by Emily Asad
“Just socks. Most of ours have holes in them, so I’m making Christmas replacements for the family.”
“That’s almost three months away.”
“I’m a really slow knitter.” He jerks his chin toward his desk. “Study there, if you like. I promise not to disturb you.”
“You’re inviting me to stay? I thought you hated me. Angry faces and all that.”
“Let me be clear, then,” he says in a quiet rumble. “I still don’t think you should stay, but neither do I hate you. As for being angry, that’s my problem. I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up about solving the riddle.”
“I’m still working on it. I said I’d get you out and I will.”
“Does that mean you have a new solution to test?”
My voice drops to a guilty whisper. “Not yet.”
He turns his gaze back to his knitting, his broad shoulders slumping a little.
“So, no lecture tonight?” I joke. “Where’s the doomsday warning?”
“It won’t do any good, will it? Instead, I appeal to your logical side. The sooner you finish your project, the sooner you’ll leave. Correct?”
“Maybe.”
He tugs a new length of yarn and continues knitting. “Better start, then.”
If I weren’t so desperate to meet this deadline, I’d find another place to write. But if Eleanor sees me, she’ll want to talk. And if Nathaniel knows I’m here, he’ll pout. Maybe this is the safest place, for now.
His desk isn’t what I expected. Not that I’ve been in many boys’ rooms to compare, but I imagine the males of the species to be messy, dirty, and generally disorganized. David’s bureau is neatly organized with few personal belongings. Stacks of sheet music lay next to his magnifying glass, an embroidered handkerchief, and a small ceramic pot of whole clove stems. One leather-covered ball the size of a tennis ball sits in the back corner of the bureau, looking lonely and unused. Grass and dirt stains cover its white surface. With its bands of rope around its middle, it’s definitely not a baseball. I wonder if the sport even exists anymore.
I deposit my laptop and textbook on the pull-down surface. But David prefers natural flame to electric light, so it’s too dark to read even if I tilt my screen toward the page.
“Matches are in the upper left corner,” he murmurs. “Oil lamp’s on the right.”
“I hate when you do that.”
“What?”
“Read my mind.”
“It was a guess.”
I’m not even sure how to work an oil lamp. I fumble to remove the glass cone so I can touch the match to the cotton wick. A welcoming glow bounces over the pages. Before I begin reading, I turn around to face him. “You sure you don’t mind getting invaded?”
“Would you like me to go downstairs so you can have the room to yourself?”
“No, that’s okay,” I say, not wanting to drive him from his own room – or cause him pain by making him walk downstairs. “You’re truly not angry with me anymore?”
His only answer is the click-click-click of his knitting needles against each other.
I needed peaceful. Here it is. For a few minutes, I’m on edge, thinking he’ll start a conversation at any moment. When the silence continues, however, I relax enough to start writing my paper.
Nathaniel’s dance rhythm still knocks about in my head. If only I could shake it!
I’m not sure when he puts away his knitting, but the next time I become aware of David is when I realize he’s been playing a tune on his guitar. It’s different from the one he’s sent me before. More complex and scattered, as if he’s creating it from scratch.
David’s soothing thrum drives away Nathaniel’s upbeat melody.
It’s the relief I needed.
How did he know?
Energized by his elixir, words come tumbling off my pencil tip as I scribble with full clarity and purpose.
When I finish at last, I tuck my paper inside the textbook and then turn in my seat to watch him.
His fingers pluck at the strings like a spider spinning its silken strands. Like the nimble fingers of the women in Itaguá as they weave ñandutí.
David weaves invisible ñandutí.
He smiles. Can he see the analogy inside my head? Am I sending my own thoughts? We all seem to be linked by Phoebe’s magic.
