Friendship is a single soul dwelling in two bodies.
—Aristotle
1 · Lucy
This can only get easier.
It's my first day at the resort, at the summer job I didn't want but took because I couldn't find a way to say no.
Emily pokes my arm. "Lucy?"
"Hmm?" I look down at the little girl. We sit on the sidewalk in front of her house, a bucket of colored chalk next to her. She holds a bright blue piece in one hand and shields her eyes from the sun with the other as she looks up at me.
"Can I have a drink?"
I tug on one of her blond pigtails. "Your water bottle is on the porch," I say, and she hops up.
Emily turned five a few weeks ago. She's a smart girl and knew a hundred words by the time she was two—I know because Trixie and I made a list. Emily is Trixie's cousin. We used to babysit her together; now it's only Emily and me.
It's the Saturday of Mother's Day weekend, fishing opener. A teaser—soon summer will arrive here in Halcyon Lake and hundreds of other small Minnesota resort towns like ours in the land of 11,842 lakes. School will end, and our sleepy little town will wake up, overrun with tourists.
Trixie's aunt and uncle—Emily's parents—own the Cabins at Apple Tree Lane. It's been in their family for generations, just like my family's restaurant. My job here is to take care of Emily and help out with housekeeping and light maintenance at the resort. I'll pick up as many shifts as I can at the restaurant, too, to help out.
Busy is good.
"Lucy?" Emily has gotten her water bottle and set it on the sidewalk next to her colorful chalk drawings of misshapen butterflies. "Can we go swimming today?"
It's spring, too early for swimming. And even though I grew up splashing around the lake in my backyard, fishing and water-skiing and tubing, I've never been much of a swimmer. Even before.
Trixie was a champion swimmer, strong and fast, a fish streaking through the water.
"Ooh, too cold," I say.
"Lucy?"
"Yes, Emily?"
"Tell me a Trixie."
I smile. This has become one of our favorite activities, a way I can keep Trixie alive. The stories I tell Emily about her cousin have become a part of our routine.
"Once upon a time—" I start.
"There lived a happy little girl named Beatrix."
"But everyone called her Trixie."
"And she had a brother named Ben."
"Right," I say. "She had a brother named Ben." My throat tightens a little at his name.
"Tell me the first one, the first Trixie." Emily laughs, a dramatic ha-ha-ha with her hands on her stomach. She's playing along. This is how the Trixies go. I only tell the happy Trixies.
"One day, when Trixie was five years old, she went to kindergarten—"
"And she met Lulu. Lulu! That's you."
I smile. That first day of school, I was so nervous, I threw up on Trixie's shoes, but she wanted to be my friend anyway.
I wasn't Lulu yet, not when we met. It was Trixie who first called me Lulu—then Ben and their parents. I felt special, unique, remarkable. So much more than boring Lucy. Even as we got older, when I was with the Porters, I was Lulu.
It was like I was a part of their family.
No one calls me Lulu now.
A car pulls into the driveway, a 1989 Formula 350 Firebird, black.
"Ben!" Emily squeals, and hops up again. "Ben's here."
Ben. Ben's here. My heart sinks to my toes and rebounds back up to my throat.
I swallow, stand up, and brush my chalky hands together.
I can almost hear Trixie's voice in my head: Be really brave, Lulu.
Her voice, vibrant and silvery, is fading.
Emily stands on the sidewalk to wait for Ben. She hops up and down, first on both feet, then alternating. She squeals again as he comes around the front of the car, tapping his knuckles twice against the gleaming hood, and crosses the driveway to her. I move closer to the porch, hoping to disappear into the whitewashed, morning-glory-covered lattice.
I love to spend time with this sweet, funny little girl who is now the age I was when I met her cousin, my very best friend in the world. There is always a nagging feeling that Ben will show up when I'm with her, though. The fear. The small hope.
"Ben!" Emily screams as he scoops her up in a hug. He is tall, with broad shoulders and lean, muscular arms. A swimmer, like his sister. When he lifts Emily above his head, his blue St. Croix Rod T-shirt hikes up, and I catch a glimpse of his smooth stomach above the waistline of his ratty cargo shorts. He's already tan, his hair washed out to a light brown, curls sticking out the sides of his baseball cap.
"Hi, Miss Emily."
Be really brave.
BRB—our code.
It's what Trixie used to say when I needed an extra push—to climb the stairs of the tall slide in the school playground, to leap onto a balance beam, to climb the one hundred thirty steps to the top of the Fire Tower.
It was all worth it—the rush, the gymnastics medals and accolades, the view from the Fire Tower, my world stretched out before me, Halcyon Lake and miles of jack pines and all the places I loved.
Those things were easy compared to this.
You should tell Ben how you feel. It will be worth it.
He notices me, glances in my direction and away in half a second. My heart skips, and I let myself think he might smile at me like he used to, his deep brown eyes flashing.
"Oh, hey, Lucy," he says, his voice dull and flat. "What are you doing here?"
Lucy. Not Lulu. Not anymore.
"Lucy's my babysitter," Emily says.
He drops her back down to the sidewalk. "Oh, yeah. I always forget."
"No you don't!" Emily cries. "Are you going fishing?"
"Yep. Where's your dad?"
"Dunno." Emily plops down and picks up her chalk to finish coloring in the bright blue wings of a butterfly.
"I gotta go. See you later, Emily." Ben's so good with her. She adores him.
