threads.
Curious, open, innocent, and stripped of all armor. No, not stripped. That’s not exactly accurate. This is pre-armor. Before I knew I needed it. Before I worked so hard to build it. It makes me want to cry, seeing myself like this, so young and soft. I was someone else completely. A different girl. It’s been so long and I’ve changed so much I hardly recognize myself.
And yet, at the same time I don’t want to be here because I know what’s coming next. There is nothing I can do to prevent it. I am powerless.
I stand up because my foot is asleep. What a strange thing to be feeling pins and needles, a sensation that happens when your limb is not getting enough blood flow. I guess a lack of blood flow means my blood is still flowing, which means I’m still alive—not exactly a ghost, which has got to be a good sign, right?
Unless this is some new form of torture.
I walk back and forth, stomping my foot to try to alleviate the weird feeling. I try talking to the girls, crouching down next to them and waving my hands in front of their faces. It doesn’t work. Next I try to put my hand on EE’s shoulder. I figure if I could move the beaded curtain, maybe I can somehow signal to the girls, as well. Except I can’t. My hand goes right through EE’s body. Just like before, with my classmates back in the gym.
I could shout for the Girl in Black again, but I sense she won’t hear me. Or if she can, she’ll ignore me. She obviously likes torturing me. So I give up—I don’t have the stamina. I suppose I am here to watch. Wait until I am taken to the next place. Since I don’t know anything, I can’t plan my next move. And it’s insanely frustrating. I hate not being in control.
I sit down on the bed. The soft mat
tress is familiar. I wonder again if this is all a dream. What if I get under the covers and lay my head down on the pillow and close my eyes? Will I wake up in the present day? In the gym? Or in the hospital? Or maybe in the back of an ambulance?
I realize that none of the above options would be so amazing, but at the same time, each one would be preferable to my childhood bedroom. On this night of all nights.
Now my insides feel twisty, like I’m going to vomit. A small part of me wishes I could vomit on this quilt. Or really, make it disappear.
It’s a reminder of simpler times. A past I don’t want to think about.
The quilt is gorgeous. My mom made it for me years before when I was stuck in bed for two weeks with the chicken pox. I was feverish and red and itchy all over but most of all, horribly depressed about missing my ballet recital. We were doing The Nutcracker and I was supposed to play Clara, the lead part.
It was a dream come true—or would’ve been, had I not gotten sick.
I had the most beautiful pink leotard with a sheer, silver, shimmery skirt. My mom and I had embedded tiny crystal beads all over the bodice and shoulders. On the night of the dress rehearsal, she’d French-braided my hair, and used more beads there. When I moved, everything caught the light in the most gorgeous way. The real show was going to be amazing.
But that night I felt itchy and feverish and the next day I woke up feeling awful. Worse—there were spots covering my body. My mom rushed me to the emergency room, where the doctor told me I had the chicken pox. That would’ve been bad enough, but then the next day I also had an allergic reaction to one of the medications she prescribed. So I felt like I had a stomach virus also, complete with chills and vomiting every hour, on the hour, like I was losing my insides.
My dad was gone—away on a business trip, as usual. But my mom sat by my side. She made me cinnamon toast and brought me fresh water and mopped my forehead with a cool, damp washcloth. She tried to console me as I wept with sadness, curled into a little ball, with tears streaming down my sad, itchy, red, little face.
She told me jokes. She read me books. She sang songs. She cradled me in her strong arms and held me for the longest time, gently rocking me back and forth. But nothing helped. Not until she came up with the idea of making the quilt. She was always so crafty.
The next day she showed me all the fabric swatches she’d gathered. Patches with pictures of my favorite things:
• Shiny, pink ballet slippers, ankle ribbons artfully curled
• A rainbow with fat stripes of color and fluffy white clouds at each end
• A unicorn with a purple-and-white, sparkly horn
• A strawberry ice cream sundae with rainbow sprinkles and three cherries
“Where did you find these?” I marveled.
She smiled but wouldn’t give away her secrets. “I have my ways,” she replied mysteriously. She made it seem like magic, my mom. I still don’t know where she found those patches.
I helped her make that quilt and as we stitched together those squares, I stopped feeling sorry for myself and started feeling better. So I wouldn’t be Clara. There was always next year. I had a bright future ahead of me. This was simply a setback, one recital, one Christmas.
The quilt was spectacular. After we arranged the squares, my mom used a sewing machine to put them all together. Then we finished it off with a hand stitch using thick purple thread.
Purple was my favorite color back then—Marley’s, too. We had our own club, called each other the Violets. We not only loved the color but the flower, too, and the smell of the violet perfume her grandma, Oma, used to wear.
I’m actually happy to see the quilt—I haven’t in years. But that’s a different story. Another one I don’t want to revisit. Suddenly a guilty lump forms in my throat. I try to gulp it down but can’t.
I don’t want to think about how sweet my mom is, how soft. I don’t want to relive these scenes from my past. Not when I’ve worked so hard to forget them.
Maybe I should pretend like I’m watching a movie—not of my life, just some random film about some other girl.
If only there were popcorn.
Hey, I wonder if I can get some popcorn. Why not? Nothing else makes sense in this magical universe.
“Popcorn please!” I yell into the air.
