There was still the matter of Warner meeting Lisette. I tried not to think about it, but one day, I met Kendra at Starbucks, the same Starbucks where I’d gone with Lisette and Courtney two years earlier. I told her everything.
“He’s meeting her, Kendra.” I took a bite of crumb cake.
“So?”
“So? He’ll see her perfection, and that will be it for me.”
“Don’t be stupid. Perfection is annoying.” Kendra took a sip of her caramel macchiato. “What even makes you think she’d want him?”
Now there was a comforting thought—she wouldn’t like him. It was true that Lisette had tons of boys around. “She’d steal Warner just to spite me.”
Kendra grimaced at her drink. “Cold.” She rubbed her hands on the cup, as if that would help. “Warner loves you, Emma. I’ve seen it on his freckly little face. It’s the real thing.”
“I guess.”
“It’s true. Lisette may be witchy, but she has no power over him. He adores you.”
I laughed. “Maybe. Why don’t you ask them for a new one?”
Kendra ignored me, still rubbing her coffee cup. “And if I’m wrong and he goes with her…” She removed her hands from the cup and looked at me.
“What?”
Kendra took a sip of the steaming coffee. “… if he does, then we’ll fix it. I always help my friends.”
Every day after school, while Lisette was at rehearsals, Warner and I worked on my tree house. Warner brought hammer, nails, and a saw, and we sanded, cut, banged, and finally painted until we’d restored it to its former glory. But, even as we did it, the thought dogged me. Warner meeting Lisette. I thought of it as I sanded and almost scraped off a bit of my finger. I thought of it as I hammered, and the thought pounded in my brain. Warner would like Lisette better. Anyone would.
I almost didn’t want to go to the play, didn’t want to see it happen. Yet I knew I couldn’t just surrender. I had to try to keep him.
Two days left. I felt like I was about to be executed. But that was stupid. Warner said he loved me. How could I love him back and yet have so little confidence in him?
Friday afternoon we finished our project. The tree house was once again painted dark green to match the trees. It had a solid fence around it. “For privacy,” Warner said. He handed me up the ladder, then stood below, reciting:
“But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?
It is the east, and Emma is the sun.
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,
Who is already sick and pale with grief,
That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she.”
Romeo and Juliet! We’d read the play in language arts last year. I guess Warner had at his old school too. Warner started to climb the ladder. I giggled. He continued:
“Be not her maid, since she is envious;
Her vestal livery is but sick and green
And none but fools do wear it; cast it off.
It is my lady, O, it is my love!”
He reached the top of the ladder and faced me. “You’re so beautiful, Emma.”
I laughed. “Beautiful? You think I’m beautiful?”
He gazed into my eyes. “Does that surprise you?”
I nodded like I was agreeing with a child. “You must be blinded by my stunning personality.”
“Nope. You’re beautiful. Can you honestly not see it?”
I wanted to believe it. “What’s so beautiful about me?”
“Why don’t you tell me? Tell me something about you that’s beautiful.”
I tried to laugh it off. I wasn’t beautiful; I was smart, but that was never enough, never what I wanted. I was nice, and no one cared. I was a lot of things, but beautiful? Not me. Yet he looked at me so intensely, and in that look, I saw that he believed it. Maybe I really was beautiful and I hadn’t noticed it. I tried to picture my face and said, “My eyes?”
He nodded. “A beautiful shade of gray. Keep going.”
“I guess my nose isn’t bad.”
Warner risked falling by taking one hand off the railing and touching my nose. “It’s adorable. And your skin, your hair. Can’t you see it? You glow from the inside, Emma.”
Maybe it was because I was in love. I held out my arms to him, then moved aside to let him up. “I’m so happy.” I tried to remember some appropriate line from the play. Finally, I said, “If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully.”
He laughed and kissed me, asking, “What shall I swear by?”
We were interrupted by the sound of Daddy’s car pulling into the driveway. He stepped out. “Hey, you fixed it up. It looks great.”
