The Summer of Bad Ideas Page 14

  Isn’t that enough? “Well, yeah, it’s just . . . I don’t know. Odd.”

  Then she says, “’Tis better to be brief than tedious.”

  Oh. Shakespeare, methinks. Sometimes I wish she’d drop the theatrics and just play the part of a caring friend-slash-cousin.

  “Shakespeare again?” I ask.

  “You know what? That may be Shakespeare, but I’m actually quoting Leo, okay? If you would listen—”

  Oh. Leo, of course. I should have guessed.

  She snaps off the light. There seems to be a new distance between us, and I want to close it up somehow.

  I wonder if I should just tell her the truth about Klaus now. You know, seize the moment. Really seize it. I wait a few minutes, hoping to get the nerve up to get rid of this stupid lie. It would be a matter of four single words, four tiny syllables. I made him up. Anyone could do it. You just open your mouth and speak. Like most of this fear-conquering stuff, it’s a lot simpler than your head wants to make it.

  I take a deep breath. I open my mouth. I—

  A hand springs to her heart. Her voice broadens, lifts. “Come, gentle night, come, black-browed night. Give me my Romeo.”

  “Rae?”

  She doesn’t answer.

  I open my mouth again to speak anyway, but the words completely escape me. I find myself without a line and without an audience. I roll over and wait for the low-tide sound of her breath, hoping it will help lull me to sleep.

  Chapter 18

  Wake Up

  “Girls?”

  That’s the sound that wakes me up.

  “Girls! It’s quite late!”

  A wake-up visit from my mom. It’s more alarming than an actual alarm clock.

  I tell my mom we’ll be right down.

  “Are you feeling okay?”

  “Yes, Mom, we’re just tired.”

  “I guess we have been working you both pretty hard,” my mom says. “Tell you what—how about you two work on the downstairs bathroom today, and then you can have some free time?”

  “Free time?” I ask.

  “Yes, but work first, free time later. I really need that grout scrubbed clean.”

  Once she closes the door, I sit up and look over at Rae. She’s in her bed, facing away from me. I’m hoping I can just chalk up last night to some of her usual theatrical mood swings. “Raaaaaaae,” I say. “Oh, Raaaaaaae. Did you hear her? We’re free!”

  She hums an ambiguous answer.

  I try again. This time, I sing. “Free-dom! Free-dom!” I smile at her. “Well, after the grout, that is.”

  “Just—please, Edie! Let me sleep ten more minutes,” she snaps, and places a pillow over her head.

  “Fine,” I say, and slip out of the room.

  She can sleep as long as she wants to, as far as I’m concerned. Or rather, she can sleep as long as she can. And if Beatrice ends up being especially loud this morning, playing with Albert/Odysseus (“Odysseus sees a squirrel.” “WOOF WOOF WOOF!” “Odysseus, there’s a robber in the house!” “WOOF WOOF CHOMP!”) . . . well then, so be it.

  Still, I end up hushing the twins. Still, I end up wishing she’d come down.

  Half an hour later, I creep back upstairs. I knock softly on the door. No answer.

  I push the door. It creaks open. “Rae?”

  “Hmm?”

  “It’s ten.”

  “That’s nice.” She’s lying on her back now, but she doesn’t open her eyes.

  “Rae?”

  But all she says is “One may smile, and smile, and be a villain.”

  “Why are you reciting Shakespeare?” I ask.

  “I’m just—I don’t know. Forget it,” she says, exhaling. “So what did you want?”

  “Well, uh . . . I’ve got a great idea for our free time.”

  She pops open one eye. “What’s your idea?”

  “Item six. Write something scary.” It’s the first thing on Petunia’s list that seems to involve more brains than guts. It should come naturally to me—something I could actually succeed at, unlike everything else.

  As I could have predicted, she says, “How is that postable?”

  But I’ve practically rehearsed my answer. I sit down on my couch bed. “Okay, listen. What if we write a really scary story—like something truly terrifying? A ghost story, maybe. Something really haunting. And when we’ve finished writing it, we could post it online somewhere. How postable is that? Maybe we can even make our own blog!”

  She sighs. “I don’t know, Edie.”

