“Winning would be fun, though,” Klara said.
“I guess. But if it came down to me winning or you, I’d pick you.”
Klara said, “Awwww. Brilliant and selfless. Practically perfect in every way.”
Emily rolled onto her side and propped her head on her palm, debating whether to bring up something that was gently but insistently tugging at her. With Klara, as with Nate and her mom, Emily had decided early on not to intentionally invade her thoughts.
Sometimes things slipped through anyway, and beneath Klara’s breezy manner, Emily sensed a thrum of worry.
And you are her friend, Emily told herself. Friends look after each other.
She cleared her throat. “Hey, Klara, I feel like something’s on your mind.”
Klara stared at the clouds.
“Are you okay?” Emily pressed.
Klara rolled onto her side to face Emily, matching her head-on-palm position. “How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Know when something’s wrong. If I’m worried or upset or whatever, you always know.”
Emily shrugged and reminded herself to hold back as best she could. Hold back, but also be there for Klara—a tricky mix. “You do the same for me.”
“I try.”
“You do,” Emily insisted. She hesitated. “So, something is wrong?”
“Not wrong, really. But do you know that old lady, the crazy lady everyone calls the Bird Lady?”
“I know of her.” The Bird Lady was homeless, Emily knew that. In fact, the Bird Lady was possibly the only homeless person in all of Willow Hill. “My mom tells me to stay away from her.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s my mom. Because the Bird Lady . . . well, she doesn’t exactly wear stockings and pumps and ‘proper’ grown-up lady clothes, does she?”
Klara laughed. “I suppose not.”
“I once saw her wearing a dress made entirely out of candy bar wrappers.”
“That’s impressive, actually.”
“I thought so, too!” Emily swiped a strand of hair off her face. “My mom says she should be institutionalized.”
“That’s harsh. Do you?”
“I think she’s her own person, and I’m okay with that. I also think—know—that my mom is as far from okay with that as possible. In my mother’s perfect world, everyone would act appropriately, think appropriately, and absolutely dress appropriately, always. And my mother would be the one who got to decide what was appropriate or not.”
Emily saw the Bird Lady in her mind, scattering birdseed for the ever-present birds that flocked around her. “If the Bird Lady were really someone to fear, I don’t think the birds would trust her.”
“Like how dogs have built-in jerk detectors?” said Klara.
“Animals are better judges of character than humans, some people say.” Emily furrowed her brow. “But what’s going on? Did something happen that involved the Bird Lady?”
“Well, yeah,” Klara said. She gave a puzzled smile. “Yesterday I was at the flower garden by the senior center, where the gazebo is. I was reading Slaughterhouse-Five and trying to get some sun, so I don’t look like such a codfish now that summer’s coming.” She wiggled her toes, drawing attention to her slim, pale legs.
Emily, with her pale skin, would stay codfish white all the way through August. Codfish white or lobster red.
“Anyway, the Bird Lady just kind of . . . appeared and plopped down beside me, out of the blue,” Klara said. “She was wearing a bright-orange jumpsuit, like what someone doing roadwork might wear.”
“Ah,” Emily said. “Was she doing roadwork?”
“She mentioned my Wishing Day, and how it’s coming up soon.”
“In two weeks. Mine too.”
“Yeah,” Klara said, nudging Emily’s foot. “But how did the Bird Lady know?” She twisted a strand of hair around her finger. “She said to be careful what I wish for.”
“Ooo, because you just might receive it?” Emily said. She made spooky fingers. “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
“Then she took my book—just took it out of my hands—flipped to a certain page, and read a section out loud.”
“Of Slaughterhouse-Five?” Emily said.
Slaughterhouse-Five was brilliant. Klara and Emily both thought so. But for the Bird Lady to take it out of Klara’s hands . . .
Emily was fine with weird. But Emily wouldn’t take a book out of a random person’s hands.