He extended his hand upward to Warner. “Tom Cooper, Emma’s dad.”
“Sir.” Warner reached down, saying, “Emma loves this so much.”
Daddy smiled at me. “I remember. I built it when you were four or five. Your mother always worried you’d hurt yourself.”
“I know. But it was our special thing.” I turned away so Warner wouldn’t see my eyes, how they filled with tears. Finally, I’d bitten my lip enough times to choke out, “I still love it.”
Daddy nodded. “Me too. Sometimes…” He stopped.
“What?” A breeze fluttered through the leaves of the old oak, and I shivered.
He shook his head and said, “Sometimes, things change so quickly you don’t even know how it happened.” He looked at Warner. “Ramblings of an old man.”
“I understand.” And I did. I understood that he didn’t know how our relationship had gone south, had gotten away from him so quickly.
He waved his hand and said, “It’s great that you fixed it up.” He started for the door.
I wanted to run after him, to chase him and call him Daddy, tell him I was sorry, I loved him. I wanted to be his little girl again. I could have done it. Lisette wasn’t there. Even if she had been, what would she have done, told him I smashed a jack-o’-lantern two years earlier? Now I saw so clearly that it had been stupid of me to give in to her blackmail. I had to fix it.
I didn’t run after him because of Warner, because I didn’t want him to think we were even more messed up than he already knew about. I let him go. Still, I promised myself we’d talk tomorrow.
I glanced at my watch, wishing I could freeze the moment in time, the breeze in my face, the scent of gardenias in the air, and Warner, looking at me, like he thought I was pretty. “Beautiful,” he’d said. I inhaled deeply and stared at him, trying to photograph the moment with my mind so that if it all changed, I’d still own it.
Finally, I told him, “I should get ready. Thank you for this.”
He hugged me. “I enjoyed it.” We separated, and he started down the ladder. “I’ll pick you up in an hour.”
I nodded. “Sure.”
I could have spoken to Daddy then, but Warner was coming back, and I wanted to look pretty, as pretty as I could at least. So, instead of talking to Daddy, I spent that hour showering and choosing an outfit, dressing, and blow-drying my hair, and when Warner came to pick me up he said, again, “You’re so beautiful, Emma.”
I blushed, hoping it was true.
8
Into the Woods was the type of play I’d have liked, if I hadn’t been freaking out about the real-life drama. It was about a baker and his wife, who can’t have a baby because of a family curse. The curse could be broken … but only if they collected a white cow, a red cape, corn-yellow hair, and a golden slipper from an assortment of fairy tale characters. I loved fairy tales, but I couldn’t pay attention to the play or anything except Lisette, looking stunning even in rags as Cinderella, wishing she could go to the king’s festival, yet thwarted by her horrible steprelatives. I rooted for her as she prayed to her dead mother. I wished I knew that sweet girl everyone loved.
In the darkness, I swiped at my eyes and hoped I wouldn’t look like a raccoon at intermission.
After the play, Warner said, “Wow. You really liked it. We should go backstage an
d talk to the cast.”
“Sure.” I realized it was going to look strange to have Lisette recognize me when I hadn’t told Warner about her. I looked around, wondering for the first time where Mother and Daddy were. They must have been coming to Lisette’s play. I didn’t see them.
Backstage was a frenzy of scattered costumes and makeup, Rapunzel hair, wolf ears, and red hoods. First, we interviewed the drama teacher, who gushed about tech stuff we couldn’t use. She took us over to the boy who’d played the baker and the girl who’d played the wife. They were both talkative types and, in a minute, Warner had two pages of notes.
“That’s great,” I said. “You guys were wonderful. I think we have enough for a whole article.”
Warner nodded. I glanced around, not seeing Lisette anywhere. I was going to get out without them meeting! Warner took my hand, and we were halfway to the door when I heard her voice.
