“We’re not fighting.” I’m not sure why I say this. Perhaps because I really want it to be true.
He almost smiles. “I’m sorry if you’re annoyed that I came over when you weren’t here, but I wanted to see you after your meeting with the writer. I was worried about you.” He reaches out and touches my cheek, and I find myself leaning into his hand.
Everything Thomas is saying sounds reasonable enough, and every feeling I’ve had since I got home suddenly seems petty and small and paranoid. I look up at Thomas, and he’s looking at me with so much patience and understanding that I feel ashamed of myself. I’m fed up with feeling ashamed of myself. “I’m sorry.” I think Thomas is as surprised as I am to hear me say those words. He crouches down in front of me and tells me that he loves me. “I know,” I say.
“Now, are you sure I can’t tempt you with that tea? I made it just the way you like it.” He arches his eyebrows and looks at me expectantly.
“No one makes it just the way I like it except me…but I will sample your pitiful attempt.” Thomas laughs and says that I’m incorrigible. I like the way the word sounds when he says it.
We sit side by side on the bed, drinking our tea. “Not bad at all,” I say, even though it’s a lie. The tea is too strong and too cold, but Thomas can only be blamed for one of those things.
“We’re okay, aren’t we?” I ask after downing the last dregs from my (Laurel’s) mug.
“Of course we are,” says Thomas. “I’m really looking forward to my birthday, you know.”
“Me too.” A romantic meal. Just the two of us, sitting at a table bathed in soft lighting, gazing into each other’s eyes, eating fancy French food. That’s what Thomas is expecting, anyway. The restaurant he thinks we’re going to is next door to the bar we’re actually going to. Thomas’s mother roped me in as the bait to get Thomas to where he needs to be for the big SURPRISE! moment. The poor boy has no idea what’s in store for him.
She’s done a good job with the pasta, I have to admit. Mom and I both have second helpings. Laurel doesn’t eat much, taking ages to twirl the fettuccine around her fork only to let it fall back onto her plate. “Not hungry, love?”
Laurel shrugs. “It’s not as good as the pasta you get from the store, is it? What’s the point of going to all that effort if it’s not better than the ready-made stuff?” She seems genuinely upset about it.
“Ah, welcome to my world!” says Mom with relish. “That’s why you’ll never find me making my own pastry….Life’s too short.” She doesn’t seem to realize how upset Laurel is, so I give her a nudge while Laurel is staring forlornly at her plate. She clears her throat. “Honestly, sweetheart, this is delicious. The best meal I’ve had in ages. And it is better than the store-bought stuff…because it’s made with love.”
I manage not to laugh at Mom’s cheesy line, which is just as well, because it’s made Laurel smile. “Really? You’re not just saying that? You promise?”
Mom smiles indulgently. “Really. Honestly. Truly. I promise.” She looks to me for backup and I nod enthusiastically, which is all I can do, given that my mouth is full of pasta.
Mom puts her spoon and fork down. “It’s amazing how far you’ve come in such a short time, Laurel,” she says, and I can tell she’s about to get all emotional again. You’d think she’d be over that by now, but no, these little scenes are still happening on a daily basis. “I’m so proud of you.” It’s not that I roll my eyes or pretend to gag or anything obvious like that, but Mom must sense my irritation, because then she says, “I’m proud of both of you.” We all clink our water glasses together. And Laurel finally starts eating her dinner.
—
Later, Laurel and Mom are downstairs watching some trash on TV. I have to get started on research for a history essay. That’s the reason I go upstairs. There’s nothing on my mind apart from wondering if I remembered to take the right book out of the school library last week. I’m almost sure I did, but now that I think about it…
Laurel’s bedroom door is open and the bedside light and main light are both switched on. Mom obviously hasn’t given her the lecture about saving electricity yet. Or maybe she never will, given that Laurel has spent so much of her life in darkness.
