The Precious Dreadful Page 10

  My instinct to share is immediately eclipsed by the certainty I shouldn’t. Willa’s always resented Corey, my one friend who predates her. Though they never met, she has this peculiar competitive reflex; if I even mention him, she’ll start listing things she and I did together as kids.

  For some reason, shame rises, as if I’m betraying Willa by trying to track Corey down. I know that’s irrational, but can’t justify searching for him while sharing mattress space with her. Sliding off the bed, I settle atop my bean chair.

  Committing to contact, the issue is: What to say? Reaching for pencil and journal, I jot. Reading through a few times, I make tweaks. Opting for short and sweet, I type my greeting into the message window:

  Hi, Micah. Remember me? I was friends with your brother.

  Hoping you can put us in touch. Thanks! Teddi Alder

  Suddenly queasy, I attach a photo of Corey and me. A blurry close-up of our spray-quenched faces, side by side at the park sprinkler.

  With a deep breath, I send my greeting irretrievably on its way.

  Glancing at the slumberlump, I jitter with anticipation; can hardly resist shaking Willa awake to share my news. But common sense tells me to dial down hope.

  Who knows whether Micah will even see my message? And if he does, that’s no guarantee he’ll reply.

  I’m about to log off, play it casual, force myself to sleep, when a red indicator pops up on my screen: MESSAGE RECEIVED!

  Wow. Corey’s brother. So strange. Will he remember me, the irritating tomboy with the Blue’s Clues lunchbox? I carried it everywhere at six, stocked with crayons, Band-Aids, a spare juice box. Had to be self-reliant even then, with Brenda sometimes strung out for days.

  The dialogue box pops up again, flashes at the bottom right of my screen: READ!

  It’s a start.

  Drumming fingers on my chin, I gnaw my thumbnail, twist the pendant chain. Minutes tick. I’m about to give up, join Willa on the bed, when the alert box flashes: TYPING . . .

  A blip signals, accompanied by a five-word question: Is this a fucking joke?

  Not the response I expected from Micah. Sure, he always seemed bugged by our general existence, but I imagined he’d be excited to hear from me after so long. Eager to tell his little brother about this online blast from his past.

  Is he remembering how annoying we were, following his every move, two noisy shadows? The jokes we played.

  I’m unsure how to reply. With a cheerful memory jog?—that time I surprised him with a pack of baseball cards for his birthday.

  Mid-message, I stop typing. Maybe it’s best to let it simmer, write back tomorrow. Catch him in a better mood.

  I consider texting Aidan instead, the impulse of a reckless mind. As I reach for my phone, Willa sleep-grunts. Rolling toward me, she yawns.

  “Whatcha doin’, T Bear?”

  “Nothing, Wills. Go back to sleep.”

  Powering off my laptop, I opt to take my own advice, forcing a yawn to match Willa’s. My eyes water, but I doubt I’ll dream tonight. I lie here, thoughts racing, as dawn lights my paisley panels.

  15

  Never did sleep. The combo of fireworks—the literal, the Aidan/Willa variety—and my dead end with Micah put me in overdrive. As I neared oblivion at daybreak, Binks howled me alert. Then Willa sprang up, prepped to resume her Aidan rant. Luckily, my hostile houseguest was beckoned home for family time.

  I’d planned on an all-day veg, but, weary body at the mercy of boomerang brain, I kept returning to the laptop. Afraid to make matters worse with Micah, I held off replying.

  Exhaustion, impervious to iced coffee, stood its ground, so I nearly skipped writers group tonight. When I arrived last minute, Marisol met me on the library steps, ready to bail if I decided not to show up.

  From her miserable expression right now, I’d say she regrets my arrival. Fidgeting, Mari slips a strand of hair into her mouth, traces figure eights on her thigh. I envy her nervous energy; vitality’s beyond me.

  Eleanor repeats, “How about it, Marisol? We haven’t heard much from you lately.”

  Letting the damp tendril drop from her lips, Marisol says, “But . . . it’s really not good. I’m writing about my tia Adaluz, and for some reason, I started with this very bad poem. I’m not sure it works, and anyway, it’s hardly a story yet. I just sort of—”

  Eleanor interrupts, raising this cobalt-painted branch she calls the Serenity Stick. It’s coiled with silver ribbon, and when she shakes it, tiny bells jingle. Marisol goes silent.

