Authors: Carmen Rodrigues
Afterward, she looked at me, her eyes intense, and said, “So, are you in or out?”
I stared at her blankly. I couldn’t tell if she was serious about breaking into Ellie’s house. But if she was, she had it all figured out. Somehow she knew that Ellie’s parents had left that afternoon to attend a medical conference in Baltimore.
Your sister mentioned it at dinner two nights ago.
That Tommy, Sarah, and Ellie would be at the movies.
Again, at dinner.
That the spare key to Ellie’s house was hidden beneath a faux frog in their yard.
Remember? I saw Jake use it that one time he got locked out.
“I just need you to stand guard, and I’ll do the rest,” she said.
From what I gathered, “do the rest” meant her searching Ellie’s
room for something that could potentially destroy her—a diary, incriminating photo, or medical proof she had some sort of STD.
“Have you been watching
Gossip Girl
again?” I asked.
“Very funny.” Her eyes narrowed. “She’s a bitch. And you want to know what? I asked Tommy today about what she said, and he said it wasn’t true. Not any of it.”
I watched a bit of pain shoot across her face. “Tommy’s a liar,” I said. “Besides, how would Ellie know about any of it if he hadn’t told her?”
She shrugged, unconcerned with the details, as if Tommy’s word was enough. “Maybe she was spying?”
“On you and Tommy?” I asked incredulously. She had really gone off the deep end if she even believed that was possible.
“We were spying on Tommy and Sarah. What’s the difference?” she said, as if this proved her point. “So are you going to help me or not?”
She was determined, and I knew that with or without me, she was going in. There was no time to warn Ellie, and the only other option was to tell my mom, but I couldn’t imagine ratting Lola out that way. I searched my mind for other possibilities and came up with only one.
“I’ll help you,” I said, “but only if I go in
alone
.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but I held up a hand to
silence her. “Just wait. Okay? I know the house better than you do. I’ll be faster and have less of a chance of getting caught.”
I didn’t add that I wanted to go in. That the idea excited me more than I’d care to admit.
She considered this for a while, but still seemed reluctant.
“It’s the only way I’ll help you,” I said.
Twenty minutes later I stood inside Ellie’s room, flashlight in hand. It was weird standing there, dressed in Lola’s black leotard and leggings, running my hands freely across Ellie’s desk. I felt a series of conflicting emotions: guilty and happy, brave and cowardly. Mostly, I felt changed.
Until a month ago, I had never kissed anyone, I had never lied to Lola, and I had never broken the rules. Not like this. And now here I was, standing in Ellie’s bedroom, cataloging her life.
I stared at some of the photographs she had taped to the wall. Pictures of her with Jake, both smaller than the huge pumpkin behind them; with Sarah at her sweet-sixteen party; and with her dad, when she was about seven.
I picked up that photo and stared at it more closely. I had never seen her look so animated. I flipped it over. On the back, scrawled in masculine handwriting, was
Me and my little Lee-Lee
. I had never met her father, but I knew on rare occasions Ellie disappeared to Florida for long-weekend visits with his new family.
“What’s going on in there, Black Hawk?” Lola’s voice burst through my receiver, calling me by the stupid code name she insisted on using.
“Nothing.” I put the photo back and shifted my attention to the closet.
“Did you find anything?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, hurry up.”
“Okay,” I muttered, already lost in Ellie’s clothes—the soft fabrics, her favorite blue sweater. I found a scarf I’d seen her wear several times but not often enough to note its disappearance and slipped it into my backpack.
Then I stepped away from the closet, my foot connecting with something near her bed. I glanced down and saw them—a heap of black spiral notebooks now scattered on the floor. I sat eagerly on my heels and aimed my flashlight at notebook after notebook. They were all the same: dozens of sketches in charcoal, ink, and pencil. One, marked 2009, was of the creepy house on the corner, its telltale overgrown yard filling the page. Another was of the weird kid four houses over, the one with the big head and too-small eyes. One notebook had a series featuring Mr. Lumpnick’s dog as he transitioned from puppy to adult.