Klara sat up, dug through her backpack, and lay back down with the battered paperback. She flipped to the middle and handed it to Emily. “She pretended to read straight from the book, but when I went back and checked, she’d . . . paraphrased, more like.”
Emily scanned the page. “The bit about time? Is that what she read—or kind of read?”
Klara nodded. “The part about how time is like a fly trapped in amber. How we see each moment in time as if it’s frozen, and that every moment has always occurred and always will occur.”
Emily read aloud: “‘All time is all time, it does not change or lend itself to explanations—it simply is.’”
“Yeah.”
“And she wanted to share that with you?” Emily asked. “Did she say why?”
“She did not.”
“Did it have to do with your Wishing Day?”
“Probably, wouldn’t you think?”
Emily shifted as a honeybee buzzed lazily past. She followed it with her eyes, thinking that the honeybee wasn’t trapped in amber, obviously. Emily wished she understood the Kurt Vonnegut quote. It sounded cool. What did it mean, though?
“Did it freak you out?” Emily asked.
“That’s the craziest part. It didn’t,” Klara said. “At least, not when it happened. But the more I think about it . . .” She exhaled. “Who knows? Maybe she’s nuts. Maybe she honestly just wanted to remind me not to make my wishes lightly.”
“A public service announcement,” said Emily.
Klara half laughed. “Sure. Yeah.”
Emily looked at Klara, and Klara held her gaze, open and unguarded. There were so many colors in Klara’s eyes. Not just brown, but brown flecked with gold, green, and even pinpricks of dusty rose.
“What are you going to wish for?” Emily asked. “If you want to talk about it, that is.”
“I do, if you do. Unless you think it’s illegal or something.”
“Wishing Day Jail? That would not be good.” Emily hesitated. “But Klara, don’t ask me. You’re the expert on all this.”
“I’m no expert.”
“Your family, then. My mom didn’t even make her Wishing Day wishes.” She considered that for a moment. “I bet she thinks it’s illegal.”
“I think we should make our wishes together,” Klara said, animated. She pushed herself into a sitting position. “Like . . . at sunrise, at the ancient willow tree at the top of Willow Hill.”
Emily sat up. She envisioned herself and Klara side by side, bathed in the hues of the rising sun. Emily loved sunrises. She was obsessed with catching them in a sketch one day, but their wealth of colors made it a challenge: pink, tangerine, the milky haze of lavender, as well as a yellow-blue color sometimes referred to in art books as the “forbidden color.”
Normally, yellow mixed with blue became green: kindergarten finger-painting science at its finest. But during sunrise, the light frequencies of yellow and blue didn’t cancel each other out. Rather, they flooded into each other, creating an ethereal color that didn’t have a name.
“The top of Willow Hill at sunrise,” Emily said. “Okay, let’s do a practice run. You first.”
“Here, or Willow Hill?”
“Here. Our wishes, that’s all.”
Klara lifted one eyebrow.
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” Emily said.
“Naughty girl,” Klara teased.
“Thought I was practically perfect.”
“Who says you can’t be both?”
Klara lifted her hair and dropped it over her shoulders. “Well, for my impossible wish—and no laughing—I’m thinking . . . maybe . . . of wishing to be beautiful.” She said the last bit in a rush, and her cheeks reddened.
Emily’s reaction surprised herself. It surprised Klara, too. Emily could sense it.
“You’re mad,” Klara said.
“What? No, Klara, I’m not—” Emily broke off. “Why would I be mad?”
“You disapprove, then. Why?”
Emily wasn’t sure. There was nothing wrong with beauty. Just, for Klara to use a wish to change her appearance . . . Klara, who began their friendship with a heartfelt pledge not to be superficial . . .
It seemed very un-Klara-like.
Then Emily saw it, the real motive behind Klara’s wish.
Klara wants to be beautiful for Nate, Emily gleaned.
Emily considered telling Klara that Nate already liked her, that he’d keep liking her, and that anyway, he thought she was beautiful already. Only she couldn’t, not without explaining her whole . . . gift thing.
