by Kevin Henkes
“It’s supposed to be the Eiffel Tower,” Casey said with a doubtful expression. “But it kept collapsing so I kept making it smaller. Now it stands up okay, but it’s so small and crooked it looks like—like the skeleton of a miniature giraffe with really bad arthritis.”
Casey’s comment had the effect of opening a window in a stuffy room. Amelia laughed. And then so did Casey.
They were still laughing when Louise came up from the basement carrying a tray of children’s coil pots fresh from the kiln and ready for glazing. “What’s so funny?” she asked.
Amelia and Casey quieted, exchanged a look—and burst out laughing again. Then they got the giggles.
“Oh, good,” said Louise, amused. She breezed past them, glancing from one to the other. “I thought you might hit it off.”
6 • Gwen and Charlie Till Death Do Us Part
The day had changed. When Amelia had set out for the clay studio the sky had been muted, nearly invisible, and now it was as blue and bright as a gemstone. But it was still cold. Amelia turned up the collar of her jacket and dipped her chin even though they only had a block to walk.
Louise had given money to Casey for lunch at the coffee shop. “Here,” she’d said, pressing some folded bills into his hand, “this is for both of you. My treat.”
On the way, Casey managed to brush his arm against Amelia’s arm two times. Amelia couldn’t decide if this was annoying or interesting. Or accidental.
If you didn’t know the two of them, and were walking behind them at a close distance, you might even think they liked each other.
They ordered at the counter, Amelia first, and sat on stools at the high, long communal table against the window, facing the street. When their food arrived—a grilled cheese sandwich and hot chocolate for both—Casey grinned and said, “Just so you know, I wasn’t copying you.” For the most part, while they ate, they looked out the window, not at each other.
Amelia’s questions about Casey were adding up. Why was he staying with Louise? Why was he trying to make a replica of the Eiffel Tower? And what was with the wedding cake shirt? She’d stolen enough glances throughout the morning to read the words on the cake. The words said Gwen and Charlie Till Death Do Us Part. Who were Gwen and Charlie?
Gwen and Charlie Till Death Do Us Part could be the name of an alternative band or a cult movie. Amelia wasn’t very knowledgeable about things like that. She was not on the cutting edge. She still had a Protect Our Ocean Friends poster hanging above her bed.
After swallowing a bite of her sandwich, she jumped right in. “Is Gwen and Charlie Till Death Do Us Part a band?”
Casey laughed. “No.” His eyes strayed to his shirt. “That’s funny. Gwen and Charlie are my parents.”
“Oh,” said Amelia. “Did they just have an anniversary or renew their vows, or something?”
“I wish. Actually, they’re thinking about getting divorced.” Casey folded his napkin into a triangle. “They went on some marriage retreat at a resort in Michigan. That’s where they are right now. I overheard my mom, on the phone, before they left, say it’s their last attempt to fix their failing marriage. That’s why I’m staying with my aunt. Louise is my mom’s sister.”
Amelia didn’t know how to respond. She nodded and frowned.
“My dad told me that their marriage is a shipwreck,” said Casey.
“That’s bad,” said Amelia. “Really sad.”
“But, he’s also been known to say that life is a universal shipwreck. He’s a cheery guy.”
Out of the corner of her eye Amelia watched Casey. He held up what was left of his sandwich and studied it as if it were a specimen in science class. She noticed that he’d somehow gotten a big crumb—a piece of bread crust—caught in his wild hair. She wanted to pick it out or tell him, but she didn’t dare.
“I think it’s probably hopeless,” he said, “but . . .” He didn’t finish. He twisted his mouth, then puffed out his cheeks. “Anyway, I started making these shirts with fabric markers and acrylic paint. My ‘Save the Marriage’ campaign. This one—the cake—is my favorite. I have one that says For Better or Worse. And another that says Children of Divorce Are More Likely to Drop Out, Do Drugs, Commit Crimes. My mom hates that one. Really hates it.”
“Is that true?” Amelia asked cautiously. “What the shirt says.”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I just made it up. My mom says it’s not true.”
