“The art show...” I stammered. “It’s tomorrow. The rides are already up outside. They have a VCR waiting for me.”
“Don’t go,” she said again and I found myself laying beside her, holding hands, watching the stars. “This night will be perfect if you stay. We can lay exactly like this until our muscles get all stiff. We can pretend like the movie doesn’t matter, that we made it, that it was fun, but that, in the end, it doesn’t really matter. Eventually, everything’s gonna change and run off without us... but maybe we can make tonight last forever if we try hard enough. You know that moment when you hug somebody you like? When your heart feels warm and high and tingly in your chest? When you feel just for a second like a baby in a womb... that nothing matters? That’s how I want you to feel tonight. That’s what a girlfriend should do, I think.”
So I stayed with Mara on the castle roof. Just a little longer.
* * *
“Son of a bee hive,” I said. “They’re back.”
Five smallish boys dismounted their bikes at the top of the driveway, then walked them quietly through the woods.
“Forgot ‘em, James,” Mara said, leaning back on her elbows.
Bellydown, I peered over the brick barrier and squinted to make out the faces. My first assumption was that Ryan Brosh was storming the castle to kidnap Mara. But these boys were offish and awkward, and Ryan’s friends would have carried their bikes. A glint of starlight snagged a pair of glasses.
“Don’t let them ruin another night,” Mara said.
“What time is it?” I asked.
“Late.”
I crawled back to Mara’s side. “What if they build another ladder?”
“Then your dad’ll tear it down.”
Again, I imagined Mara lulling Livy to sleep with a tape of her voice, tossing a blanket from the bedroom window, shimmying down the wall, and kissing one of the ferrety trespassers in a tree.
“We should check it out,” I said, then blew out the candle. “We’ll come right back. I promise.”
* * *
“Their bikes are gone. They must’ve ditched ‘em closer to the driveway.”
Mara yawned. “Let’s finish our movie, James.”
I stood on my pillow to get a better angle. “There’s three of them. They’re looking for the rungs.”
“Thanks for the piercing my ears tonight...”
“Should I go out there? Give ‘em a good scare?”
“Your Dad’ll kill you. Any more trespassers–”
“–and we call the sheriff. I know.”
Mara stepped toward the door. “Goodnight, James.”
“Wait!” I said. “They’re looking up now.”
“How many times are we gonna do this?”
I watched the boys step backwards and crane their necks. They were fixated on something, but not with their usual zombie-like trance. “They’re laughing,” I said and narrowed my eyes. “They’re looking in your room and laughing.”
“They’re always looking in my room,” she said.
“But Mara, you’re not there.”
Mara Lynn looked at me and our eyes widened at the exact same time. I leapt off the bed, joined her at the bathroom door, and we ran hand-in-hand to Livy’s bedroom.
The trash-bag curtains were lying in a tattered heap on the ground. Pieces of duct tape were still attached to the window molding. Livy was positioned in the center of the frame, hair frazzled and blonde, arms poised above her head, gyrating in a teal bra and matching underwear that I once saw peeking from the rim of Mara’s jeans.
“What the heck, Liv!” I cried.
She twirled to face us. Her ribs heaved with a tremendous breath. A smile garnished her white face; plaster-white like cement before it dries.
“Oh Livy,” Mara said.
My sister walked like a porcelain doll brought to life; a limp spine, top-heavy swagger, and a pair of earrings that jostled as she stepped. “Like my lipsticcck?” she asked, staring at Mara. “Like my eyeshadooow and my headbaaand and my undieees? Recognize them Maaaraaa?”
As Livy approached, I could see the gruesome details of her transformation. Blisters infected her scalp. Her hair was brittle and frayed. The lipstick filled her chapped lips like pink spackle. I backed away because, if cooties existed, they were feeding on my sister.
Mara cowered in the doorway as Livy loomed overhead. “They like me,” she purred, “They like me out there, Maaaraaa. And Ryan’s gonna like me too.” Her grin expanded... then fell. She reached out her hand–still black except for sporadic patches of paint–and fingered Mara’s new earring.
