This Close to Home, page 8
I stare at a scallion sprout and try to make sense of her words. It would one hundred percent be the worst thing. Memories of Mom are woven into those houses like a tapestry.
“But they’re ours.”
I realize that I sound bratty. But does Calla really not care? I’m tired of my sister being a mystery to me; it wasn’t like this when Mom was here. Last December, after the first big snowstorm of the winter, Calla and I were clearing the sidewalk at the empty Purple Couch House when she dropped her shovel to the ground and screamed up at the dull gray sky. I stood frozen in my snow boots with no clue what to say; she picked up her shovel and apologized before I could ask what had happened.
“Think about it seriously, Brookie,” she says now. She puts the basil down and starts walking. “I’m going to be leaving for college in a year. You’ll have your own things going on. Dad won’t have enough help. And hiring an assistant is expensive.”
“I’ll never be too busy for him.” I think part of me is accusing her, Not like you being too busy for us.
We’re at the violets now. Calla picks out one of the biggest bunches and sighs into the petals. It looks like she has a purple beard.
“You say that now. We’ve had a lot of good times there, of course, but sometimes you just have to be logical and move on.”
I want to tell her that it’s the good times that are going to fix everything, not logic. Trying to “move on” has me messing up on the field, Calla dumping her boyfriend, and Dad selling our precious places on the lake. Mom wouldn’t approve of any of this.
“I guess,” I say instead. I don’t need Calla raining all over my Lakefest parade right now.
She tucks a plastic pot of violets into the crook of each elbow and heads for the register. I follow. From behind, it looks like the flowers are growing out of her body.
Yohanna, my favorite Poppyseed cashier, is behind the counter. She’s in her twenties and has orange dreadlocks. I notice that her hands are streaked with soil when she scans the barcodes on the pots.
“Haven’t seen you in a bit,” she says. She has a gap between her front teeth that makes some of her words whistle.
“Junior year is a monster.” Calla plucks a cucumber seed packet from the display next to the register. She sounds like a robot with a programmed response for why she’s stopped doing the things she used to. Junior year. Boop. So busy. Beep.
“How’s the team doing, Brooke?” Yohanna asks while she scans the seeds.
“On our way to another trophy,” I answer.
I look at the Lions photos behind her, like the ones in Papa Margherita’s. Three different Brookes look back at me: ten-year-old me with sun in her eyes, eleven-year-old me with a bad haircut, this-year me with my catcher’s gear on.
“Super.”
Calla hands over her Garden Pass, and four dollars is taken off the total. Yohanna returns the pass with the receipt.
“Until next time, Dells.”
Calla scoops up her flowers and seeds from the counter. We’re almost out the door when I hear a quiet psst. Yohanna motions for me to come back. She reaches under the counter and hands me a packet of seeds. Petunias. I shake it, and the seeds scatter around inside.
“For the Lion,” she whispers.
“Thanks, Yohanna.” I look at the team pictures again. Underneath them is a short stack of shelves with rolls of receipt paper, cups of pens, and an old-looking cash register. There’s a sticker on the side of the register, with letters so worn, I can barely read them: Lakefest 2014.
“Need something else?” Yohanna asks.
“I was looking at the sticker.” I point, and she follows my finger to the register.
“Lakefest. Fun times. I had my first kiss at Lakefest. Meanwhile, you were running around in your unicorn bathing suit.”
“Really?” I gasp.
Yohanna laughs. “Which part? The kiss or the magic horse?”
I feel the blush attack my skin. “The… kiss.”
“Mm-hmm. Jacob Rosenbloom. Down by the water. Very dreamy.”
Before I can stop it, I’m picturing Derek’s face close to mine, our toes at the edge of the water. I shove the thought away so my imagination can’t add more details. Yohanna’s memory is just another reason to bring Lakefest back. Good things happened there.
“Say hypothetically I was trying to have another picnic. Would Poppyseed be interested in selling flowers and vegetables and things?” I make my voice as clear and professional as possible. It feels like I’m using a foreign accent.