I could kid myself that something caught my eye in Laurel’s room, that that’s the reason I find myself in there, looking around. But nothing caught my eye. I don’t have an excuse. If she came upstairs right now and saw me, I’d be able to think of something. Looking for my laptop? That would do. Except we both know full well that she doesn’t have my laptop—I’ve been hiding it in a different place every day, just in case. She hasn’t asked to borrow it, so I guess the novelty of using it must have worn off.
The night-light is still there, but not switched on. Laurel’s one concession to saving the environment, perhaps. The room is tidy. Laurel has yet to accumulate the little possessions that make a room look like it belongs to someone. Most of the gifts people send her get donated right to the children’s hospital. That was her idea, one that made Mom positively glow with pride. I didn’t point out that most of the gifts are teddy bears and other cuddly toys, so it would be weird for her to keep them. When are people going to start remembering that Little Laurel Logan is a nineteen-year-old woman now? It’s as if the entire country—my family included—has a mental block about it. She’s kept a couple of cuddly toys, though. One Winnie the Pooh and a random reindeer.
There’s only one teddy bear that means anything to Laurel—Barnaby. I look over at Laurel’s bed, neatly made, pink and purple cushions lying at a perfect angle in front of the plumped-up pillows. No sign of Barnaby. He’s usually there, isn’t he? Nestled in between the two cushions, tucked in under the duvet. I go over for a closer look, careful to step softly so Laurel and Mom don’t hear that I’m in here. I pull back the duvet, but he’s not there. He’s not stuck between the pillows or behind the cushions. I put everything back just the way I found it—or as close to it as I can get.
I kneel down and look under the bed, just in case Barnaby has taken a tumble and is awaiting rescue. He’s nowhere to be seen. This is odd. I briefly wonder if Laurel might have taken him downstairs with her. For the first week or so after she came home, she often carried him around with her, sitting him down next to her on the sofa. I could tell it broke Mom’s heart, seeing her clutching that scruffy old bear.
Barnaby has disappeared. I have no idea why this bothers me so much. I stand back and look at the room, trying to work out where he could be hiding. The closet is the only option. This definitely counts as snooping. If Laurel catches me looking in there, the only option I have is to say that I want to borrow an item of clothing, which I haven’t done once the whole time she’s been back.
The closet is a mess. Now her tidiness makes sense—everything has been crammed in here. I smile, reassured that Laurel isn’t so perfect after all. There’s only one clothes hanger in use; the red dress lording it over all the other clothes. T-shirts and tops and sweaters and jeans are all crammed on the shelves. The ones on the bottom of the piles are folded neatly; the ones on the top are not. In the space underneath the hangers, there is a heaped pile of shoes. A shiny shoe box sits in the corner. A quick peek inside confirms my suspicions: a pair of very expensive red shoes. They match the dress perfectly. Mom and Laurel must have been on another shopping trip without bothering to tell me. Not that I blame them—I was clearly spoiling their fun the last time.
I wrap the shoes back up in the black tissue paper and put the lid back on the box. The lid won’t go on properly—one of the corners is being stubborn—so I go to pick up the box. That’s when I see the leg. A brown furry leg with a bald patch just above the paw.
Barnaby the Bear has suffered the same fate as the Wicked Witch of the West, except he’s been subjected to Death by Designer Shoes instead of Death by Tornado-Dumped House. I pick up the box to survey the damage. Actually Barnaby hasn’t been completely flattened by the shoe box, and he still has three
out of four limbs intact. But that doesn’t stop the sight of him from hurting my heart. His head is at an unnatural angle, as if his neck has been broken; he looks wrong.
Why is he stuffed into the bottom of the closet like this? Laurel loves that bear. He’s her prized possession—one of the only things that truly belongs to her. But he didn’t toddle into the closet on his own, lift up the shoe box, and snuggle under it. Mom wouldn’t have done this—no way. So Laurel must have put him here.
I know what I’m about to do is stupid. And I know it means Laurel will know that I’ve been in her room, rooting around in the bottom of her closet. But it feels like I have no other option; I can’t stand to leave him where I found him.