Yuck - the idea of someone inside my head is a total violation. Although I try to be a good person, I do have thoughts that shouldn’t be there. Thoughts like how much I enjoyed Nathaniel’s hand around my waist as we danced. Thoughts like how I’m afraid of David, though I can’t explain it to myself. It’s not his scars. It’s him – I always say the wrong thing around him, do the wrong thing. I turn into a bumbling mess. I can’t control my idiotic responses. Better to be silent than to say something stupid.
His smile disappears.
I could be misreading the link here. Maybe it’s just his music that’s showing itself on his face. On the off chance I’m accidentally sending him my thoughts, however, I’d better leave!
But his song, once again, grips my soul.
I don’t leave. I stay in the chair, in a boy’s bedroom, listening to his heart play itself out on the strings of a simple guitar. It’s clear he’s passionate about music. If only some of that passion were directed at me.
I can’t bring myself to leave, but my task is accomplished. There’s no reason to stay. Reluctantly, I gather my school supplies. “Good night, David.” I hold my breath, hoping he’ll ask me to stay longer. Beg me not to leave.
Nathaniel would.
He doesn’t stop spinning his spider web spell. “Good night, Miss Zenia.”
There it is – polite, formal, distant. Businesslike, nothing more.
At least I know where I stand. His tune follows me back to my room, playing in my head as I settle down to sleep. Unlike Nathaniel’s tune, however, I don’t try to drive it out of my head. Instead, I let it burrow into my heart.
CHAPTER TWENTY:
APOLOGY
I sleep through my alarm on Saturday, determined to catch up on some of the sleep I’ve been missing thanks to worrying about Mamá, obsessing over Nathaniel and David, and, of course, Phoebe’s mirror tantrums. But I told the Whitmans I’d make French toast for breakfast, so I force myself out of bed at nine o’clock and head toward the hidden door.
Then I halt.
Really? I’m going to visit in pajamas?
If it were just Eleanor and George, I would go without a second thought. However, Nathaniel’s always dressed in a vest, a tie, and trousers. He says there are different vests with different purposes – some to go outside, some for teatime, some for formal wear – but I don’t see much of a difference. When I once told him we don’t change clothes twelve times a day anymore, both he and Eleanor were shocked.
I drag myself back to the bathroom to brush my hair and teeth. I even use some of my tinted lip gloss. But after a few failed attempts to get one of Alexis’ hair combs to stay in place, I put it back on her vanity. It’s not mine. Besides, I don’t want to be too obvious.
Usually Nathaniel’s the one who waits for my food deliveries, but today David’s in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a secret hovering around his lips.
“What happened?” I ask, hauling my stolen eggs out of the refrigerator.
He takes them from me and begins to crack them into a bowl. “I pointed out it’s my turn to help. Mother understood my need to contribute.” He winks at me.
I pour in some vanilla and cinnamon while he whisks the eggs. “I don’t understand. You’ve put in a lot of effort to avoid me.”
“Useless effort, if you’re going to hang around here anyway.”
“So it’s not dangerous anymore?”
He stops whisking. “Don’t mistake me. Sending you away is the only way to protect you. But you refuse to protect yourself. In fact, you’re practically begging to get stuck here. Do you have a death wish?”
I start dunking bread sli
ces into the egg mixture and turning them over with a fork. A death wish, no. But I wouldn’t mind living in this house for the rest of eternity. A father and mother who love each other. Brothers to care for and share secrets with. In time, David might even learn to love me. Maybe normal is what’s here, in the dollhouse. I certainly haven’t found normal out there in the real world.
I’m still considering David’s question as I butter a large baking dish and line the soggy breads in it. Of course I feel a pull to live here forever. Who wouldn’t? The dollhouse is exquisite. Nobody has to pay bills. They dance and read and sew all day. And they have each other.
Family forever.
It’s all I’ve ever wanted.
Pie-in-the-sky dreams – that’s all these are, though. The reality is David can barely tolerate me as a friend. Nathaniel would pester me with his romantic advances for the next ten decades until I finally gave in, and then I’d be locked into a loveless relationship for infinity. Worst of all, however, is the unhealthy, undignified fact that I’d still do it – just to be around David!
