“Boots are for wimps,” Darya said. Her flip-flops were silver with narrow straps. Technically they were shoes, Natasha supposed. They compressed the snow the same way Natasha’s sturdy boots did.
But Natasha’s boots covered her feet.
Plus, Darya was wearing skinny jeans, and the snow reached the middle of her calves. The wet denim clung to her legs, and her feet looked pitiful at the bottom of the footstep-holes she’d made. Her toenails were painted blue, which was appropriate.
“You’re going to get frostbite,” Natasha said.
Darya shrugged. She had to be freezing, but if she didn’t want to show it, she wouldn’t.
She was also beautiful. She really really was. Natasha’s face turned ruddy in the cold, but Darya’s cheeks glowed, and her red hair shone with copper and golden highlights. Even scowling, she looked prettier than Natasha ever would.
Molly swore up and down that Natasha was wrong about the prettiness. Natasha was right about the popularity piece, Molly conceded, but that didn’t matter because Natasha didn’t want to be popular.
“I don’t want to be pretty, either,” Natasha had lied. “It’s not my job to be pretty.”
“No one said it was your job,” Molly had said. They’d had this discussion late one summer evening, after watching a movie in which the beautiful girl (of course) ended up with the gorgeous guy. Molly had looked at Natasha half fondly, half with exasperation. “You can be pretty and still be whatever else you want to be.”
“Molly. I’m not worried about this. I really don’t care.”
“I’m not saying you do. I’m just saying that you are pretty. Darya’s flashier, and she knows how to work it. That’s why people notice her. And Ava’s Ava, so . . .” She’d shrugged, and Natasha’s heart had swelled. Ava was a shooting star. She was glad Molly saw it too.
“But Natasha,” Molly had said. She’d put her hands on Natasha’s shoulders.
“Yes, Molly?” Natasha had replied, putting her hands on Molly’s shoulders.
“You. Are frickin’. Gorgeous. Darya is fire and flame. You’re dark and mysterious. Both are good.”
Out by the lake, Natasha smiled.
“What?” Darya demanded.
“Nothing,” Natasha said. Just, it had been nice of Molly to say what she’d said. She hadn’t thought of that in ages.
“Okay, great,” Darya said. “So what do you want me to do? Go back and tell Aunt Vera to peel her damn potatoes herself?”
Natasha laughed, imagining how that would go over. She went to join her, crossing back past the stone bench. On top of the mounded snow, resting in a small indentation, was a note. It was folded in fourths. On the uppermost side, just like the others, it said Natasha.
Holding it down was a clear blue marble as big as an egg.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Natasha snatched the marble and the note and shoved both into her coat pocket.
Darya looked at her suspiciously. “What was that?”
“What was what?”
“You. Grabbing something off the bench.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” Natasha plowed forward, reusing the footprints she’d already made.
Darya hurried to catch up, though she stayed behind Natasha rather than walking by her side.
“It was blue,” Darya insisted. “The thing you grabbed.”
Natasha felt Darya’s hand on her coat, tugging at her pocket, and she whirled around and slapped Darya away.
“Quit it!” she said.
Darya drew back. She looked stung. “Quit it, or what?”
Natasha glared. Darya glared back. Darya clenched her hands by her sides, and Natasha realized she was doing the same thing.
Natasha exhaled. She tried to relax her jaw, her posture, her fingers. She breathed in slowly, one-two-three-four, then breathed out to the same count. The last thing she wanted to do was give Darya something to grip onto. Darya was as stubborn as a dog with a bone if she thought something was going on that she didn’t know about.
“It was a piece of trash,” Natasha said.
“No it wasn’t,” Darya said.
“Yes it was.”
“Then show me.”
Natasha started walking, her thoughts tumbling about. She wasn’t going to show Darya the note. The note was hers. For the first time in a very long time, she was the one singled out as special.
Darya followed. Her flip-flops smacked against her heels, and Natasha knew she was making the sound as loud and annoying as possible. Smack smack smack. Natasha hoped Darya had snow between each and every toe. She hoped Darya did get frostbite—only not really.
