Outside in the hall, she heard her sisters being hyper because it was the last day of school. She should get up and be hyper with them.
So get up! she told herself. Up and at ’em! Last day of school! Yay!
Ava knocked on her door and burst into her room without waiting for permission. “Natasha!” she cried. She leapt onto Natasha’s bed and straddled Natasha on her hands and knees. She bounced and made the mattress rock. Her hair tickled Natasha’s face.
“Guess what?” Ava said. “Guess-what-guess-what-guess-what?!”
“Ava, get off,” Natasha said. She sputtered, trying to get Ava’s hair out of her mouth.
Ava bounced more enthusiastically. It jostled the bad dream out of her, anyway. “I’m not going away until you guess. So guess!”
Natasha tried to push her off, but Ava was a ball of muscle. Skinny, but strong.
“Ugh, fine,” she said. “Is it that today is the last day of school?”
“Nope! You lose, except actually you win anyway.” She jiggled with excitement.
“Ow,” Natasha said. “Ava. You’re making me need to pee.”
“Darya!” Ava bellowed. “She’s awake! Get in here—and bring the paper!”
Natasha squirmed out from beneath Ava. She was adjusting her rumpled pajamas when Darya came in and plopped down on the edge of the bed. She thrust a section of the Willow Hill Weekly at Natasha.
“Look!” she said.
“At what?” Natasha groused.
“Oh, stop being a poopie and look,” Ava commanded. She grabbed the paper from Darya and held it an inch from Natasha’s eyes. “See?”
Natasha batted it away. “Hold on. Sheesh.” She arranged herself in a more comfortable position and took the paper.
CONGRATULATIONS TO THE WINNERS OF THE YOUNG WRITERS CONTEST! read the headline at the top of the page.
Hope pressed hard and fast against her ribs. Her gaze flew to Ava, whose eyes danced with excitement. Darya was playing it cool, because Darya was Darya, but she raised her eyebrows to form two pleased peaks.
Natasha skimmed the names beneath the announcement. Then she slowed down and read them again:
FIRST PLACE: ANICA RUSSO
SECOND PLACE: THOMAS BURNETT
THIRD PLACE: SKYLAR TREVARTON
Her hope came crashing down. She looked at her sisters, not understanding.
“Are you so happy?” Ava asked. “Are you so glad I entered your story for you?”
“I didn’t win,” Natasha said.
“Well, no, but look.” Ava took the paper from Natasha, cleared her throat, and read, “‘With an honorable mention to Natasha Blok.’” She lowered the paper. “That’s you! You’re Natasha Blok!”
“Let me see,” Natasha said.
Ava handed it over and pointed to the relevant paragraph. “Read it out loud.”
“But you just did.”
“I didn’t read all of it. Read the whole thing, Natasha.”
Below each winner’s name was a description of his or her story, with comments from the judges. And below that was Natasha’s name, really and truly. There were a few sentences about her—how old she was, where she went to school, a quote from her English teacher about what promise she showed (!). Then, from the judges:
“Ms. Blok’s short story demonstrates a wonderful ear for dialogue and an emotional depth far past her years. A writer to be watched.”
“You’re a writer to be watched!” Ava crowed.
A writer to be watched? Natasha thought. Plus she had emotional depth and a wonderful ear for dialogue. The praise made her warm. Then she wondered why, if she was a writer to be watched and those other things, did she only get an honorable mention?
She felt indignant.
Then she looked at her name, right there in the Willow Hill Weekly. Forget first place or second place or whatever. She was a writer. A real, live writer, and it had happened without any wishes at all.
At school, Molly gave her a huge hug.
Stanley told her how cool it was to see her name in the paper, and she said, “Thanks.” She was glad they were able to look each other in the eye again.
Rameen Pezeshki said it wasn’t fair that she was good at math and good at writing, and Belinda Berry said, “I remember that poem you wrote in fifth grade. About frogs? I’m totally not surprised your story won, because that poem rocked.”