I haven't said one word. The pounding of my heart in my ears slows and melts a little. My wonderful Ben.
No, that's not right. Ben is not mine. He is not wonderful, not anymore.
He walks around the other side of the garage to the path that leads to the resort and the lake. He doesn't look at me again. He doesn't say good-bye.
It wasn't always like this, back when we were friends, back when I thought someday we might be more than friends. Before Trixie died. I miss him, I miss him as much as I miss Trixie. Sometimes I catch him looking at me, and I wonder if he misses me, too.
I slip my hand into the pocket of my jeans. It's there—Ben's agate, smooth, cool to the touch. I flip the agate again and again between my thumb and index finger.
I wish I could find a way to get Ben Porter out of my heart.
2 · Ben
It's 9:54 and I'm late for work. Well, technically not late, except that my uncle believes that if you're not ten minutes early, you're late. So my ten A.M. shift really began at 9:50. Mum and Dad give me a hard time about driving here—I mean, it's a five-minute walk, max—but it's hard enough for me to get here on time as it is. John will shake his head, but what's he going to do, fire me?
Some days I wish he would. I wish I would get kicked out of school, I wish I could get the hell out of this town.
But Lulu—no, Lucy—is here.
I mean, she's here, sitting on my uncle's front sidewalk.
Lucy's the last thing I need today. I want to spend the day out on the lake, not worry about anything, not think about anything, and there she is with my cousin. Emily laughs at something Lucy says, and Lucy has this sort of half smile on her face.
It's been a long time since I've seen Lucy smile. Maybe she smiles, but not around me. God, I used to love her smile. The way it sort of creeps up on one side first, tentative, and then goes full out, lighting up her whole face.
I walk down the hill as fast as I can, away from Lucy and Emily. Trixie should be here watching Em, not Lucy. I'm a prick for thinking it. And it's not the first time.
We're not friends and it's my fault. You can't be a complete ass to someone and expect her to act like you weren't.
What does she think about when she sees me? Does she remember all the fun we had together—all those times fishing off the dock, all the talks we had on the Lazy River at the water park—or has she pushed it out of her mind? Does she think only about my sister? Does she hate me for what I did? For what I couldn't do?
For what I said?
I don't like to think about it. Our school schedules are different enough, and I usually don't see her much. But today, with Lucy here, everything about that day forces its way back. I think about how Trixie slipped away from us. And I think about what happened after that day, too, the day of her funeral, and how I screwed up everything.
Lucy must hate the sight of me, and I don't blame her. Most days, I hate the sight of me, too.
John waits for me on the dock with a guy in a goofy straw hat and a couple of kids, maybe around ten and twelve years old.
"You're late," John says under his breath. "It's 10:01."
"Sorry about that, folks," I say, and I step into the boat.
The weather is good—partly sunny, streaks of white clouds, a cool spring breeze. We head out to one of John's secret sweet spots. It's too early for bluegills, but we might be able to bring in a few crappies. There's a chill out here on the lake, so I pull on my ratty army-green Rapala hoodie. An image comes to me, and I suck in a breath: Lucy wearing it, standing on the rocky shore of Lake Superior, orange streaks of sunrise glistening on the water behind her.
I close my eyes against the memory. I've got to get her out of my head.
The dad knows a thing or two about fishing, but the boys whine and give him a ton of attitude. I help them bait and untangle their lines for what seems like hours but is probably only about forty-five minutes. They throw night crawlers at each other. They both catch a couple of crappies and then fight over which one is bigger.
Trixie and I fought like that, too, when we were their age.
"Dad," the older one whines, "this is so boring. Let's go."
"Yeah," says the younger one, "and it stinks out here."
After a few more minutes of the kids pissing and moaning, the dad gives in and John pulls up anchor.
The ride back to shore won't take long, but John slows the boat to a crawl when he sees a family of loons. We watch as they drift across the lake, dive down, resurface.
Moments like this, when I'm out on the lake, I can pretend that nothing has changed, that life is all sunshine and roses and shit like that. It doesn't last. I can't live my life out on a boat in the middle of Halcyon Lake.
I miss my sister. We fought a lot and gave each other grief. Most days she irritated the hell out of me, but every day without her sucks.
3 · Lucy
After lunch, Emily and I climb up to the tree house. Seven rickety two-by-fours nailed to the trunk of a box elder tree in the backyard lead to a platform with mismatched plywood walls and an upside-down V for a roof. Her dad, John, and his brother, Tom—Trixie's dad—built the tree house when they were kids and there haven't been many improvements to it since.
My foot slips on the loose step halfway up, but I take a deep breath and continue the climb. This is nothing. I've done this a thousand times. If I can climb the Fire Tower, I can do this. I tighten my grip on the wood.
Emily's already dealt out a game of Go Fish by the time I pull myself up onto the platform. I sit across from her. From here, I can see down the hill to the resort, can see Ben as he walks up from the lake. My heart does its usual nosedive. Crash and burn.
Ben was the first boy I ever loved. The only boy I've ever loved.
My first kiss.
I always thought that Trixie would be around for that, Trixie who had watched me fall more in love with her brother every day. But she wasn't.
There are Trixies I don't tell Emily, like the one about the day she died.
The four of us—me, Trixie, Ben, and my brother, Clayton—are lying on the float. The sun is strong. I'm sleepy and hazy and in love with the boy lying next to me, so close our hands almost touch.