David, who traveled two flights of stairs to make sure his father looked at my sketches because I was too much of a coward to ask by myself. David, who hates having me around but lets me study in his room anyway – and on top of that, plays music to calm me down. David, whose first thought about my arrival isn’t to blame me for returning him to a state of pain, but rather to protect me by sending me away. He’s the most courageous person I’ve ever met. Someone should take care of him and ease the pain he tries so hard to hide. I’m desperate to see what he does with his future – whether or not he wants me in it.
And that’s my answer. Twisted as it may be, hopeless and gut-wrenching, I wouldn’t mind getting stuck here if it meant keeping him for an eternity.
I can’t breathe. This time, it’s too much heart and not enough head. This isn’t the kind of infatuation my parents had. I’ve got that for Nathaniel, but I’m aware of it and can keep it under control. Nope. I know myself well enough to admit I’ve fallen in love. With someone who will never love me back.
Love sucks.
“You’re frowning,” he whispers. “Is that a yes?”
“Who would feed you if I moved in?” I snap, my voice angrier than I intended. “And who would take care of Mamá when she gets back?”
He holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Just checking.”
“Go check the oven. Does it say 350 degrees?”
“More or less.”
“Then open the door for me. Please.”
I shove the baking dish into the top rack and then set a timer for forty-five minutes. As I gather the dirty dishes and take them to the sink, David puts his hand on the faucet so I can’t turn the water on. “You didn’t let me finish,” he says.
I’m still scowling. “There’s nothing else. The toast bakes. Then we eat.”
“I meant apologizing. I still believe with my whole heart that you shouldn’t be here. But everyone else spends time with you. Why shouldn’t I get my turn?” His crooked smile turns self-deprecating.
I return to the counter and pretend I’m really interested in putting away the cinnamon and vanilla, but the truth is I’m holding my breath for an explanation. Does he mean what I want him to mean? “Now you’re the one talking in riddles.”
I stretch on my tiptoes to reach the shelf so I can put the cinnamon away. He catches it as it falls and puts it back for me. We’re standing side-by-side now, so close his clove scent drives me crazy.
“Understand that I’m being thoroughly selfish with this decision, though. If my theory about absorbing the curse is right, I just might be the straw that breaks the camel’s back. Would you ever forgive me, if you ended up stuck here?”
My reply comes out too quickly: “Of course.” Then I add, “What decision?”
“Come with me.” He holds out his hand.
I don’t even hesitate – I grab it, torturing myself by taking his gesture as a sign that perhaps he’s changing his mind about me, after all.
He limps out to the porch and down to the study’s floor. To my surprise, we keep walking around to the back to a section by the baseboards I haven’t explored. We’re standing in front of what looks like a series of barn doors. He releases my hand and swings one set of double doors wide.
It’s a stable.
David opens up more doors, allowing light from the study’s window to filter in. It’s not dusty like a real stable – no hay, no spilled feed. Instead, disused rocking horses and bicycles of varying sizes fill the first stall. The second stall houses an old, black pickup truck. I balk at the sight of two tall brown horses in the third stall, their necks bent toward a carriage in the next stall as if they’re ready to take it for a ride.
“They were never alive,” David murmurs into my ear, rejoining me. “Just toys.”
I shiver anyway.
He points to the back wall. “Father’s workshop is on the other side, so we’re-”
“Directly under the dining room,” I interrupt.
“Very good.”
“What decision?”
He presses his crooked lips together. “This way.”
We walk to the next door. David opens it up, revealing an old-fashioned trailer coach. “It’s a 1942 Airfloat Commodore Third Wheel. Twenty-four feet, the same length you want to build your own RV.”
Sunlight from the study window glints off its shiny silver exterior. “Aluminum?”
“Masonite.”
“May I…?”
He opens its side door. “Of course.”