“Hypothetically, I’d be there in a heartbeat,” Yohanna answers.
My chest swells with the feeling of having done something right.
“And if it wasn’t hypothetical?” I ask.
“Whatever you want us to do, we’ll be there. You just let me know.” She winks.
“Thank you so much, Yohanna. Thank you.”
Yohanna smiles and sticks her tongue between the gap in her teeth.
“Little tip: When you go around and ask other people to help? Don’t call it hypothetical if it’s real. Have faith.”
She’s right. I have to stop thinking of my plan as a dream. I have to believe with everything inside me that it’s going to happen.
I thank Yohanna again and burst out of Poppyseed like a sprouting flower. Calla is standing next to her car, scanning the parking lot. She spots me sprinting across the pavement.
“Where were you?” she asks when I make it to her. The violets sit in the back seat like passengers.
“Free seeds,” I say, out of breath, and hand them over.
“Oh. Cool.” She drops the seeds into her purse.
I don’t tell Calla about Poppyseed being part of Lakefest. Right now it really, truly feels like I can make this work. And I don’t want her to tell me that I’m wrong.
My heart doesn’t slow down the whole drive home.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN SKYLIGHT HOUSE
We plan to meet at Skylight House on Tuesday. Well, Marley doesn’t call it Skylight House, obviously. She calls it the Rent It, which makes it feel like a cold, empty place and not the best of all the lake houses, where you can lie on the living room carpet and see the stars.
Derek bails at the last minute.
Need to help Abuela find her glasses. Fill me in later, B.
The excuse stings me through the phone. Abuela does constantly lose important belongings, but Derek should still be able to make our meeting. If Marley is bothered by the cancellation, or notices that Derek only addressed me, she doesn’t show it.
No prob. Brooke, bring your science stuff. Might as well work on our project too.
Which is why I have my backpack at my feet when Dad parks in Flamingo House’s driveway.
“She’s staying in Skylight House,” I remind him, pointing next door.
“I know. I’m meeting someone here. Can you walk over?”
My suspicion antennas go up. “Sure. Who are you meeting?”
Dad slides his hands over Gus’s worn steering wheel.
“A Realtor. But don’t get worked up. It’s just a visit.”
My insides go numb. Maybe it’s just a visit now, but then what?
“Why would I get worked up?” I mumble.
I get out of the truck fast and run next door before Dad can say anything else. Thirteen days. That’s all I have to stop the FOR SALE signs from popping up in the yards. I see the lake, wide and sparkling behind the houses, and run faster, straight through the front door of Skylight House.
A loud shriek greets me. Skylight House opens up to a long hall, and Marley is standing at the other end looking horrified. She drops a vanilla yogurt cup.
“You just scared the living crap out of me.” She puts one hand on her heart. The other holds a yogurt-coated spoon.
I rush down the hall, grabbing a tissue from the little shelf nearby.
“I’m so sorry. I’m not used to knocking here.”
Marley stands frozen while I clean up the creamy spill with the tissue. All of a sudden, she starts laughing. She has a goose-honk laugh, and it’s contagious. I can’t help but giggle too. It’s a funny, inside joke kind of moment, which I never expected to have with Marley.
“My house is your house,” she says. She wipes the corner of her eye. “Literally.”
“I owe you a yogurt,” I answer, dropping the tissue into the garbage can.
We move to the living room, sink into the squishy beige couch. The skylight dumps warm sun onto our heads. Marley’s books are spread out on the coffee table.
“This is Organizer Olivia’s time line technique.” She waves a hand over her setup. I can tell that we’re straight back to business, but I have the sore abs to prove how hard we cracked up.
