Archive for category: Katherine Paterson Prize for Young Adult and Children’s Literature

We get our yearbooks the Friday morning before the Jubilee weekend, the annual end-of-the-year carnival held in our high school’s parking lot. It’s kind of like the end of Grease! But with less hairspray and singing.

Ms. Benway hands the yearbooks out during homeroom, making sure we get the correct ones before anyone starts signing each other’s, because senior year, you get your own name engraved in the bottom right corner of the front cover.

I run my hand over the gold imprint, tracing my name. Jane Marie Smith, Class of 2018.

I open the yearbook. The binding is stiff, so I press the front cover back until the spine makes a cracking sound that cuts through the chatter in the room. It’s weirdly satisfying. I flip through the table of contents and the opening pages, looking for the senior class photos and quotes.

I can’t wait to see my portrait, between Alison Smalls and Cara Snyder, the way I have been every year since middle school. I feel the tiniest bit bad splitting them up, because everywhere but in the yearbook, they’re joined at the hip.

What I’m really dying to see are the senior quotes: that one line each person chose way back in September, to sum up his or her entire life philosophy in 150 words or less. I spent forever picking out mine and finally settled on one from Edith Wharton: “There are two ways of spreading the light: to be the candle or the mirror that reflects it.”

See, I’m more of a mirror kind of girl. I’m not the girl that boycotts the cafeteria menu for not providing enough vegan options, like my best friend Divya, or runs for student government, or is captain of a sports team, or even plays a team sport. But I am always there, supporting everyone else.

So I’m excited to see my quote right under my name and picture.

Except that when I find the page where I should fall, alphabetically speaking, I’m not there.

Alison and Cara are right next to each other, the way they are in real life. I keep checking the space in between them, as if my picture will sprout out of the sliver of white space, like a weed in the sidewalk. But of course, it doesn’t.

Alison’s quote: What lies behind us and what lies ahead of us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us. – Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Alison Smalls would pick Emerson.

Cara’s is I woke up like this. – Beyoncé. That choice doesn’t surprise me, either.

I go through the entire senior section, scanning for my face and name. Maybe I’d been placed out of order by accident.

But when I get to the end of the alphabet, there is only this: Not Pictured: Jane Smith.

What the hell?

*

That’s what I say when I find Rudy Yee, the yearbook editor, in the hallway between classes.

“What the hell, Rudy?” I shove my open yearbook under his nose, so he can see where I’m pointing – at the space where my face is supposed to be.

“What’s your problem?”

I point harder. “You left me out of the yearbook. I was pictured. I had a quote and everything. I gave it to the office back in September, just like everyone else.”

Rudy looks at my yearbook, and then takes it from me. I glare at him as he flips through. He scrunches up his face as he sees what I already know: I’m not in there.

He looks back up at me. “You must have fallen through the cracks somewhere.”

“You had all year to ask me about it, to double-check. But now? Everyone in school has this yearbook, and I’m not in it.” My voice trembles a bit. I am not going to cry in front of Rudy.

I know it’s just a yearbook. But years from now, people will look through it and wonder why I hadn’t gotten my shit together to send in my portrait and quote when I did and Rudy Yee somehow overlooked me.

Rudy’s face is sympathetic, but he shrugs and says, “Nothing I can do about it now. Sorry, Jane.”

“That’s it? You’re sorry?”

Rudy opens his wallet and pulls out two twenty-dollar bills. “Here. I’m refunding the cost of your yearbook.” He holds them out to me.

I swat his hand away. “It’s not about what I paid. It’s that no one is going to remember I was part of this class.”

Now Rudy looks annoyed. “You have heard of the Internet, right? The yearbook is just something to collect signatures in and gather dust in your house until your kids take it out one rainy day and make fun of your hair. Get online and get over yourself.”

“My. Name. Is. Jane. Smith. I’m practically un-Googlable. Why were you yearbook editor if you don’t even care about it?”

Rudy makes a “duh” face. “For college apps? Obviously.”

Unless I end up doing something extraordinary with my life, it’ll be impossible to tell me apart from the hundreds of other Jane Smiths in the world. If my classmates lose track of me, I will not be easy to find.

I won’t be the candle or the mirror. I will be a ghost, with no reflection, no memories, not even a scorch mark left as a reminder of my presence.

*

Even Ms. Drabek can’t pretend to care when it’s the last day of school. She scrolls through her phone while everyone signs yearbooks and talks about the Jubilee and graduation this weekend.

“Hey, Jane, sign my yearbook,” Iris Chang says, passing it to me. It’s heavy in my hands.

“Sure.” I write, Good luck at college! Stay sweet – Jane Smith. Even my penmanship looks boring. This is who I am. Forgettable.

I hand it back to her.

“Where’s yours? Can I sign?”

I look to my backpack at my feet, where my own yearbook is hiding. “I forgot it in my locker. Maybe you can sign it later.”

“Okay,” she says, and moves on to Max Niederman.

Next to me, Divya shoots me a look of disapproval. She’s the only one I’ve told besides Rudy, in a string of incredulous texts.

“You’re making too big a deal out of it. At least let people sign your yearbook,” Divya whispers.

I snatch her yearbook off her desk and let it swing open, the pages flapping in the air. “I showed up to every football game in the fall. I went to every dance. But somehow, I’ve managed not to make it into any of the pictures, not even in the background. It’s like I wasn’t here at all.”

Divya grabs it back, like she’s worried my omission is contagious. “At least come to the Jubilee tonight with me.”

“I don’t want to.”

“You’re going to blow your entire grad weekend because Rudy messed up your yearbook portrait?”

I’m about to tell her to stop judging me when her picture is right where it’s supposed to be, with her quote (We’re all stories in the end. Just make it a good one, eh? – 11th Doctor (Matt Smith)) below her name.

But that’s when Teddy Morganstern pulls up a chair next to me, yearbook tucked under one arm. One strong-looking, smooth arm. The kind of arm that could pull you by the waist and hold you against him as he bent his head and –

“Hi, Jane,” he says. “Divya.” His smile is warm, and his eyes are bright behind long lashes.

I sit up straighter, shaking myself out of my daydream about Teddy’s arms. “Teddy, hi.” I touch my hair, then notice I’m touching my hair, and pull my hand away too fast, grabbing a pen off my desk to cover up my awkwardness.

“You guys get your yearbooks? Can I sign?”

“Of course,” Divya says, trading hers with his. She gives me one more look, eyes wide, and points her gaze at my backpack. If she could telekinetically rip my yearbook out of my bag, that look would do it. “Of course I want to sign the class president’s yearbook. Who wouldn’t?” Her voice has a slight edge to it that I know is for my benefit.

Teddy blushes a little. “I mean, I hope that’s not the only reason,” he says.

“Of course not,” Divya says. “You have many great qualities that endear you to your fellow students. Doesn’t he, Jane?”

“Oh, yes! I mean, you’re also valedictorian.” Ugh. What am I doing, writing his resume?

“Just like his brother Andrew,” Ms. Drabek says, without looking up from her phone. I didn’t realize she’d been eavesdropping.

Teddy winces, just barely, but I notice.

“I didn’t know that about your older brother,” I say, a bit more quietly.

Teddy signs Divya’s yearbook as he speaks, his eyes on the page. “Yeah.” It’s more of a sigh than a word.

“How’s he doing?” Ms. Drabek asks, a bit of eagerness creeping into her voice. “Visiting home anytime soon? I graduated with him, you know.”

Teddy looks up at her and smiles again, but it’s the kind of smile I make when I don’t want Divya to know I can’t handle the sriracha she puts on our fries. “He’s in law school and clerking for some federal judge in D.C. this summer. I don’t know if he’ll be home at all.”

Ms. Drabek frowns, her summer romance fantasy shattered. She goes back to her phone.

Divya’s eyes are even wider now. “She totally wants your brother!”

Teddy shrugs. “He has that effect on people. He’s the guy everyone wants to be around. Or to be.”

It’s weird, because that’s exactly how I would describe Teddy, who is definitely a candle and not a mirror. He has a light in him that people are drawn to. And there’s also those arms.

But even he feels overshadowed sometimes.

Or he’s been a mirror all along, just like me, and I just didn’t know it.

I need to say something.

Maybe it’s because it’s the last day of school, and maybe it’s because I’m not in the yearbook, and maybe it’s because after wondering for so long what Teddy and I could ever possibly have in common, I’ve finally found it.

But it’s not as hard as I think it should be to find the words.

“Well, Andrew’s in D.C., and you’re here. He’s old news.”

Teddy looks up from the yearbook and a slow smile spreads across his face, his eyes locked on mine.

I would kill for the ability to read minds right now.

I’m so obvious. I can’t stop staring at him, and it’s like it doesn’t even matter, because school is over.

And Teddy just broke up with Emily, and we’re going to college in different cities in three months, so it really doesn’t matter.

Divya hands Teddy back his yearbook. He scrawls a quick note in hers, and looks at me. “Jane? How about you?”

And like that, I freeze up again. I don’t want Teddy to know that, unlike him, nobody will be talking about me after I’m gone.