"It's hot," Trixie says. I feel her sit up next to me. "Let's swim out to the island."
"No," Ben says. "I'm sleeping. Go away."
"You're not sleeping," Trixie says. "I know you're not. Now Clayton—he's sleeping. Listen to that snore."
I don't open my eyes. The insides of my eyelids are red, red, red from the sun. I wish Ben and I were here alone. I would stay all day.
Trixie doesn't ask me to swim to the island. She knows how much I hate the weeds that snake out of nowhere to tangle around your ankles. It was hard enough for me to swim out to the raft.
"Should we go home?" she asks.
Now I sit up. I angle to face her and pull my knees up, put my arms around them.
"No," I whisper. "I'm not ready to go home."
She winks at me, then nudges Clay's ankle with her foot. "Clayton? Race you to the island?"
My brother pops up. "What? What did I miss? You want to race me, ya little punk?" He reties the drawstring on his trunks and jumps into the water, a cannonball, splashing water across the swim float. The cool spray feels refreshing on my hot skin.
"It's a good day to have a good day." She leans in close to me and whispers, "BRB, Lucy. Promise me."
"The best day," I say. "I promise."
Trixie dives into the lake. Ben and I are quiet. I can hear both our breaths, our heartbeats, even over the noise of the lake, the splashing, the laughter.
Ben sits up.
He reaches out and tugs at my ponytail.
Then he runs his hand down the side of my arm. I gasp; shivers overtake me in the hot, hot sun.
"Lulu," he says. "Look at me."
But I don't. I can't.
I hold my breath as Ben strokes his index finger against my arm again. "Lulu, I've been wondering if—"
He is cut off by the sound of Clayton shouting from the lake.
Ben dives into the water and swims toward the island, toward Clay, toward where Trixie should be. Ben resurfaces, shouts, I can't see her, call for help. I splash to shore, crying, shaking. A woman puts a towel around my shoulders, says she's already called 911, tells me to breathe.
Breathe.
I don't tell Emily this story, but someday I will. Someday she will want to know all the sad parts, too, not just the happy, silly stories of two girls growing up.
When Tami gets home from running errands, Ben's car is no longer in the driveway. She asks if I'd like a ride home since it's been drizzling off and on the last couple of hours, but I tell her I'll swing by the Full Loon and catch a ride with my mom.
"You'll be lucky if they don't toss you an apron and put you to work," Tami says. "It's opener weekend. And your mom told me that Rita quit."
I roll my eyes. "Not much of a loss, if you ask me." Mom had called me in countless times to cover for Rita at the last minute, but she completely freaked out when her most veteran waitress left them high and dry.
The Full Loon Café, the restaurant that's been in my mom's family since the 1940s, isn't far from the resort. Nothing's far from anything in this town. The café parking lot is crowded; even the overflow lot behind the Oasis gas station is packed with vehicles. A half-dozen people crowd onto the two wooden benches next to the front door, waiting for a table. Saturday night, fishing opener, Mom's down a full-timer, and her summer part-timers are new and green.
I should go in, grab an apron, and help them out of the weeds.
But I don't.
I keep walking, past the café and the Oasis, through our touristy downtown with its candy store and T-shirt shop and old-fashioned, single-screen movie theater.
I speed up as I walk past Ben's house. The house where he grew up with Trixie. The house where I spent so much time—sleepovers and birthdays and special days and ordinary days—like I was part of their family.
There have been days since when I walk past that house and wish, wish, wish that I were brave enough to stop, to touch the wheels of Trixie's bike, still hanging on its hooks in the garage, to have tea with Jane, Trixie's mom. To ask her for the Book of Quotes, the notebook Trixie and I filled with lyrics and quotations and poems.
Brave enough to talk to Ben, more than the tense, polite things we say to each other when it can't be avoided. More than the shallow "How've you been," when really I want to reach into his heart and ask him everything.
He told me once that I could ask him anything, one night last summer before Trixie died—a game we played to keep me from freaking out as we climbed the one hundred thirty steps of the Fire Tower.
"What's your middle name?" I asked.
"Alistair. Didn't you already know that?" He stood close behind me on the steps, like he'd block me from falling backward.
I did know. His full name, Bennett Alistair Porter. His birthday, April 11.
"Were you named for anyone?"
"Yes. My grandfather's name is Alistair."
"Favorite meal?"
"Mum's fish-and-chips."
"Favorite candy?"
"Maple fudge." I could hear the smile in his words.
At this, I stumbled a little, and he put his hands on my waist to steady me. I was glad that he was behind me, that he couldn't see my face, hot with embarrassment and from his touch.
Now, down the block from the Porters' house, I sigh with relief that no one was home. I wouldn't have been brave enough to stop anyway.
The First Day of Kindergarten
Once upon a time, there lived a happy little girl named Beatrix, but everyone called her Trixie. Trixie lived with her mum and her dad and her big brother, Ben.
One day, when Trixie was five years old, she went to kindergarten. She knew all the other children in her class, from church and the park and preschool, except for one little girl with curly brown pigtails. And on that first day of school, Trixie marched right over to the girl with the pigtails and stuck out her hand.
"Hello, I'm Trixie. What's your name?" she asked.
"My name is Lucy," the little girl said. She was very nervous, even though Trixie smiled at her.
And that's when the little girl named Lucy threw up all over Trixie's shoes.
