“Oh, really?” Dad sounds less excited now. I feel a little bad. “Well, that’s okay. When you come next weekend, we can pick out paint together. Any color you want. We’ll have a painting party. Me, you, and Alice. Won’t that be great?”
“Sure.” There’s silence. “Mina’s coming home in a week.”
Dad’s quiet. I hear Alice in the background, the hum of the fan over the stove, the clinking of pans. They must be cooking together. “Your mother told me,” he says after a minute. “That’s great. It seems like Mina’s really doing well.” I wonder if he’s nervous like I am.
“Are you coming to Mina’s family thing tomorrow?” I ask.
There’s another long pause. Finally, he lets out a big sigh. “I don’t think I can. You know I would if I could, right?” I don’t answer. I also don’t feel quite as bad for being mean to him before.
“Hey, Alice wants to say hello. Do you have—”
I can’t even believe him. “I gotta go, Dad.”
“I’ll give Mina a call this week. You tell her that, okay?”
My heart contracts. “Sure.”
“Love you,” he says. I click the end call button extra hard. I walk out into the yard and join Bean, who’s snoozing on the last little patch of sunshine. I lay my cheek against hers. It doesn’t make me feel all the way better, though.
PINEHURST
“Cookout at my house!” Hazel texts me the night before the first day of school. “Come over?”
“Can’t,” I reply with a frown face emoji. I don’t explain further or bother asking Mom. I know what the answer will be. Wednesday evenings are for visiting Mina.
Mina’s at a place called Pinehurst. It looks like it could be a summer camp if you just glance at it from the main road. There’s a low-to-the-ground wooden sign that has the name written in dark green cursive letters. A gravel path winds through tall pine trees to the main campus where Mina and nineteen other girls stay.
It’s not really a camp at all.
Driving there takes the same amount of time as it does to get to the Magic Castle mini-golf course and the hiking trails near the river. But Mina might as well be in Florida or Oregon for as far away as she feels. It isn’t like having Mina home, in the bedroom just across the hall.
“We’re lucky there’s a place like Pinehurst so close,” I heard Mom say into the phone one night. She was on the front porch talking to Aunt Bea, where I’m sure she thought I couldn’t hear her.
She uses the word lucky a lot.
Lucky that Dad has pretty good insurance.
Lucky that her extra bank hours make up for the rest.
I’m feeling anything but lucky as I sit in this small room off the main hallway. It smells weird and sterile, like a hospital, even though it technically isn’t. I thought I would’ve gotten used to it by now.
I’m sitting on a sofa. It’s a faded yellow and the fabric scratches at my legs right where my shorts end. Across from me is Dr. Oliver, who told me I could call her Evie the first time we all met together seven weeks ago. She’s a psychologist but she doesn’t look like one. She’s wearing jeans and a flannel shirt and sneakers that I’m pretty sure Hazel would love.
Mom and Mina are in the cafeteria for dinner. It’s like a school cafeteria—trays and not-so-great food—but it’s also different because in a school cafeteria, there aren’t people watching you eat to make sure you finish everything.
Evie’s across from me on a spinny office chair. Her hands are folded in her lap.
“We could walk down there together,” she says. She says this every time. “I think Mina would love to have you join her.”
I bite down on my left thumbnail and look out the window.
I think about the last time we went out to dinner before Mina went away. We were at China Bistro, which is in the same strip mall as Mom’s bank. It smelled delicious, and I really should’ve been hungry, but all I felt was nauseous. I used to love Chinese food. Our favorite was Happy Family. Mina would call that ironic.
Mom asked what we wanted and Mina didn’t say anything. I only shrugged. So Mom ordered our usual.
When the food came out, Mom dished some of the meat and veggies onto Mina’s plate and pushed it toward her. Mina stared at it and then pushed the plate away with the tip of her finger. “I’m not hungry,” she said. I couldn’t understand how Mina wasn’t hungry all the time.
Mom’s eyes got red and watery. Suddenly, my chest felt tight. I stabbed a piece of chicken with my fork. “This is amazing,” I said, taking a bite. “Wow, it’s really, really good.” I pretended like I hadn’t eaten an afternoon snack and kept shoveling bite after bite into my mouth until I was way past full and my shorts were starting to feel snug at my stomach.