After what I’m certain is an eon, I manage, “Um, it’s in my locker. I can sign yours now, though.”

Divya sighs.

Teddy hands his yearbook to me and I flip to the back inside cover.

Now what? Clearly not what I’m thinking, which is “I’ve had a crush on you since the fifth grade, and now that you and Emily broke up, maybe we could hang out some time?” with my phone number beneath it.

I glance at Divya. I need her to distract Teddy to buy me some time to think.

“So, Teddy, what are you doing this summer?” she asks.

They start talking about summer jobs, and I stare at the blank page. Divya and Teddy’s conversation fades away from my ears as I focus on his yearbook.

What would Edith Wharton say?

For one thing, she wouldn’t overdo it. I picked her for my quote because she knew how to say something true and meaningful without being too wordy.

Teddy, I write. I know you’ll go far, no matter what you decide to do with your life. The only person you need to live up to is you. And you’re already pretty great. I hesitate over the closing. I could write “Love, Jane,” but that would be a bit much. I could write, “Sincerely,” but that’s too formal. I bite my lip and draw a small heart, making two swooping strokes with my pen before I can think too hard about it, then write Jane after it. A heart is a heart, but a lot of girls sign their names like that. It doesn’t mean I’m saying I love him.

Even if I kind of do.

I snap the yearbook shut, and Divya and Teddy jump.

“Sorry.” I hand it back to him.

“Should I read it now?”

“Maybe save it for later.” I wink at him.

I wink. At Teddy Morganstern.

And he seems to be just fine with it. “Okay,” he says, standing up. His eyes are on me, the whole time.

“We’ll see you at the Jubilee, right?” Divya asks.

“Definitely,” Teddy says, and he winks back.

At me.

*

“You are going,” Divya says at lunch.

“I’m not.”

“You cannot still be upset after Teddy basically asked you out this morning.”

“He didn’t ask me out.” I get hot all over, thinking about it. But I squash the feeling. “A cute boy being nice to me doesn’t make up for the fact that I am a total nonentity in the yearbook. And frankly, I’m a little surprised you’d suggest that it did.”

Divya blows her straw wrapper at me. It hits my cheek and falls to the table.

“Of course it doesn’t. You’re not in the yearbook, fine, but you’re still a part of this class. So show Rudy! Show everyone. You belong at the Jubilee.”

“How?” I crumple the wrapper in my hand.

“What was your senior quote again? Be the candle, duh. Quit being the reflection for once. Force everyone to pay attention to you.”

“You’re not suggesting that I, like, set a fire or something?”

“What? No. Don’t be so literal.” Divya leans in closer. “Do something so big no one will forget you. Flash everyone on the Ferris wheel.”

“You know I don’t like heights. And I would never flash anyone.”

“Okay, but if you could do something big, what would you do?”

And just like that, I know what that big something should be.

*

I’m impressed with how easily Divya takes to scheming.

We go to Walmart after school. I get the spray paint. Neon pink.

Diyva picks up matching black hoodies for subterfuge.

“I’m worried you’re a little too excited about this.” I can’t be responsible for starting Divya on a life of crime right before she heads off to the University of Michigan.

“What? Gotta dress for the job you want,” she says as we pay. “It’s cosplay, Jane.”

Then I understand.

Divya goes to cons on the weekends and dresses up as her favorite sci-fi and fantasy characters, with these amazing costumes she’s sewn herself. I’ve never been into it. I have never been able to be anyone but plain old Jane Smith. “You’re already halfway there.”

“What do you mean?” I follow her out to the parking lot.

Divya bats her eyes and speaks in a falsetto. “Andrew’s in D.C., and you’re here. He’s old news.”

“I was just trying to be reassuring!”

“Jane, I have been waiting years for this side of you to come out. Honestly, I think this yearbook snafu is the best thing that’s ever happened to you. It’s like senioritis on steroids.”

I stop in my tracks. “What do you mean? This has been one of the worst days of my life. I’ve never felt like a bigger nobody.”

“Don’t you see? You have been living in this defined little box, and now it’s gone. You stood up for yourself to Rudy. The old Jane would have never done that.”

Divya unlocks the car and we get in.

“You think it makes you nobody, but what it actually means is that you can be anybody. Including the kind of girl that flirts with Teddy Morganstern.”

*

On the football field, they’re putting out all the chairs and the podium where we’ll cross the stage tomorrow morning.

There are food stands, games, and rides, like the Tilt-A-Whirl, and a Ferris wheel that towers over everything else, where the parking lot usually is, so we have to park at the middle school and walk over.

My last Jubilee. I breathe in the scent of baking flour from the fried elephant ears and the spun sugar of cotton candy.

Having the spray paint in my backpack puts me a little on edge. The cans clink together when I walk. Every time a teacher walks by, my heartbeat pounds a little faster in my chest. But I remember what Divya said.

It’s cosplay. It’s not me, just a character I’m playing. Someone who isn’t afraid of getting in trouble, or of being seen.

The football team has a pie-eating contest booth, which I usually find disgusting, but when they ask for volunteers, I raise my hand. The quarterback, Brandon Rodriguez, hands me a paper bib, and I tie my hair back. Divya gives me a thumbs up. When Brandon yells “Start!”, I thrust my face into a chocolate cream pie and don’t look up again until I’m licking aluminum. Divya snaps pictures of my sticky face and I grin and wipe the whipped cream and pudding out of my hair. I don’t win, but I also don’t care, especially after Brandon fist-bumps me and says, “Nice job, Jane.” I didn’t think he knew my name.

Next, Divya and I ride in bumper cars with Iris Chang, shrieking and laughing as our rubber bumpers collide and send us spinning across the floor.

At the dunk tank, I somehow manage to dunk Mr. Murphy, my calc teacher. When the bell rings and Mr. Murphy drops from his seat into the clear tank below, everyone gathers around, clapping and cheering and giving me high-fives. With every slap of someone’s palm to mine, I think, I am here. I am seen. I am one of you.

Soon the Jubilee will close for the night and everyone will go home. Then Divya and I can get to work. But in the meantime, I want to enjoy every last minute of my final Jubilee.

Divya and I have just finished a round of Skee-Ball when I hear my name.

“Hey, Jane, want to ride the Ferris wheel with me?” Even before I see him, I know it’s Teddy.

I turn, and even though I want to say yes, I panic at the prospect of me and Teddy, alone up in the air, and Old Jane takes over. “I don’t really trust any moving contraption that can be set up and dismantled in a few hours.”

Even New Jane should probably stick to the games and the food, safe on the ground.

“Oh. Okay.” Teddy frowns.

“Jane.” Divya gives me a little nudge from behind, pushing me towards Teddy. “You’ll be fine.” To Teddy, she adds, “She’s cracked out on cotton candy. What she meant to say was that she’d love to.”

“You sure?”

“Uh huh,” I say, but I can’t feel my feet as Teddy and I walk to the Ferris wheel line.

“Crazy that we’re graduating, right?” he asks.

“Yeah, crazy.” I’m trying to calculate how high the Ferris wheel is and if I’d die on impact if it collapsed or if I’d just be paralyzed.

The attendant lets us on. I tug at the safety bar to make sure it’s secure.

Teddy snaps his fingers. “Hey, just realized I never caught you with your yearbook after English class. I’ll have to sign it tomorrow at graduation.”

The Ferris wheel starts to move with a groan and a squeak, and I swallow. It’s fine. It’s not going to fall apart. Definitely not when we’re up at the top. We totally won’t go crashing down to the ground and die with our whole lives ahead of us. My classmates will never forget me then.

“Or do you have yours in there?” He points at my backpack. “I’ll sign it now.”

“No! I mean, no. I don’t have it.” I kick it over to the side, where he can’t reach it.

Teddy looks like he’s sorry he just locked himself in a flying car with an unstable girl.

We fall into silence. I look up at the night sky, finally dark and full of stars.

It’s a good thing we’re both going off to different colleges so I can forget this ever happened. Old Jane and New Jane are battling it out, and Old Jane is winning.

We get higher and higher, stopping each time they add new people and let more off. While we’re moving, I’m okay, but each time it stops, our little cab jerks and sways. I grab the edge of the seat with one hand, and Teddy’s wrist with the other. It’s not like this morning, when that senioritis on steroids, as Divya called it, took over.

No, this is mortifying.

“Are you . . . okay?” he asks.

I shut my eyes for a moment. “I don’t like heights.” I open my eyes and lock into Teddy’s. “I don’t believe that something temporary like this can be safe or a good idea.”

“So . . . why did you agree to come on it with me?”

“Because you asked?” Because Divya made me. Because I’m trying to be someone else for a night.

“I wouldn’t have asked if I’d known it was going to freak you out. I could have just challenged you to one of those water gun races instead.” Teddy pulls his wrist out from under my hand.

I want to leap from the car and let the Earth take me.

Until he takes my hand instead, intertwining his fingers with mine and letting them rest in between us.

I look at our hands, then up at him.

“Does this help?” he asks.

“Yeah.” It’s all I trust myself to say.