  Eleanor asks, “What’s Rule #1 of sharing our work? Kenneth?”

  Standing, Ken answers as if reciting a pledge. “We must not self-judge. All work has merit, and we are least effective at finding the worth within our own words.”

  “Very good.”

  Todd springs up, waits for acknowledgment. When Eleanor nods in his direction, he adds, “She also broke Rule #2: Never explain the work. Just read exactly what’s on the page.”

  With a tortured expression, Marisol says, “Okay, jeez, I’m really sorry.”

  Granting absolution with a quick shoulder pat, Eleanor asks Marisol to resume.

  “From the top?”

  “That sounds reasonable.”

  I offer a thumbs-up, and, searching through loose sheets of lined paper, Marisol begins.

  “ ‘My Tia’s Special Gift’

  Aunt Adaluz has a gift

  But it’s not adorned with bows

  She didn’t get it in the mail

  It’s not a ring or rose

  Her gift lies deep within her . . .”

  Struck with giggles, Marisol flushes deeply. “So then the poem just sort of ends, and I start the rest.”

  Eleanor answers, “Please continue.”

  Voice cracking, Marisol reads.

  “Some aunts are magicians of spice, ruling over kitchens tinged with cinnamon, pungent with the bite of chilies and garlic. Others can sew a dress for quinceañera and a slipcover for the sofa in a single afternoon.

  “There are soccer-star aunts, and I’m certain some nieces have architect tias, women whose dreams become wonders of steel and glass. Some have orthodontic aunts, psychiatric aunts, aunts who add endless columns of numbers, aunts who pilot taxicabs. Each of these women has her special gift.”

  As Marisol glances up to gauge our reaction, I steal a quick look around the circle. She has everyone’s attention.

  Eleanor whispers, “Go on.”

  “Tia Adaluz shares some of these gifts. My mother’s older sister is forever stirring, rich-scented steam rising from her cast iron pot; always mid-project, she’s sewn her way through miles of satin. And she is mad for Sudoku.

  “But her true gift is one called habla con espiritu, spirit speak. This is a gift held cherished within our family, one shared by special women of each generation.”

  Picturing the SPIRIT-FUELED bumper sticker, I recall homeroom whispers, “That girl, her aunt.”

  A throb of electricity circuits the group. A subtle intake of breath. Petra and Jeanine lean forward. Riding the shift in energy, Marisol assumes a storyteller tone, voice extra expressive.

  “When Baby Luz was born, back on our island, there were signs, omens that pointed to her possessing the gift. As she entered the world—two minutes past midnight, on the Feast of All Souls—my abuelo’s prize rooster, Pico, crowed exactly twice. And fell dead.”

  Savoring the gasp that escapes Ken, a small grin dances at the corner of Marisol’s lips. She pauses to dramatically shuffle pages.

  “During her early years, the family watched closely how the baby stopped mid-play, to babble to an invisible playmate in an empty corner. They would gasp in awe to discover special objects—Abuela’s silver hairbrush, a treasured clay Madonna—impossibly plucked from a locked drawer, the highest shelf, curled in the sleeping baby’s fist.

  “When she was seven, Luz nearly drowned. She claimed a boy with her exact eyes, the same twin moles on his cheek, had pulled her
from the surf, carried her to shore. He told her his name was Felix, and said he had a message for her mama. ‘Do not weep for me. I am happy with the others.’ When Abuela showed Adaluz a picture of her dead brother, the girl said, ‘That’s him, the boy who saved me! He wants them to name the new baby Felicia, to honor him.’ ”

  Folding back the page, Marisol adds, “One year later, my mother, Felicia, was born.” The group “oohs” appreciatively, and she goes back to reading.

  “Luz tried to cast off her gift. Some messages unnerved or confused her, not all the visitors were as welcome as her tio Felix. No, some visions terrified Adaluz. The most frightening she refused to discuss. For a time, she denied the second sight, claiming she wanted only to be ‘normal.’ Yet, she couldn’t help sharing what she heard and saw, especially if it could help, might shield her family from harm.

  “As Tia grew older, she embraced the gift as a part of her. People came for advice, to find misplaced articles: eyeglasses, earrings. A lover who had strayed. Somehow, she could usually help them.