Trixie was very nice to Lucy. She called for the teacher and rubbed Lucy's back and said, "You're fine. You're fine."
"Trixie," said their teacher, "please take Lucy to the nurse."
The nurse called Lucy's mother, and Trixie waited with her in the office until her mother arrived.
"I'm going to call you Lulu," Trixie said as they sat side by side in yellow plastic chairs.
"Why?" Lucy asked.
"Because you look like a Lulu."
The next day, Lucy, now called Lulu, wasn't nervous about kindergarten. Trixie and Lulu built a village with blocks and played kitchen and practiced writing their names. They swung together on the monkey bars. They sat next to each other during snack time. Everywhere that Trixie and Lulu went, everything they touched was left with a fine dusting of silver and gold glitter.
"Bye, Lulu," Trixie said at the end of the day. "I can't wait for us to be friends again tomorrow and the next day and forever."
She squeezed Lulu's hand, and when she let go, Lulu traced the line of glimmering gold across her palm that sealed their friendship forever.
4 · Ben
At dinner, Dad talks nonstop.
"The lake was pretty crowded today, don't you think, Ben? Beautiful day. The resort's booked up for the summer already, and most of them want guides, too. Lots of fishing in our future."
Fishing is one of the few things we have in common anymore, although it's not like it used to be. Nothing is. Dad and Uncle John grew up at the resort and know every single inch of Halcyon Lake like the backs of their hands—the widemouth sweet spots and the best weed beds for bluegills. Dad works at the resort during the summer, too, when he's off from his job teaching earth science at the middle school.
Mum sets a platter of brownies on the table. Today her blond hair is a perfect wave held back with a headband that matches her light blue blouse. Mum is from London, and she's got the accent and obsessions with Jane Austen and gardens to go along with it.
"I spent the morning working up at the cemetery," Mum says when Dad finally stops rambling. Like she's gone to the grocery store or the library. A common errand. "A few of the bricks around Mr. Wilson's garden had come loose, so I fixed those and weeded a bit."
Not only has my mother planted a garden for Trixie, she tends to neglected graves, too. She's gone to the cemetery almost every day since Trixie died, even in winter.
"You should come with me, Ben," Mum says. "It would be good for you to help with your sister's garden. I find that digging in the earth to make room for something beautiful is rather therapeutic."
Sure. Sometimes she comes back, her face streaked with dirt and tears, and she drinks cup after cup of tea. Incapable of doing anything else, her energy and emotions used up in the dirt.
"I'll stick to fishing," I say, "but thanks."
"I'm with you there, son," Dad says.
"Is that right?" I mumble. I can't remember the last time my dad and I fished together.
Mum sighs. Dad clears his throat and takes a drink from a bottle of beer. He never used to drink at dinner. Now he keeps the fridge and liquor cabinet stocked. It's convenient for me when he forgets to lock it.
"I saw Lucy Meadows up at the resort today," Dad says. "She's helping out with Emily this summer."
I can barely swallow the last of my hamburger, suddenly dry and tasteless. I take a long drink of water. I don't say anything.
I guess I do remember the last time I went out fishing with my dad.
Of course it was last summer, before Trixie died. Our family and the Meadows family had gone out on the pontoon. Trixie fell asleep in the sun but Lucy fished. She sat next to me on one of the chairs in the bow, propped her feet on the edge of the boat, and waited. She always had more patience than Trix. She reeled in some perch and a nice smallmouth bass.
"That poor girl," Mum says.
That's something I don't get about my mother—how she is always so concerned about Lucy, how Lucy's doing. If it were me, I'd be pissed. I'd be thinking all the time: Lucy is alive but my daughter isn't.
Lucy is alive but my sister isn't. Maybe if I'd paid more attention that day, instead of thinking about Lucy—that she was so close, that her skin was so warm, glistening in the sun—maybe Trixie would be alive.
Guilt bubbles its way up my throat like acid.
"How's Clayton doing at university, Ben?" Mum asks. Her words jar me from my memories.
"I don't know," I say and stand up. "How would I know? I have to go."
"What do you mean, how would you know? You should know. Clayton is one of your best friends," Mum says.
"Not anymore," I mumble.
He started school a couple of weeks after Trixie died. He got out of town and doesn't come back much. It's easier this way, for him and for me.
"Well, what about Lucy? I wish you'd invite her over for dinner sometime. I'd love to see her."
"Mum," I say, the word heavy, like a stone. Like I'd ever invite Lucy over for dinner. God, what do I have to do to get her to stop already? "I really have to go."
"Ben," she says, "what about Lucy? Will you ask her to dinner?"
Fuck no, I won't ask her to dinner.
Mum's jaw drops and Dad stands up and I realize then that I said it out loud.
"Ben, apologize to your mother," Dad says.
Now I'm pissed. I'm pissed at myself and at Mum for keeping at me, and I'm pissed at Dad, too, for bringing up Lucy in the first place.
"Fuck it." I push back my chair and walk out.
"Ben," Mum calls, and there's pain in her voice.
"Come back here and—" Dad's words are cut off by the slam of the door as I go out to the garage.
5 · Lucy
Hannah calls me as I walk onto Three Crows Lane from the main road, almost home.
"Hey, whatcha doing?" she asks. She moved here before school started this year from Mitchell, South Dakota, home of the World's Only Corn Palace, and has a mellow SoDak twang.
The walk from town has been warm, the air thick with rain and humidity. I'm out of breath.