“Emma!” She’d changed out of her lacy Cinderella gown, but she had on a white dress, and her hair sparkled with some kind of glittery hairspray. She looked, as always, disgustingly perfect, like Cinderella at the ball. “You came to see me!”
“School paper,” I said, trying to make it seem like no big deal. I gestured at Warner, who’d gone silent at Lisette’s entrance. “Warner, this is Lisette.”
Lisette did a mock curtsey. “I’m Emma’s stepsister.”
“Stepsister?” Warner’s eyebrows rose. “You didn’t tell me she was your stepsister.”
“Emma’s a little strange sometimes.” Lisette turned to me. “Were you ashamed of me, Em, or of him?”
“What? Neither.” The room felt suddenly airless. “Of course not. I just … it never came up. You were never around.”
Lisette laughed. “Kidding, Emma, kidding.” Her tiny white hand brushed Warner’s shoulder. “Who could be ashamed of him?”
She said it like she thought I was, and Warner shook his head. “I’m still working on how she didn’t tell me you were her stepsister.” He looked at me, questioning.
“Sorry.” I knew it was weird.
“Hey.” Again, Lisette’s hand brushed Warner’s arm. “Do you guys want to come to the cast party? I can get you in.”
“No, thanks,” I said at the same time Warner said, “Sure.”
“Great!” Lisette patted Warner’s shoulder.
I had been so close to getting out of there. And now, here she was, touching Warner’s arm, touching my boyfriend. I wanted to—I don’t know—hit her like some girl on a reality show, screaming, “Keep away from my man, skank!” Of course, I couldn’t do that, so instead, I was stuck there with Warner and Lisette, my perfect stepsister, making me look petty and plain next to her. I loved him. She didn’t. But I knew it wouldn’t matter to her. He was mine, so she’d go after him, like she always took everything that was mine. I only hoped that, for once, she wouldn’t get what she wanted, that Warner knew me and loved me like he said he did.
Warner wrote down the address of the cast party. “Got it.”
“See you there, hottie,” Lisette said.
We never made it, though. We were halfway there, Warner casting me hurt looks because, apparently, he actually believed Lisette’s b.s. about me being ashamed of him, when I got a text from Mother. I stared at the phone, barely able to read the words because of the shadows of trees through the window, but when I did read it, I had to read it again and again.
Finally, Warner saw me staring at it and said, “What’s wrong?”
“Hospital,” I choked out. “My father’s had a heart attack.”
9
I never got to talk to him. By the time we reached the hospital, he was gone. It was over, and he never knew I still loved him, that I never stopped loving him. I never knew if he still loved me, but I thought he did. I hoped he knew I loved him.
My father was gone. It was over. Any chance was gone.
Of all the things Lisette did to me, that was the one I’d never forgive her for. She’d stolen my father, and I’d let her.
The weeks after his death passed in a blur of flowers and casseroles and friends we didn’t even know we had. I saw it as in a PowerPoint—me in a black dress, my eyes red as much from allergies to the flowers as from crying. My father, in his coffin, skin an unrecognizable yellow shade. Lisette, looking beautiful and sad in black lace, weeping, somehow still perfect. Warner’s hand closing around my freckled one, his other hand in Lisette’s.
The first concrete memory I had was of my mother, the day after the funeral. I was rereading Vanity Fair, like comfort food for my mind. I was on my favorite chapter, the part where Amelia’s family goes bankrupt and Dobbin buys her piano at the bankruptcy auction. I was crying about that, about the book, about my life, which would have been wretched—wretched—if not for Warner. Thank God for Warner. He called and texted me every day and brought me the work I missed at school, and he loved me. I started to dial his number, even though he was at school, just wanting to hear his voicemail. But then I heard a scream from the next room. Lisette!
I ran out into the hallway. It was my mother. She stood in Lisette’s doorway, her arms filled with Lisette’s clothes.
“What are you doing?” But I knew. “How can you do this when Daddy’s barely gone?”