“You...” Livy couldn’t finish her sentence. Without warning, she reeled back, spit in Mara’s face, dashed to the bathroom, and wailed.
* * *
Six hours until the Fairytale premiere.
The forest was golden. The sun passed through the dense canopy as if the leaves were scraps of yellow cellophane, diffusing the light into a visible, tangible atmosphere.
I wanted to hold Mara’s hand, but she shied away whenever I made a move. Maybe she didn’t want Whit to see us touch.
It was a nostalgic afternoon. The three of us strolled through the castle estate, chatting about our summer as if it was eons ago, kicking the cardboard remains of soggy roman candles, and cringing at the yellow snapdragon stain in the driveway. Whit and I reenacted our first encounter with Danny and A.J. in the woods. Mara found the patch of onion weeds where we filmed her conversation with Dorothy. She plucked a purple flower and wove it through her hair.
“I have presents,” Whit said. “Grab my bag?”
Mara heaved the backpack from beneath his chair.
“Open it,” he said.
She unzipped the main pocket and removed a statue of a gold man holding a star above his head. She read the plate at the base of the trophy and smiled. “This one says James.”
I took it and read the text aloud, “Best Director, James Parker. Fairytale, 1994.”
“They’re supposed to look like Oscars,” Whit said. “I got one for Livy for best makeup. Mine’s at home–”
“On your achievement shelf?” Mara asked.
“Dead center.”
She pulled out a second trophy and read the inscription. “Best Actress: Mara Lynn Landon. Fairytale, 1994.”
“Whit,” I said, “these are–”
“Totally killer. You’re welcome.”
“But the movie–”
“Disappointing, I know. But these trophies will commemorate the good times.”
Mara bent down and hugged him (a second too long if you asked me) then thanked him profusely.
“We’ll finish it next week,” I said. “Maybe we can have a showing over Labor Day weekend.”
“Yeah,” he said. “That’ll be fun.”
“Mr. Parker?”
We turned around.
The voice belonged to Sheriff Beeder. He was making the rounds along the rear castle wall, collecting evidence at my father’s demand. “Excuse me, Mr. Parker?” he called again.
When I realized that I was Mr. Parker, I handed my trophy to Mara and pushed Whit toward the house and man.
“Your parents want you to stay close,” he said. “Would you mind playing in the front yard until we catch the delinquents?”
“Sure thing, Officer Beeder,” I said.
“How long’s it gonna take?” asked Whit.
The man flashed a jolly lumberjack smile, “The woods’ll be yours again before you know it!”
“Would it really hurt if we stayed a little longer?” Mara asked.
“Well little lady, I’m afraid I have strict orders from your parents to keep you outta these woods. And as a county sheriff–”
Mara stepped forward. Her voice quivered with a subtle, yet natural southern drawl. “Surely there’s something we can do to have a few more minutes in the woods.”
“I’m sorry, kids–”
“We can go,” I said. “Really, it’s not a
big deal.” I grabbed Mara’s hand but she jerked away without breaking her dainty self-control.
She stepped forward. “Sheriff, we’d like to play in the woods for five more minutes.”
His left knee was bent, causing his whole body to slouch to one side like a puppet without a hand up its butt.
I looked at Whit. He shrugged.
Mara took another step which placed her two feet away from the paralyzed cop. She tilted her head with all the innocence of a farmer’s daughter, but her voice lowered to a sinister purr. “Mr. Beeder?”
His shoulder twitched and his knee snapped to attention. “Why don’t you kids poke around the woods for a bit?” he said. “No harm in that, I suppose!”
Mara relaxed her porcelain pose and skipped back to my side. “That’s so sweet of you, Sheriff Beeder, but my friends and I have decided to hang out by the beach. Thanks again!”
The man tipped his hat, “Probably for the best. G’day miss.”
Whit and I questioned Mara about her audacity, but she ignored us. As we strolled around the castle, we watched the sheriff poking around the stumps and raspberries bushes. Twice he bent down: once to inspect a mysterious pile of deer turds, and once to retrieve a plastic baggie from the weeds. He sniffed the baggie, removed a sheath from his pocket, then slipped the suspicious-looking bag inside.