Casey jammed the rest of his sandwich into his mouth and covered his mouth while he chewed. He appeared to be talking to his hand or telling a secret.
He sat back and chewed, slowly, thoughtfully, for a long time. When he was done, he leaned in. “They met at the Eiffel Tower when they were in college,” he explained. “That’s why I’m trying to make one—an Eiffel Tower.” He rolled his eyes. “Dumb, I know.”
“No, it’s not.”
“You don’t think it’s weird?”
“No. It’s nice.”
“How’s your parents’ marriage?” asked Casey.
The question caught Amelia off guard and hung between them for a long moment.
“What about your parents?” Casey pressed on. “Are they divorced? Statistically, it’s almost normal.”
“No, they’re not divorced.”
“You’re lucky.”
She waited a beat, then as casually as possible, said, “My mom’s dead.”
“Oh.” His face reddened. His neck, too. “That’s—that’s—” He was obviously flustered. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”
“It’s okay. I was only two when she died. I don’t even remember her.”
As sometimes happened, Amelia’s statement shut down the conversation like a door slamming. Amelia thought that if Casey were an adult, this is when he’d say, “Poor thing.” They both stared out the window. They finished eating without speaking.
Casey’s next question pierced the silence. “Do you ever get signs from her?”
Another surprising question. She looked right at him. “No,” she said. No, she never got signs. None that she was aware of, anyway. Then she looked out the window again. Cars and people passed by in both directions, in and out of the shadows, like fish in an aquarium. Her eyes hopped from a crying baby in a stroller to a jogger with glaring orange shoes to a poster on an idling bus advertising an art exhibit downtown. Behind it all, above it all, between the branches, the sky was blue. Nothing unusual.
A sign.
A sign.
What would a sign look like? she wondered.
7 • Feather
Amelia was still looking out the window wondering about a sign from her mother when she saw Lindy Tussler. How could she miss her? Lindy edged along the window, then nearly pressed her face against the glass. She was using the window as a mirror, canting her head and fluffing her purple-streaked bangs. She seemed to be admiring her reflection when all at once, she saw Amelia, recognized her, and contorted her face into an expression of pure disgust. Then she mouthed the word freak.
Amelia drew back and stiffened.
Lindy lifted her chin and turned away. Amelia watched her catch up with Connor Gup, who was waiting for her. Hand in hand they walked off.
“Who was that?” asked Casey. He crinkled his nose. “Do you know her?”
“She goes to my school.”
“Is she a monster? Or does she just appear to be one?”
Amelia chuckled, but her ears burned. “Monster.”
And she was. But she hadn’t always been that way.
“We used to be friends when we were little,” said Amelia.
“Really? What happened?”
Amelia shrugged. “I don’t know. At the start of fifth grade, we kind of drifted apart. She started hanging around with a different group.” She dumped me, is what Amelia was thinking. “She turned mean.” It was one of the many sad mysteries of life.
Amelia remembered the moment it happened with burning clarity. They were walking through the cafeteria during
the first week of fifth grade. For two days they’d been sitting together for lunch at the table with other kids who weren’t part of a large group. Kids alone or with one other kid. Loose ends. Leftovers. As they neared their table, Shelby Granger called Lindy over to her noisy, bustling one. Amelia could still hear Shelby’s voice, high and sure, circling inside her head like a bird: “Hey, Lindy. Sit here.” And Lindy turned on her heel and let herself be drawn to Shelby as if she’d lost all control over her body. That was it. Amelia was left standing alone like a single tree on a cartoon desert island. There was no “Goodbye.” No “Come with me.” No “See you later.” No “Sorry.” Nothing. It confused Amelia then. Still did. Although, now, she tried not to care.
Natalie Vandermeer had been at the other table, and when Amelia, eyes shiny with tears, joined her, sitting next to her, Natalie pushed a chocolate chip cookie in front of her. “Here,” she said quietly, looking off to the side. And she and Amelia sat together from that day on. Day by day their shyness disappeared and their friendship grew.
Casey shifted urgently on his stool. “Do you ever make up stories for people?” he asked, craning his neck, catching a final glimpse of Lindy and Connor.