“Wish for whatever you want,” Emily ended up saying. “I mean, you already are beautiful, but Klara, it’s your wish. Whatever you want is what I want for you.” She pretended to be stern. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Klara said, relaxing. “Thank you for not making fun of me.”
“I would never!”
“I know, which brings me to—drumroll, please—my second wish, the wish I can make come true myself. I’m going to wish to stay best friends with you forever.”
Emily melted. “Klara!”
“And for the deepest wish of my secret heart?” Klara said. She grew solemn. “I’ve thought about this a lot. It might not make sense, exactly . . . but what part of this does, right?”
Emily waited.
“The deepest wish of my secret heart is that magic is real,” Klara said. Her eyes were luminous. “Because if it is, and my wishes come true, my life will be pretty much perfect.”
Because of Nate, Emily thought, pierced by a stab of jealousy. She shook herself. No, because of Nate and because of me, she corrected herself. She reminded herself of another kindergarten lesson: Love was not a cup of sugar, and love didn’t run out. There was always enough to go around.
“I don’t need much,” Klara continued. “I want to grow up and get married and have a family. Maybe have three daughters, just like my mom. Maybe that sounds boring and predictable, but that’s what I want. I want to be a good mom and a good wife and a good friend . . .”
Klara’s voice hitched, and Emily’s heart skipped a beat.
“Klara,” she said. “Hey. Hey. There’s nothing wrong with any of that. Do you think I’m going to judge you? I’m not!”
“You might. You could. I wouldn’t blame you if you did. I know how you feel about . . .” Her sentence trickled off.
“About what?” asked Emily. “It would be one thing if you told me you wanted to . . . I don’t know, be a bank robber or a serial killer or . . .” She groped for better examples, then gave up and said, “But Klara, wanting to get married and have kids and be happy, all of that is completely—”
Oh.
Normal. A normal life was the life Klara dreamed of.
Emily’s chest rose and fell. Klara tried to speak, but Emily raised her hand, silencing her.
“I understand now,” she said. “But Klara, there’s nothing wrong with wanting those things. There really isn’t. I want those things, too.”
“You do?” asked Klara.
“Friends, family, a happy life?” Emily said. “Sure.”
“I was just worried . . . well, that—”
“I’d feel as if you were rejecting me, just like my mom,” Emily filled in.
“Or that you’d reject me, for following the herd or whatever,” Klara said.
“No,” said Emily. She knew Klara wasn’t coming down on her. Still, she felt the sinking sensation of having done something wrong, the dread of being scolded.
“My mom’s version of ‘normal’ is different from yours,” Emily said.
“Very,” Klara quickly said.
Emily tried to sort through her emotions. Her mother made her feel bad for not conforming to the definition of “normal” that her mother subscribed to. Feeling bad . . . well, it felt bad. It did.
Emily knew that her mother’s concern sprang from love. What she didn’t know was if her mother refused to accept Emily for who she was—in other words, not “normal”—or if her mother was just . . .
Flawed?
That’s what it felt like, but surely that wasn’t fair.
What if her mom simply didn’t possess enough imagination to see Emily for who she truly was?
She’d been silent for an awfully long time, she realized.
Klara sat there, kind of wringing her hands.
“Um, I think it’s one thing to reject being normal if being ‘normal’ means not being who you really are,” Emily said carefully. She saw hope in Klara’s eyes, which gave her courage. What might it feel like to forgive herself—as well as her mother? Was Emily capable of separating herself from her mom’s expectations?
A wet, woolen weight loosened its hold on her.
“But deciding for yourself what makes you happy, and then doing everything you can to make that happen . . . I have a feeling that’s the only way to be happy,” Emily continued. “So, Klara, if what you want is a normal life, normal by your standards, that’s what you should go for.”
“Really?” Klara said.
“Really,” Emily insisted.