Her fingers itched to ball up again.
She tried a trick that sometimes helped when she felt out of control. She imagined herself floating above her body, watching the scene from above. Two girls marching through the snow. One with a secret, the other determined to figure out what it was. If this were a story . . . if the two girls were characters in a book . . . what would happen next? How would the first girl twist the situation to her advantage?
She grounded herself back in reality. She smiled pleasantly, even though Darya was behind her and could only see the back of her head.
“You’re right. It wasn’t a piece of trash,” she said. She laughed. “How do you always know these things? Has anyone ever been able to fool you, like in your entire life?”
“No,” Darya said.
There were snow crunching sounds, and Natasha turned around.
Natasha looked over her shoulder. “Your poor feet. Do you at least want to wear my socks?”
She lifted one foot and tugged off her boot, hopping to keep her balance. She pulled off her sock and put her boot back on. She repeated the process with her other foot. She steadied herself by putting her hand on Darya’s shoulder. Darya didn’t shrug her off.
“Here,” she said. She held out her warm, dry socks, which had unicorns on them. Ironic unicorns, she’d insisted to Molly when Molly saw them. “Whatever you say,” Molly had replied.
Darya hesitated, then accepted the socks. She leaned against Natasha and put them on. She wedged the fabric between her big toe and her second toe to make them flip-flop friendly.
“Thanks,” Darya said.
Natasha pulled the marble from her pocket, but left the note. She held it out and said, “It’s Benton’s.”
“Why do you have it?” Darya asked. “Is it a marble?”
Natasha nodded.
“You stole Benton’s marble.”
“Borrowed,” Natasha said.
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Because?”
“Why did Benton have the marble in the first place?” Darya asked.
“Because boys keep the whole world in their pockets? I don’t know. One day a teacher needed pliers, and Benton fished a pair out of his jeans.” This detail was actually true. “He had a pair of pliers in his pocket.”
“Weird,” Darya said.
Natasha spotted Papa’s workshop, and just beyond it, their house. Potatoes, Aunt Vera, homework . . . and a note in her pocket begging to be read.
She closed her fingers around the marble and put it back with the note.
“Do you have a crush on him?” Darya asked.
“Who?” Natasha said, hoping to buy some time.
Darya cocked her head.
Natasha swallowed. This was the make-it-or-break-it part of their exchange. Natasha did have a crush on Benton, but that was her business. Not Darya’s.
On the other hand, the marble wasn’t his, and Darya didn’t know about the note. None of that was Darya’s business, either.
So which did she give up? If she claimed not to have a crush on Benton, Darya would know she was lying, and a crack like that could bring the whole story down. Darya would return to hounding her about the contents of her pocket. She’d lunge and dodge and jab her pointy elbows until she managed to claim the note or break Natasha’s ribs. Or both.
“I guess,” she said reluctantly.
“You have a crush on Benton,” Darya stated. “You. You have a crush on Benton!”
“You don’t have to tell the whole world,” Natasha said.
Darya waved her hand at the stretch of land around them. “Yeah, the squirrels are really going to care, if there are any out there. They’re probably having tea in their little . . . squirrel holes.”
She startled Natasha by coming to an abrupt halt, grinning widely, and taking Natasha’s hands.
“Natasha!” she exclaimed. “You have a crush on Benton! That’s awesome!”
“It is?” Natasha said. Darya was being nice, and Natasha felt guilty. Should she share more stuff with Darya in general? If she did, would Darya share stuff with her? Would they be better sisters?
The house was fifteen feet away. As soon as they got there, she would tell her aunt that she had to run up to her room before helping with dinner. Or that she had to go to the bathroom. Anything that would buy her a minute—a single minute! That was all she needed!—to read the note. Alone.
Darya opened the back door and yanked Natasha inside. “Found her!” she announced.
Aunt Vera turned from the stove. “Yes, I can see that,” she said. “Let me guess—she was off with Emily, concocting all sorts of plans for the seventh-grade dance.”
