The Last Thing You Said

by Sara Biren

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for and may be obtained from the Library of Congress.

  ISBN: 978-1-4197-2304-9

  eISBN: 978-1-68335-066-8

  Text copyright © 2017 Sara Biren

  Jacket illustrations copyright © 2017 Sean Scheidt

  Book design by Alyssa Nassner

  Published in 2017 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher.

  Amulet Books and Amulet Paperbacks are registered trademarks of Harry N. Abrams, Inc.

  Amulet Books are available at special discounts when purchased in quantity for premiums and promotions as well as fundraising or educational use. Special editions can also be created to specification. For details, contact specialsales@abramsbooks.com or the address below.

  ABRAMS The Art of Books

  115 West 18th Street, New York, NY 10011

  abramsbooks.com

  In Memory of Nicole

  and for everyone who loved and misses her

  What is life? It is the flash of a firefly in the night. It is the breath of a buffalo in the wintertime. It is the little shadow which runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset.

  —Crowfoot

  MAY

  Friendship is a single soul dwelling in two bodies.

  —Aristotle

  1 · Lucy

  This can only get easier.

  It’s my first day at the resort, at the summer job I didn’t want but took because I couldn’t find a way to say no.

  Emily pokes my arm. “Lucy?”

  “Hmm?” I look down at the little girl. We sit on the sidewalk in front of her house, a bucket of colored chalk next to her. She holds a bright blue piece in one hand and shields her eyes from the sun with the other as she looks up at me.

  “Can I have a drink?”

  I tug on one of her blond pigtails. “Your water bottle is on the porch,” I say, and she hops up.

  Emily turned five a few weeks ago. She’s a smart girl and knew a hundred words by the time she was two—I know because Trixie and I made a list. Emily is Trixie’s cousin. We used to babysit her together; now it’s only Emily and me.

  It’s the Saturday of Mother’s Day weekend, fishing opener. A teaser—soon summer will arrive here in Halcyon Lake and hundreds of other small Minnesota resort towns like ours in the land of 11,842 lakes. School will end, and our sleepy little town will wake up, overrun with tourists.

  Trixie’s aunt and uncle—Emily’s parents—own the Cabins at Apple Tree Lane. It’s been in their family for generations, just like my family’s restaurant. My job here is to take care of Emily and help out with housekeeping and light maintenance at the resort. I’ll pick up as many shifts as I can at the restaurant, too, to help out.

  Busy is good.

  “Lucy?” Emily has gotten her water bottle and set it on the sidewalk next to her colorful chalk drawings of misshapen butterflies. “Can we go swimming today?”

  It’s spring, too early for swimming. And even though I grew up splashing around the lake in my backyard, fishing and water-skiing and tubing, I’ve never been much of a swimmer. Even before.

  Trixie was a champion swimmer, strong and fast, a fish streaking through the water.

  “Ooh, too cold,” I say.

  “Lucy?”

  “Yes, Emily?”

  “Tell me a Trixie.”

  I smile. This has become one of our favorite activities, a way I can keep Trixie alive. The stories I tell Emily about her cousin have become a part of our routine.

  “Once upon a time—” I start.

  “There lived a happy little girl named Beatrix.”

  “But everyone called her Trixie.”

  “And she had a brother named Ben.”

  “Right,” I say. “She had a brother named Ben.” My throat tightens a little at his name.

  “Tell me the first one, the first Trixie.” Emily laughs, a dramatic ha-ha-ha with her hands on her stomach. She’s playing along. This is how the Trixies go. I only tell the happy Trixies.

  “One day, when Trixie was five years old, she went to kindergarten—”

  “And she met Lulu. Lulu! That’s you.”

  I smile. That first day of school, I was so nervous, I threw up on Trixie’s shoes, but she wanted to be my friend anyway.

