Amelia Unabridged

by Ashley Schumacher

  I don’t have time to decide whether this is weird or not.

  It all feels strange—lying outstretched on the beach next to the fort, our bare toes digging into the sand as Nolan reads from the Scottish romance novel I picked for him, and I from the high fantasy novel he chose. Our other books spill from the tote in a warm scene that promises hours and hours of being lost in separate stories together, like this is something we do and will continue to do every day.

  It’s surreal, this feeling. It’s brand new and bubbly and delicate, but it also feels like I’m remembering it instead of living it, like maybe in some long-ago life I was sitting on this same patch of beach with Nolan Endsley, his dark hair a silhouette against the water.

  My internal camera lens must be overactive today. It suggests this would make a perfect photo—Nolan and me by the water as spectral shadow puppets.

  In the Orman Chronicles, after the girls discover Emmeline is the new queen, they stumble across a room full of snow globes that contain tiny, confined worlds and real occupants who live inside of them. Emmeline finds this comforting, but to Ainsley it is constraining.

  “It looks nice,” Emmeline said. “You could have your books and family and whoever else you wanted and nobody else to bother you.”

  “That’s stupid,” Ainsley said. “What’s the point of being alive if you’re not going to be bothered into something better?”

  “What’s the point of being alive if you’re too busy being bothered to do any living?” Emmeline retorted.

  Most people agree with Ainsley. It’s her quote that gets tattooed on arms, next to words like wanderlust and traveler, in calligraphy. Jenna was an Ainsley, always reaching for the next branch, the next success. I’ve always identified as an Emmeline, happy being spontaneous if that spontaneity is confined to a small space.

  But my snow globe has been shaken up, and now I’m not so sure.

  But if I must be confined, I wish this could be my snow globe forever, this moment with Nolan Endsley. The possibility is stuck in my throat in a small, hopeful lump.

  I set my book down and stare out over the lake. A speedboat races across the horizon and the occasional distant shriek of water-skiers meets my ears. Gulls circle overhead, their greedy cries melting into the sound of lapping waves. I tilt my head back and imagine taking a photo of a seagull from beneath its flight, against the dazzling blue sky. A Bird’s Belly View. It would be stupid and cheesy enough that even Jenna would have been tempted to laugh. She would have pinned it on her wall, too.

  I try to return to my book, but after reading the same page twice, I throw it behind me with a groan.

  “That bad?” Nolan asks, without looking up from his book. His expression is rapt, consumed by the story. “Did a character die?”

  “No,” I say. “I’m just … I’m lost.”

  There’s a sharp jab in the fat of my right hip, and I roll over to see Nolan’s prying finger retreating to turn a page.

  “Found you,” he says. “You can’t be lost with somebody sitting right next you.… Do you ever find out if the ghost in this book is actually a ghost? And do the stones work for everyone or just her?”

  The cynic in me wants to argue that togetherness does not cancel out lostness. Instead, the whales come back, even though I keep swearing I don’t need them anymore, and I let myself sink back into the snow globe with Nolan.

  Two hours pass before Nolan’s phone begins to ring, an unsophisticated, robotic melody that is nothing like modern ringtones.

  “Nineteen ninety-five is calling,” I quip.

  “We weren’t even alive in nineteen ninety-five,” Nolan says, before he shuts the ringer off and goes back to his book.

  “Anyone important?” I ask.

  Nolan half smiles at me over the book, settling onto his stomach in the warm sand. “Not particularly.”

  This is proven incorrect when, fifteen minutes later, a red pickup comes roaring into the driveway of the blue house on the hill above us.

  Nolan and I sit up, brushing sand from our arms and stretching away the sunny laziness and our respective plots as Alex comes stomping down the hill, his face thunderous.

  “Hi, Alex,” I say, when his feet sink into the sand, but he ignores me and heads straight for Nolan, who looks like he would consider going for a swim in the lake rather than deal with his friend.