Mina stood up. “I’ll wait outside.” She didn’t wait for permission.
Mom turned and gave me a look like this was all somehow my fault, even though I was just trying to make things better. I set my fork down. “Mina, please,” she called, but Mina didn’t even turn around. I watched as she pushed the front door open hard, the bell jangling angrily.
Mom didn’t even ask the waiter to box up the rest.
I look away from the window and shake my head. I’m glad I’m not in the cafeteria with Mom and Mina.
Evie leans back. “Tell me, Emily,” she says. She pauses. “What do you think things will be like when Mina comes home?”
I stop biting on my nail because it’s red and raw now and there is no nail left. I slip my hand beneath my thigh.
“Better.” I say it because I don’t understand how things could get any worse.
“What does better mean to you?”
I shrug. It’s almost become automatic. But unlike when Mom’s in here and she rushes in to fill the quiet, Evie just waits. “Mina will be normal,” I say after a moment. “She’ll eat again.” I don’t add: without crying. I don’t say: without yelling so loud that Bean will no longer sit under the kitchen table at dinnertime.
Evie nods like that was exactly what she expected me to say. “Mina’s made great progress here. But it’s important that we all understand something.”
What she means is that it’s important I understand something.
“It’s not like Mina has strep throat or the chicken pox that a little bit of time and some medicine can cure. Pinehurst is wonderful, but it’s a start. There’s still a lot of work that Mina’s going to have to do. It’s a process.”
We look at each other for a moment. Maybe she’s waiting for me to nod or smile or something. When I don’t, she says, “I want you to think of it this way. Mina’s trying to scale a mountain right now. We’ve just given her some of the tools to help her do it.”
I don’t understand why she has to take us along with her. My heart flutters with panic for a second, like Evie can see into my brain where this terrible thought has taken shape. But her face hasn’t changed.
When Mina and Mom come in, Mina sits on the other end of the couch. She curls her legs underneath her and leans against the armrest. It’s the absolute farthest she can be away while still sitting next to me. Today, she hides in a sweatshirt that hangs on her like a tent. College of Wooster, it says in white block letters. She got it at a college visit last spring with Mom. The visits had to stop when she got even worse.
On good days she’ll look at me and say hello and she’ll smile like she used to.
Today her hair hangs like a curtain around her face. She looks down.
Mina. Not Mina.
Evie reads Mina’s mood and Mom’s, whose eyes are red-rimmed and tired. My hands start to sweat.
“Mina, I’m getting some signals from you that things are not okay right now.” Evie uses the same soft, quiet voice she used on me. “Do you want to talk to us about it? We’re here to listen.”
Mina looks up and around. She rolls her eyes. “Where’s Dad?” Mom and Evie exchange a look.
“Your dad had to work tonight,” Mom says. “He couldn’t get off.” Couldn�
��t. Wouldn’t. I decide that now is not the best time to pass along Dad’s message. “He’s sorry about it.”
“I bet,” she mutters.
“Is that what’s bothering you?” Evie asks.
Mina’s hands curl into tight fists. “What’s bothering me is that you’re trying to make me fat.” Her voice shakes. “I feel gross today.”
I should reach my hand out to her, but instead I start picking at a loose thread on one of the couch cushions.
It starts to unravel. It’s strangely satisfying watching the thread unspool. I pull harder.
“I’m hearing you say that today was hard,” Evie says. She makes a note on her clipboard.
Mina bounces up on her legs now, like she can barely stand her skin. She’s perched on the cushion like a bird. “Every day is hard.” Her words echo off the walls. She turns her sharp gaze to me. My hand freezes. “God, Emily. Stop that. It’s annoying.” I look down at my lap.
“Do you think she’s really ready to come home?” Mom asks Evie. I can hear the worry in her voice.
“Mom!” Mina exclaims. “I’m right here. Say it to me. Ask me.”
Mom rubs her hands against her pants. “Mina,” she starts, hesitating. She looks at Evie, who nods. “I wonder if maybe you’re nervous about coming home.” She doesn’t say anything about how Mina talked to me.