I look out across the Jubilee, which is now lit up for night and filled with our classmates’ voices laughing and talking, and music pumping from speakers. I can see Divya, who appears to be playing corn hole with Lizzie McCoy, tossing sandbagged sacks through holes in a wooden target. I can see Jenny Kim and Matt Bradshaw, and Alison Smalls and Cara Snyder, and all of the kids I grew up with and will be leaving behind soon.

“Are you going to be someone new next year?” I ask.

“What?”

“Like, are you going to reinvent yourself at college? Take up hockey or guitar or calligraphy?”

“Calligraphy,” Teddy repeats.

“Or whatever. Calligraphy is just one of the many options.”

“I don’t know. I guess I’ll find out when I get there.”

“Well, you could always just do whatever your brother did.” It comes out harsher than it sounded in my mind, and I hear Teddy’s sharp intake of breath.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s okay if you want to be like your brother. It sounds like you could do worse, as far as role models go.” I babble to fill the dead air around us.

After a long moment, Teddy exhales. “You know, I read your yearbook message.”

“You did?”

“Yeah. It was . . . exactly what I needed to hear.” He squeezes my hand in his, just the tiniest bit.

“I meant it.”

“What about you? Are you going to be someone new at college?”

“I want to be myself first. Whoever that is.” If I’d been more of a joiner, maybe I’d have a better idea of who I am, by virtue of having tried more things. Maybe one picture in the yearbook wouldn’t have the power to make or break me, because I could be many Janes, not just Old Jane or New Jane.

“They, um, forgot to put my picture and senior quote in the yearbook,” I add. The confession is a relief somehow.

“What? How?”

“Doesn’t matter now. It happened.”

Up here, I can see the football field, where graduation is set up for tomorrow.

But I can also see all of the seats, where we’ll sit in our itchy, hot robes and hats while we listen to Principal Brady blather on about our potential, and we’ll all act kind of bored but also excited, and Teddy will give his valedictorian speech, and our parents will watch us get our diplomas under the hot June sun, and the marching band will play, and then we’ll all go our separate ways and do the best we can with what we have.

I continue, “So, after I realized I wasn’t in the yearbook, I had this idea. Divya and I were planning to do it after everyone leaves tonight. I wanted to spray-paint my name on the football field. So tomorrow, when we have graduation, nobody would forget me.”

“I wouldn’t forget you. Even if you’re not in the yearbook and your name’s not on the football field.”

“Why not?”

“Let’s see. You always have the best comments during English class, like when you totally eviscerated Dimmesdale for being a tool in The Scarlet Letter.”

“That’s what you remember? My English class arguments?”

“You hit the desk at one point because you got so mad that Mr. Randolph didn’t agree with you. And your hair fell in your face, and you didn’t even notice. You just kept at him.”

“Well, Dimmesdale was a tool. I can’t believe you remember something I said in English a year ago.” Or how I looked when I said it.

Teddy bows his head, like he’s a little shy. “And once in third grade you wouldn’t let Grant Wilson torture the class hamster and you shielded it from him with your body until someone got the teacher.”

“I forgot all about that.”

“And you always write in purple or green or turquoise.”

“I hate black pens.” I didn’t know he noticed that. Any of it.

“I’m just saying, people notice more than you realize.” He nudges my knee with his own.

I could float away right now, like a balloon, if Teddy weren’t holding my hand.

“What was your senior quote supposed to be?”

“It was Edith Wharton. ‘There are two ways of spreading the light: to be the candle or the mirror that reflects it.’” Saying it out loud to Teddy, it sounds sad to me. Like I have no self-esteem. How had I not realized sooner that I picked the senior quote of wallflowers everywhere? “What was yours?” I hadn’t even checked.

“‘It is hard to fail, but it is worse never to have tried to succeed.’ Teddy Roosevelt.”

“Had to go for the namesake, huh? I like it.” The message fits this Teddy. It’s optimistic and pragmatic at the same time.

“I can’t help it that T.R. is highly quotable. Plus, it’ll make for a good speech tomorrow.”

“You nervous?”

“Nah, it’s fine.” Teddy gives speeches all the time as class president, but I couldn’t do that in front of the whole school. At least, Old Jane couldn’t.

“I’d be nervous. But I think that Teddy’s got the right idea,” I say. “I am trying. From now on.”

Teddy clears his throat. “So, is there anything you want to try to do?”

“I can think of a few things,” I say. My eyes drop to Teddy’s mouth. “Why’d you ask me to come on the Ferris wheel with you?”

“A guy can’t go on a Ferris wheel alone,” Teddy says. “That’s weird. You’ve got to go with someone.”

I pause. “Why me, though?”

“I didn’t want to fail by never trying.”

That’s when I lean in and kiss Teddy Morganstern right on the mouth.

*

Divya’s grin when she sees Teddy and me get off the Ferris wheel holding hands would be insufferable if I weren’t so distracted.

“I can’t believe you kissed him,” she says after he leaves, promising to text me later. She chants it over and over again, dancing and jumping around me. “Who knew you had it in you? This was a big win for New Jane tonight. And on her first outing.”

“It’s not that big a deal.” But I can’t stop grinning now, either.

“Maybe we should spray JANE + TEDDY on the football field instead!”

“About the football field,” I say. “I don’t think we should do it.”

Divya stops jumping around. “What? Why not? Don’t tell me that it’s because Teddy made you realize you’re still special even if you’re not in the yearbook, or some shit like that.”

“It’s really not just him. It’s just that I was up there, and I could see the whole school, and graduation’s a big deal, for everyone. I’m not in the yearbook, but I’m still in the class.”

I was part of everything tonight. I was in a pie-eating contest and Brandon Rodriguez fist-bumped me. I dunked Mr. Murphy.

It wasn’t just Teddy.

“I was prepared to risk losing my diploma for you,” Divya says. “All in pursuit of one great moment of badassery and you’re going to back down.”

I throw an arm around her and pull her close. “I know. And I appreciate it. Which is why I have a different idea.”

*

Maybe we all have moments where we’re the candle and moments where we’re the mirror, and just because I wasn’t the candle in high school doesn’t mean I won’t find something exciting and new in college. Something that might light a spark, making me burn so brightly that everyone will have to notice. I can be anyone. By September I may be a whole new Jane. And by December, another one.

You can do something big so no one will forget you. Or you can do a million little things, so that the people who matter never do.

And failing that, you can spray paint JANE AND DIVYA WERE HERE ’18 in a little corner of the parking lot, where the grass has almost grown over and no one ever parks, and take a selfie, one you can frame and put in your dorm room in the fall.

Because even if they paint it over, nobody can take the memory away from you, of a perfect summer night with your best friend.

A

Archbishop awaits at the altar.
Aristocrats and attendants alike:
All are agog!

B

Behold!

Bustling along the byway—
bridesmaids bearing bouquets of blossoms,
Barons and their Baronesses,
bitty babes and boisterous boys.

Bells of brass beckon—
Bong! Bong!
Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong!

Bearded bridegroom in bright breeches,
betrothed bride in blush, with bit of blue—
both bewildered.
Both are breathless.

Behold!

C

Courtiers chatter in the churchyard
as crickets chirp chirp chirp.

Crowds of clergy, countesses, children
crush into the close chapel
for the couple’s ceremony:

Chalice
Contract
Circles-of-gold
and
Courteous-kiss.

Then the couple cries,

“Come cheer us!
To our country-house! Come, courtiers!
For champagne, cloves, and cinnamon.
Come celebrate. Carouse!”

D

With the dowry delivered,
the delighted Duke
(in dark-red doublet)
declares:

“Those diamonds, those drawings, those dwellings!
And my Duchess is darling. She dazzles!
She’s delightsome! How delicious!
Do let’s dance and drink till dusk.”

E

England’s Queen Elizabeth enters—

in eye-catching emeralds,
in elegant ear-pickles.

Everyone (even the Earl’s English bulldog) exults!

F

After much fanfare,
the Duke
(in fine form)
and the Duchess
(in farthingale, fresh flowers, and frills)

flatter and flaunt:

“Faerie Queene! Fortunate Familiars!
In fellowship, feed upon these fashionable foods:

Fancy Fowl & Freshwater Fish
Flame-roasted Filets & Flanks (from Formerly Four-footed Fauna)
Farm-fresh Foodstuffs & Flakey Flour-filled Fare
Flavorsome Figs & Fabulous Fruits
Fanciful Frostings & Fluffiest Fluffs

Finally,

Fine French Fermentations in Flutes.

Fantastic Friends—now feast!”

G

Genteel grownups, gowned and girdled,
gather near the Great-house Gallery
to dance Gavottes, Gaillards.
Queen Elizabeth gets going—
gilded garments all a-glow—
Queen glides between her guards.