  I wasn’t Lulu yet, not when we met. It was Trixie who first called me Lulu—then Ben and their parents. I felt special, unique, remarkable. So much more than boring Lucy. Even as we got older, when I was with the Porters, I was Lulu.

  It was like I was a part of their family.

  No one calls me Lulu now.

  A car pulls into the driveway, a 1989 Formula 350 Firebird, black.

  “Ben!” Emily squeals, and hops up again. “Ben’s here.”

  Ben. Ben’s here. My heart sinks to my toes and rebounds back up to my throat.

  I swallow, stand up, and brush my chalky hands together.

  I can almost hear Trixie’s voice in my head: Be really brave, Lulu.

  Her voice, vibrant and silvery, is fading.

  Emily stands on the sidewalk to wait for Ben. She hops up and down, first on both feet, then alternating. She squeals again as he comes around the front of the car, tapping his knuckles twice against the gleaming hood, and crosses the driveway to her. I move closer to the porch, hoping to disappear into the whitewashed, morning-glory-covered lattice.

  I love to spend time with this sweet, funny little girl who is now the age I was when I met her cousin, my very best friend in the world. There is always a nagging feeling that Ben will show up when I’m with her, though. The fear. The small hope.

  “Ben!” Emily screams as he scoops her up in a hug. He is tall, with broad shoulders and lean, muscular arms. A swimmer, like his sister. When he lifts Emily above his head, his blue St. Croix Rod T-shirt hikes up, and I catch a glimpse of his smooth stomach above the waistline of his ratty cargo shorts. He’s already tan, his hair washed out to a light brown, curls sticking out the sides of his baseball cap.

  “Hi, Miss Emily.”

  Be really brave.

  BRB—our code.

  It’s what Trixie used to say when I needed an extra push—to climb the stairs of the tall slide in the school playground, to leap onto a balance beam, to climb the one hundred thirty steps to the top of the Fire Tower.

  It was all worth it—the rush, the gymnastics medals and accolades, the view from the Fire Tower, my world stretched out before me, Halcyon Lake and miles of jack pines and all the places I loved.

  Those things were easy compared to this.

  You should tell Ben how you feel. It will be worth it.

  He notices me, glances in my direction and away in half a second. My heart skips, and I let myself think he might smile at me like he used to, his deep brown eyes flashing.

  “Oh, hey, Lucy,” he says, his voice dull and flat. “What are you doing here?”

  Lucy. Not Lulu. Not anymore.

  “Lucy’s my babysitter,” Emily says.

  He drops her back down to the sidewalk. “Oh, yeah. I always forget.”

  “No you don’t!” Emily cries. “Are you going fishing?”

  “Yep. Where’s your dad?”

  “Dunno.” Emily pl
ops down and picks up her chalk to finish coloring in the bright blue wings of a butterfly.

  “I gotta go. See you later, Emily.” Ben’s so good with her. She adores him.

  I haven’t said one word. The pounding of my heart in my ears slows and melts a little. My wonderful Ben.

  No, that’s not right. Ben is not mine. He is not wonderful, not anymore.

  He walks around the other side of the garage to the path that leads to the resort and the lake. He doesn’t look at me again. He doesn’t say good-bye.

  It wasn’t always like this, back when we were friends, back when I thought someday we might be more than friends. Before Trixie died. I miss him, I miss him as much as I miss Trixie. Sometimes I catch him looking at me, and I wonder if he misses me, too.

  I slip my hand into the pocket of my jeans. It’s there—Ben’s agate, smooth, cool to the touch. I flip the agate again and again between my thumb and index finger.

  I wish I could find a way to get Ben Porter out of my heart.

  2 · Ben

  It’s 9:54 and I’m late for work. Well, technically not late, except that my uncle believes that if you’re not ten minutes early, you’re late. So my ten A.M. shift really began at 9:50. Mum and Dad give me a hard time about driving here—I mean, it’s a five-minute walk, max—but it’s hard enough for me to get here on time as it is. John will shake his head, but what’s he going to do, fire me?