“What’s the time line technique?” I ask. I feel guilty that Marley’s blog posts are still unread in my locker. Tomorrow I’ll bring them home, I tell myself. I’ll put the reminder on my to-do list and then check that little box. Not that I’ve used the to-do list Marley helped me make either…
“You set your to-dos in the order you need to finish them. I put the new paragraphs for our poster over here, because we need to cut those out first, and then my textbook is here so I can pull out some more facts, and then Lakefest ideas over here.” She has three lists with different labels on top—entertainment, food, advertising.
Nerves churn in my stomach. I’ve been so happy about getting the yes from Poppyseed that I forgot there’s still tons to do. Like, you know, telling people about Lakefest!
“Good idea,” I say. “Speaking of the picnic, the flower shop is interested in…”
I trail off, because Marley has a finger over her lips.
“Cockroaches first.”
A little voice in my head whispers, Okay, Bossy Floss. I tell it to shut up. She’s not bossy—at least, not totally. I think she just wants us to succeed. I open my binder, and a loose paper slips out. It lands faceup near Marley’s leg. The crumpled, checkless to-do list. Marley glances at the list, then back at her time line technique on the table.
I think a dark thought. It comes out once in a while, when I’ve done something extra disappointing. I am the worst. Marley has been trying to help me this whole time—with the blogs, with the list. And I haven’t used any of her tips.
“Sorry about that.” I push the paper back into my binder and try to explain. “It really was helpful. I just forgot to cross things off.”
I wait for her temper to flare like in that gym class volleyball game. Three, two, one…
Marley shrugs. “Different techniques work for different people.”
If I can’t even keep track of things in the simplest way, then there must be no hope for me.
Marley takes out her phone. When she leans it against a pencil cup a minute later, a girl with tan skin and waist-length black hair is paused on the screen. Marley presses play.
“Hey there, Olivia-nizers! I’m back with another video, and I think it’s a pretty fun one. We’re going to take a test!”
I look at our table full of work. Why would Marley pull up this video now? And who would think a test was fun?
“I thought we were working on our project,” I say.
Marley hands me a paper with four typed paragraphs, and a pair of scissors.
“We’re multitasking.”
I take the materials from her and tune back in to the video. Maybe Marley isn’t mad. She’s not trying to cut me with the scissors or anything, which seems like a good sign.
“It’s not like a school test, I swear.” Organizer Olivia shakes her long hair. “It’s a test to see what your organization style is. I’ll ask you five questions and give you three possible answers. Your job is to answer honestly, and to keep track of whether you choose mostly A, B, or C.”
The letters pop up in shimmery pink text next to Olivia’s head, and she points to them one by one.
“Are you going to take the test too?” I ask Marley.
“I’ve done it already.” She uncaps a highlighter and settles back in the sofa with her notebook. “I’m mostly A’s.”
I listen to Olivia’s questions while I cut the paragraphs out.
“Here we go with question one. How would people describe you? A, efficient; B, scattered; C, helpful.”
I mark a little B in my notebook. Marley said she’s mostly A’s, which means she probably chose “efficient.” By the last question, I’ve answered three B’s and one C.
“Last one,” Olivia announces. The video lets out a foghorn sound. “What is your biggest fear? A, losing control; B, disappointing others; or C, being still.”
I don’t know what the question has to do with organization, but I do know my answer: B. I make the final mark in my notebook.
“What were you?” Marley asks. She copies down words from the textbook.
“Mostly B’s.” I form my four cutout paragraphs into a pile.
“I thought so.”
Her answer burns in my belly. She thinks she knows me, but she doesn’t. It reminds me of Calla, thinking she knows what’s best, not realizing how much I need her to be my big sister instead of a replacement mom. How much I need her to stop talking about junior year and college because I just want her here right now.
“Listen to the explanations,” Marley says. She says it shyly. Like she’s not trying to push too hard but doesn’t want me to turn off the video.
I tune back in.
“All my A’s out there, you’re the direct style of organization. You are all about lists, and checking items off that list. Some people might call you intense. You may call yourself a perfectionist. But you just know how to get things done! Find a way to communicate your ideas, but remember that other people have ideas too! You are a reliable, responsible star. Good for you!”