H

In the high-ceilinged Hall,
horns harken
the handsome, hand-stitched-wall-hanging
that heralds
the Host and Hostess’s hospitality:

HONORABLE HOUSEGUESTS:

When Helios again horsebacks across the Heavens,
ALL HAIL
For—

Hunting with Hounds for Hart and Hare – Half-past 7
Hawking with Hunting Hawks – Hand on 8
Horsemanship with Her Majesty – Half-past 12
Honeyed Hikes beyond the Hedgerows – On the hour
Haunting the Hummingbird-Hawkmoths that Hover by the Honeysuckle – Hand on 2
Hurling and Hammer-throwing – Hourly
Horseshoes and Hopscotch – Hour upon hour

I

Invitee (William Shakespeare!)
–idling in an inner-chamber—
inks an inspired idyll
for
the ivory-faced Duchess
and
her infatuated Duke.

J

Jesters, jugglers, jousters,
jingling jewels of jet,
jiggling jellies, juicy jams—

Oh, joy! Oh, joy! Oh, joy!

K

Knights kneel to the kingless Queen

whilst

the keeper of the kennel kicks back with a kidney-pie

whilst

the kitchen-maid kneads with her knuckles

whilst

the Duke and Duchess—
keen to kiss in the knot-garden—
keep company with kinsmen.

L

To the lilting lines of lutes—

Lords and Ladies lift long limbs and laud
the lucky Duke and his long-locked Duchess:

“Long life! Long life! Long life!”

M

Whilst madrigal music melts on a musk-rose mist,
a mischievous, miniature master
meanders the maddening maze.

He moves

a
n
d

moves

a
n
d

moves
and

m
o
v
e
s

until . . .

“Mama! MAMA!”

. . . he is mislaid.

N

The nineteen-year-old newlywed
nudges her niece and nods at her Duke—
“Now ’tis Nell nevermore,” the noble-lady natters.
“My newfound name (since my noonday nuptials):

The Duchess of Nonesuch.”

O

One and all ooh and ah
over the opal-encrusted ornament—
an oval oil-painting of the overstuffed Duke—
his opulent offering to his Duchess.

P

Picked-over peacock parts
perch on plumed platters

whilst

prospering peacocks
parade palace promenades.

Q

The queenly Queen

quaffs
&
quaffs
&
quaffs

in questionable quantities.

R

In rubies, ruff, and ribbons,
the red-lipped, red-cheeked, red-haired,
reigning Royal—

rollicks!

S

Squires sing and somersault!

Whilst

the Duke and Duchess

sample sweetest spun-sugar
’neath the shadow-draped, setting sun.

T

Tudors trill and tumble!

Whilst

the Duke and Duchess

tiptoe off together . . .

with twenty Tudors trailing.

U

Unmerry urchin
underfoot.

“Upsa-daisy!” urges
an understanding underservant.

Unsoothed urchin
underfoot.

Whilst

the Duke and Duchess

unbutton and unlace—

then upstairs under . . .

V

Varicolored velvets,
vivid velveteens, velours—

the Duke and Duchess vow
in velvety, veiled voices:

“You’re my virtuous Valentine.”

Whilst

viol’s vibrato,
vanilla, and venison

verily vanish—

along with the Viscountess
who vaults the verdigris Venus
after dancing the Volta,
vexing the Viscount.

W

Women in worrisome whalebone,
well-played wordsmith William,
and wildly weary well-wishers
wash down wedding-cake
with warm wine.

Whilst

the Duke and Duchess

whisper…

X

x x x
x x x

x x x x x x

x x x

Y

Yonder—
yard-dogs yap
and yeomen yarn
of yesteryear.

Whilst

the Duke and Duchess

y    a     w     n

Z

Zephyrs

zig

and

zag.

Whilst

the Duke and Duchess

ZZZZZZZZZZZ

ZZZZZ
Z
Z
Z
ZZZZZZ

*

GLOSSARY

Agog: Extremely interested and excited.

Altar: A table in a church that is the center of a religious ceremony.

Archbishops: The most powerful leaders of the Church of England. An archbishop would perform the wedding ceremonies of royalty and nobility.

Aristocrats: Members of the upper class of Elizabethan society seen as superior to common people in rank and wealth.

Attendants: People who perform tasks for others like a bridesmaid at a wedding, or people who are present at ceremonies or events.

Baron/Baroness: The lowest rank of nobility in Elizabethan England.

Betroth: A promise to marry. Aristocratic parents arranged marriages to increase the wealth and status of couples, who often did not meet until their wedding day. The Crying of the Banns publicized marriages to allow people to object to the union.

Bit of blue: Brides often wore a garter of blue, the color of purity and eternal love.

Breeches: Short pants worn by Elizabethan men that ended just above or below the knee.

Bride: A noble bride wore a dress covered in ribbons, flowers, and lace. She carried a bouquet filled with sweet-smelling herbs and flowers to scent the air around her.

Bridegroom: A noble bridegroom, usually bearded, wore a fancy doublet, breeches, hose, a codpiece, and a neck ruff made from expensive fabrics like velvet, satin, or corduroy and dyed in vibrant colors that were costly to make.

Bridesmaids: Women who helped the bride prepare on her wedding day, made the bride’s garland, and led the noisy wedding procession to the church.

Carouse: To take part in a wild celebration or party.

Chalice: A drinking cup that was used as part of the marriage ceremony.

Circles-of-gold: Rings that might be exchanged during the wedding ceremony. Often rings had poesy—phrases like “With Everlasting Love”—written on the band.

Clergy: Men ordained to perform the religious functions of the church.

Cloves and cinnamon: Some of the costly imported spices used by the rich to flavor food.

Contract: Marriage was a religious sacrament as well as a contract under the law.

Courtier: A person who was a member of the royal court.

Doublet: A close-fitting jacket buttoned at the front, worn for formal occasions. The color, style, and choice of materials for Elizabethan clothing were set by law.

Dowry: The money, land, and goods a woman brought to a marriage.

Duchess/Duke: Nobleman and woman who ranked directly beneath the king and queen.

Earl/Countess: Nobleman and woman who ranked beneath a marquis and marchioness.

Ear-pickles: A name for earrings, often made of gold and gems, that were worn by both sexes.

Elizabeth I: Queen of England from 1558 until 1603 and the last Tudor monarch. Queen Elizabeth never married; therefore, there was no king during her reign.

Faerie Queene: A name for Queen Elizabeth, who appeared fairy-like because of the thick, white makeup made of lead that she wore to cover smallpox scars and wrinkles. Aristocratic women copied her style and wore ivory-colored makeup as well.

Familiars: Close friends and associates.

Fanfare: The lively sounding of trumpets.

Fare: Food.

Farthingale: Large hoops worn beneath skirts of aristocratic women, made of whalebone or wire in the shape of a wheel. Farthingales made moving quite difficult.

Fauna: Animals common to a region.

Fellowship: Friendship.

Fermentations: Wines made from juice after yeast is added.

Filet: A piece of meat without a bone.

Flank: A cut of meat.

Flaunt: Show off.

Flute: A tall, thin, delicate wine glass.

Fowl: A bird of any kind.

Fresh flowers: The bride wore and carried blossoms, including a ring of flowers—often roses and rosemary—that she then wore like a crown after the wedding ceremony.

Gaillard: A lively dance that Queen Elizabeth, who loved to exercise, did each morning.

Gallery: A long hall on the upper floor in a manor often used for exercise or entertaining.

Gavotte: A popular dance that gave partners the chance to steal a kiss.

Genteel: Anything having to do with the aristocracy or upper class.

Girdle: A piece of clothing that circles the waist, worn by both men and women.

Great-house: A large home or mansion.

Hall: A room off the large inner court on the ground floor of an Elizabethan manor.

Hammer-throwing: An outdoor game in which a large sphere attached to a pole is thrown.

Harken: Listen or pay attention.

Hart: England’s largest deer, often hunted on horseback with dogs used for tracking.

Hawking: The hunting of game birds, like pheasants, with falcons.

Hedgerow: A row of trees or shrubs.

Helios: In Greek mythology, the god of the sun.

Herald: To announce.

Her Majesty: The title by which subjects call their queen.

Hummingbird-hawkmoth: An insect often mistaken for a hummingbird.

Hurling: A fast field game in which teams move a ball down the field with a bat to score.

Idyll: A piece of poetry or prose that may have a romantic theme.

Infatuated: In love. In arranged marriages, it would be improbably lucky for a bride and bridegroom, like the Duke and Duchess, to fall in love on their wedding day.

Jester: Fool or clown who entertained members of the court.

Jet: A black, precious stone.

Jouster: Men—often knights—who fight or compete in tournaments on horseback.

Kinsman: A male relative.

Knead: To work something into a ball—often dough—with hands.

Knight: Rank beneath a baron and baroness. The title of knight was given to a man who distinguished himself in battle in front of his king or queen.

Knot-garden: Garden beds made into rectangular designs using intertwined hedges that were planted so their patterns could be seen from above through windows.

Lady: A woman of a high social position.

Long life: The tradition of toasting newlyweds by wishing that they live a long time.

Long-locked: Having long, flowing hair, often adorned with flowers for a wedding.

Lord: A man of high social position.

Lute: A popular stringed instrument with a large body in the shape of a pear.

Madrigal: A short poem about love that was set to music.

Meander: Wander along a winding path.

Musk-rose: A type of rose that blooms in summer in England.