"Just getting home," I say.
"Did you see Ben today?" She smacks her lips. "Mwah, mwah!"
We've become friends during the school year, and I've tried and tried to explain about Ben without explaining too much. But she won't give up. I don't answer.
"So that's a yes, then. Was he wearing that gray ringer T-shirt? He looks so totally hot in that. Well, in anything, really, although I'd rather see him without a shirt."
"God, Hannah," I say. "Stop already."
"Whatever. We both know you're totally in love with him, Lucille. Give in to your feelings."
If only it were that easy.
If only she would stop saying things like that.
"Whatever," she says again. "You were supposed to call me when you were done babysitting. Remember? Movie night."
"Oh. Sorry, long day. Too many distractions."
"I'll bet. What time should I pick you up? The movie starts in, like, forty-five minutes. Are you ready or what?"
"I'm almost home. Give me fifteen minutes to shower, and I'll meet you out front."
I'm surprised to see Dad's truck in the driveway. He's been pulling a lot of weekend shifts at the plant. The driveway splits off to the right to our neighbors' house, the Clarks', and next to their old brown Buick is a car I've never seen before. A silver Volvo—sleek, urban, out of place.
"Dad?" I call as I open the front door, but there's no answer. I run up the stairs and pull a fresh T-shirt and skirt from a laundry basket on the floor and take a quick shower, not bothering to wash my hair. There isn't time to blow-dry it so it won't frizz. I twist it into a messy bun and secure it with a clip.
As I sort through a porcelain dish of earrings to find a matching pair, I nearly tip over the framed photo next to it—a picture Ben took of Trixie and me at Canal Park in Duluth last summer, laughing and squinting into the sun, the Aerial Lift Bridge behind us.
I touch my fingers to the photo.
Both of those girls are gone.
Tucked into the corner of the frame is the memorial card from her funeral. I pick it up and open it to the George Bernard Shaw quote inside: Life is no "brief candle" for me. It is a sort of splendid torch which I have got hold of for the moment, and I want to make it burn as brightly as possible.
It was the first quote Trixie wrote in our Book of Quotes, followed by song lyrics and movie quotes and funny things we said—her handwriting large and loopy, mine small, careful.
I walk downstairs and step out onto the deck, looking for my dad. He's in the backyard, down the hill at our lakeside patio with the Clarks and two people I don't know—a tall woman in a flowing peasant skirt and a boy who's even taller.
Dad sees me, waves, and starts up the hill, motioning for me to come down. I meet him halfway.
"Where've you been? Come meet the Stanfords."
"Who are the Stanfords?"
"The renters."
"The renters?"
"Yeah, Betty and Ron are spending the summer in Canada at their daughter's, remember? And they're renting out their house."
"Oh, right." I remember Betty mentioning something about that the last time she brought over a plate of cookies. Ron and Betty are like an extra set of grandparents. Betty loves her baked goods and we benefit from it.
"Her son's about your age, I think," Dad says as we walk toward the patio.
I squint as we get closer. The boy—the cute boy—stands at the fire pit. His shaggy blond hair sticks out in several directions. He's wearing baggy black cargo shorts and a Dr Pepper T-shirt torn at the hem. He pulls a hand out of his pocket and raises it in a wave.
Betty pulls me into a hug. Her gray-haired head comes up to about my shoulders and she always smells like cinnamon rolls. "Hello, Luce," she says, her Canadian ooo long and bottomless. "These are the Stanfords. They're staying at our place this summer."
The woman in the peasant skirt reaches out her hand. Her skin is soft, and her long fingers are covered with silver and black rings. She smells earthy.
"Lucy, such a pleasure. I'm Shay and this is my son, Simon."
Dr Pepper—Simon—grins and raises his eyebrows.
"Hey," he says.
"Mrs. Stanford is an artist," Ron says.
"That's Ms. Stanford," the woman says, "but please call me Shay."
"So," my dad says in a big voice, "Shay asked if it would be okay if she could work down here at the patio since there's only the dock next door. That's okay with you, right, Luce? Let's take a quick tour of the yard and the lakeshore before you folks get on the road."
Excuse me? She wants to use our patio as an art studio? Our patio, with its starburst pavers and fire pit and comfy Adirondack chairs, is where I go to escape, where I can think about Trixie and cry without anyone bothering me.
I shake my head. "Wish I could join you," I say in a false, cheerful voice. "Hannah's picking me up in a few minutes."
"Well, such a pleasure to meet you." Shay puts her hand on my arm. "I'm so looking forward to getting to know you better this summer."
The Clarks, my dad, and Shay turn to go down to the beach, but Simon stays behind.
He's definitely cute.
He's staring at me.
I'm having trouble looking away, my eyes locked on his intense green ones. Why is he staring at me?
Dr Pepper smiles. "Your place is really nice."
"Thanks ... well, um, I should go," I say, but I don't move. I stand there and look up at him, and when he grins at me, I can't help it. I smile back.
"Have fun," he says.
"Did you know there's no period in Dr?" I ask, still not moving.
"What?" His eyes narrow in confusion.
I point at his shirt. "Dr Pepper. No period in Dr. We learned about it in history. The period was dropped in the 1950s, but I can't remember why."
He doesn't say anything, and I can feel my cheeks flame. Why do I have to be such a dork? No period in Dr Pepper. Honestly.