  “Eventually, my aunt accepted the dead; she made peace with the visitors. She says they speak within her chest, rather than into her ears. She feels their tickle, just behind her heart. Sometimes, they carry great weight. Sorrow. Often, she will whisper a name. When this happens, she knows to wait. To stop what she is doing. Put aside her puzzle. Turn down the stove burner. Stitch her last seam and wait. Because someone needs her.

  “The messages are for those left behind; those Tia calls ‘los que se quedan, the ones who remain.’ Many times, they seek Tia out. Other times, she goes in search of them.

  “At first, she resisted this role; ‘her great burden,’ she called it. There was too much sadness, the regrets of those gone on, of those still here. But Tia found that, by acting as messenger, she could ease the ache for the souls on both sides of loss.

  “Like the women before her, she came to embrace her gift, to cherish it. She jokes now that she is honored to have joined the family business.

  “Some doubt her; some say she is a fake, but I know her journey, and I am proud. My tia Adaluz has a special gift. Segunda vista, a second sight. Spirit speak.”

  Typically, when someone finishes reading, the response goes one of two ways. We slide into auto applause; this might range from feeble-polite to prolonged and enthusiastic, depending on the particular piece.

  The other reaction tends to be silence, often of the bewildered variety. In those cases, Eleanor, reluctant to influence group reaction with anything beyond the briefest commentary, challenges us with her standard call for “Thoughts? Comments?”

  The immediate response to Marisol’s piece is something of a departure. Before anyone else can react, Eleanor turns to me and says, “Well, Miss Alder, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  On the spot, I stammer, “Umm, that was really . . . uh, great, Mari. The details were so vivid. You really took me someplace new.”

  Marisol says, “Thanks, Teddi.”

  I turn to Eleanor with a How was that? expression, and she surprises me by saying, “Actually, what I meant, Teddi, is that you really ought to set up a meeting with Marisol’s aunt.”

  16

  Would you behave?”

  Aidan has a compound case: uncontrollable giggles coupled with serious hand trouble. He keeps tickling, poking me, running his index finger along my thigh.

  The attention’s equal parts charming and maddening. Grabbing his wrist, I shoot him an irritated look. “You’re going to get us kicked out!”

  Willa got permission for us to sit in on Twelfth Night rehearsal. Miss LaRose, our school’s drama teacher and the show’s director, told her she’d love a visit from her former star. Willa said she made a big deal, telling the cast to “give it your all,” that a “talented troupe alum would be paying a visit.” But if Aid doesn’t knock it off, we’re guaranteed to get the boot.

  He leans over and whistles gently in my ear, erupting in a burst of laughter. Willa spins in her seat two rows up; glaring death rays at Aidan and me, she goes, “Sssshhhhhhhhhh!”

  Aidan calms, striking an angelic Cub Scout pose. Even so, I’m worried he’ll not only get us ejected but also undo the progress we’ve made these last few days. After their Fourth of July blowout, Willa refused to speak to Aidan, barely acknowledging his existence. This would not have been an issue, except she insisted on hanging with us every chance she got.

  With Nic and Aid getting to be buds, this got uncomfortable fast, thanks to Willa’s constant allegations. Whenever Nic spoke to Aidan, she’d roll her eyes and accuse him of “scheming again.” Ultimately, optic nerve strain and the unnatural demands of the silent treatment proved overwhelming.

  As the four of us sat at Sprinkles yesterday, Willa scooched next to Aidan and said, “You’ve been sufficiently punished. I forgive you. Besides, there’s enough Teddi for us both. Friends?”

  Aidan winked at me before saying, “Wait, the silent treatment was a punishment?” Nic did his best not to laugh ’til Willa did. After that, all was well.

  So, reluctant to ruin this hard-won truce because of his fidget attack, I say, “Aid, it’ll be a while before Nic runs his scene. Let’s get some air.”

  Grinning, he says, “Air?” and blows across his open palm, causing my bangs to flutter.

  “Come on!”

  Pinching his ear, I pull him—angry-nun style—into the darkened aisle.

  Aid continues laughing as we descend the stairs to the parking lot.