I put Barnaby the Bear back where he belongs, tucked in on Laurel’s bed, snug between the pillows. “There,” I whisper to the battered bear. “That’s better, isn’t it?” For the first time, I start to wonder if there might be something wrong with me, because it feels like maybe my brain isn’t working quite as it should. But it’s pointless, thinking that way. I’m fine. I’m not the one with the problem.
I switch off the bedside light and the main light.
Laurel will know for sure that I’ve been in here. The question is: what is she going to do about it?
Nothing. That’s what Laurel does about it. I hide out in my room for the rest of the evening, with a brief trip downstairs to say good-night. So I don’t see Laurel until the next morning. I’m sitting on the sofa, flicking through catalogs, when she comes downstairs. It’s one of my favorite things to do when I’m anxious. I have no idea why staring at pages and pages of terrible jewelry and cheap furniture soothes me, but it does.
“Morning,” she says.
I’m slow to look up from the catalog, busy gawking at the price of an outdoor trampoline. “Morning.” When I finally do look up, I see Laurel smiling down at me. Already dressed, with her jacket and bag in her arms, too. There’s a short silence—a moment when either of us could mention Barnaby or the fact that I’ve been through her stuff. A look passes between us, neither friendly nor unfriendly, and then it’s over and she’s putting on her jacket. “Where are you off to?” I ask.
“Nowhere special.” She picks up her bag and puts it on her shoulder.
“I’ve heard it’s really good there.”
A brief, baffled look before she gets the joke. “Ha,” she says.
“Want some company?” I don’t want to go with her, wherever she’s going, but I do want to see what she says.
“No, thanks. Not today. Penny says it’s time I started being more independent. Anyway, I’d better get going.” She turns away and heads toward the door.
“What’s the rush? Is Nowhere Special open this early?”
She doesn’t even bother with a ha this time. She doesn’t even turn around. “I’m not rushing. I’m just ready to go, that’s all. See you later, okay?”
I say good-bye, but the door is already closed.
I jump up from the sofa, and the catalog falls on my foot. I hobble over to the window and watch Laurel walk down the street. I’m ready to duck down out of sight in case she suddenly turns around, but she doesn’t. I press my nose up against the window and lean as far as I can so that I can watch her for as long as possible. She walks with her shoulders straight—with an easy confidence I’ve never even attempted let alone mastered.
As soon as Laurel’s out of sight, I rush to the front door and open it. The ground is wet, and the damp starts soaking through the soles of my slippers the second I step outside. I peer around the hedge, not caring how suspicious I look. I’m just in time to see Laurel reach the end of our road. If she turns left, she’ll be going to the bus stop where you take the bus to the city center. I seem to spend half my life waiting at that bus stop.
Laurel turns right. Unless she’s going to the crematorium (which seems highly unlikely), she’s probably catching a bus in the opposite direction, away from town. Why would she be going that way? The only time I ever go to that bus stop is when I’m going to Thomas’s house and he refuses to come and pick me up.
A light drizzle begins to fall as I stand on our front path in my pajamas. The mail carrier is walking down the street toward me, back bent under the weight of the mailbag. He says a cheery “Morning” as he hands me two letters and a postcard (both addressed to Laurel).
“Morning,” I echo. He doesn’t comment on my clothes or look at me as if I’m crazy; I guess he must see all sorts of odd things, doing a job like that.
The drizzle turns into a steady rain, and I realize I should probably get inside. My legs want to go the other way, though—they want to follow Laurel, to check if she’s waiting at the bus stop and maybe even to wait and see if she gets on the number 67, which stops five minutes away from Thomas’s house. I stand rooted to the spot for a few seconds before my brain finally wins the battle. My brain knows that there’s no way Laurel’s going to Thomas’s house. She doesn’t even know his address. Unless he told her.
I go upstairs to get my phone, texting Thomas to see what he’s up to this morning. I ask if he wants to meet up. His reply arrives about an hour later: Can’t this morning. Sorry. Mom wants to go shopping for my bday present. Tonight?