He's still smiling, though, and then he says, "You know, I wasn't really sure how I felt about leaving my friends for the summer and living up here in the middle of nowhere. Now that I've met you, things are definitely looking up."
"Uhh." Good one.
"I like you," he says. "You're spunky."
No one's ever called me spunky before.
"I really have to go. My friend'll be here soon and—"
"I'll keep you company while you wait," he says.
I bite back a smile.
We walk around the front of the house and sit on the porch steps. I pull out my cell phone. Hannah should be here by now. I'll give her five minutes before I call her to make sure she's okay.
Simon's sitting close, close enough that I can feel the heat from his pale arms, covered with fine blond hairs. His fingers are long, some smudged blue and black.
Why am I inspecting his fingers?
I look up. The smile hasn't left his face. He smells good, like oil paints and something spicy, a hint of cologne.
"What are you up to tonight?" His voice is warm and friendly.
"Movie."
"There's a theater in town?"
"Yeah," I say. "We may be a small town, but we do have a movie theater."
"Thank God," he says. "How many screens?"
"One."
He laughs, and I like the sound of it. "Seriously?"
"The theater was built in 1919. It's kind of a big deal."
"Cool. What's playing?"
I shrug. I have no idea. It doesn't matter, really. It's what we do on Saturday nights. "There are a couple of theaters down in Brainerd, too, if you need more variety."
"I don't know," he says slowly. "I have a feeling I won't be too bored this summer."
I hear the crunch of gravel as Hannah pulls into the driveway. I stand up. "She's here."
He stands up, too, and whistles as Hannah parks her mom's old Lexus in front of the garage. "Nice wheels."
"Well, thanks for keeping me company." I wave at him as I get into the car. He waves back.
Hannah grins at me. "Who's the hottie?"
My cheeks go red. "Betty and Ron are renting out their house this summer."
"To that guy?"
"Yeah, and his mom."
"Does he have a name?"
"Simon."
"Simon," she says, like she's trying it out. "Simon the Renter."
"Simon the Renter." I try it out, too.
"He's cute."
I shrug. "He's nice."
"Oh, girl, you are going to have fun this summer!"
Everything's fun for Hannah. Trixie was the same way.
I'm more realistic.
"Yes," I say, "I'm sure I'll have lots of time to hang out with Simon the Renter when I'm not working my two jobs."
"You never know."
Maybe. Simon's cute and friendly, but the best thing is that he's not from here.
He doesn't know about poor Lucy, the girl who lost her best friend.
"Guess what? My mom's going on a book tour this summer, and I get to come along, and guess where we're going? Texas!" She squeals. "Oh my God, what if I meet Tony Romo?"
I roll my eyes. Hannah's mom, Madeleine Mills, has written twenty-six bestselling historical western romances. Twenty-six. Each one sells more than the last, probably thanks in part to covers with bare-chested cowboys and women with bosoms bursting out of their pioneer frocks.
Hannah's bosom is pretty much bursting out of her own shirt tonight. She's wearing a pink cowboy hat, the brim low over her forehead, a fitted cream-colored eyelet tank, tight denim mini-skirt, and her favorite boots, brown suede with fringe. She loves those boots enough that she would wear them to gym class if she could.
"Did I miss the memo to dress like a rodeo-ho?" I ask.
Hannah laughs as she rolls through a stop sign onto Main Street. Her dad competed on the professional rodeo circuit for a few years, and Hannah knows more about the sport than anyone I've ever met. As unlikely as it seems, Minnesota is home to dozens of rodeos every year, and she's been trying to get me to go to one since the day we met.
"Must have. But I believe the term you're looking for is buckle bunny, sweetheart. What do you call your ensemble? Laundry-basket chic?"
I laugh. "Exactly. How did you know?"
"Oh, I know you, Lucille. That skirt is too long. God, girl, show a little leg or something. What good is that hot gymnast bod if you don't show it off?"
My gymnast bod isn't as hot as it used to be. I quit the team after Trixie died. Not that there would have been the money for it anyway, not with Clay calling home and asking for money all the time on top of everything else.
Hannah pulls the Lexus into the parking lot across the street from the theater and leans forward to scan for a good spot.
"By the way," she says, "remember Dustin, that guy from Carly's party? He's meeting us here."
"Great." I pull the mirror down and tuck a loose curl behind my ear. "You two have fun."
"Oh, now, Lucille, don't be a party pooper!" She opens her door and gets out of the car.
It's been a long day. I'm tired, and I'm 99.9 percent sure that when I cross the street with Hannah to hang out with the crowd that's gathered under the marquee of the theater, Ben will be there. It's easy enough to try to pretend that he's not around at school. He's a junior; I'm a sophomore. We have different schedules. But on the weekends, it's hard not to run into him.
But it's not just Ben.
Ben will be there with Dana, his girlfriend.
Typical Saturday night in Halcyon Lake.
6 · Ben
I get in the Firebird and drive.
I'm in the parking lot at the Fire Tower before I even know where I'm going.
The lot is empty—not that there are ever a lot of cars here this time of night. Later, after the movie's over, and in the fall after football games, that's when the lot fills up.
Right now, I've got the place to myself.
I reach into the backseat for my hiking boots and once I've got them on, I hit the trail. It's a good hike up a steep hill to get to the tower, and by the time I reach it, I'm breathing heavily.
Shit, I need to start training again.