We rolled Whit down the retaining wall staircase one step at a time. Mara took the front and I took the back, lifting just enough to control the bounce. “You two are better than shocks!” he said.
We sat together on the top ridge of the dune and raked our fingers through the sand. Mara discovered a solitary dandelion tangled in the grass. “Look at this wish,” she said. “Must be the last one of the summer.”
“Wish?” I dug my fingers below the root system and plucked it from the sand. “Around here, we call ‘em ‘dandelions.’”
“They’re called taraxacum officinale,” Whit said.
I rolled my eyes.
“The dune grass must’ve kept the seeds from floating away.”
Mara pinched the stem and gently removed it from my hand. “I bet it’s extra lucky.”
“I wonder why the silliest things grant wishes,” I said. “Weeds, eyelashes, chicken bones, horse poop, clovers... if they really worked, you’d think they’d be harder to find.”
“Or everybody on the planet would be happy,” Whit said.
Mara ignored our cynicism. She held the flower to her perfect lips, closed her eyes, and blew away the delicate seeds.
* * *
Mara’s new earrings were a side note in the hectic afternoon. Mom missed them in the previous night’s chaos, but noticed them immediately in the daylight. Mara left me out of it, claiming she pierced them by herself.
I knew enough about the fostering rulebook to know that Mom was supposed to report Mara’s shenanigans to the social worker. Instead, she complimented her on the pretty shade of violet, then suggested a dab of alcohol twice a day to ward off infection.
Mom spent the rest of the day apologizing to friends and family for the canceled screening, explaining–the best she knew how–the reasons for my procrastination.
While Mara and Whit made lemon-lime slushes in the blender, Dad tapped me on the shoulder and ushered me discreetly into his office. “James,” he said, “have a seat.”
I rarely saw my father in his element. He looked dignified among rows of books, unraveled blueprints, and a mug of pens on his cherry-wood desk. He pointed to the drawings and asked, “Do you know what these are?”
“Blueprints?” I said.
“On the surface, you’re right. But to your old man, they’re more than a bunch of straight lines on blue paper.”
The blender whirred in the kitchen followed by a flood of giggles. Get to the stinkin’ point, Dad.
“When I see a drawing that’s incomplete, I know it means that I get to spend less time with you and your sister. It means less time with my beautiful wife. Sometimes, an incomplete drawing wears me out so much that I need to lock myself in the tower and watch birds, just to feel...” He paused to search for the perfect word. “...untethered. I see unfinished work, and I want to throw it on the floor and run home to my family. But that’s the job. And if I don’t finish the drawings, my clients get mad. And if I lose clients, then I can’t be the executive producer on my son’s brilliant films. My job requires me to meet deadlines, and I’ve never missed one.”
I finally saw where this lecture was going. I nodded.
Dad leaned forward and watched me over his spectacle rims. “But there’s more to these blueprints than a lesson about procrastination. These drawings represent the sheer joy I have for my job. I’m one of the few, James. I get to do what I love. When I was your age, I made a promise to myself that I was going to be an architect. It took hard work and persistence, but eventually, I made it. And that’s what I want for you. If you want to be a director, then work your butt off until you become a director. Figure out what you love to do, and make that your job. There’s nothing more important in life.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to–”
“No excuses, son. Just remember what I said.”
“I will.”
Dad turned his attention to the sheet in front of him and removed a pen from the mug.
I stood.
“James?” he said without looking up.
“Yeah, Dad?”
“What’s the story with you and Mara?”
“What do you mean?”
Dad ignored my question. I knew exactly what he meant, and he knew it.
“We’re friends...” I said. “But we kinda like each other too.” Not another lecture, I thought. Please not another lecture!
“Does your mother know?”
“No. Please don’t tell her!”
Dad placed his pen in the mug, removed his glasses altogether, and spoke as much with his eyes as with his voice. “I’ll refrain from telling your mother... on one condition.”