Thomas’s mom wants to buy him a watch for his birthday, but she knows she wouldn’t be able to choose the perfect one by herself. Thomas already told me this. They’re even going to get it engraved. So there’s no reason to think he’s lying. I text back to say I’m suddenly not feeling very well so I’d better stay home tonight. He says he hopes I feel better soon.
Laurel must have gone somewhere else. Maybe she’s just planning to hop on a bus and see where she ends up. That’s exactly the kind of weird thing she would do.
I decide to put it out of my mind completely. I will not allow myself to turn into a paranoid wreck. I tell myself that I don’t care where Laurel has gone—it’s none of my business. Anyway, I’m only a third of the way through my favorite catalog.
When I eventually go to get dressed, I pop my head into Laurel’s room. The bed is neatly made, cushions in place.
Barnaby the Bear is not there. He’s not in the closet, either.
The week has been drama-free. I haven’t mentioned Barnaby. Laurel and I had a good weekend at Dad and Michel’s. Since being mobbed at the farmers’ market, Laurel has stayed home. Business is booming, probably because people feel they can’t come up and ask questions about Laurel without buying something. Michel is happy to take their money, but he never tells them anything about Laurel.
The only awkward moment was when Dad sat Laurel down to tell her that the DNA test the police keep going on about has been scheduled for a week from Thursday. They can’t put it off any longer, apparently. He’d tried his best to convince them it wasn’t necessary, that Laurel had been through enough. But they wouldn’t budge. At least they’ve agreed that Mom can be the one to do the cheek swab, to minimize Laurel’s distress.
Laurel asked why they needed to do the test, and Dad said that Sergeant Dawkins had told him they needed to double-check something in their files. She’d left three messages on his phone about it, so it must be pretty important. Dad told Laurel that there was nothing to be afraid of. She looked like she was about to puke. Dad put his arm around her and asked if it was okay with her. She said nothing for the longest time.
I decided to chip in. “You should do it, Laurel. Get it over with. I’ll be with you, if you want.”
Laurel looked over at me, sitting in my corner with Tonks on my lap. I nodded encouragingly, and after a second’s hesitation, she nodded back. She turned to Dad and said, “Okay.”
—
Thomas has been quiet this week. Martha and I have been teasing him about getting old. I asked him how the shopping trip with his mom went. “Fine,” he said.
“So you found a watch?”
“Yeah,” he said, before changing the subject. Maybe he was pouting because his mom hadn’t bought him the vintage one he wanted. O
r maybe he was starting to realize that he should have asked for money instead, like a normal person.
On the day of his birthday, I get to school early and tie a balloon to the radiator near where we normally sit in the cafeteria. The balloon is tacky as anything—silver and heart-shaped, with multicolored letters saying BIRTHDAY BOY. I have his present in my bag, along with a homemade card. I haven’t decided whether I’ll give them to him at school or at the party. Either way, I’d prefer it if Thomas and I were alone. No one else would think the present was particularly impressive, but I know Thomas will like it. I bought it months ago, long before I started wondering if I still wanted him to be my boyfriend. I remember being so pleased with myself at the time—so smug that I’d found the perfect present for him even though he’s impossible to buy for.
Martha arrives a couple of minutes before Thomas. She eyes the balloon with approval and suggests that we start singing “Happy Birthday” as soon as Thomas walks through the door. I’m tempted—just to see his reaction—but he’s got enough public humiliation in store for him tonight. We sit with our backs against the radiator and watch the door until Thomas comes in, head down, headphones on, completely oblivious to everything around him. He doesn’t look up until he’s right in front of us. He smiles when he notices the balloon bobbing away.
“Aw, you guys! You shouldn’t have!” he says in an overly enthusiastic voice. Then he gives us a withering look. “I suppose this was your idea,” he says, looking at Martha.
“No, no, I couldn’t possibly take the credit for this little delight,” Martha says as she rummages around in her bag. “But I can, however, take all the credit for this!” She produces a huge envelope with a flourish. Inside is the ugliest card I’ve ever seen, complete with an equally ugly saucer-sized badge that reads 18 TODAY!!!
“Happy Birthday, Mr. Bolt,” says Martha, standing and giving him an awkward hug.