The tower looms tall against the trees and inky blue sky. I start to climb, gripping the handrails as the tower sways in the wind. This thing isn't called "historic" for nothing.
It's a long way up.
I reach the top and stand near the railing, looking out over the roads and trees and lakes, and I realize that I've never been up here alone.
It's quiet and peaceful high above the treetops, but I don't feel that way inside. I don't remember what it's like to live without the clutch of guilt and sorrow around my neck.
At Trixie's funeral, I greeted the hundreds of people who came to the church to offer their kind words and clichés. I nodded my head, said, "Thank you for coming," and "That's so kind of you," a million times.
Then it was over, and Lucy and I were the last ones in the church basement.
And I remember thinking, Lulu is the only good thing about today. She is the only good thing about my life.
We walked out to the parking lot so I could drive her home. She didn't want to get in the front seat of the Firebird and I understood that. Sitting there, without Trixie to ride shotgun, meant that it was real. The funeral, the casket in front of us, the sound of the dirt hitting the top of it—all of that was real, expected.
This was not expected. We had not factored this into the plan.
This was how our lives would be now, the subtle differences along with the obvious ones.
"It's okay," I told her, and she slid in, crying.
She'd cried so much. I wished I knew a way to help her.
We sat in her driveway for a long time, not talking, the rain landing in sheets across my windshield, the wipers on double time until I flicked them off, pointless because we weren't moving, and she started to cry again and I couldn't bear it.
So I reached out my hand and gently turned her head so that she faced me, and I wiped away tears with the pad of my thumb. I leaned in and did what I'd wanted to do for weeks.
I kissed her.
I kissed Lulu and it was a perfect moment, perfect, until I fucked it up.
She pulled away from me, stunned, her eyes wide.
"Why did you do that?" she asked me, her voice brittle. She sounded so young at that moment. So hurt.
"Lulu," I said, "you know why." I couldn't say it, but she had to know. It had been there between us all summer. I had started to tell her on the swim float. I put my hand on hers, but she pulled it away.
"We shouldn't, Ben. Not today." Her voice was barely above a whisper.
Bile rose in my throat, and I was overcome with dread and guilt and anger.
Filled with a terrible, inexplicable need to hurt her.
I slammed my hands against the steering wheel.
"You're right," I said, my voice cold. "This was a mistake. We shouldn't be here. Trixie shouldn't be dead. But she is. I couldn't save her. And we both know why."
"What?" she whispered. "What do you mean?"
"I couldn't save her. I didn't get to her in time. If you hadn't been there, I would have."
She didn't say a word. She looked at me with those wide eyes that filled with tears once again until the pools overflowed onto her cheeks.
And I kept going. "All of this is your fault."
"Why are you saying this?" she cried.
"It's true. And you know it."
"Ben—" she began, but a sob shook her body and she dropped her head in her hands.
"I hate this," I said. "I hate that you're here and she isn't. Get the fuck out of my car."
And she did. She opened the door and stumbled across the driveway in the heavy rain, her feet bare, her plain black pumps gripped tightly against her chest.
The pain of losing Trixie was too much—I had to give some of it away. So I gave it to Lucy, who more than anyone didn't deserve such a terrible thing. I should have told her that if I could, I would take away her pain. Because my own was so unbearable, what difference would it have made if I could have cut hers in half and taken it for myself?
Instead, I gave her more.
For one moment, she turned to look back at me before she opened the door, a moment that I could have gone to her through the rain and the mud and told her I didn't mean it, told her that I was crazy with grief and sadness, begged for her forgiveness.
But I didn't.
And I've lived with it every moment since then.
My cell phone buzzes three times, fast. I pull it out of my pocket and check my messages.
One from Guthrie. Dude u got trouble. Dana pist.
Two from Dana.
Where r u? I'm @ the theater.
Ben, you promised.
Shit. Shitshitshit.
I take one last look across the treetops and try again to find some peace in the silence and solitude. There is nothing, and I can't escape the reality that waits for me at the bottom of the tower. I turn and begin the climb back down.
When I get to the theater, everyone is inside except for Dana. She's alone, leaning against the wall, her arms crossed. Guthrie was right. She is pist.
Here's how it goes down:
Dana: You're late. You promised me you wouldn't be late, Ben.
Me (swats at a swarm of gnats): Sorry. Got tied up at the resort.
Dana: Oh.
Me: You don't believe me?
Dana: Of course I do!
Me: Doesn't seem like it.
Dana: Ben, I'm trying to help. You seem so, I don't know, lost lately (puts hand on my arm).
Me: Dana—
Dana (in a soft, low voice): I wish you would let me help you.
Me (pulls arm away): What makes you think I need help?
Dana (pinches lips together): You have no idea how many people care about you, Benjamin. How many people love you. How many people ache for you because you're in so much pain—
Me (interrupts, angry, sick of the drama, sick of hearing her talk in italics all the time): Shut up.
Dana (mouth drops open): What? What did you say?
Me (takes a step back): I said shut up. You want to help me? You can help me by shutting the hell up.
Dana (takes a step toward me, panicked): You don't mean that. You can't possibly mean that.
Me (raises one eyebrow, takes another step backward): Oh, I mean it. And my name is not fucking Benjamin.
I'm a dick and she's too nice. She shouldn't put up with my shit.
I walk across the parking lot and get in the Firebird. It takes about five seconds for Dana to decide to follow me.
"Let's drive around," she says. "Maybe it will clear your head."