  “Alex,” he begins. “Dude, what’s your—”

  “My problem?” Alex has stopped a foot away from where Nolan sits, one hand clenched around his cell phone, the other tugging at the collar of his shirt. “My problem, Nolan, is somebody forgot to confirm the inflatable waterslide last month, when they said they would, so the company rented it out to an end-of-summer bash in Wisconsin! And now, less than twenty-four hours before the bazaar that I finally, finally convinced Mom I can handle planning on my own, our biggest chance of direct donations is in the toilet, and I didn’t even know about it because my best friend is an ass who didn’t bother to tell me.”

  “I forgot.” Nolan scrambles to his feet. “I forgot, and when I remembered, I figured you probably called to confirm, because that’s how we work: You give me an assignment, I ignore the assignment, and you do it yourself. I’m an idiot, and you fix it.”

  There’s a touch of exasperated humor in Nolan’s tone, and I think Alex can hear it, because he leans forward like he might actually strangle Nolan.

  “What’s the big deal? What about the booths and stuff?” I ask.

  Alex’s look is cutting. “Amelia, I like you. Nolan likes you. It would pain me to dump you in the lake. Stay out of this.”

  “Lay off her, Alex,” Nolan says. “Besides, she’s right. You’ve got tons of booths. It’ll be fine.”

  If Alex had magic powers that could summon storms, we’d all be killed in a fiery sharknado.

  “The waterslide was supposed to be rented at a steep discount,” he grits out. “And we were going to charge a dollar a slide, which means we could make a whole lot of money. It’s the biggest earner at the festival. Now our best hope is that Mr. Larson’s donated hand-knit scarves will sell.”

  “DIY and handmade stuff is in,” Nolan pipes up hopefully.

  Alex’s anger breaks off long enough for him to give Nolan’s uniform of jeans and an old T-shirt a withering look.

  “Yes, Nolan, because you are so in tune with what is hip and cool.”

  “Look,” I interrupt. “There has to be something else we can do that will be cheap and bring in money.”

  “Not on such short notice, we can’t. I’ve already thought of everything,” Alex says.

  Nolan snorts. “I doubt that.”

  “Fine, Nolan, you think of something. And if you can’t, I’m going to improvise a pie-throwing booth, and guess who I’ll put in the hot seat for that?”

  Loose tendrils of possibility collect into a little ball that I turn over and over in my head. It’s a great idea—surefire—but Nolan might kill me if I suggest it.

  “Out with it,” Nolan says, reading my face. “Whatever it is, it better not have anything to do with pie.”

  “Well…” I begin. “Seeing as how it is your fault, Nolan…”

  “What is it?” Alex asks.

  I look at Nolan, watching his reaction as I mumble, “You could have a signing.”

  Nolan is already shaking his head, and Alex crows with laughter. “A book signing. Like, with people? Amelia, are we talking about the same person? You have a better shot at the pie booth.”

  I drop my gaze from Nolan, looking at my feet. “It could be ticketed. No cost. Every cent would go toward the library.”

  “And after, we can invite the fairies,” Alex says blankly. “Right after Santa comes out with his reindeer and the Easter Bunny hides some eggs.”

  I’m growing hot with embarrassment when Nolan says, “Alex. Lay off. She’s only trying to help.”

  “Yeah, well, I need actual help, not harebrained ideas.”

  “It’s not harebrai
ned,” Nolan says. “I’m going to do it.”

  “It is harebrained. You’re never going to…” Alex trails off, his eyes widening. “Wait. What did you just say?”

  “It’s not a bad idea,” Nolan says nonchalantly. “She’s right. It’ll probably bring in more money than the waterslide.”

  Alex’s arms are loose by his side, his phone almost slipping out of his hand. He looks between Nolan and me like he’s watching a Ping-Pong match, his slackened jaw giving him a dorky expression.

  “Where are we going to get enough Orman books on short notice?” Alex asks.

  Nolan looks to me and I shrug. “People can bring them from home. They’ll pay for the signatures.”

  “Anything else we can help you with, Alex?” Nolan’s tone is practiced boredom. “I, for one, would like to get back to reading, if that’s all right with you.”