“Maybe,” Mina says.
“It’s a big step,” Evie says. “These feelings of anxiety that you’re having are completely normal. I’m glad you’re vocalizing them. That’s wonderful. Pinehurst is a controlled atmosphere. At home, there are a lot of unknowns. Challenges.”
Mom puts a comforting hand on Mina’s knee. No one puts their hand on mine.
A hard knot settles in my chest. Evie starts talking about the mountain again. I stop listening. Instead I imagine the cookout happening right now at Hazel’s. Hamburgers on the grill. Doing double jumps on her trampoline. Watermelon for dessert.
I look back at Mina, who is now red-faced and fiery. I wish that Evie would ask me again how I think things will be when Mina comes home.
FIRST DAY
I’ve been to the middle school a few times before—to the auditorium where Mina starred in Bye Bye Birdie her eighth-grade year and for the art show where her wire sculpture of a cat won second place. There had also been this day in July where just the incoming sixth graders came in small groups and walked through their schedule and got to eat Rotino’s pizza in the cafeteria.
But the halls were quiet then and I was with people I knew: Mom or Mina or the other kids from my elementary school who were feeding into this way bigger school. Nothing could have prepared me for this. Backpacks and back-to-school haircuts and the faint smell of deodorant mixed with the sounds of lockers slamming and people laughing and new sneakers squeaking across the freshly waxed floor.
How do people already have new friends to be laughing with?
I’m trying to find locker number 54 when I spot Hazel.
“Em, Em!” she calls, waving me over. “Oh my gosh. Can you even believe it?” She hooks her arm into mine, pulling me closer. “First day!”
“First day!” I say. Then I look at her outfit. She has on black yoga pants and a shirt that says PINK in this purply-plaid writing. “What are you wearing?”
“Isn’t it cute?” She smooths down the shirt. Brand new bracelets jingle. They remind me of Gina’s.
“I don’t remember you sending me that one.” I’m trying to think back through all the texts she sent and I’m pretty sure she had decided on this zebra print shirt and jean skirt with her silver earrings.
“Lucy helped me last night.”
“Oh.” I frown. At the cookout.
“Look!” she says. Hazel’s moved on, but I’m still pushing my hands against the fabric of my pants as if I can somehow keep my feelings in. She gestures to her locker like she’s showing it off. The inside of it is already decorated. The back of the door is covered with this shiny silver wrapping paper, and she has photos all over it, held in place by little magnets that look like bugs. There’s her gerbil, Big Norm, with his miniature party hat from the birthday we threw for him and a magazine cutout of Drew Lewis at the Undercover Unicorn premiere. There’s the sign I made for her name at summer camp with big bubble letters filled in with thick-markered rainbow stripes.
She pulls one more photo out of her backpack. “It’s us,” she says. It’s eight-year-old us on her front sidewalk, wet from the sprinkler and sticky from our Popsicles. Our smiles are red and blue and big. Our heads and shoulders tilt toward each other as if we’re pulled by some invisible magnet.
“Aw, I love that one,” I say.
“Hey, I like your shirt,” Hazel says, sticking our picture up. “Is it new?”
I smooth down the bottom of it and grin. “Yeah, Mom and I went to the mall—”
“Hazel!” A voice and then arms push me aside, and Hazel’s being swallowed up in a hug. “Oh my gosh, you look great.” It’s Lucy. She’s in the same skinny black pants, same T-shirt—only the color is a little different.
Both of them look like they belong under the New Teen Trends display.
My clothes suddenly seem all wrong. I cross my arms tightly over my chest.
“I’ve got to find my locker,” I mumble. My sweater is suddenly itchy and hot, and I need to take it off right this minute.
“Okay!” Hazel says. She’s still talking with Lucy. I hear snatches of Lucy’s whispers—Joey and his new haircut and the game that weekend. Neither of them notices my tomato-red face. “See you at lunch!”
When I finally find locker 54, the handle jams. I hit the space next to it with my palm.