The Lakefest lists Marley put together sit in front of me. Marley can be a little intense, but she’s going to help me pull off this picnic. Which basically makes her a superhero.
“My B’s, you are the creatives! You are visual, and have HUGE goals. Unfortunately, that means the smaller tasks don’t appeal to you as much, so sometimes you might not do them. Maybe some people call you a procrastinator? Find an aesthetically appealing way to keep track of what you want to do. Bullet journals are a great choice for the creative type, and so is writing down your big goals, as a reminder of what you’re reaching for.”
Creative? I can’t draw or play music or write beautiful poems. I think Organizer Olivia needs to adjust her quiz. Plus, I don’t really appreciate being called a procrastinator.
Even if I am.
“What do you think?” Marley asks.
“It’s interesting. I don’t think I’d call myself a creative type, but she seems cool to watch.”
Organizer Olivia clears her throat like I interrupted her.
“C’s, are you still there? I’m not sure, because you’re the active type. You jump into things right away. There’s no need for lists for you, because once a task enters your head, you have to do it. Try to slooooooow down. The world needs your energy, but you have to rest once in a while.”
Calla’s face pops into my head. Organizer Olivia is describing her. She doesn’t stop moving: going to her clubs, taking care of her garden, doing chores for me and Dad. Calla jumped into filling Mom’s role right after she died and hasn’t slowed down since.
“I think it’s the big-goal part of being a creative type that fits you,” Marley says.
I laugh. Not the way Marley and I did when I first got here, but enough to make her look at me with her forehead wrinkled.
“It’s just, I can barely get my dirty clothes into the laundry basket,” I explain. Organizer Olivia says goodbye to her viewers, and the video goes dark.
“But you want to plan a huge picnic for the town in thirteen days.”
She says it matter-of-factly. Her words click into place one by one, like the combination to a lock.
“That is technically true.”
Marley stacks our project notes on the table.
“Don’t underestimate yourself,” she says. It feels warmer than her usual instructions. It’s the good kind of command, like Coach Tanaka gives.
I’m about to thank her, maybe tell her that she really is a “reliable, responsible star,” like Olivia said, when the front door creaks open. The click of high heels echoes in the hall, until a blond woman in a pink pencil skirt appears.
“Your father has outdone himself. Absolutely outdone himself!” She drops into a kitchen chair.
“Mom, we have company,” Marley mumbles. She points at me.
“I see that, Marley. I have eyes.” She kicks her heels off under the table. “But this whole town is already chattering about it, so I might as well spread the news myself.”
The rumor about Marley’s mom swoops through my brain. To be honest, she seems capable of taking a chain saw to a tooth-shaped shrub.
“Can you not?” Marley begs her mom.
Skylight House has never felt so uncomfortable. I want to run out of the room as fast as I ran in.
“I’m Brooke,” I say instead of escaping.
Marley’s mom starts rubbing her feet. “Hi, Brooke. I’m Dr. Macintosh. When was your last dental cleaning?”
“Uh…”
“Mom!”
Marley throws me a mortified look. Things were awkward with her dad the other night at Papa Margherita’s, but this doesn’t seem much better.
“Fine. I can tell when I’m not wanted.” Dr. Macintosh sulks as she walks to the bedroom off the kitchen.
The house goes quiet. Marley stares at the time line of tasks on the table like it doesn’t make sense anymore. I get a weird urge to tell her about what happened at the concession stand with the slushie boys who rated me a two, just to let her know that I’ve felt small and embarrassed too.
I decide to change the subject instead.
“Should we talk about Lakefest?” I ask.
Marley straightens her shoulders. The skylight above us shows nothing but blue.
“Of course.”
* * *
Late that night, I’m awake, and Calla is a mound of flannel comforter beneath the string lights over her bed. She won’t admit that they’re night-lights but it’s the truth. Calla is afraid of the dark. I take out my earbuds as quietly as I can, and start to watch Organizer Olivia’s video again.