  Alex shakes his head, still stunned. “You’re really going to do it?”

  Nolan lifts a corner of his mouth before answering, “Everything sucks anyway. I might as well be useful if I’m going to be miserable.” When Alex stands there staring, Nolan raises his eyebrows. “Is that all?”

  “Um…” Alex’s voice is dazed. “Our, um, event photographer has been recruited to help with the sound system. He’s the only one who knows how to work the portable speakers. I don’t suppose you know how to fix that, too?”

  If I had doubts that Jenna had anything to do with this, they’re carried away by the sudden gust of wind that blows among the three of us.

  A slow grin melts across Nolan’s face. I shake my head.

  “No,” I say. “No, I’m not any good. I’m not even a hobbyist. I have a camera; it doesn’t mean I really know how to—”

  “You have a camera?” Alex breathes out in relief. “Brilliant! You’re hired. It only pays in cotton candy and fried hot dogs, I’m afraid, but you’ll work perfectly. Consider it your rent for living with Mom for the week!”

  I don’t want to do this. I mean, I do, but I don’t. This is not on plan. Worse, it’s another brick in a wall I will eventually have to knock down.

  This trip was supposed to be about figuring out the 101st edition mystery and going home, ready to face my future, but instead I’m sinking into the quicksand that is my love of photography, my hands itching to hold my camera.

  “Okay?” Nolan asks.

  He won’t push, I realize. If I really don’t want to, they’ll figure out something else. But somewhere the whales are swimming, and they don’t care what I do for one evening, so before I can second-guess it again, I tell Alex, “Yes. I’ll take photos for you.”

  I’m surprised when Alex’s arms wrap around my shoulders in a firm embrace.

  “Thank you,” he whispers.

  And somehow I know he isn’t thanking me for the photography.

  chapter fourteen

  The next evening, I am transfixed as the snow globe morphs from a lakeside retreat to a glowing festival of color and sound.

  Alex was right about the trees. Even though the strands aren’t tightly wound, the sheer volume of lights makes the air crackle with delight and whimsy. If Val’s is an enchanted castle surrounded by a magical forest, then this bazaar is the bustling magical marketplace in stories, where the heroine goes to sell her wares to feed her family.

  In the Orman books, Emmeline and Ainsley have a high-stakes chase through a night market. They run as quickly as they can but are constantly besieged by people selling their goods—magic potions, flowers that smell like fresh bread, quilts sewn with black thread that promise to keep them warm no matter how bitter the weather.

  I’m beginning to see where Nolan got the idea. From where I stand, I count at least two dozen booths. Most sell handmade goods or food, but the booth closest to me sells succulents and air plants bedded inside glass ornaments. They hang, catching the lights from the trees.

  It’s like I’ve fallen into another time.

  Two little boys run past me, almost knocking me over in their excitement as they clamber over to the woman selling cotton candy and popcorn. I snap a picture of them in motion, their bodies blurred against a solid background of oak-green wooden booths and the much taller legs of the adults standing behind them. I don’t know what I’ll call it yet, but it brings to mind wind chimes. I think of Emily and Avery. They probably ran through this bazaar, too. I think of Jenna. The whales waft happily between booths like great blue storm clouds.

  The camera strap around my neck feels like a warm scarf against the slight chill in the air, and I wonder how long my hair will hold the scent of caramel popcorn and fried dough.

  “Like it?”

  I half assume it’s Nolan at first, but Alex is the one smiling at me. His eyes are strained around the corners, and expectant, like what I think of the bazaar really matters.

  “Alex, it’s beautiful,” I say. “Like, crazy good.”

  He nods, like this is bare-minimum praise. “So, not too bad?”

  “I’m sure your mom is proud,” I try again.

  “You haven’t been going to these every year for your whole life,” Alex says. “It’s … maybe just barely okay in comparison.”

  “It’s the best I’ve seen,” Nolan says. He comes up between Alex and me and bumps his shoulder against Alex’s. “You redesigned the layout of the booths.”