I went to grab the next one in the stack, but it skidded beneath
the bed. I flipped up the bed skirt and aimed my flashlight into the darkness: The notebook rested against an old shoe box that was about as far beneath Ellie’s bed as you could get. It took a few tries, but finally with the tips of my fingers I was able to pull it out. The shoe box—somehow caught on the slightly bent edge of the spiral—came with it. I unlatched the two and then, mostly out of curiosity, slid the lid off the box.
“Black Hawk, car lights approaching the end of the block. Over.”
Paper. Dozens of strips of paper torn haphazardly from a variety of sources, each with a cryptic message addressed to no one specific.
“Did you hear me, over?”
I rifled through the box, hands shaking. Was everything I wanted to know about Ellie here for the taking?
“The car is parking
now
. Are you
effing
deaf? Over.”
I debated stealing the box and spending the entire night in the basement, reading each strip, trying to figure out its meaning.
“Getting
out
of the car. What the fuck are you doing?”
But if I stole the thing she held most private, would she ever forgive me?
“Jessie? Are you sh-shitting me? Are you n-nuts?” Lola was stuttering now.
“They’re a-at the door!”
I shoved the box under the bed and arranged the sketch pads—except for the one with this year’s date—in a neat stack. That one I tossed into my bag, telling myself that I would find a way to return it in the morning, before Ellie noticed, and that it wasn’t the same thing as taking her box. It was more like the scarf. It was only drawings, after all. But I knew I was lying to myself.
I raised Ellie’s bedroom window just as the front door squeaked ajar. A woman’s shaky voice said, “Well, we can just catch an early flight tomorrow. It’s not a big deal, Gary. We should have just never stopped at the bar, okay? Can we just drop it now, okay?”
“Fine. I was just saying—” a deeper voice responded.
“I heard you the first, second, fourth, fifth—”
“Fine, consider it dropped,” he snapped. They were silent then. I worked quietly at removing Ellie’s screen—the latch on the left was rusted shut—while monitoring their noises. Luggage was dragged in, lamps turned on, and water run in the kitchen.
“Did you hear that?” Mr. Sargeant’s voice cut the silence.
I froze, the pounding in my heart rising into my neck.
“Hear what?”
“Exactly. Where’s Ellie? I thought she was grounded.”
“She’s sleeping over Sarah’s house. Don’t you remember I
told you? I’m sure I told you.” Mrs. Sargeant’s voice grew louder, coming to a halt right outside the door.
“She’s never going to learn if you keep letting her out of her groundings,” Mr. Sargeant said.
“I told you, we settled it. Why won’t you let this go?”
“Because I don’t believe her. And I’m tired of you taking her word over mine. If you honestly believe she’s respecting your rules, there should be nothing in her room that says otherwise. So let’s just end this argument by taking a look inside. . . .”
The door cracked open—the light from the hallway flooding the room—then, just as suddenly, slammed shut.
“Absolutely not! Gary, I’m not spy—”
“
Spying?
If you don’t start paying more attention—”
“I’m exhausted. Do we have to discuss this now?” Her voice grew distant again. There was the click of another door, and then their sounds were completely muffled.
“
Psst
, Jess.” I turned around. Lola stood outside Ellie’s window, screen in hand.
Thirty minutes later, she was wearing her pajamas and interrogating me. “I just don’t get it,” she said.
“I told you, unless you want to tape up a charcoal drawing of Mr. Lumpnick’s dog on everyone’s locker, there was nothing there.”
The sound of collective laughter drifted up from the living room, where my younger sisters were curled up with my parents on the couch, watching
The NeverEnding Story
. Just last summer I had spent most of my Friday nights right beside them, but high school had changed all that, making everything way more complicated.