Natasha started to correct her—she didn’t win, she just got an honorable mention—but ended up letting it slide. Natasha remembered her frog poem, but she had no idea anyone else did, especially Belinda, who sat on tables and flirted with boys.
She would be nicer to Belinda, Natasha decided. Just because Belinda was popular didn’t mean she wasn’t a possible friend.
Claire Stuber gave her a second copy of the newspaper announcement, which Claire’s mother had cut out in case Natasha wanted a spare. Benton slapped her palm and said, “Keep slingin’ those words, bae!”
Natasha cautiously agreed, then asked Molly what “bae” meant.
“Omigosh. That he likes you, that’s all!” She blushed. “Not like likes you. We’re done with that. And he should be done with the word ‘bae.’ But—it’s his way of saying congratulations. Okay?”
“Yes ma’am,” Natasha said. She couldn’t suppress her grin.
Then Natasha’s honorable mention got lost in the tidal wave of last-day mania. Summer! No school! Hot days and swimming pools. Popsicles, both the healthy all-fruit ones Aunt Vera bought and the decadent Häagen-Dazs ice cream bars Aunt Elena snuck into the freezer.
Papa came into closer focus in the summer, too. He came to the house more. He talked more. In the summer, Papa sometimes smiled.
Natasha was in English class, thinking about that, when a memory rose to the surface and washed over her, pulling her completely away from the real world.
“And Nate’s smile,” Aunt Elena had said. This was several years ago. Natasha was supposed to be in bed, but she’d come down for a glass of water. When she heard Papa’s name, she paused outside the kitchen and listened.
“The way his face lit up when Klara entered the room,” Aunt Elena went on. “Can’t you just see it?”
“Klara made everyone light up,” Aunt Vera said.
“But Nate . . . The way he looked at her . . .” Aunt Elena’s tone grew wistful. “I was jealous of them—did you know that? Not in a bad way. But they were my favorite couple. They were so happy.”
“Sure, until Klara up and left without a word. In my book, that disqualifies them from the happiest couple award.”
“Depression is complicated. You know that.”
“Depression is a luxury.”
Aunt Elena had sighed. “Not everyone’s as strong as you are, Vera.”
“So it’s my duty to take up the slack?” Aunt Vera said. “I love those girls. I would throw myself in front of a train for them. But shouldn’t that be Klara’s job?”
Natasha had tiptoed back upstairs and lain in a fetal position, pulling her comforter under her chin. She wasn’t thirsty anymore.
She came out of the memory and was startled by how loud her classmates were. They wore such bright colors. Their smiles were wide and easy.
When the final bell rang, the junior high students stormed the halls in a wild, hormone-driven rush toward freedom.
“Come on!” Molly urged. She pulled on Natasha’s backpack. “All the seventh graders are going to Sweet Treat. The sooner we get there, the more likely we are to get seats away from Darya and her posse. Unless you want to sit with Darya and her posse?”
“I don’t,” Natasha said. She felt off balance. “But you go. Tomorrow we’ll spend the whole day together, ’kay?”
“Okay, bae,” Molly said. She hurried to catch up with the crowd. “See ya soon, bae!”
“Love you, bae!” Natasha called.
She stood quietly for a few moments after stepping out of the school building, then started off toward home.
“Good
or bad, happy or sad—at least you’re not a blackbird,” someone said when she was deep in the forest. “Eh? Am I right? Hmm?”
It was the Bird Lady. Natasha recognized her raspy voice.
“Where are you?” Natasha said, scanning the surroundings.
The Bird Lady popped out from behind an oak tree. She wore a long skirt today, and she swished her hips to make it flutter against her army boots. “I’m not wearing my disguise anymore.”
“So I see,” Natasha said. “Why’d you say at least I’m not a blackbird?”
“Oh my. What did they feed you today? Figgy pudding?” The Bird Lady joined Natasha on the path. “You can’t be a bird because you’re a girl.”
Natasha shifted her backpack. “I know that. But you said it like I should be glad. Why should I be glad I’m not a blackbird?”