  Some days I wish he would. I wish I would get kicked out of school, I wish I could get the hell out of this town.

  But Lulu—no, Lucy—is here.

  I mean, she’s here, sitting on my uncle’s front sidewalk.

  Lucy’s the last thing I need today. I want to spend the day out on the lake, not worry about anything, not think about anything, and there she is with my cousin. Emily laughs at something Lucy says, and Lucy has this sort of half smile on her face.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Lucy smile. Maybe she smiles, but not around me. God, I used to love her smile. The way it sort of creeps up on one side first, tentative, and then goes full out, lighting up her whole face.

  I walk down the hill as fast as I can, away from Lucy and Emily. Trixie should be here watching Em, not Lucy. I’m a prick for thinking it. And it’s not the first time.

  We’re not friends and it’s my fault. You can’t be a complete ass to someone and expect her to act like you weren’t.

  What does she think about when she sees me? Does she remember all the fun we had together—all those times fishing off the dock, all the talks we had on the Lazy River at the water park—or has she pushed it out of her mind? Does she think only about my sister? Does she hate me for what I did? For what I couldn’t do?

  For what I said?

  I don’t like to think about it. Our school schedules are different enough, and I usually don’t see her much. But today, with Lucy here, everything about that day forces its way back. I think about how Trixie slipped away from us. And I think about what happened after that day, too, the day of her funeral, and how I screwed up everything.

  Lucy must hate the sight of me, and I don’t blame her. Most days, I hate the sight of me, too.

  John waits for me on the dock with a guy in a goofy straw hat and a couple of kids, maybe around ten and twelve years old.

  “You’re late,” John says under his breath. “It’s 10:01.”

  “Sorry about that, folks,” I say, and I step into the boat.

  The weather is good—partly sunny, streaks of white clouds, a cool spring breeze. We head out to one of John’s secret sweet spots. It’s too early for bluegills, but we might be able to bring in a few crappies. There’s a chill out here on the lake, so I pull on my ratty army-green Rapala hoodie. An image comes to me, and I suck in a breath: Lucy wearing it, standing on the rocky shore of Lake Superior, orange streaks of sunrise glistening on the water behind her.

  I close my eyes against the memory. I’ve got to get her out of my head.

  The dad knows a thing or two about fishing, but the boys whine and give him a ton of attitude. I help them bait and untangle their lines for what seems like hours but is probably only about forty-five minutes. They throw night crawlers at each other. They both catch a couple of crappies and then fight over which one is bigger.

  Trixie and I fought like that, too, when we were their age.

  “Dad,” the older one whines, “this is so boring. Let’s go.”

  “Yeah,” says the younger one, “and it stinks out here.”

  After a few more minutes of the kids pissing and moaning, the dad gives in and John pulls up anchor.

  The ride back to shore won’t take long, but John slows the boat to a crawl when he sees a family of loons. We watch as they drift across the lake, dive down, resurface.

  Moments like this, when I’m out on the lake, I can pretend that nothing has changed, that life is all sunshine and roses and shit like that. It doesn’t last. I can’t live my life out on a boat in the middle of Halcyon Lake.

  I miss my sister. We fought a lot and gave each other grief. Most days she irritated the hell out of me, but every day without her sucks.

  3 · Lucy

  After lunch, Emily and I climb up to the tree house. Seven rickety two-by-fours nailed to the trunk of a box elder tree in the backyard lead to a platform with mismatched plywood walls and an upside-down V for a roof. Her dad, John, and his brother, Tom—Trixie’s dad—built the tree house when they were kids and there haven’t been many improvements to it since.

  My foot slips on the loose step halfway up, but I take a deep breath and continue the climb. This is nothing. I’ve done this a thousand times. If I can climb the Fire Tower, I can do this. I tighten my grip on the wood.