  I feel unsure about what’s wrong, and even more unsure about how to make it right. “What’s the matter?” I ask.

  “Maybe I’m getting a little bored with the whole list thing.”

  “Bored?” That word gets me again. I can still hear Sophi’s voice: “Don’t you think she’s boring?” Even though I’m as far away from boring as I’ve ever been, it feels like I’ll never be far enough.

  She curls up on her bed. “Well, I don’t know. Maybe I’ve just been away for too long. Maybe I just miss my real life. Maybe that’s all it is.”

  “Oh.” I feel her words in the pit of my stomach. Her real life. Her real friends.

  I guess my hurt feelings show on my face, because she looks at me and says, “I didn’t mean . . . sorry, Edie, I guess I’m just grumpy.”

  “You just said I was boring.”

  “No, I said it was boring. The list. But never mind what I said, okay? Maybe I do miss my life, but sometimes?” She lifts her chin. Her voice is rich and smooth. “Sometimes I wish I could take you back there with me.”

  There’s something about the grand way she says it that gives me an uncomfortable thought. “I wish I could take you all home with me.” It’s like she’s a movie star speaking to a crowd of fans.

  Does Rae want a friend, or does she want a fan?

  I immediately want to erase that thought. I don’t want to claim it.

  “Edie, don’t worry, I know the list matters to you, so let’s just do it. Okay?” She looks at me in an apologetic way.

  I hesitate, still a little hurt, but mostly relieved. “Okay.” At least she’s still in this with me. At least I can get a checkmark. At least I won’t be boring for too much longer.

  We’ve scrubbed the grout to an admirable white-beige in the downstairs bathroom—or mostly, I have, while Rae’s spent a lot of time reclining in the empty clawfoot tub and texting her beasties, but I figure I have to put up with a little of that if I want her to work on the list with me. But when I’ve finished and I’m ready to work on our story, Rae is nowhere to be found.

  I look out the bathroom window, but I don’t see her outside. I go out to both the front and back porches and check around, and still, no luck. Back inside, our parents are in the kitchen. My dad is going on and on about the concept of Roman blinds—okay, the history of them—but I don’t think anyone’s listening. My mom and uncle are hunched over a pile of receipts.

  “Has anyone seen Rae?”

  “Thought I heard her upstairs,” my uncle says.

  I go back upstairs, but our room is empty. I pop my head into the twins’ room.

  “Guess what, Edith,” Beatrice says when she sees me. “I saw my kitten last night.”

  “It’s not your kitten,” Henry says. “Edith, would you please tell her that a stray cat doesn’t belong to anyone?”

  I ignore the request. “Have you guys seen Rae?”

  Now they ignore me. “When an Egyptian cat died, its owners shaved their own eyebrows to show how sad they were,” Beatrice says.

  “That makes no sense,” Henry declares.

  I sigh and try again. “Hey, you guys, have you—” I hear the back door slam, and our parents greeting Rae. “Never mind.”

  I go downstairs and meet Rae in the hall.

  “Hey,” she says.

  “Hey,” I say. “Where were you?”

  “Out there, trying to call Leo.”

  “I looked outside. I didn�
�t see you.”

  She shrugs. “I mean out there in the shed. You know that’s where my phone works best.”

  “Oh, yeah,” I say. But every time she looks at me, her eyes flit away. So I ask, “Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah, I mean, I guess.” She scratches the back of her head. “I actually couldn’t get ahold of him.”

  “Oh. But you were gone so long—”

  “Because I kept trying,” she says, in a tone that sounds like an admission of defeat. “Anyway, I thought you wanted to work on that story.”

  “Yeah, I do,” I say.

  “So let’s do it,” she says.

  But once we go into the study, it’s clear that her heart’s still not in it. “Once upon a time . . . there was this ogre. Who lived in a swamp. And one day, his kingdom was invaded—”

  “Isn’t that Shrek?” I ask.

  “Yeah, I guess it is. Okay, how about this? Once upon a time there was a scientist. And he decides to create a monster—”

  “Really, Rae? Frankenstein?”

  She tilts her head and looks at me. “I see dead people?”