“You just have to shimmy it,” says the girl next to me. “Mine did the same thing.” She reaches over, wiggles the handle, and it opens. “Oh, hey! Letter M. Alphabet Girl. Did you finish the book?” Hector’s sister. I yank off my sweater and shove it to the very back of the top shelf with my fingertips.
“Whoa.” She takes a step back. “That sweater must have done something terrible to you.”
“I finished it,” I grunt.
“And—”
“And it was good.”
“Good?! You mean GREAT, right? That twist at the end with Starlight and Nightshade being long-lost sisters. Amazing! I couldn’t even believe it.”
“It was pretty cool,” I admit. It was actually the best thing. I imagined that maybe Hazel and I could be long-lost sisters, even though it was impossible.
It was nice to pretend.
Anita pulls her planner out of her backpack. It’s fancy with a shiny gold glitter cover. She opens it up to the front. “What’s your first class?”
I take my schedule from my folder. “Language Arts with Ms. Arnold. Room 203.”
“I have Social Studies with Ms. Hohlefelder.” She runs her finger down the paper and brightens. “But look, we have Science together fifth period. I’ll see you then.” She grins.
“Okay,” I say. I smile a little, too.
The bell rings, signaling that we have three minutes to get to class. I stand on my tiptoes to see if Hazel’s still at her locker, but she’s already vanished into the crowd.
When I walk into the classroom, Ms. Arnold is sitting on top of her desk, her legs crossed at the ankles and dangling over the side. On her feet are shoes that look like cats, complete with whiskers and tiny triangle ears.
The bell hasn’t rung yet. Lloyd Anderson from last year is already sharpening his pencil, which is no surprise. He stops turning the crank to wave at me. I look away. Marsha Miller’s brushing her long straight hair right onto Jimmy Barton’s desk, but he’s not paying any attention. But that leaves twenty-one stranger faces.
I wind the strap of my backpack around my index finger.
“Let me guess,” Ms. Arnold says, running her finger down her clipboard. “Emily Murphy. Is that right?”
“Em, if that’s okay.”
Ms. Arnold looks at me closer and I think she
’s going to tell me no, it’s not all right, but instead she says, “I know you!”
“You know me?” I’m not really sure how that’s possible. Other teachers “know” me, but that’s only because they were here when Mina was and they’ve accidentally called me her name already this morning. Ms. Arnold’s been here only two years I think.
“You were Nightshade!” she says. “At the bookstore. The Undercover Unicorn party?”
“You were there?”
“Of course! I haven’t missed one yet.” She points to a poster at the back of the room. It’s the same one I have in my room above my bed: Nightshade and the Case of the Wandering Wizard. “You probably don’t recognize me, though. I was Ice Apocalypto.”
“The snow wizard?”
“Icicles and everything!” It was one thing for me to dress up. But a teacher? That was awesome. The weird breathless feeling that I’ve been carrying around in my chest all morning starts to fade away. I’m grinning when the bell rings. “You can take a seat right there in the back.”
My eyes find the only desk left. It’s next to Hector. Soap Boy.
I walk to my new desk slowly and drop my bag on the floor. I slide down into the seat as far as I can, thinking maybe I can disappear. Instead it’s just really uncomfortable, so I straighten up and take out my pencils and notebook.
“Oh, cool!” Hector exclaims. He leans over so fast he knocks his textbook off his desk. I hear a few random giggles around us and turn red even though it wasn’t me who did anything. “I have that notebook, too.” He thrusts his in my direction and he’s right. There’s an illustration on the front of it with all the Unicorn Chronicles characters together. It has super-fancy spiral binding. Mom bought it for me.
I pretend I don’t hear him. Finally Ms. Arnold starts class and I sigh with relief.
I make it to lunchtime. The elementary school cafeteria was set up with skinny rectangular tables—four tables long and four tables wide, with each grade level sitting in a different designated section. But the middle school cafeteria is set up more like a restaurant with round tables that seat eight and booths along the wall. A mural even says Café in red cursive, the word flanked by the Eiffel Tower and kids wearing berets. As if it can somehow fool us that we’re not in a middle school in the middle of Ohio. But to be honest, it does work a little bit.
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