Natter: To chatter.

Noble: A high-ranking person or a person born into privilege.

Nonesuch: A person without equal.

Noonday: Midday. In Elizabethan times, it was considered lucky to marry before noon.

Nuptials: Concerning marriage or the wedding ceremony.

Oil-painting: Miniatures of the bride and groom exchanged before or after the wedding.

Opal: A precious gem that sparkles with iridescent colors.

Opulent: Luxurious sign of great wealth.

Peacocks: Showy birds with fanlike, shimmering tails. These birds often wandered the grounds of the upper class and were also eaten as delicacies.

Plumes: The feathers of a bird.

Promenade: A place for walking leisurely.

Quaff: To drink. Because water was often unsafe to drink, Elizabethans—including Queen Elizabeth I—drank large amounts of ale and wine.

Reign: The period during which a king or queen rules a country.

Royalty: People descended from kings.

Ruff: An elaborate, circular, standing collar with starched, pleated frills. By the time of Queen Elizabeth I, ruffs were so large they were often held up with gauze wings.

Shakespeare, William: The most famous playwright of the era, widely believed to be the greatest writer in the English language.

Squire: A member of the English gentry who ranks below a knight and above a gentleman.

Trill: A sound made by vibrating the tip of the tongue against the teeth.

Tudor: The royal dynasty from 1485 to 1603, when Queen Elizabeth’s reign ended. When she died childless, the monarchy passed to the Stuarts. The Tudor reign coincided with the Renaissance, a period when the arts, science, and exploration flourished.

Urchin: A mischievous, often annoying, youngster.

Velour/velveteen: Soft fabrics that resemble velvet.

Venison: Deer meat.

Venus: In Roman mythology, the goddess of love and beauty.

Verdigris: A greenish-blue coating found on some metals left out in the air over time.

Verily: Truly.

Viol: A stringed instrument during the 1500 and 1600s played with a bow. A viol, an instrument like a violin, usually had six strings instead of four.

Virtuous: Filled with good qualities.

Viscount/Viscountess: Nobleman and woman ranking below an earl and countess.

Volta: A dance in which couples embraced closely and men lifted their partners in the air.

Vow: A promise made with great seriousness.

Whalebone: The bone from a whale used in undergarments worn by women.

Whilst: A form of the word “while,” used most often in England.

Wordsmith: A talented writer.

Yeoman: A lord’s servant who ranked between a squire and a boy page.

Yesteryear: Time that has passed.

Zephyr: A soft breeze.

Cover Image: Artist unknown. “Portrait of a Woman.” Oil on wood. England, ca. 1600. The Metropolitan Museum of Art.

A girl in red with a hat on her head

went to the shore to explore.

She sat in the sand with shovel in hand

and scooped and poured while seabirds soared.

She heard a sound and turned around.

Something tumbled as a wave rumbled.

It toppled and tipped, flopped and flipped,

then landed in mud

with a thump, bump, thud.

And there in a pool that looked nice and cool,

that was made from the swell,

was a big seashell.

A big seashell, caught in a swell,

got stuck in the mud

with a thump, bump, thud,

and made a pool that looked nice and cool.

It watched a girl through the watery whirl

walk over the sand, her shovel in hand.

It whispered words that nobody heard,

then whispered again, “Come be my friend.”  

A hungry crab, reaching to grab

a tasty bite to his left and right

by the edge of the pool that looked nice and cool,

noticed the girl near the watery whirl.

He stretched out a claw towards what he saw.

As her fingers reached out, he heard the shell shout,

“That’s no way to play!”

So he sidled away.

During the lull a fleet seagull,

flying over the head of the girl in red,

saw the crab while waiting to nab

a seafood lunch with a little crunch.

The seagull heard the seashell speak

and fluttered and flapped from tail to beak.

Then the crab took flight before she could light

as her tasty crustacean changed his location.  

A girl in red with no hat on her head,

who went to the shore to explore

with sugary toes and sun-kissed nose,

reached in the pool that felt warm, not cool.

She picked up the shell that dropped from the swell

and got stuck in the mud

with a thump, bump, thud

and shook out the sand with both of her hands.

Then lifted it near to the edge of her ear and listened to hear…

Swish, swish, weeeee, swish, swish, wooooo

Swish, swish, crash, swish, swish, schlooooo

And that’s what the seashell said.

Saturday is my first day back to the pool since my brother Johnny died.  

Mom drops me off at 10 am with a granola bar, my swim bag, and my phone, fully charged. My sister, Ava, is texting in the backseat in her cheerleading uniform. Her brows are furrowed over the brightly lit screen. She doesn’t look up as I get out of the car.  

“Have a good time, sweetie!” Mom is effusive, if a little concerned. She wants me to swim, but doesn’t understand why I am doing it alone.

I try to smile at her, but it comes out more like a grimace.

I have a full hour. No longer. If I am late coming out into the parking lot, Mom will barge  into the lobby and through the locker room doors, panting with worry.

I make a mental note to wait in the parking lot five minutes early.  

Walking through the glass double doors, I see that nothing has changed. Same old vending machines, metal folding chairs and the woman with white hair behind the counter. She wears her glasses on a brass chain, and she never seems to recognize me, even though I’ve been coming here since I was six.

Her eyes flick up as I walk in.

“Member?” she asks.

I nod, and she waves me through. But I can’t seem to move.

It’s been four months. Four months since the accident. Four months since swim team.

Four months since my brother …

Dark clouds erupt like a fog in my head. Don’t think so much, I tell myself.

My therapist Dana and I talked about this a lot when I decided to start swimming again. We made a whole plan.

Her voice rings out in my head: Just focus on everything one step at a time. After you walk into the lobby, what needs to happen?

Locker rooms. I need to go to the locker rooms.

It’s pretty dumb, but for the whole thing to work, I need to lay out the instructions for myself like I am talking to a toddler. Like I am learning how the world works all over again.

My sneakers start trudging through the brown halls towards the blue tiled entrance to the pool.

I move towards the sign that reads Women and turn the corner down the hall which deposits me in a blindingly fluorescent room. It’s mostly empty. An older woman changes in the far corner, her belly folding at her center as she bends over.

My eyes register the wall of teal lockers, their metal handles. The fumes of chlorine, the residual steam from the showers. I drag in a breath.

The locker room is the toughest part about being here. It’s full of memories. Moments. Things from before Johnny died. Changing with the swim team, trading candy from the vending machines, hitting the showers and slicking back my hair for practice. Feeling that adrenaline pumping through me. Kay’s laugh. We always shared a locker, even when there were plenty of others to use.

Now I avoid Kay in the hall.

Dana and I came up with a plan for the locker room. Once I get to the pool, I figure I’ll be fine. The water is why I am here.  

Dana’s plan is about doing everything in the right order. Locker, combination, change into my suit, tuck my hair into my swim cap, grab my goggles. Go.  

All you have to do is remember your combination and unlock the locker. I do it. I twirl the little dial and it feels like being at school.

The locker clicks open. Inside, there is nothing. Just a little bit of light shining in on dark metal.

On my last visit with Dana, she said: I sense you have some issues with being seen.

But she’s wrong.

I wish I could disappear. Like sea foam in Ava’s favorite fairy tale. In the fairy tale, the mermaid jumps from the boat and just fades away.

Ava asked me to read it to her over and over again when we were kids. Sometimes, Johnny and I would read it together. He would do the voices and I would narrate. Again and again. The sea princess fell away in the waves. Again and again, she turned into nothing. Nobody, not even the prince, noticed.

It’s a stupid book, I used to tell Ava. And she would cry. Snot welling up in her six-year-old nose. Why do you like books about mermaids who die? Why can’t you like normal fairy tales like Cinderella? She gets what she wants: the prince, the dress, the castle.

The kingdom. It’s all hers.

“Amie,” a soft, surprised voice echoes behind me. I wheel around. The older lady is gone, her locker closed. Standing on the other side of the bench is Kay. Her hair is wet and clipped at the nape of her neck.  

“Hey,” I say, without understanding. “What are you doing here?”

Kay tilts her head, rolling her eyes in the way that only Kay can. “Well, that’s a nice greeting.”

I shake my head. “Sorry, it’s just …” But I don’t finish. I just stand there at my locker, arms at my sides.

I wrap my fingers into the palms of my hands. Fingernails into skin.

Say something, I tell myself. But nothing comes out of my mouth.

Kay doesn’t seem to mind. Amazing, considering I’ve been ignoring her for a solid four months. She shrugs and says, “We changed our practice this week to mornings. Because of the game.”

“Game?”

Kay stares at me. “You know, the playoffs? Tonight? Football?”

“Oh,” I say. “Right, of course.” Though I hadn’t known about it. Everyone must be talking about it at school. There must be banners and everything. A pep rally, too.

And Ava. She must be doing late practices with the team.

How did I not notice? Is that why she was in her uniform this morning?

I was so worried about coming here, I didn’t ask.

“So, you want to come? Or what? I could pick you up.” Kay is looking at me like I am a puzzle she can’t figure out.

“What?”