“Four and twenty blackbirds, baked in a pie,” the Bird Lady said.
“Nobody is going to bake me in a pie,” Natasha stated.
“Stranger things have happened,” the Bird Lady said. “Haven’t you learned that beneath the ordinary world lies a hidden world? The hidden world can also be good or bad, happy or sad.” She nodded. “Your mother knows.”
Natasha’s senses went on high alert. “What?”
“I said your mother knew.”
Natasha stepped closer. She smelled green saplings and blackberries and something spicy that tickled her nose.
“What do you know about my mother?”
“If I tell you, what will you give me in return?”
“I don’t know. Anything you want!”
The Bird Lady’s eyes narrowed. “No,” she said. Her voice made Natasha shiver. “Your three wishes have been used—don’t offer to give anybody ‘anything’ ever again. Do you promise?”
Natasha’s heart pounded.
“Do you promise?” the Bird Lady demanded.
“Sure. Yes. Whatever.”
“Your mother is gone,” the Bird Lady said.
“I realize that,” Natasha said sharply.
“But she left you something.” The Bird Lady coyly hid her hands behind her.
“No,” Natasha said. Cold sweat beaded at the small of her back. “If she left something for me, why would she give it to you?”
The Bird Lady unfolded her fingers. A note lay on her palm. It was much larger than the others, more like a letter, really, but with Natasha written in the now familiar handwriting.
“Do you want it?” the Bird Lady said.
Natasha’s throat squeezed shut.
“As you please,” the Bird Lady said, “but it’s not mine.” She turned over her hand, and the note fluttered to the ground.
Natasha felt faint. Her backpack listed to one side and almost tipped her over.
The Bird Lady vanished.
The note remained, two feet in front of her.
Natasha’s breaths were shallow. She didn’t want to step into the air where the Bird Lady had been. She did want the note, though. She squatted and reached for it, without allowing herself to move her feet. Her fingertips grazed the paper. Her muscles strained. One more s-t-r-e-t-c-h and . . .
She had it.
I wish I could tell someone.
—EMILY
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Natasha ducked off the path, sat on a rock, and opened the note. She read the words, fast-fast-fast. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to empty herself of everything.
A bird sang. A small animal scuffled. A breeze ruffled the note, and Natasha smoothed it against her thighs. She looked down and read it again, each and every word:
Natasha, I saw your name in the paper! Oh, honey, an honorable mention! If I were there, I’d wrap you up in the biggest hug ever and take you out for ice cream. I’d ask to read the story you submitted, and I hope you would let me, but if you didn’t, I’d understand. Certain things are private. Certain things can’t be shared, not in the ordinary way. But writing, whether you show it to anyone or not, is a safe way to let things out, isn’t it?
Safer, at any rate.
You and I are alike, I think. We can both say things on paper that we can’t say out loud. That’s why, for me, notes are easier than talking.
That’s why I got scared. I thought maybe you’d want to talk; that’s why I suggested it way back when. Then I thought, “What if she’s better off without me?”
The same old problem. It’s always the same old problem. But that’s why the notes stopped, in case you were wondering. It was me, not you. It always has been.
Oh, Natasha, you must have hated me when you read the Wishing Day letter I left for you. (You did get the letter, didn’t you? Of course you did. I’m sure you did. It’s just, your father . . . I hope he did as I asked, that’s all.)
Well.
Sweet girl, I can’t say what I need to say, out loud or on paper. I try to open my heart, and the wings come crashing down. My tears are smearing the ink.
I love you, Natasha. Always.
—Mama
When Natasha lifted her head, the forest was just as it had been. Leaves rustled. Two chickadees quarreled above her, then flew to another tree and took up their argument again. A bar of light fell across her lap, brightening the faded blue of her jeans.
Was the note truly from Mama? If it was, then the others were, too . . . right?
Natasha folded the note and tucked it into the small pouch at the top of her backpack, which she carefully zipped closed. She walked to Papa’s workshop. She rapped on the wooden door.
No one responded.
“Papa?” she said.