I step inside to a world of luxury that’s beyond my grasp. My own Tiny House will have wooden cupboards and shelves, but I’ll never be able to match the Airfloat’s yacht-like woodwork. I stare at the galley in reverence, a pilgrim in a holy temple.
“This was supposed to be a separate home for Henry and Alexis,” David tells me. “For when they got married. They kept postponing their wedding because Mr. Akakios couldn’t stand the thought of losing her.” He clears his throat. “Anyway, Phoebe wanted one the moment she saw it. Of course. So she had me set her up in the horse trailer. It wasn’t the same and she lost interest pretty quick, but it’s still here. Do you want it?”
“A horse trailer?”
“Sort of. It started that way, but Father dismantled it for parts.”
He beckons me to follow him to the final stall, which I do. Reluctantly, because I’d rather spend the rest of the day inside the Airfloat. But he points down at the most beautiful rectangular frame I’ve ever seen – an empty tandem axel trailer, complete with taillights. “If I remember right, this’ll hold about ten thousand pounds. Your Tiny House won’t weigh more than that, will it?”
Mute, I shake my head. It’s the foundation I need to start building my home.
My silence must make him uncomfortable, because he rushes to continue. “That’s not everything. I’m not an architect, but I started apprenticing as a carpenter when I was fourteen. Building sheds. I did the math for your Suitcase. There’s enough lumber here to make it happen, if we tear down the stall walls.”
I blink at him. Could this be happening? After all these years of dreaming, someone is swooping in to help me make it come true?
“Miss Zenia? Say something.”
“This is your apology?”
“It’s the best I can do.”
“But why?”
He ducks his head. “I’m tired of pushing you away and trying to convince myself it’s the right thing. And it is, but I’m selfish. I’m hoping you’ll let me build with you. So we can spend time together. Will you forgive me?”
My face nearly splits in half from the force of my grin.
I’m about to fling my arms around his neck to show him the strength of my gratitude, but Nathaniel sneaks up on us. “Breakfast smells good,” he says, his eyes taking in the close distance between his brother and me. He forces a smile. “Should be done anytime now, right?” He holds up a potted c
luster of white flowers – sweet alyssum, which he could only have gotten from inside George’s village.
“Go away,” David growls at him, his fists tightening.
“Nate, that was dangerous,” I chastise as he passes me the pot.
“Dangerous? If they existed, I’d fight dragons for you,” he replies, but he’s not looking at me. He’s staring down David, as if they’re deadlocked in some sort of competition.
“Go away,” David growls again.
“Did I hear right? You’re going to destroy the stable?”
David takes a menacing step toward him. “How long were you standing there?”
“Recycle, not destroy,” I say, standing between the two of them and holding up the flowers so its pretty fragrance will soften their tempers. “David’s going to help me build my house.”
“Splendid. When do we start?”
“It’s just the two of us,” David says.
“Except you know nothing about electricity, my friend, whereas I paid attention to all those little details.” He turns to me. “I humbly offer my expertise, my lady.”
“Thanks,” I say, but David cuts me off.
“We won’t need you. I have a plan. You’re not in it.”
“Look at the time. I’d better go check on breakfast,” I push past the two of them, hoping they don’t start a tussle. They catch up to me, flanking me like guards, as I speed-walk back to the kitchen.
It’s hard to enjoy my French toast when the two of them continue to spit insults back and forth at each other. At the table, Eleanor and George keep glancing at me as if I’m the one who started it, so I busy myself tracing maple swirls on my plate.
“We’re going to tear down the stable walls for lumber, Father,” Nathaniel announces, shooting a wordless challenge at David. “For Zenia’s little house.”
George stops chewing. “Glad you found a solution,” he grunts after a long pause. “Use whatever you need.”
Across the table, David smirks at his brother in an unspoken I told you so. Then he winks at me. “We’ll probably be done in a week.”
George stares at him. “For a whole house?”