“The party. After the game. I am asking if you want to go. I could give you a ride.” Her voice tilts uncertainly.

A party. No way in hell am I going to a party. I look at Kay closely. Why would Kay want me to come to a party? Doesn’t she remember what happened at the last one I attended?

“I don’t think so” is all I say. I try to smile, but I don’t think it comes out right.

“Well, if you change your mind, text me.” She gives me a little wave and then moves towards the bank of swim team lockers at the other end of the room and pulls out her phone.

I grab my suit out of my bag and head towards the bathrooms. I don’t want to change in front of Kay, even though she’s probably seen me change five hundred times.  

That’s one thing about the swim team girls. You could have five inch scars all down your back or be covered in chicken pox or your skin could be as green as the Wicked Witch of the West – they would just change into their suits, ball up their hair underneath their swim caps, and hit the showers.

“We miss you,” Kay says. Her voice is soft and it sounds like the Kay I remember from sleepovers. When her armor was down.

I turn around. She still has her phone out, but she isn’t looking at it. She’s looking at me.

“On the team,” she says. “Coach hoped you would be back. He says you could still join. For the spring.”

Swim team.

In spring.

Kay watches me, expectantly.

My heart thumps inside me like it’s banging on a door, trying to break through. The smell of chlorine overwhelms me, my feet shrivel against the moist tile and the walls keep getting closer and closer. I drag in a breath. I have to get out of here. I have to get out of here before the rest of the team comes in.

“Okay,” I manage, already turning away from Kay. “I’ll think about it.”

I don’t wait for a response. I half-run to the line of bathroom stalls, clutching my suit to my chest as if holding it to my heart will make the whole thing stop.

As if these things can be stopped once they start.  

I bang through the gray stall door and stumble towards the toilet, then slam the door shut. God, it’s happening, I think to myself. My thoughts feel loud on the inside of my skull, like they have their own vocal chords and are screaming to be let out – my heart pounds faster and faster, adrenaline pumping through my veins as bright lights whirl through me, sparking like stars. Bolts of electricity run up and down my legs, my arms.

I can’t escape it. This thing.

My swimsuit falls from my arms and I clutch my elbows with my hands. My knees collapse, and I hold myself as I squat on the floor.

It will pass, it will pass, I remind myself.

This isn’t forever.

Dana. My therapist’s name comes to be like an epiphany. Dana says these are normal. A lot of people get them. Dana says the panic will go away. It’s always gone away before. Every time.

But first, I have to get through it.

I close my eyes against the fluorescents and see Bryan’s house decorated for Halloween, tissue paper ghosts strung up in the windows, an inflatable witch with a crooked nose on the front lawn. And inside: laughter, shouting, the pulse of a beat blasting through the speakers in the living room.

It was just a party.

I rarely went to parties, and if I did, it was only with Kay and the rest of the girls.

But Johnny. Johnny was always the life of the party. He went to every single one like it was Sunday church. He was a gentleman – that’s what everybody says. He never drank too much, never was creepy to the girls, always said hi to everyone even if they were unpopular or a jock or whatever.

God, Johnny. Why. Why. Why.

The question sprints through me and pumps hot blood into my chest. I feel like I am running a marathon, all breath and beat. All electric pulses. I might crack, I might explode.

I hug my knees to my chest, and rock myself on the stall floor. My face is right next to the toilet and I am inhaling bleach odor, but I don’t care, I just want it to be over. Just want it to end.  

I don’t know how long I am in the bathroom stall. All I know is that when I get my bearings, the locker room is peppered with the sounds of girls changing after swim practice. Voices I know. Part of me wants to go out there. I want to listen to their gossip, I want to know Cady’s new time for butterfly or how the meet against Ridgeport went last week. I want to be consumed with it.

But I don’t move, and eventually, the sound of flip flops on linoleum echoes through the room and the girls’ voices fade as they make their way out to the lobby.

I breathe until my heart steadies in my chest. Then, I slide out of my clothes, slip on my suit, and make my way towards the pool. Alone.

*

The water isn’t cold. It isn’t warm either. It’s perfect and chock full of chlorine. My mom complains about how much they pump into the indoor pool here, but I love it.

Makes me feel clean.

I strap my goggles on and the edges suction my skin. My hair is pulled back into a low bun and covered with a blue swim cap.

I tuck my legs and drop down beneath the surface in the deep end. It’s different underneath. The water has noise, which I always thought was weird. It muffles the splashes coming from other lanes, the lifeguard’s whistle, the slam of the locker room doors. But it also has its own sound. It’s a sort of endless sound. The sound of space and light. The sound of movement.

Blinking behind my goggles, I watch the aqua-tiled world. My eyes close halfway and everything blurs. My hands float ghost-like by my sides. My feet stabilize my body on the floor of the pool. I am not ready to float back up yet.

I am not ready to breathe in air.

The longer I am below the surface, the more my lungs tighten. I fight the urge to breathe in. I fight the urge to break through the surface. Every part of my body says, Amie, breathe, breathe! But there is something so tempting, so elusive about water. About the space I inhabit underneath.

If I can’t disappear forever, I at least want to disappear for a moment.

Finally, I press the bottom of my right foot against the bottom of the pool and shoot up through the water.

I float there for a moment. There are tons of skylights in the pool area. It’s kind of silly I guess, but I like how the gray light crisscrosses the tiled walls. How I still feel like I’m underwater even after I come up for air.

I never noticed that sort of stuff before. Before it happened. When I was still on the team. I can’t remember seeing the tiles or the windows or the people. I just remember the feeling of water on skin, stroke after stroke, the whistle, the way my arms cut through water. Adrenaline coursing through me like a river.  

I fold my knees against the wall and bend my arms back, latching my fingers onto the edge of the side of the pool.

My muscles know this feeling.

Dana says it’s overwhelming to think about a whole thirty minutes of swimming. She calls this an unproductive thought. Instead, she says, break up your day into only what you have to do next.

That’s how I get through my days.

It’s painful. My brain does somersaults narrating every last action, every motion, every thought. But I do things. I go places. I mean, mainly just to school and back home. And now the pool. But still. I eat my dinner and do my homework.

I have to hand it to Dana. It works.

My feet press against the slippery tiles as my arms arc through the water over my head. I tuck my chin, point my feet and glide, the feeling of water submerging me. The freedom, the ease.

My arms windmill on either side of my head. Freestyle. My favorite stroke. I swim fast. Faster than thoughts, faster than getting too drunk, faster than a car careening through the night.

My feet flutter-kick behind me as I angle my arms over my head. Every third arc, I tilt my head to the right side to breathe.

When I come up against a wall, I slip underwater and somersault before kicking off again, back across the pool for another length.

Two lengths make a lap.

Laps can be endless.

Laps can fill an hour.

I swim until my fingers are prunes. Wrinkled, shriveled raisins. It happened a lot when we were little kids. My brother Johnny in the bathtub. His brown eyes. His hair was lighter then. More strawberry blonde than red.

I hear the edge of my mother’s voice in the hall.

Muscles tighten against my bones.

A whistle blows, piercing my ear drums, dragging me back.

Free swim is over.

My legs pump in a familiar rotation beneath me. I am still breathing hard, but the rhythm of treading water helps calm me down.

I swim slowly, methodically to the shallow end of the pool. Kay’s voice keeps trilling through my head. A party. Has Kay been going to a lot of parties?

She tried to make an effort, after Johnny died. She tried to be my friend. But what could I say? The only thing I wanted to ask her was: what did he say? Moments before he died, Kay was with him, getting out of my car.

But I am not ready to hear the answer to that question.

And maybe Kay is not ready to give it.

Gripping the edge of the pool, I wait until my heart steadies inside my chest. I wait until the shaking feeling leaves me.

Pushing against the side, I climb out of the pool. My swimsuit clings to my body. I cross my arms over my chest and, dripping a trail of water behind me, I walk quickly over to the stack of towels by the locker room door.

I press the towel to my face, breathing into the cottony darkness. And stop.

Swimming is easier than living.

Living has so many moving parts. So many anomalies – so many things that could go wrong.

Just focus on the next thing. Do the next thing.

Dana’s voice is a clear bell inside my head. But that doesn’t make any of this easier.

I worry about tomorrow. It is empty and white. A beautiful plain. I have a hard time imagining me in it. I have a hard time seeing anything but the wet tiles of the pool area. The damp cotton of the towel. The world is endless, and I am so limited.

But I will end up waking up in this tomorrow-world. And it will be like today, only the details slightly rearranged.

I will end up leaving my phone unplugged tonight so the battery dies and Mom yells at me about responsibility. I will end up being dragged out of bed by Mom tomorrow around noon. I will end up watching shadows crawl across the wall until I curl around the warmth of my laptop in bed, so my heart stops beating so fast, so I can watch people who aren’t real and aren’t my friends love and hurt each other again and again.

That’s what my tomorrow-world will look like.

But then again, it might not be.

It could be clean, empty, white.  

I lift the towel away from my face. How long was I in the cottony darkness? A woman who wasn’t there before stands at the edge of the pool, removing her goggles from her face. They leave little red rings around her eyes. She isn’t paying attention to me.