  Once outside, I have to admit, he’s kind of goofy-cute. He tries to tickle me, but I dash toward the grassy area near the school’s side lot, Aidan in stumbling pursuit.

  When he lunges, I turn tables, tackling him. We flop onto summer-crisp grass, a tumble of limbs and laughter.

  “What is with you tonight?” I give him a quick ab poke.

  He stops laughing. Rolling onto his back, he says, “I’m just happy, Teddi.”

  “Well, you’re acting mental.” I kiss him. “If I hadn’t spent the day with you, I’d swear you were drunk.”

  “Nope, not drunk. High.”

  “What?”

  “High. On love.”

  Turning onto his side, he runs his fingers through my hair. Then, burying his face against my neck, he delivers a massive, wet raspberry.

  Squealing, I wriggle away, trying to catch my breath.

  Aidan grabs the back of my shirt; laughing, he drags me toward him. My top hikes up in front, the dry grass scratchy against my stomach.

  “Stop it!” Half laughing, I slap his hand, try to pry his fingers from my stretched tee.

  His grip tightens, one arm wrapping, flipping, pinning me on my back. Straddling me, digging fingers into my sides, he tickles me senseless. I can’t help but laugh; then, bucking, I struggle to escape, trapped beneath his weight.

  “Aidan, stop!” Wrenching an arm free, I swing upward, deliver a smack to his left cheek.

  He’s stunned. Then he shakes his head and scowls. Leaning closer, his face pressed to mine, he says, “Come on, Teddi. Take a joke.” His eyes glint. Glassy, unreadable.

  A shiver of fear cuts through me. Fighting the urge to scream, in the firmest voice I can manage, I say, “Aidan, this is not funny. Let. Me. Up.”

  Just then, the side door opens; Willa peeks out, calling us. “Guys, come inside. They’re starting from top of show, and Nic’s in one of the first scenes. I don’t want you ruining it, busting in in the middle.”

  Jumping up, Aidan offers his hand. I don’t move, until he smiles, extra sincere, and asks, “You all right?”

  I let him help me to my feet. Adjusting my shirt, I pick at the dry grass stuck to my torso.

  Walking toward the stairs where Willa waits, Aidan tries to put his arm around me. I duck away.

  At the bottom of the steps, he bows to Willa and says, “Your majesty, I’m glad we have made amends.”

  Willa grins. Abandoning her effort to remain stern, she says, “All right, goober.
Just promise you’ll pipe down.”

  “And keep your hands to yourself,” I add. It comes out harsher than I intended. Willa raises an eyebrow.

  Aidan makes an X over his chest. Leaning forward, eyes closed, he says, “Cross my stolen heart.”

  Instead of the kiss he’s expecting, I poke his ribs and say, “Let’s go, lover boy.”

  As we enter the auditorium, refrigerated air licks my skin; I shudder as we take our seats.

  House lights cut, the only illumination comes from the exit signs and a single spot trained center stage. Miss LaRose addresses the cast, seated in a large oval onstage. “Okeydoke. You’ve worked hard this week. Let’s see what we’ve got. From top of show. I want real commitment. Pay attention to each other! Consider this a performance.” She indicates us. “After all, we have an audience.”

  Aidan smiles broadly, and I resist the urge to dive beneath my seat. After waving back at her, I turn to him with a serious look.

  Miss LaRose continues. “Harper will be tinkering, so expect to be surprised by light and sound. We’re testing effects for the prologue. Don’t let it throw you. In fact, you might find it inspires your performance. If so, go for it. Now’s the time to experiment. Ready?”

  The oval contracts into a tight knot, and the group begins a barely audible hum. As they slowly rise to their feet, volume increasing, the hum becomes a nonsense-syllable chant, some kind of warm-up. Expression serious, Aidan murmurs in time.

  Hopping from the stage, Miss LaRose sits in the front row and shouts, “Places for prologue!”

  The circle breaks, actors scattering to various spots offstage.

  Miss LaRose flashes a thumbs-up toward the tech table at the back of the auditorium, and the last lights go out.

  Plunged into darkness, my brows stretch upward, eyes attempting to adjust.

  Simulated lightning blinds me, followed by a loud rumble. I picture Binks’s frenzied thunder response. In fact, right now, I can identify. Funhouse laughter escapes me as Aidan takes my hand.