I hear a distinct, “Hah!”
I grin—just as I thought, the Girl in Black hasn’t actually left me. She’s simply disappeared. But I won’t be fooled. “I thought you were gone,” I call up to her.
She doesn’t answer.
I turn back to my eight-year-old self, back to EE.
Marley has finished showing EE how to make the chevron braid. EE is working on the yellow and pink one and Marley is setting up her own, looping together strands in blue and black.
“Who’s that for?” EE asks.
“This one is for my dad,” Marley replies.
“Oh, I think I’ll make one for my dad, too,” says EE. “Great idea.”
I groan and then cover my mouth, but I don’t need to. These girls can’t hear me. It doesn’t matter what I say or do: no point in trying to warn her.
“He’ll love it,” Marley says enthusiastically.
She has bright blue eyes, and freckles on her face. She is adorable, my best friend. Former best friend, I mean. There is no one like Marley. I knew it then and I still know it now.
“Do you think he’ll be surprised?” EE asks.
Marley nods, encouraging me. “Of course.”
EE says, “He never wears bracelets, though. I hope he likes it.”
“He probably doesn’t wear one because he’s never had one this nice before,” says Marley, always the optimist.
EE nods. This is exactly what she wants to hear. Marley knows this. Both girls believe it to be true. They are so innocent. Nothing bad has ever happened to them.
“When I’m done I’ll make one for my mom,” says EE.
“And I’ll make one for my other dad,” says Marley. “We’d better hurry. Christmas is only three days away.”
They both work for a bit until EE looks up and says, “What do you think you’re getting for Christmas?”
“A new bike, I hope. One with gears and hand brakes,” says Marley. “In violet. You hardly ever see violet bikes around, and I don’t want my bike to look like everyone else’s.”
“I asked for a bike, too,” EE says, excited.
“Make sure you get a violet one, too,” says Marley. “Then we can be twins.”
“But I thought you wanted to be the only kid with a violet bicycle,” EE reminds her.
Marley shakes her head. “No, I would love it if you got one, Ellie. You’re my best friend. I mean everyone else. We’re different.”
This warms my heart. Eight-year-old me smiles, and thirteen-year-old me smiles, as well. I can’t help myself.
“Let’s get matching baskets and bells, too,” says EE. “And we can make rainbow streamers for the handlebars.”
“We can even use this yarn, if we have some left over,” Marley says, holding up the pile of thread.
For a brief moment I wonder if maybe this isn’t the day. The day everything went wrong. Maybe I can simply kick back and enjoy the scene. Those were good times, when Marley and I were besties. I had a beautiful quilt that my mom and I made ourselves. I’ve just about convinced myself of this, and am finally ready to relax, when I hear shouts coming from outside the bedroom door.
It’s my parents. Well, of course it is. They had to come around and ruin this eventually.
“I have had enough!” my mom yells.
I startle, and so do the girls on the floor.
“You have no idea what it’s like in the real world!” my dad shouts back. “You cannot handle it.”
A door slams. A dish breaks. Then my mom starts to scream. “I am sick and tired of it, Nick!”
I feel like puking. I wonder: Will anyone hear my retching? And if I do throw up, will the contents of my
stomach be invisible, too?
Marley’s eyes widen as she looks at EE.
I am so jarred by this I cannot think straight.
I blink and remind myself that I’m dreaming … or something.
This has already happened to me.
Nothing will be as bad.
This moment has passed and I survived.
I am awesome and ruthless, the most powerful eighth grader in my whole entire town. I am going to rock high school, too. People fear me. Nothing can penetrate my icy exterior. I’m not rock-solid, because rocks can crack and crumble, wear down over time. I am more like titanium or steel, or a diamond. Yes, I like that better. Diamonds are hard and sparkly and expensive and rare and that’s what I want to be. That is who I have become, and it’s working.
But all that is ahead of me, in the future. Now I have to watch EE relive this pain and it’s agonizing.
Marley bites her bottom lip and asks softly, tentatively, “Is everything okay?”
“Sure,” says EE, forcing a smile, obviously fake, straining at the edges. She takes a deep breath. Her bottom lip quivers. Tears fill her eyes but she sniffs them back and sits up straighter. “It’s probably the TV. My mom always listens to it too—”
Before she can finish her sentence there’s another scream. “You’ve got to leave me alone. This is too much!”
“What are they watching?” Marley asks, looking toward the door nervously. Is she that innocent, or perhaps such a good friend that she is playing along? I still wonder.
Feeling sick inside, I raise my knees up to my chest and hug them. I press my forehead into my legs and rock back and forth. Strangely, or maybe it’s not strange at all, eight-year-old me is doing the same, curled up like a little pill bug. Wishing she could be that small. I remember the feeling.
Suddenly my mom bursts into the room, surprising Marley and Ellie. Her face is red and blotchy, and her eyes are glassy. She’s been crying, and her voice sounds strained. There is so much pain in her eyes. She’s trying to hold it together, though.
She takes a deep breath before she speaks, blinks a few times. I can tell that she is attempting to sound calm, but her voice wavers. I didn’t notice it the first time I witnessed it. But now I know exactly why she sounds so strange: It’s the strain of trying to pretend that everything is normal.
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