Two guys make their way towards the men’s locker room. One slaps the other on the back. The movement makes a loud smacking sound that echoes through the entire pool area.

I sometimes wish I were in the ground. The smell of dirt, coolness of earth against my bones.

It doesn’t work like that, Dana says. You won’t feel relief when you are dead because dead people don’t feel anything.

That’s hard to imagine, Dana, I tell her in my mind.

But then she looks at me with these kind, brown eyes. Those perfectly aligned teeth. And I feel bad. I feel like shit for taking up so much of this nice woman’s time. She is trying to help people.

Trying to help me.

I try to envision a future where I come to the pool every weekend. A future where I train, join the swim team, and start sitting with the girls at lunch again.

A future where I go to parties.

The picture doesn’t come through. I walk through the locker room doors, blocking Kay’s invitation from my mind.

*

Mom is in the lobby when I finally emerge from the locker room. I am five minutes late.

Her face is flushed and creased with concern, but when she sees me, relief spreads like a wave over her skin.

“Hey Mom,” I say.

“God, Amie,” she says in a rush. “Not answering your phone. Not out in the parking lot.”

“Mom, there’s a lifeguard. And, in case you forgot, I am a great swimmer.”

Mom takes in a deep breath. “I know. I just …” But she doesn’t finish. Mom’s short,  shorter than me. So, I am looking down at her as she tries not to cry.

I reach over and put my hand on her arm.

It might seem weird to strangers. Teenage girls aren’t supposed to comfort their moms like that. But here’s the thing: Mom’s been this put-together business woman since forever. Ever since Johnny, Mom has been a basket case.

It’s just me, her, and Ava. If we don’t comfort her, nobody will.  

She shakes her head and squeezes my hand, smiling away the tears.

“Milkshakes and fries?” I ask. It’s our weekly tradition.

“God, yes,” she says as we turn towards the double doors. I breathe deeply as we leave the Y.

I climb in the passenger seat, tucking my swim bag on the floor. Mom puts the car in drive.

We swing through the drive-thru at Burger King. Mom orders for us: a large chocolate shake and a large fry.

I hope we can inhale sugar and salt in compatible silence, but Mom has other ideas.

“What are your Saturday plans?”

“My Saturday plans?” I stuff a fry into my mouth. I never have plans anymore. She knows that.

“Yeah. Your plan.”

“Nothing,” I say, sticking two fries dipped in delicious milkshake into my mouth. Ava thinks this is gross, but she has no idea what she is missing.

Mom’s ignoring her milkshake.

“We talked about this.”

“It’s one night, Mom,” I say. “I don’t have to make a plan for every night.”

“Dana thought …”

“Dana said I could have free time. Dana said I needed time to relax. That’s my plan.”

Mom turns the key in the ignition. I hand her a fry.

“These will get cold you know,” I say. She smiles and dips it in the shake before reversing.

I have a plan.

My plan is to avoid my sister’s dark glare.

My plan is to eat just enough of dinner that Mom doesn’t say anything.

To watch the bright screen of my laptop and sleep.  

But to Mom, plans mean progress. Normalcy. But plans can mean the destruction of things, too. It was my plan to quit the swim team. My plan to stop talking to Kay.

Suddenly full, I place my shake back in the cup holder and look out the window. The sun skids across my eyelashes, warming them and blinding me. I can’t deal with Mom’s interrogations right now.

I have to come up with something so she’ll leave me alone.  

“There’s a party tonight. For the game.”

“A party.” Mom says, pinching her lips together. “You know you’re not allowed …”

“You want me to see the girls on the swim team. That’s where they are going to be.” Maybe now she’ll see that staying home and watching my laptop is better than having so-called plans.

Mom purses her lips. I watch her watching the road.

“I’ll think about it. Where is this party?”

I shrug.

She is thinking about cars. About rides. About drunk drivers. Suddenly, I feel like a shithead for even bringing it up.  

The last time I went to a party, Johnny never came home.

Mom will say no, and then I can tell Kay that I tried but, of course, Mom wouldn’t let me. Then, Kay will think I am her friend still and I won’t have to watch teenagers guzzling beer out of kegs. I won’t have to see Johnny’s friends playing flip cup and turning up the volume on the speakers.

I won’t have to see the space that my brother once occupied.

*

At dinner, Ava’s sulking at the table in her cheerleading uniform. We won the game, but apparently, I ratted out Ava’s party plans to Mom.  

Ava pushes her potatoes around her plate with her fork. She used to do that a lot when she was little. Nobody can pout like Ava.

“Maybe you girls could watch a movie together,” Mom says brightly.

“I’m just gonna go to my room,” Ava says, standing. “Take a shower. I’m sweaty from the game.”

Mom nods, her lips pursed into a strained smile.

Ava and I have never gotten along. Johnny was the butter between us. He made us a unit. Without him, we don’t know how to interact. So we just … don’t.

Ava flies up the stairs, and I help Mom with the dishes before slinking off to my room. I curl into my unmade bed. My silver laptop lies asleep and charging underneath the sheets. I wake it up and navigate towards YouTube. I turn on the documentary I was watching last night and let the sounds wash over me.

My eyes close, I am almost asleep.

And then, I am dreaming.

I dreamt about Johnny a lot right after he died. They weren’t good or bad dreams, just little snippets. Like little pieces he left behind. I would be in the kitchen and he would come in as a little kid and open the fridge. Or we would be biking near the high school. But now, it’s like he is banned from my dreams. I never see him, not even the top of his unruly red hair.

Instead, I dream about my sister.

She is a little kid, and she has her bright blonde hair tied up in braids. We aren’t at home. We are at this cabin rental we used to go to when we were kids and our grandma was still alive. It smells like Pine-Sol and all of the lights are off.

She is by the window watching the lake. Except, when I stand beside her and look out, it’s not the lake at all. It’s a street. It’s night and red lights dance across the inky sky.

“It’s alright,” Dream Ava tells me. She is gripping the splintery windowsill with all her might.

Then, she hooks her palms under the large glass window and pulls it open with a large creaking sound.

Sirens blare into the cabin.  

My heart hammers in my chest. I am sitting bolt upright in my bed. My laptop is a black screen next to me. A siren wails a few streets away.

And then, there is the sound of the window sliding shut.

Of course.  

I crawl over to my window. It’s dark outside but I can see, by the dim light of the streetlamps, Ava in a dark sweatshirt crawling across the roof towards the tree.  

I toss the sheets aside and heave my bedroom window open.

“Hey,” I hiss in Ava’s direction. She turns around, surprised. But when she sees me, a mix of frustration and annoyance clouds her face.

I crawl towards her, the black shingles rough like sandpaper on the palms of my hands. This part of the roof is flat and wraps all the way around the house. There is enough room to lie down. The tree is right in front of Ava’s room. It’s one of those trees that was made for climbing. It’s like our house wants us to sneak out in the middle of the night.

She’s already in the tree when I reach her. I grab one of the branches and swing next to her. Her makeup is thick and heavy. I can barely see her eyes under all of it.

“Why do you want to go anyway?” I whisper. “Doesn’t it make you sad?”

“Sad to hang out with my friends?” Ava rolls her eyes. “Sad to have fun? Amie, we won the game today. Not that you noticed.”

“No,” I say, ignoring her comment about the game. “About Johnny.”

Ava wasn’t at that party over the summer. She was at sleepaway camp. She wasn’t here when we got the call. She made it just in time for the service.

“Everything makes me a little sad these days,” she says.

She climbs the rest of the way down. I don’t stop her.

I sit motionless in the tree, in the dark, listening to my sister walk towards a party I should be at.

And do what, try to be her friend? Try to enjoy myself in the mass of sweaty, drunk teenagers who all treat me like I am made of glass?

I could protect her, a small voice inside me whispers.

Like you protected Johnny?

My brain twists in something close to pain. I wait for the tightness in my chest to unfurl.

It doesn’t.

I ache for the morning before he died. I don’t remember it. Not at all. But I ache for it. For what we had for breakfast. For the dumb names he called me. For how he used to get Ava and I laughing.

I wait for Dana’s voice to give me instructions. But I can’t figure out the right thing to do. Minutes pass and the wind makes patterns as it hits the tree branches. The longer I sit in the tree, the more uncomfortable I am.

I swing down from the tree, my Converses hitting the hard, November earth. I don’t have my phone. I don’t have my wallet. I hug my sweater around my arms and walk in the direction of Hillcrest.

It’s cold and the wind rises every minute to whip my hair against my cheeks. The street is silent, and my footsteps make these loud scraping noises as I walk faster and faster.

My heart speeds up as I walk. Too fast.

I squeeze my arms under my armpits. No, I think sternly. I already had an attack today.

I practice breathing as I walk, the way Dana taught me. Breathe out longer than you breathe in. It’s weird but it works.

My heart steadies.

I hang a right on Hillcrest. It’s a short, curving hill. I can already hear the muffled sounds of hip hop on the speakers, laughter on the front lawn. I jog up the hill and pretend I am swimming. Pretend I am in the pool.