“What do you mean?”
“You know, personal histories. Take your former friend and that guy she’s with. We could give them names and make up stories for them.”
“I already know their names. Hers is Lindy Tussler. He’s Connor Gup.”
Casey shook his head. “We can do better than that.” He grinned, apparently delighted by the possibilities. Amelia could tell he was thinking hard by the way he narrowed his eyes and chewed his lower lip. “Okay,” he said, after a moment, “her name is Feather.”
“Feather?”
“Yeah. And no last name. Like Madonna or Prince.” He nodded. “Feather.”
Amelia laughed. “She’s the opposite of a feather.” Lindy was big-boned and fairly tall and kind of loud.
“That’s what makes it good,” said Casey. “And—her story is that she collects salt and pepper shakers in the shapes of barnyard animals. She has hundreds.” He paused.
“Lots of pigs,” said Amelia suddenly, surprising herself. “Mostly pigs.”
Casey continued gleefully. “She spends her weekends going to rummage sales and antique shops, adding to her collection,” he said. “It’s an obsession.”
Amelia laughed again. “And marshmallow Peeps are her favorite food. She has them hidden all over her house, and she binges on them.” She was enjoying this. It seemed justified. Harmless payback for past heartbreak.
Casey took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. “Now, what about her friend?”
Amelia ran her thumb up and down the handle of her mug. She didn’t know much about Connor Gup. He was undeniably cute. He played soccer. He was popular. Someone who lived and breathed in a world unlike hers. She was not in his orbit, not even close.
“Let’s call him Ronnie Wayne Valentine,” said Casey. “He always wears boxer shorts with hearts on them. Pink boxers with red hearts.”
“And,” said Amelia, eager to add something, “he has a heart tattoo that says I love myself.”
“On his butt,” said Casey, his voice rising, relishing this last contribution. “Oh, and best of all, he’s still a member of the official Lego fan club.” He smiled, pleased, and Amelia noticed that his smile was uneven, curving up on one side more than the other.
Their game wound down and they sat quietly, hunched forward, elbows on the table, heads bent slightly toward each other. Amelia experienced a feeling of being included, of being part of something with someone her own age, something she hadn’t felt since Natalie had left for France. A shift in the sunlight falling across the tabletop underscored the change inside her.
Suddenly Louise filled the window, her arms outstretched, her hands open, her fingers splayed. Her eyes got as big as coins, then she pointed to her watch. Her gestures and expression were easily interpreted: Are you coming back? What’s taking so long?
“Oh!” said Casey, jumping up. “I forgot, I said I’d help with a kids’ class.” He rushed off.
Amelia slipped down from her stool. She scurried, following Casey to the entrance. As she moved through the tables, she struggled into her jacket.
“Let’s do this again,” said Casey, in flight, over his shoulder.
“Okay.”
At the door, he turned around, facing her. “I mean, making up stories for people. Well, and having lunch, too.”
“Yes and yes,” said Amelia.
8 • Dr. Cotton
The rest of her day at the clay studio passed quickly, as if someone had taken the hands on the big clock above the door and spun them around a few times. A children’s class had come and gone, Amelia had made another rabbit, and then, before she knew it, she was walking home in the late, dim afternoon carrying the promise of meeting Casey again on Monday.
That night, in bed, Amelia felt particularly happy—and content and something else. Something more. Something hard to put into words. Now the coming week had shape to it. Maybe her real life was finally beginning.
After her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, she could see Dr. Cotton on the shelf across the room. Dr. Cotton was a stuffed lamb with black plastic glasses, whom she’d had all her life. When she was little, he was her security object and went everywhere she did. Over the years he’d grown drab and limp and pilly, and now he stayed put, but she couldn’t bear to get rid of him.
She’d named him Dr. Cotton because, back then, he was white and soft and looked as if cotton balls had been sewn all over his body.
“Wouldn’t Dr. Wool be a more fitting name?” her father had asked repeatedly.
At the time she had no idea what her father was getting at, and so she ignored his suggestion and he eventually stopped asking.