  Emily’s already dealt out a game of Go Fish by the time I pull myself up onto the platform. I sit across from her. From here, I can see down the hill to the resort, can see Ben as he walks up from the lake. My heart does its usual nosedive. Crash and burn.

  Ben was the first boy I ever loved. The only boy I’ve ever loved.

  My first kiss.

  I always thought that Trixie would be around for that, Trixie who had watched me fall more in love with her brother every day. But she wasn’t.

  There are Trixies I don’t tell Emily, like the one about the day she died.

  The four of us—me, Trixie, Ben, and my brother, Clayton—are lying on the float. The sun is strong. I’m sleepy and hazy and in love with the boy lying next to me, so close our hands almost touch.

  “It’s hot,” Trixie says. I feel her sit up next to me. “Let’s swim out to the island.”

  “No,” Ben says. “I’m sleeping. Go away.”

  “You’re not sleeping,” Trixie says. “I know you’re not. Now Clayton—he’s sleeping. Listen to that snore.”

  I don’t open my eyes. The insides of my eyelids are red, red, red from the sun. I wish Ben and I were here alone. I would stay all day.

  Trixie doesn’t ask me to swim to the island. She knows how much I hate the weeds that snake out of nowhere to tangle around your ankles. It was hard enough for me to swim out to the raft.

  “Should we go home?” she asks.

  Now I sit up. I angle to face her and pull my knees up, put my arms around them.

  “No,” I whisper. “I’m not ready to go home.”

  She winks at me, then nudges Clay’s ankle with her foot. “Clayton? Race you to the island?”

  My brother pops up. “What? What did I miss? You want to race me, ya little punk?” He reties the drawstring on his trunks and jumps into the water, a cannonball, splashing water across the swim float. The cool spray feels refreshing on my hot skin.

  “It’s a good day to have a good day.” She leans in close to me and whispers, “BRB, Lucy. Promise me.”

  “The best day,” I say. “I promise.”

  Trixie dives into the lake. Ben and I are quiet. I can hear both our breaths, our heartbeats, even over the noise of the lake, the splashing, the laughter.
/>
  Ben sits up.

  He reaches out and tugs at my ponytail.

  Then he runs his hand down the side of my arm. I gasp; shivers overtake me in the hot, hot sun.

  “Lulu,” he says. “Look at me.”

  But I don’t. I can’t.

  I hold my breath as Ben strokes his index finger against my arm again. “Lulu, I’ve been wondering if—”

  He is cut off by the sound of Clayton shouting from the lake.

  Ben dives into the water and swims toward the island, toward Clay, toward where Trixie should be. Ben resurfaces, shouts, I can’t see her, call for help. I splash to shore, crying, shaking. A woman puts a towel around my shoulders, says she’s already called 911, tells me to breathe.

  Breathe.

  I don’t tell Emily this story, but someday I will. Someday she will want to know all the sad parts, too, not just the happy, silly stories of two girls growing up.

  When Tami gets home from running errands, Ben’s car is no longer in the driveway. She asks if I’d like a ride home since it’s been drizzling off and on the last couple of hours, but I tell her I’ll swing by the Full Loon and catch a ride with my mom.

  “You’ll be lucky if they don’t toss you an apron and put you to work,” Tami says. “It’s opener weekend. And your mom told me that Rita quit.”

  I roll my eyes. “Not much of a loss, if you ask me.” Mom had called me in countless times to cover for Rita at the last minute, but she completely freaked out when her most veteran waitress left them high and dry.

  The Full Loon Café, the restaurant that’s been in my mom’s family since the 1940s, isn’t far from the resort. Nothing’s far from anything in this town. The café parking lot is crowded; even the overflow lot behind the Oasis gas station is packed with vehicles. A half-dozen people crowd onto the two wooden benches next to the front door, waiting for a table. Saturday night, fishing opener, Mom’s down a full-timer, and her summer part-timers are new and green.

  I should go in, grab an apron, and help them out of the weeds.

  But I don’t.