“It’s in the will. Your father and I discussed it. I have to keep her here.”
I gestured toward Lisette, who was sobbing on her bed. “Then keep her here.”
“I will. But I don’t have to pamper her, don’t have to treat her like a spoiled pet, like your father did. That’s all over now. She’s a mean little brat, Emma. You know it. Your father fell for her act, but I didn’t.”
With that, she started downstairs with Lisette’s things. She was moving Lisette back to her old room, where she’d always wanted her. Energized by her hatred, my mother made trip after trip, taking clothes, stuffed animals, books, souvenirs of Lisette’s perfect life, with a vigor she’d never possessed before. All the time, Lisette sobbed on the bed, and I knew it was wrong. Lisette had been my father’s daughter, and now, both her parents were dead. He’d never have wanted this. I should have said something more to Mother, should have stopped her. I did nothing. I felt mean, mean enough to let this happen, mean enough to let it be payback for all Lisette had done to me.
Still, I shut the door to my room and pretended to read, holding my fist against the hole in my heart, listening to my mother’s footsteps, Lisette’s sobs, on and on. It was after midnight when it finally went silent. I heard it all.
The next day, I opened the bathroom door into what had been Lisette’s room. It was empty. Lisette was gone too. I had done nothing to stop it. Did that make me mean like my mother? Or did it just make me less stupid and naïve than the girl who’d wanted so much to be Lisette’s friend?
For my birthday, the next week, Mother gave me Lisette’s car. I explained to her that I didn’t need it, that I went everywhere with Warner. She said she didn’t care. She also said she wasn’t paying for any more voice or dance lessons for Lisette, wasn’t paying for anything that wasn’t legally required. Lisette didn’t even have a cell phone anymore. If she wanted those things, Mother said, she’d have to get a job.
“How can I get a job when I don’t have a car?” Lisette asked. “Will you drive me?”
Mother shrugged. “Take the bus. That’s what poor people do.”
It wasn’t that I didn’t understand why Mother hated Lisette so much. I did, better than anyone. But the idea of acting on my hatred was just foreign to me. I held it in.
She also gave Lisette a ton of chores, cleaning, laundry, straightening up after us. She fired the cleaning lady now that she had Lisette. I felt so bad for her that I started doing extra stuff, my own laundry, and once, I left twenty dollars on her dresser.
She slipped it back under the door. She wanted nothing from me.
Weeks passed. Sometimes, at school or when I was doing my homework, I’d think about Daddy, think maybe I’d talk to him when he got h
ome, try to make things right. Then I’d remember I couldn’t, not ever. The feeling made a hollow in my stomach, like a cavity in a tooth. It was over, all over. I could never have it back the way it was.
I couldn’t even concentrate in school. All I wanted was to be with Warner. And yet, something was different between us. I felt like I couldn’t talk to him either. I felt distant from everyone, like they couldn’t hear me, even if I was screaming.
Then, one night, Mother and I were finishing dinner. We’d started eating in the dining room, the better for Lisette to serve us. I hated it. Lisette was clearing our dishes. That was when the phone rang.
“I’ll get it!” Lisette said.
I’d walked toward the kitchen to get some water. I heard Lisette whispering into the phone. I stopped. “Have you told her?” she said. “Well, you have to.”
A pause. Then she said, “Okay, I’ll see you later. But, if you haven’t said something by tomorrow, I will.” She hung up.
After she left, I checked the caller ID, but I already knew. It had been Warner. When I tried his cell phone, he didn’t answer.
I went and sat in my tree house, sinking deep, deep down, remembering how it had been when Daddy first built that house, when I was a little girl. It was May, and the wind whipped around me, turning my hair into hundreds of pins that stung my face.
Soon a car turned the corner, then waited in the street, hidden by tall trees. A slim, white figure emerged from our house and darted toward the car. Before she could get inside, a male figure came around, opened the door for her. It was a silver Civic. The boy and girl embraced. They kissed.