More than once Mrs. O’Brien had told her, “I think Dr. Cotton is a lovely name.”
Although she didn’t need him the way she used to, Dr. Cotton was still important. She talked to him sometimes—usually in her head, usually in bed, right before she got up in the morning or when she was trying to fall asleep. She imagined him answering in a sweet, low voice. She talked to him the way she supposed some people talked to God.
Oh, Dr. Cotton, you wouldn’t believe what happened at school. . . .
Dear Dr. Cotton, let me do well on my history test. . . .
Please, Dr. Cotton, make the Professor be in a good mood today. . . .
That night, her interior monologue began, Well, Dr. Cotton, it was a very interesting day. . . . She went on to tell him about Casey and Lindy, the remembered moments making their way into the catalog of her life. And then she stopped addressing Dr. Cotton and simply let her mind drift, one thought leading to the next. From the Eiffel Tower to France to Natalie. Wearily, she pulled the covers up to her chin and adjusted her pillow. Her thoughts had a rhythm to them, like music. Eventually, the music slowed and dragged and froze. She’d fallen asleep.
Happy.
9 • Poetry Group
Early Sunday morning Amelia was pulled from bed by a wave of good smells. She hurried downstairs, not fully herself yet, and stubbed her toe on the kitchen threshold, making a clumsy entrance.
Mrs. O’Brien rushed forward, steadying Amelia with an oddly graceful hug. “Careful,” she said.
Amelia closed her eyes and surrendered to the embrace. “Ouch,” she whispered. “Ouch, ouch, ouch.”
“Poor thing,” said Mrs. O’Brien. “I know that hurts.”
Amelia let her head rest against Mrs. O’Brien’s shoulder until the dull pain was gone. It struck her that she’d soon be taller than Mrs. O’Brien, and for some reason, the thought made her sad. “Do I smell coffee cake?” she asked, stepping back, hoping.
Mrs. O’Brien nodded. “And there’ll be date scones and blueberry muffins, too. Today’s my poetry group.”
Amelia smiled. The meeting of Mrs. O’Brien’s monthly poetry group meant delicious food a
nd lots of it. The group always met at Amelia’s home, because as Mrs. O’Brien explained, everyone loved discussing poetry in the home of an English professor, surrounded by bookshelves crammed with important books.
And, if by some chance, the group caught a glimpse of Gordon Albright, Ph.D., or even better, he offered an opinion of or a biographical tidbit about the current poet of the month, well, the group (eight women in their seventies) was beside itself with joy.
“Come,” said Mrs. O’Brien. “You have to look at something. Before it’s gone.” She steered Amelia to the window above the sink where the sky was streaked with pink and orange, colors as bright as sherbet.
“Pretty,” said Amelia.
“Isn’t it?” said Mrs. O’Brien. “So lovely.” She took Amelia’s hand and squeezed it until it hurt.
“Perfection,” said Amelia’s father, who’d appeared out of nowhere, startling them both. With his usual stiffness, he put one hand on Amelia’s shoulder and the other on Mrs. O’Brien’s. The three of them stood there, gazing out the window. “They don’t make skies like this in Florida,” he said evenly.
Of course, they do, thought Amelia, but she didn’t say a word. Her father couldn’t get the best of her today. She was still happy from the day before, content with the world. At that moment, she loved everyone.
Mrs. O’Brien’s mouth was pursed as if to speak; she remained silent, but she looked right at Amelia, dismissing the Professor’s comment with a flick of her hand. Then she said, “I’ll make the two of you a beautiful breakfast.”
And she did.
Afterward Amelia helped Mrs. O’Brien prepare for the guests to arrive. She stacked plates, folded napkins, and set out mugs. She arranged slices of coffee cake on a platter. She filled one basket with scones and another with muffins.
The guests—Mrs. O’Brien’s friends—would always fuss over Amelia as soon as they showed up. They’d coo about her sculptures; they’d ask her what she was reading; they’d admire her “pretty red hair.” It was as if each of them was one of her many grandmothers and she was the favorite grandchild.