Suddenly I’m feeling so much gratitude and love and friendship for Alex, I can’t even. I don’t know what I would have done without him today. “You’re the best, Lindy,” I say.
Alex gives an embarrassed shrug and says, “It’s nothing.” He points at me. “Hey, you’re slowing down the assembly line.”
After he leaves, Nadia helps me clean up and pack away the leftover candy. She doesn’t look at me when she says, “Alex likes you, you know.”
I open my mouth to deny it, but I stop myself. I can’t lie to Nadi, but I don’t know what the truth is anymore. So all I say is, “We’re friends.”
Nadia makes a show of rolling her eyes at me. “So do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Do you like him?” The expression on her face—a little bit plaintive, but mostly trying not to care. It breaks my heart.
“Do you?” I ask her.
There’s a pause, I can see her thinking this over. “No,” she tells me. “He’s—nice. He’s so nice. But I don’t like him like that anymore. I did. For maybe a second.”
I reach out and touch Nadi’s hair. It’s so soft, like a baby’s. She lets me for a second before shrugging away. She says, “Be nice to him, okay? Don’t hurt him.”
“I won’t,” I say. In my head I add, not again. That’s a promise.
CHAPTER TEN
Today, when we ran into each other in the hall, Lillia mentioned how she’d asked some of her guy friends if they could help her sort through the sound equipment and drive it over to the elementary school. It’s for her Fall Festival night, the event she’s running for the elementary school kids.
Lillia said that even though she’d asked really, really nicely, Reeve blew her off. “He said he had to go to PT and was too busy. I told him it would take like, ten minutes after school, but he still said no. He said he wanted to get to the gym early and lift weights!” Lillia had looked ready to cry. “The other guys have practice. It’s going to take me forever to load up my
Audi, I’ll have to make like five trips back and forth!” “Lil! I’ll totally help you.”
Lillia’s whole face brightened up. “Thank you so much,
Mary.” So now I’m scurrying over to the side entrance by the theater. I’m not very strong, but with two of us it should go a little bit faster anyway.
Instead of fighting the after-school rush inside, I cut across the back parking lot—which is when I see Alex’s SUV parked by the side door right behind Lillia’s Audi. He’s already there, taking boxes out of her trunk and loading them into his. The back door is open, and Lillia comes out the door, wearing an ivory-colored coat and a long scarf around her neck, struggling with a big cardboard box. Alex rushes over to help her. She must not expect him, because he startles her.
“Alex!” she says, looking up. “Oh my gosh.”
I hang back and watch.
Alex takes the box out of her hands. “Here, Lil. You don’t
want to get your coat dirty.”
“I’ve got it,” she insists, and he tries to take it from her, and
they both laugh because she almost drops it. “You have to get
to practice.”
“Give it to me,” he says, but in a sweet way. Lillia finally lets
the box go. I think Alex is surprised at how heavy it is. It almost
falls out of his hands, but he adjusts his grip before it can. Meanwhile, Lillia scans the parking lot. I step forward
and smile, but she waves her hand, like I don’t have to worry
about it.
“Thank you,” she says breathlessly, when Alex lifts his head.
“There are only three more inside.” She turns to go back into
the theater door, but Alex stops her.
“Wait here. I’ll get them.”
Lillia leans against the car. The wind has picked up, and her
hair is blowing around her face. “I owe you one, Lindy!” she
calls out. “Thank you so much!”
I start to back away, and that’s when I notice it—about fifteen
feet away to my left, Reeve, pulling up in his truck. He’s seen
them too. He has a scowl on his face, and he puts the truck in
reverse. He’s gone before they even notice.
When I get home, Aunt Bette’s Volvo isn’t in the driveway. And I hate to say it, but it’s kind of a relief. I’ve been meaning to have a conversation about her with my parents, but it’s scary. My mom is Aunt Bette’s sister, after all. I don’t want to get her mad, or have her confronting Aunt Bette over what I’d say. I wish I could tell someone about how strangely Aunt Bette’s been acting. I’ve never been afraid of my aunt. I’m still not. I’m just . . . worried about her.
I set my book bag down in the kitchen and head upstairs, calling her name a few times in case she’s home. She’s so easily startled lately. I’ve been trying to be careful with her, give her space. I don’t want to make things worse.
At the top of the stairs, I notice Aunt Bette’s bedroom door is open the skinniest crack. She’s been keeping it closed. I walk up slowly and peek inside.
There are books all over the floor. At least a hundred of them, piled in teetering stacks on top of Aunt Bette’s Moroccan rug. Musty, cloth-covered books. The kind that sit and gather dust at the library. The kind that you find at a garage sale.
I step inside, careful not to touch anything, because I have a pretty good feeling that Aunt Bette would lose her mind if she knew I was poking around her room. I crouch down and try to read some of the spines, but most of the titles aren’t written in English. It looks like maybe Latin. And some Spanish, which reminds me that I am so far behind in Señor Tremont’s class it’s not even funny. There are a few books split open, but to pages that don’t have any words. Only, like, hieroglyphics. Symbols and numbers that make no sense to me.
Aunt Bette’s Volvo putters into the driveway. I jump up and turn to head out the bedroom door. That’s when I notice the shared wall that separates Aunt’s Bette’s bedroom from mine. The one to the right of her bed.
It used to be a wall full of art. Pictures. Paintings. Photographs. But everything’s been taken down, except for the tiny nails left in the wall. Even Aunt Bette’s dresser, the low four-drawer one that sat against the wall, has been pushed aside.
The whole thing is stripped bare.
Or at least I think it is. But when I take a step closer, I see that Aunt Bette has laced string, string the very same color as the eggshell wall paint, around the picture nails. I think it might even be the same stuff she used to wrap those smudge bundles. She’s woven them into some kind of pattern. Like a lopsided, crooked star.