  Another movie line, I’m sure. I tilt my head back at her.

  She sighs. “I’m just not that good at this, Edie.”

  “But Rae,” I say, “I know you’d be good at this if you’d just try.”

  “Well, then, I’m just not in the mood for this.”

  “How can that even be? You love movies—you love plays. You love stories.”

  “Honestly, Edie.” Rae stares at me. “I’m just so sick of stories. I wish some people would just tell the truth.”

  I swallow, thinking about our conversation last night. “Is this about Klaus?”

  “You mean your imaginary boyfriend?”

  Carp! She knows!

  “How long have you known?” My voice comes out quiet.

  “You basically told me last night.”

  “I’m sorry, Rae. It was a really stupid lie,” I say. “I feel like such an idiot.”

  “No, I’m the idiot! I mean, who has a boyfriend named Klaus?”

  There is that.

  “I guess I just wanted you to like me, so . . . don’t be mad?” I realize my plea sounds like a question.

  “Look, Edie, we’re friends, right? Like real friends?” She has a look on her face that I recognize, though it looks unfamiliar on her. Tense eyebrows, worried eyes. Wounded.

  “Yes, Rae, of course!”

  “Well, then don’t do that kind of stuff to me. Don’t pretend to be someone you’re not.”

  “Okay,” I say weakly. “Sorry.”

  Her shoulders seem to relax, and she releases a breath. “Look, let’s just forget about Klaus. Deal?”

  I will happily forget about Klaus, who, as of late, I’ve come to think of as having a constantly dripping nose and a strangely large bottom. “Deal,” I say.

  She cracks a weary smile. “Look, Edie, you can keep working on your scary story if you want. I give up. I’m going to take a nap.”

  “But . . . what do you mean you give up? You’re not giving up on the list, are you?”

  She lifts her eyebrows and looks at me.

  “I just mean, what about crossing the swamp and stuff, like Petunia did? Item seven? Next Sunday night is the last full moon of the summer. It could be fun.”

  She sighs. “I’ll do the rest of the things on the list with you, Edie. I’m just over this one, okay?”

  I smile, relieved. “Okay.”

  “Anyway, that’s not until Sunday. Tomorrow . . . I think we should go bird-watching tomorrow with the dizygotes. What do you think?”

  “You want to go bird-watching?” I wonder if she knows how much watching, waiting, recording, and observing that involves. It’s kind of the opposite of all that seizing she likes to do.

  “Yeah, why not?” She shrugs. “I’m tired of being stuck at the house all the time.”

  Why not? Because tomorrow is visiting day and Taylor is calling—being stuck at the house is exactly where I want to be. So I can’t say I caught a snake, or flirted with a boy, or danced in a hurricane, but I can say I’m writing a story—or, wait, a whole book, with an ending! I bet Sophi Angelo can’t write anything more than a text message!

  “I’ve spent every single day of my life with the twins,” I say. “You go ahead. I’ll stay here and work on the story.”

  “Okay, then.” Rae says bye, and leaves.

  I fidget with the pen and begin to pace around the study, trying my best to come up with something really scary: mysteries, monsters, ghosts, poltergeists—bring it on! I can handle it! Can’t I? Can I?

  But the more I try to dream it up, the more I realize I don’t have to. Who says this something scary has to be fiction? Real life can be scary enough.

  I sit back down and begin to write.

  Chapter 19

  Apple Tree

  Visiting day.

  My eyes pop wide open. Our room seems particularly quiet. I sit up, look around, and realize I’m alone. The bird-watching party must have gotten an early start.

  Downstairs in the kitchen, Uncle A.J. is putting in a new sink faucet. “Hey, there, Edie. Give me a hand?”

  He has me hold the faucet above the sink while he goes inside the cabinet and wrenches it tight at the base. When he’s done, we stand back and take a moment to admire it. It’s one of those tall gooseneck-looking faucets. “Thought your dad was crazy at first, but now I got to admit. It was a good choice.”

  “Yeah, it was,” I say.

  He looks at me. “Didn’t feel like joining the search for that endangered bird this morning?”

  “The scrub jay,” I say. “No, I didn’t. It could actually take forever.”