She heard a bang, followed by a short exclamation of pain. He’d stubbed his toe, maybe, or banged his elbow on his drafting table.
“Papa, it’s me. Natasha. I’m coming in.”
Papa stopped nursing his thumb when she stepped through the doorway. “Natasha,” he said.
Natasha thought three things in rapid succession:
He looks so old, way older than he should.
He loves me so much.
I love him, too.
Then an ache of loneliness pierced her heart. Those things were true, but threaded through all of them was a sadder truth:
And yet he doesn’t know me, not really.
“Is it time for supper?” he asked. He squinted at the window, where dust motes floated in the gold, filmy light. “Surely it’s too early for supper, unless—oh no. I didn’t forget another birthday, did I?”
“Papa, stop,” Natasha said. Two years ago, Ava staged an elaborate birthday dinner for Papa. She made place cards. She planned the menu. She left personalized invitations on everyone’s pillow the night before, requesting that “all guests be seated in the dining room by five p.m. on the dot.” It was very cute and very Ava, and at 5:01, she stepped proudly out of the kitchen with a tray of stacked blini, the Russian version of crepes.
They were delicious and buttery and warm, or they would have been if they’d been gobbled up straight away, as they were meant to be. But Ava insisted they wait for Papa, who didn’t come and didn’t come, and who wasn’t in his workshop when Natasha pushed back her chair and went to get him. He’d gone into town because he’d run out of wood stain. He’d forgotten it was his birthday entirely.
The blini were cold and rubbery when Aunt Vera said, “For heaven’s sake,” and forked a bite into her mouth despite Ava’s protests. The others followed suit, and everyone lied and told Ava they were perfect. Papa showed up half an hour later, baffled by everyone’s chilly response.
“No, you didn’t forget anyone’s birthday,” Natasha said, “and no, it’s not time for dinner.”
Papa relaxed. “Right. Yes. Good.” He hesitated. “In that case . . . ?”
“Do you have a letter for me?” Natasha asked.
Papa looked at her without comprehension.
“From Mama, and you were supposed to give it to me on my Wishing Day?”
Papa rubbed the back of his neck. “Oh. That.” He looked sad,
like he always did when anyone mentioned Mama. “It’s just that your aunts said it would be better, you see, to wait. So I held on to it.”
Natasha willed herself to act calm. “But there is a letter? From Mama?”
“She left one for each of you girls,” Papa said.
“Can I have it? The one for me?”
A shadow moved across his face. Natasha felt a swell of frustration. Yes, be sad, she thought. Yes, stay in your own world. That’s nothing new. But give me the letter first!
“Papa,” she said.
He pulled himself together. “Yes, yes. If Vera and Elena changed their minds, then of course.” He went to the desk he used when he did his accounting. With a small gold key, he unlocked the uppermost drawer. He opened it and took out three creamy envelopes.
For all of Natasha’s life, Papa’s desk had stood at the far end of his workshop, and ever since she was five there’d been a locked drawer and a letter within the drawer from her mother. Three letters from her mother, and she’d known nothing about any of it.
What else didn’t she know?
Papa shifted, and his broad shoulders blocked Natasha’s view. She heard the drawer slide shut and the clink of the key hitting home. When he turned, he held a single envelope against his chest. He crossed the room and offered it to her, but he didn’t let go when she took hold of it.
His eyes swam with tears. Seeing them made tears spring to Natasha’s eyes.
“I love you very much, Natasha,” Papa said.
“I love you, too,” she said. She could feel the sealed flap on the underside of the envelope. On the front was Natasha’s name, written in the same loopy cursive as the other notes she’d received.
“Your mother was a good woman,” he said. “Is a good woman, and she loves you, too. You need to know that.”
“Okay,” Natasha said.
Papa let go of the envelope, and Natasha stumbled back. Her backpack hit a lute. Its string sighed a lonely note.
“Natasha?” he said.
“Yes?”
“Will it be dinnertime soon?” He looked old and lost, and Natasha hated him a bit, even as she loved him.