“What is it?”
“I want you to enjoy the night.”
The expression on my face reflected my puzzlement.
“When I told you that there’s nothing more important in life than doing what you love for a living, I was lying.”
“What–”
“Tonight will be Mara’s first time at a carnival, am I right?”
“You’re right.”
“She’s had a messy childhood, James. And I know some of that has been rubbing off on you. If you like that girl, then treat her right tonight. Split an elephant ear, show her the rides, share the excitement. Tell her how you feel, unabashedly and unafraid. And if she doubts you, tell her again. Most importantly, remember the moments you spend together, then keep those memories safe. There’s nothing sweeter in life than young love. You only experience it once, and it’s over much too soon.”
* * *
As the reader of this memoir, you’re probably wondering why the hell my parents let us out of the house after the mayhem the little foster girl brought upon our home. But keep in mind your privileged perspective. You see the important bits laid out before you in structured prose. The cruelty of Danny Bompensaro, Livy’s break with reality, the boys in the trees, Ms. Grisham’s roll of film, the twins’ bad behavior, my incomplete fairytale; you see Mara as the eye of the storm. But to my parents, these were isolated incidents without a logical link. Putting the pieces together required faith in the impossible, a childlike understanding of Mara’s total effect. Mom approached a fantastical explanation after a trip to the mall. She recognized the mysterious force urging her to buy ungodly amounts of clothes for the child. But in the end, black can never be white, one plus one must always equal two, and Mara Lynn was a normal little girl.
Besides, we were kids. Not only did the carnival mark the end of our summer vacation, but it would be Mara’s first experience. To deny us the taste of cotton candy and the nausea from upside-down rides was practically a form of
child abuse.
My parents may have been lax, but total freedom was not an option. Mara and I were still grounded, Livy was a basket case, and Whit’s Mom would only let him go if there was a strict chaperone. Since the night had already been reserved for the cancelled Fairytale premiere, Mom and Dad were free to serve as our personal bodyguards.
Livy begged to stay home. She was already scheduled to see a therapist on the first day of eighth grade, a punishment she considered adequate for dancing semi-nude for strange boys and spitting on Mara. But Mom refused to leave her alone. “If you’re not up to riding the rides, you’re welcome to join the old geezers on the bench. Your father and I love to people-watch in big crowds.”
“Riiight,” Livy said. “So my friends can spot me hangin’ with my parents while Mara’s being adorable and havin’ fun.”
When Livy prepared herself for the evening with powder on her arms, legs, and exposed midriff, Mom confiscated her makeup case, replaced the stash in her purse with a single tube of lip gloss, and lead her–sobbing–to the car.
We arranged to meet Kimmy and Haley at Great Lakes Faaamily Diner. Jokes were made, impressions performed; Mara was teased for her commercial but she laughed with the rest, her tongue still green from the homemade slush.
Mom regaled the kids with the story about my first time with a video camera (an anecdote I suspect she was saving for my big debut). She spoke with her hands and reenacted the funny parts with fries and a burger. “So I peek in his bedroom door and there’s Whitney, laying on the desk, covered from head to toe in ketchup, screaming louder than a chicken on fire! James finally says ‘cut,’ then tells Whit he’s doing it all wrong; he needs to imagine that a zombie is really eating his legs!”
I always admired my mother’s ability to find the good in bad situations. Even as I write this, she calls me twice a week with stories of the one-eyed chemo nurse, (“She’s such a sweetheart!”) or tales from Dad’s escapades (“Last week he started teaching himself the guitar, now he’s brewing beer in the garage. Heaven help us if he does both in the same night!”)
“Nobody tells you how itchy ketchup can be,” Whit said and we laughed.
“And you never complained!” Mom replied. “James just pushed record, yelled ‘action,’ and you go at it again!”
“I was so peeved at James,” Livy added and the table fell quiet. “I got out of the shower that night and my towel was covered in Whit’s nasty blood.” Livy’s memory was only a little bit funny, but we toppled together in fits of laughter.