“You looked underneath her bed? In her closet?”
“I’m sorry,” I replied hollowly.
“Sorry?” Lola glared at me.
“Just relax. Okay? It was a dumb plan anyway.”
“I knew I should have done it myself,” she snapped.
“Yeah? In the dark? You hate being alone in the dark.” I held her stare for a few minutes, and she looked away.
“What’s gotten into you?” she asked suspiciously.
I shrugged, knowing that we were no longer talking about the break-in, but about my increasing ability to stand up to her.
“You’re
hiding
something . . . aren’t you?” She moved toward my backpack, but I jumped off my bed and blocked her. She gave me her typical
I’m going to tear your head off
look, but I held my ground. I didn’t want her ripping through my things, tossing them and me around the way she did Mr. Big Butt Bear.
“I’m not lying.”
“Then let me look.” She took a step forward, her arms out
like a running back’s. She tried to push past me, but much to her surprise and my own, I pushed back.
“Stop.” I was shaking, filled with adrenaline.
“Move.”
“No.”
She grabbed my shoulders. I locked my legs and for a while was able to hold her, until she threw her height and weight into her lunge, forcing me aside. Within seconds she was dumping the contents of my bag onto the floor. She found the flashlight, Ellie’s spare key, and the scarf, but not the sketch pad.
That
I had somehow managed to drop in the bushes outside the kitchen door.
“You lied. You took a scarf,” she hissed.
I straightened up. “I liked it.”
We stared at each other.
“Fine. You know what? I’m going home. You’re pathetic.” She gathered her belongings, and a few of mine, like the snow globe she’d brought me back from Canada and the sequined headband she’d given me last Christmas. She paused beside a framed photo of us on my thirteenth birthday before tossing it in the trash can next to my dresser. Then she flicked off the lights and stormed out of my room, slamming the door shut.
I turned the lights back on and sat on my bed, waiting for
my heart to calm. It didn’t exactly return to normal—I felt too alive for that—but eventually, I stopped feeling so jumpy.
I knew that in a few days Lola would get over our fight. That’s how it was with her. Little blowups that blew over eventually. But Ellie . . . what would she do if she found out about the sketch pad or the scarf? Just the thought alone made my heart clutch up.
Feeling like this was like standing on the edge of this cliff: I wanted to jump, even if the water turned out to be shallow.
I was tired of playing it safe. I wanted the free fall. And that scared me.
Y
o
u’re
o
nly a year
o
lder than me,
b
ut y
o
u’ve always
b
een s
o
much wiser t
o
the way this w
o
rld w
o
rks. H
o
w everything we’ve accumulated . . . mud
o
n my thigh,
o
r a dandeli
o
n clinging t
o
the
b
ack
o
f my wrist . . . can
b
e washed away.
AFTER. FEBRUARY.
Another Sunday and my sisters go to church. I imagine them folded into pews, hymnbooks pressed against their thighs as they sing songs, hold hands, recite the Lord’s Prayer.
I am home alone, with a soggy bowl of Cheerios in my lap, awaiting their return. And when they return, I watch them, trying to decipher their native rituals. I’ve learned many things about Sundays. But mostly I’ve learned that Mom sees and knows nearly everything, even if she pretends she does not.
She clears her throat when Meg mentions that Dad isn’t home this Sunday like he promised. Sighs resolutely when Jess pretends to eat her food before pushing it aside. Smiles
patiently as Mattie struggles to read a Dora the Explorer book.
When Meg, still in her Sunday best, races suddenly toward our living-room window, Mom chides her for her dangling barrettes and impossibly slippery hair. Meg ignores Mom and draws the plaid curtains aside, knocking a silver picture frame onto the carpet. She squeals, “He saw me! Oh my God!” Her cheeks turn pink, but she brazenly presses her body to the windowsill. “Oh, wait.” She slowly exhales, staring at the nameless boy who is her latest fascination. “Wait.”