“What?” Darya said.
Natasha felt the world turn upside down.
“Who’s Emily?” Darya asked. “And Natasha doesn’t do dances.”
Aunt Vera stood dumbly. “She . . . I . . . did I say Emily? I don’t know any Emilys.”
“Then you need to lay off the vodka, because you’re too young to be having senior moments,” Darya said. “And you’re sweating. If your sweat drips into the soup, I am not eating it.”
“Hi, Natasha,” Ava said, skipping into the kitchen. She dropped down at the table, plunking her drawing pad and a collection of pens in front of her. “I’m making blueprints for my dream house. Want to see?”
Aunt Elena followed on Ava’s heels with a stack of neatly folded dishcloths. “Vera, good heavens, you look like you’re about to faint,” she said.
Aunt Vera came out of her trance. She blinked and said, “Maybe I am. Maybe you should try standing over a hot stove while I watch a silly soap opera and fold the laundry.” She turned her attention to Darya. “And I do not drink vodka, young lady.”
Aunt Elena noticed Darya and Natasha. She gaped at Darya’s feet and said, “Darya! You did not wear flip-flops out in the snow. Tell me you didn’t wear flip-flops in the snow!”
Darya flashed Aunt Elena a smile. “Okay. I didn’t wear flip-flops in the snow.”
Aunt Elena pointed at the staircase. “Go change. Now. And soak your feet in hot water!”
“After I change or before?”
“You too, Natasha,” Aunt Elena said. “Get those boots off, and your coat. Put all your things in the mudroom.”
“Then come right back,” Aunt Vera said. “I can’t make mashed potatoes if the potatoes don’t get peeled, now can I?”
“No,” Natasha said. “I mean yes. Yes to the potatoes, yes to the mudroom. Yes to the yes things and no to the no things.”
Ava looked at her funny. “Natasha, what’s wrong? Do you need to use the bathroom?”
Natasha’s cheeks grew warm.
Darya slooshed off her wet socks, and Aunt Elena scolded her for getting water on the floor.
“You’re the one who told me to take them off!” Darya protested.
“In the mudroom!” Aunt Elena exclaimed.
Natasha slipped away. She took off her boots like a good girl. She took off her coat and hung it up where it belonged. Such a good girl. She tiptoed to the staircase, scurried to her room, and locked the door.
She perched on the edge of her bed and opened her left hand. The blue marble was like a piece of the sky. She opened her right hand. The note was slightly damp in her palm. The handwriting and the way it was folded was exactly like the others.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Natasha had time to read the note exactly once before Darya burst in triumphantly, wiggling an Allen wrench in the air.
“Ah-ha!” Darya crowed. “Bet you forgot this trick, didn’t you?”
“Darya!” She clutched the note to her chest. “What are you doing? Get out!”
Darya sauntered to Natasha’s bed and dropped down beside her. She tossed the Allen wrench onto Natasha’s nightstand. “You don’t always trust me, you know.”
“Are you kidding me? Are you kidding me right now?” Natasha said. She kept the note pressed to her chest. She wanted to move it, to sit on it or hide it or put it in her pocket, but she didn’t want Darya to notice.
“You just broke into my room,” she said. “Why in the world should I trust you?”
Darya eyed the note. She lifted her gaze to Natasha’s.
Natasha shoved the note under her thigh. “Go. Away.”
Darya leaned back on her forearms. She straightened her legs and wiggled her toes, which were now covered by blue socks with penguins on them. “I borrowed another pair of your socks from the mudroom. They’re cute. Can I keep them?”
“Darya—” Natasha’s voice jumped in the way of almost crying. It surprised her.
It surprised Darya, too. She sat up straight and said, “What is it? What’s going on, for real?”
Natasha shook her head. Everything seemed too big. Too much. She refolded the note with sharp, angry movements and gave it to Darya. Why not?
Darya stared at Natasha for a long moment. Natasha didn’t trust herself to speak.