  Alex shrugs. “I thought maybe if the food vendors were spread out instead of in one spot, it might increase foot traffic and encourage people to try more than one thing, and—”

  “Alex,” Nolan interrupts. “It’s awesome. Really.”

  What a strange turn of events, Nolan bolstering Alex with confidence and kindness. Even though he’s nearly obsessed with the perfection of the bazaar, Alex must realize this, too, because the look he gives Nolan is a mix of pride and surprise.

  I raise my camera and take a photo.

  “Bromance,” I say, cupping my hand around the screen to see the thumbnail. “Aww, it turned out cute.”

  “Cute,” Alex says, right as Nolan says, “Delete that immediately.”

  Nolan goes for the camera, but I jerk it out of his reach, catching some of my hair in the neck strap and wincing.

  “No way. It’s your fault I’m playing photographer, and now you want to rain on my creativity? I don’t think so.”

  Nolan shoots Alex a sardonic look.

  “Is it too late to get a less manipulative photographer?”

  “I’ll call up Dr. Faust,” Alex deadpans. “Maybe he’ll have an idea.”

  I’m filled with a goofiness that surprises me, wiggling my fingers at them brazenly over my shoulder as I go to take photos of the booths.

  It seems everyone in town and then some has shown up to shop and eat their fill. An untamed energy runs like a current from booth to booth, sweeping up couples walking hand in hand and kids begging smiling parents to Look at this or Bring one of these home.

  I tell myself I’m only taking pictures because it is helping Alex and Nolan and an underfunded elementary school library, but my camera and I know I’m lying. I keep obsessively checking my photos, unexpected pride filling me when I see that I’ve managed to capture a candid smile or a whiff of this place’s spirit through my lens.

  I want the photos to be good and real for me.

  Through the lens, I watch Mr. Larson dress up kids from the local elementary school as models for his knitted wares, lining them up in front of his booth with misshapen mittens crammed onto their small fingers and lopsided scarves fitted snugly around their necks. Wally sits obediently next to a girl in pigtails, sporting a blue knit collar and a rawhide bone.

  Valerie’s students are playing an upright piano on a low wooden stage that has been set up at the center of the bazaar. She watches fondly, absently fiddling with her looped necklaces and giving a quiet smile. I snap a photo and call it The Sorcerer’s Apprentice.

  The wind blows hair into my face and I whisper, “It’s only one night. Nothing more,” just in case it is clev
er.

  The wind must have other concerns, though, because I feel a slight tug on the thread connecting me to the boy who spends his nights reading aloud on the Orman room floor.

  Help.

  When I find him, Nolan is sitting alone at a table in front of a huge line, trying to sign the books of three squealing tweens who keep jumbling around the table to take selfies with his downturned head.

  “This is going to get so. Many. Likes,” one of the girls says.

  “Do you think Justine is going to be jealous? She’s going to be so jealous,” her friend responds.

  I make my way through the throng to Nolan’s side. He’s got the world’s fakest smile plastered on his face and his eyes are wild.

  “Where’s Alex?” I ask. “I thought he was going to stay with you for crowd control?”

  “Popcorn emergency,” Nolan mutters. “Said he’d be back ten minutes ago.”

  Their books signed, the three girls walk off, after dropping a couple of bucks each into the glass jar labeled “Library Donations.” It sits next to another jar that reads “3 tickets per signature.” That one is already half full of blue tickets. It’s been less than thirty minutes and Nolan has already seen half a jar’s worth of people.

  I have to help him.

  Before the next fan can step to the table, I gesture widely with a smile.

  “Hello, there! Thanks so much for waiting. We’re only doing signatures this evening, but I will take photos of you at the table and post them to Val’s website.”

  Nolan and I work as a well-oiled machine, me stepping into the role of crowd control, personal photographer, and name speller, all in one. Everyone seems okay with the stipulation of no personal photos, though some ask why they can’t go behind the table. I tell them the truth.

  “It’s overwhelming,” I say to one disgruntled middle-aged woman. “And if he’s going to get through all these signatures, we need to keep the line moving.”