  “Well, you may be right—your dad did seem determined to find it. But that suits me fine,” he says. “We’ve got a lot to do still, and with everyone out of our hair, maybe we can get it done. Your mom’s upstairs replacing some drywall, and I have to install that new toilet.”

  I can’t believe I’m going to ask this. “Do you want me to help or anything?”

  “No, Edie.” He gives me a great big bear hug of a smile. “I think you should just enjoy some downtime.”

  I grab some coffee, and Uncle A.J. hands me a Pop-Tart—with a finger to his lips—before he heads back upstairs.

  I wander back into the study and take a look at the story I finished last night, titled “Ophidian.” It’s a word I found in Petunia’s thesaurus, a word for snakelike.

  Last night, the word felt like a stroke of genius; today, it seems a little melodramatic.

  I read on, remembering how stressful it felt last night to relive the event from my childhood—it involved a lot of deep breaths of the three-counts-in, four-counts-out variety.

  I was six when my dad took me to the zoo and I witnessed my first murder.

  My dad and I were at the snake house, learning all about the different places snakes live—wet places and dry places, hot places and cool places—and how well they can hide. In some of the habitats, we couldn’t even see the snakes, no matter how hard we looked.

  We stopped at the anaconda cage. Even though the snake was huge, we had to get very close to the glass to see it. It was lurking in its little pond, trying to hide under the murky surface, waiting for its feeding time.

  Then a zoo worker entered the cage, holding a rabbit. Suddenly, the snake struck out of the water and sank its fangs into the rabbit before wrapping its gigantic body around it. Everyone around us swarmed in, and I was pressed toward the front of the crowd, practically into the glass of the enclosure—forced to witness the murder up close!

  I remember my dad hugging me and telling me that the rabbit was already dead when the snake attacked it. But still, in my mind, the damage had been done. Snakes were the enemy, and they were everywhere—trees, lakes, ponds, deserts. Hiding. Waiting. Ready to attack. Suddenly, the world seemed a lot less safe.

  But now I look down at the words I have on the page, a
nd the whole thing feels a bit ridiculous. Witness? Murder? Is this really what’s been making me so scared all these years? Feeding time at the zoo?

  This is my scary story? Carp! What will I tell—

  My thoughts are interrupted by a shrill ring.

  TAYLOR?

  I grab the phone before the first ring is even finished.

  “Hi, hi!” Ugh. I sound just like Colvin. “I mean . . . hello?”

  The line is quiet.

  “Taylor?” I say.

  “Is this— Edie, is that you?” a distinctively not-Taylor voice asks. “This is Officer Elwayne. How are you doing, my friend?”

  “I’m . . .” Incredibly disappointed yet oddly relieved, of course. “Fine.”

  “Glad to hear it. Can I speak to one of your parents?”

  I put the receiver down and go to call up the stairs. “Mom! Officer Elwayne’s on the phone for you!”

  “Okay, I’ll get it up here!” she calls down to me.

  The ceiling above me creaks, and I wait to hear her “Hello?”

  I return to the study, but instead of hanging up the receiver, I find myself listening in.

  Officer Elwayne is talking. “—wanted to check in. I think we got another mistaken alligator sighting.”

  “Oh? Where was it reported?” My mom sounds the teensiest bit worried.

  “Well, the caller was farther down the road from you, not far from the Amoses’ house. But when Rosie and I got there, it was just that roaming iguana of Petunia’s.”

  “You mean Barbara?” my mom asks.

  “Sure. Happens sometimes,” Officer Elwayne says. “People drive by, see something green and scaly poking around in the grass—they think it’s a gator. But I tell you, if there was an alligator around, there probably wouldn’t be an iguana moseying around chewing on grass. She’d already have been lunch.”

  They have a nice little chuckle over that.

  “So nothing to worry about, then,” my mom says.

  “None that I can tell, but these false reports are starting to become a real head-scratcher. Just let me know if you see anything strange.”

  “We certainly will,” my mom promises.

  They begin to chitchat about the house, and I’m starting to feel impatient. What if Taylor calls? I let out a frustrated sigh before I realize that they might hear me.