Darya placed the note between them on the bed. She didn’t open it. “Natasha, I’m not out to get you. But I’m your sister. Doesn’t that count for anything?”
Natasha shrugged. When they were younger, Darya had idolized Natasha. Natasha, in return, had been a really good big sister. She included Darya in stuff. She made her laugh. She watched out for her, and she never teased her, not in an unkind way.
They’d grown apart, though. Eventually Darya had wanted to be more than just Natasha’s adoring little sister; maybe that was what started it. She’d wanted to be her own person—the gall! Natasha had known her reaction was ridiculous, but she’d felt rejected. Darya had found her own circle of friends. Maybe she liked them more than she liked Natasha.
So Natasha had pulled away too, out of pride. At home, Natasha began paying more attention to Ava than Darya, and when Darya brought it up, she’d pretended not to understand.
“We can’t leave her out just because she’s littler,” she’d told Darya.
“I’m not saying we should!” Darya had said. “I just . . . I miss us. Don’t you?”
“I’m right here,” Natasha had replied coolly. “I haven’t gone anywhere.”
Darya’s face had crumpled, and Natasha had shrugged and turned away.
“Hey, Ava,” she’d called. “Want to play Slap Jack?”
Natasha had done that. For the first time in her life, she’d hurt Darya’s feelings on purpose.
The distance between Natasha and Darya had plenty of other causes. Both sisters allowed it to grow. But when Natasha looked at Darya now, she felt a great hole of regret.
A tear, and then another, trickled down her cheek.
“Natasha, shhh,” Darya said, putting her arm around Natasha and pulling her close. She stroked Natasha’s hair.
“Did something bad happen?” Darya asked. “Does it have to do with Benton? Did you honestly steal his marble?”
Natasha hitch-laughed. “It’s not his. Or it might be, I don’t know. I don’t know whose it is.” She pulled back and swiped at her eyes. “Or, wow. Maybe it’s Aunt Elena’s.”
“From when she was little? The one the Bird Lady supposedly gave her?”
Natasha was astonished. “She told you that story? When?”
“A long time ago,” Darya said. “Let me see it again.”
Natasha gave her the marble
. Darya held it up to the light and turned it this way and that. She shook her head definitively and said, “Nope, not hers.”
She tossed it to Natasha, whose fingers closed around it as if they’d been created for that very purpose.
“How do you know?” Natasha asked.
“It’s round.”
“So?”
“Aunt Elena’s was shaped like an egg, a blue glass egg.”
“But mine’s the size of an egg.”
“And my eyeball is the size of your eyeball.” Darya made an impatient sound. “A blue glass egg, that’s how she described it. A blue glass egg that Aunt Elena probably made up, but a blue. Glass. Egg.” She jerked her chin at the marble. “Would you describe that as an egg?”
“It’s blue . . .”
“Lots of things are blue.” Darya drew her whole body onto the bed and sat cross-legged. She adjusted her feet until her toes were tucked beneath her knees. “Can I read the note?”
Natasha bit her lip, then nodded.
Darya picked it up and unfolded it. Her eyes moved across the paper. She lifted her head and asked, “What does it mean?”
Natasha leaned over and retrieved the other two notes from beneath her bed, where they’d lain smooth and flat between the pages of her journal. She passed them to Darya.
Darya read each one aloud.
“‘You don’t know how special you are. Lots of people don’t know how special you are. But I do. And you are.’”
She put that one to the side.
“‘You don’t know how beautiful you are, either.’” Darya glanced up. Natasha shrugged. Darya returned to the note. “‘You should smile more, Natasha. When you smile, it lights up your face.’”
She placed that one with the other. She lifted the most recent note and read it aloud: “‘Would you like to talk?’”
She set it down. She studied Natasha. “So?”
“So,” Natasha repeated.
“You either have a stalker or a secret admirer. Or both.” Darya put all three notes together, tapped them against her thigh, and returned the stack to Natasha. “Do you want to talk to him?”
“If they’re from Benton, then yes,” she said. She bunched her bedspread in her hand. “But what if they’re not? And what would I say to him?”