Pretend I am underwater.

The pavement is unrelenting on my knees. I feel stiff—I feel like if I fall, I might crack open into little slivers of Amie.

I am sharp inside. All knife-like edges. All words that cut.

I stop jogging and put my hands on my knees, breathing hard. I am a swimmer. An athlete. A jog up a hill shouldn’t wind me.

A car engine revs and bright, blinding lights flood the street. A horn blares behind me.

“Move!” Someone I don’t know is hanging out the passenger window. “Quit blocking the road, bitch!”

Startled, I walk slowly to the curb. I stand dumbly as a Ford Escort passes, the bass thumping loudly. A car full of boys laughing. Probably at me. I sink down to the grass and watch the car park on the side of the road. My eyes float up to the house across the street. The front lawn is packed with teenagers. This party got too crazy, too quick. The houses on Hillcrest are spread far apart and hidden by these tall pine trees, but there is no way the neighbors are going to let this party go on much longer.

I should find Ava. Find Ava and get out of here before someone calls the cops.

I force myself off the curb and move towards the party, my heart flickering like a flame. Every bodily sensation is magnified to 1,000. But I keep walking. I cross the street and make my way towards the front door, into the press of teenagers. The smells overwhelm: hair gel mingling with some terrible cologne, cold air, stale beer and the sharp scent of vodka. Someone says my name, but it’s not my sister, so I keep going, crash my way through the foyer and into the loud, thudding world of the living room.

They have pushed all the furniture—the coffee table, the couch, the lamps—to the edges of the room and everyone is crowded in the center, dancing. Or, doing something that is close to dancing. I look for Ava’s long, dark blonde hair in the tangle of bodies, but she isn’t there. I turn towards the bright kitchen and run straight into Kay.

She is holding a red solo cup. When I bump her, it spills onto her pale pink top.

“Shit,” she says, dabbing the wet spot ineffectually with her hand. Then she looks up.

“You came!” Her eyes are the kind of bright you have after a few drinks.

*

I had been the designated driver that night. Kay had to be home at midnight, so I promised I would drive her. I didn’t go to parties a lot. I remember Johnny in the kitchen, playing beer pong. He winked at me and I rolled my eyes at him. He was so smart, but played the dumb jock so well.

Then someone put a drink in my hand and I thought, One drink. Why not? Kay only lives 10 minutes away. Only 10 minutes.

But the drink was strong and by the time I was done with it, the whole world was a blur of lights and colors. I suddenly loved everyone and then my brother was there. They called us twins at school—only a grade apart. We were the athletes. The jocks. I was shy but it didn’t matter. Everyone knew me because of him.

“I’ll take her home,” he said. “Just don’t drink anymore, Mom will kill me if you’re hungover.”

I remember Kay laughing at this, and then I don’t remember much else until later that night. Until Mom screaming, screaming like someone stabbed her in the temple.

God.

Kay.

The party blares. I am caught inside it, my heart beats so fast I can’t tell where one beat starts and the next begins. The sharp pieces inside keep threatening to cut deeper and deeper. All the air goes out of the room. I can see Kay’s eyes, the tilting world of the living room and I wonder, suddenly, if any of this is real.

I try to hold onto breath, but I can’t seem to find the air. I open my mouth to ask something. Shut it.

It should have been me.

Johnny was hit after he dropped off Kay. He was on Foley Street and the guy who hit him ran the stop sign. Doing 60 in a 40.

Johnny hadn’t had a single drink.

But I … I was drunk. He took the car. He drove Kay home. Kay knows, though. Kay is the only one who knows. Which is why I had to quit the swim team. Why I had to leave.

Why I can’t be Kay’s friend anymore.

“Amie,” Kay’s voice emerges from the static.

Noises blur into aqua tinged tiles. For a moment, I am back in the pool. Safe under the blanket of water. I am going to melt into the air right here at this party before I can find my sister. Before she gets in a car. Before. Before.

“Amie.” Kay’s voice is as calm as a lake. “I am here. You are going to be okay. Someone is getting Ava.”

I crumple. Heaving sobs on Kay’s chest. “I’m sorry,” I say. I say it over and over again. A hand runs through my tangled hair. My hair tie is gone, probably trampled on by a thousand drunk teenagers. And then. Then, we are outside. Kay must have brought me here. It’s cold, but the cold feels good. I drink in the air, the almost quiet.

“Here,” Kay offers me her cup, and I shake my head. “It’s water. I promise. Drink.”

I take the cup and lukewarm water spills down my throat.  

Kay laces her hand in mine. “We are going to be okay,” she says. I look at her. Her eyes are red. Like she’s been crying.

I never talked to her about it. About Johnny. She was the last one who saw him alive.

“Kay …”

“Amie!” Ava’s breathless voice breaks through. I turn and she is coming at me full force. Her makeup is smudged and her hair is loose and wild.

“Hey,” I say and raise the red solo cup in a mock cheers. We stand there looking at each other. Sisters, somehow.

She drags in a deep breath and glances at Kay, who nods.

“Let’s go home.”

*

In the kitchen, Ava makes hot chocolate the way Mom used to when we were kids. In a saucepan: whole milk, Hershey’s syrup, and cinnamon.

She brings two steaming mugs into the living room. I take a sip. It’s perfect.  

Ava curls onto the couch, tucking her knees up to her chest. She doesn’t look at me when she speaks.

“You think it’s your fault.”

I don’t say anything.

“You do,” Ava says. And then she laughs. It isn’t a nice laugh. It isn’t a mean one either. It’s a disbelief laugh.

“You don’t understand,” I manage, finally. “It’s complicated.”

Ava snorts.

“What?” I say.

Ava turns toward me. Here is a secret: my sister’s eyes have always scared me. When she was little, she did this creepy thing where she would come into my room when I was sleeping and when I woke up, she would be sitting on my floor staring at me. Like she was trying to figure me out.

Now, her hazel eyes laser into mine. I can’t escape them. She faces life full on. She isn’t a coward like me. She doesn’t flinch.

“Tell me” is all she says.

I hang in the silence for a moment—just a breath. Then, something in my chest loosens.

I tell her about the party, about the drinks, about Kay. I tell her how I was supposed to be the one to drive Kay home. How Johnny stepped up. How I haven’t talked to Kay since.

After I am done, we sit in silence for a bit.

“Is that why you quit the swim team?” she asks.

“I couldn’t deal with it. With Kay. Facing her.”

“She probably misses you. She was pretty upset tonight.”

I don’t say anything.

Ava picks up our mugs from the coffee table and heads to the kitchen. The mugs clang in the empty sink.

She comes back, standing in the doorway, backlit by the fluorescent lighting of the kitchen.

“It’s no one’s fault, Amie,” she says. “I thought it was my fault for a while, too.”

I look at her. “How could it possibly be your fault? You weren’t even here when it happened.”

“Exactly,” she says.

She doesn’t move. I breathe into the darkness of the living room, the taste of milk chocolate coating my tongue.

“I am sorry,” I say.

“For what?”

“For missing the game. For not even realizing there was a game to begin with.”

Ava laughs. “It’s not your thing.”

“But you come—came—to all my meets. With Johnny and Mom.”

Ava moves from the doorway and perches on the arm of the couch so that a sliver of moonlight catches her face.

“I like watching you swim,” she says, not looking at me. “You are completely focused. Other swimmers look like they are attacking the water. But you just … are the water.”

She turns towards me and quirks her lips into a half-smile.

“I’ll be at the next game,” I say, holding her words in my chest carefully, not wanting them to break.

“I’d like that,” she says.

I listen to her footsteps as she walks up to her room. I let my eyes half-close so that the world comes out all blurry. It reminds me of the pool—how everything softens around the edges when I sink beneath the surface.

How I become the water.

*

I fall asleep on the couch. I don’t remember it happening. I don’t remember my dreams. Just the feeling of water submerging my limbs.

Mom shakes me awake. I blink back to consciousness, disappointment swallowing me.

The party, the panic attack, Kay, Ava.

Ava.

“You okay?” Mom’s brows are furrowed together. She is in her terrycloth bathrobe and she hasn’t put her makeup on yet. Her eyes are pinched and puffy.

“Yeah,” I say. “Just fell asleep here.”

She looks suspicious but nods. I follow her into the kitchen where we make coffee and watch the sun part through the trees and through the windows over the sink. I drink my coffee black.

I dig my phone out of my pocket. It’s still alive, despite not being charged in forever.

It’s early on a Sunday. She probably isn’t up.

I navigate to my contacts and click on Kay’s name, opening a new message.

When I am done writing, I hold my breath and hit send.

“What are you up to?” Mom is pulling bread and eggs out of the fridge.

“Making plans,” I say.

Mom smiles. I look back at my phone. Kay’s name is brightly lit against the screen.

Before I read her message, I close my eyes. Imagining a future where I am on the swim team, talking to Kay. Maybe even talking to my sister sometimes.

It will be a while, I know. But there is glimmer in knowing it could happen. That the world isn’t just a wide-open blankness. That there is me. There is light.

Until then, I will just keep swimming laps.