Klara studied her. Then she gave Emily a funny, squinty smile. “Well . . . all right, then.” Klara rearranged her legs so that she was sitting cross-legged. “Now it’s your turn. Let’s hear your wishes.”
Emily drew her thumbnail to her mouth. She pulled it out. “All right. For the deepest wish of my secret heart . . .”
Several long moments ticked by.
“You’re stalling,” Klara chastised.
“I’m not,” Emily protested. “I’m just not sure what words to use.”
Klara raised her hand as if they were in school. “I have an idea. How about you use the words that say what your deepest wish is?”
“Thanks, yeah,” said Emily.
Klara lowered her hand and smirked.
“I need to figure out how to phrase it before our Wishing Days, but basically, my deepest wish is to be closer to my dad.” Saying it out loud prompted a wellspring of tears. She swiped at her eyes. “Sorry.”
“Oh, Em, no need to be sorry,” Klara said, scooching over and putting her arm around her. “When you say ‘closer,’ do you mean physically closer or emotionally closer?”
“Both, but physically would be a good start. Like, why can’t I go visit him in California? Spend time with him?”
“Because your mom doesn’t want you to, which is really, really unfair. You could go to a judge, I bet. Or get your dad to go to a judge!”
“I’ve thought of that,” Emily said. “Just, it’s complicated. I don’t want to hurt my mom, but I do want my dad to be part of my life.” She picked at a loose thread on her cutoffs. “He understands me better. Before he moved, before my parents got divorced, he was the one who stood up for me. He said things like, ‘There’s no such thing as normal.’”
Klara took Emily’s hand.
“Not a one-size-fits-everyone kind of normal, I mean,” Emily clarified, not wanting Klara to feel bad again for saying she wanted a normal life.
“An excellent wish,” Klara said.
“Thanks.” Emily squeezed Klara’s hand, then released it.
“And for the wish you can make come true yourself?”
“Same as yours: for us to stay best friends forever.”
“Aw,” Klara said. “We’re so cheesy, aren’t we?”
Emily smiled. “We are.”
“And your impossible wish?”
Emily saw herself as a little girl, sitting on her knees in the backseat of her parents’ station wagon and facing backward. Looking out the rear window, the world had seemed enormous.
Her dad had turned on the car, and her mom had said, “Turn around, Emily. Fasten up.” As her dad backed the car out of the driveway, she’d taken in the wide blue sky visible through the side window. Then the sky through Nate’s window, on the opposite side. The sky was everywhere, and she was the sky. She was the world. She was everything.
A smile had stretched across her face. She’d wanted to put what she knew into words, but her mother had clicked on the radio, and the song sent the words swirling away. Sent the moment swirling away, forgotten until this moment of basking in the sun with Klara.
“The truth?” Emily said. “To be older. To be past all of this.”
“Past all of what? The stuff with your mom and dad?”
“It’s kind of the same as what you want, actually: a happy life. Because when I’m older—”
“How much older?”
“Eighteen?” Emily said, trying it out. “Done with high school?” She looked inside herself. “Old enough to move out of my mom’s house and be me. To be my kind of normal, without my mom making me feel like a constant failure.”
“But Emily!”
“What?”
“You can’t just skip over”—Klara counted on her fingers—“five years of your life. Five years?!”
“Why not?”
“For one, wouldn’t you miss me?”
“Well . . . I don’t think so.”
Klara made a sound of wounded indignation.
“No, wait! Only because I wouldn’t be here to miss you. In theory, yes, of course I’d miss you. But if the wish worked, I’d jump straight to eighteen, and there you’d be.”
“Well, I’d miss you,” Klara argued.
“No, because it’s not like I would disappear or anything. I’d still live those years. I just wouldn’t . . . experience it? This me”—she tapped her chest—“would flash forward to high school graduation, that’s all.”
“How many yous are there?” Klara asked. “And what if . . .” She pursed her lips. “All right, what if I die between now and graduation? Wouldn’t you want to be there for that?”
“For your death?”
The Backward Season Page 11