I know where this is going.
"Fine."
We drive to the abandoned baseball fields behind the paper mill. I park the car and turn toward the girl in the front seat. My girlfriend. She smiles. Her teeth are artificially perfect and white. In fact, she has no visible flaws. Her hair, her smile, her GPA, everything is perfect. A little too perfect, maybe.
Lucy's ponytails are usually crooked or she'll miss a few strands that curl around her neck or one side will be bumpy. And if you look closely, you can see that one of Lucy's blue eyes is narrower at the outside corner than the other. Two of her bottom teeth are crooked, angled slightly, bowing to each other.
I'm sitting in my car with my girlfriend, thinking about Lucy Meadows.
I don't want to think anymore.
So I don't. I lean over to Dana.
That's how it works with us. I do something to piss Dana off, we fight about it, we bail on our friends, we drive around, we fool around in my car.
And I feel nothing. Empty. The way I like it.
Dana wasn't the first one. First there was Anna. Anna did that thing—put her hand on my arm, tilted her head, used that low voice—right after Trixie died. She cornered me during study hall on the first day of school. She said she was so sorry about Trixie and Trixie was a wonderful friend and we were all going to miss Trixie so very much.
She said my sister's name so many times I wanted to twist her head right off her neck.
Anna wasn't friends with Trix.
Then her voice got even lower and she said, "I'm worried about you. I want to make sure you're okay."
Anna lasted a couple of months. Then Jess after her. Now Dana. They all pulled that same shit.
It's easy to get laid when people feel sorry for you.
7 · Lucy
When I get home from the movies, Mom's at the kitchen table with a cup of tea. She glances at the clock on the stove and sighs.
"You're late," she says. "It's 12:15."
"Yeah," I mumble, "it is." I don't tell her why I'm late. I don't explain that we actually pulled into the driveway at 12:03, but I had to listen to Hannah go on and on about Dustin and how sweet he is and how they like the same music and even though he's a little on the dumb side, it's not like she's looking to get married, so why not?
"I'm glad that you and Hannah have gotten so close in such a short period of time," Mom says, but her lips pinch together. "That doesn't mean you can miss curfew."
"I didn't mean to." I turn to get a glass from the cabinet and flip on the tap. "I tried."
"Try harder, sweetie. We worry about you, you know."
I nod. I know. I know it was hard for them, too; that it's hard for them to see how Trixie's parents have had to deal with losing a daughter.
"Did you have fun? You missed a wonderful dinner with the Stanfords."
I turn in surprise, glass in hand, water running in the sink behind me. "You made it home in time for dinner?" She usually closes on Saturday nights.
"It was important to Betty and Ron that I meet the people who will be living there all summer. I can only imagine how difficult it must be to leave your home in the hands of strangers, even though Shay is a friend of Betty's niece."
I turn back to the sink and fill my glass as she rehashes their conversations, tells me what Betty served, how Ron's Great Dane, Oscar, sat with his head on Simon's lap the entire time.
"Simon's adorable," Mom says as she gets up from the table, rinses out her cup, and puts it in the dishwasher. "He seemed very interested in you, Lucy. He asked a lot of questions." She smiles and tugs at a loose strand of my hair.
Before I get a chance to ask her what kinds of questions, she turns to straighten a dish towel hanging on the handle of the oven door and says, "I've got to get to bed. Don't stay up too late, okay, Luce?"
She goes upstairs, and I sit down at the table to finish my water.
My phone buzzes—Hannah always texts when she gets home so I know she's made it safely. I flip the phone over, but it's a number I don't recognize.
Sorry so late. This is Simon. Hope u don't mind ur mom gave me ur number. Can't wait to spend the summer on ur beautiful lake.
As much as I'm not happy that my mom thinks she can freely give out my number, my mouth turns up in a small smile as I think of something to text back. I'm not good at this. Trixie was the one who always knew what to say, and Hannah is, too. I've always been the shy one, the one who thinks things through a hundred times before making a decision.
My fingers hover over the screen. See you soon, I finally type.
Maybe this summer won't be so bad after all.
8 · Ben
I pull into Dana's driveway, and she says, "I love you, Ben."
I've told her that I love her a few times, but the words are hollow, untrue. Tonight I can't bring myself to say it. I walk her to the door in silence, then kiss her.
"Good night," I say, but I can't look her in the eye and see her sympathy. I don't deserve it.
I drive to Sullivan Street Park. It's closed, but I duck through the metal bars of the gate, like we used to do when we were kids. This is the best swimming spot in Halcyon Lake. Always has been. Always will be, no matter what happened here. I pull off my T-shirt and jeans and wade into the water.
Shit. It's cold.
I'll swim out to the island and back. That's it. One time. Three minutes out, three minutes back.
That's all it would have taken Trixie. Probably less. She could kick my ass in the water; she was such a strong swimmer. But it wasn't the water that took her, it was her heart. Abnormal electrical activity that caused sudden cardiac arrest. They said she'd probably had a heart condition her whole life and we never knew.
I've thought about that day a thousand times. How it might have been different.
If I'd raced with Trixie and Clayton to the island ... If I'd already been in the water, I could have gotten to her sooner.
If they hadn't raced at all. If she'd been on the float.
If Lucy hadn't been there. If I'd been paying more attention.
If I hadn't been so enamored by Lucy's caramel-colored hair, tucked into a ponytail, strands of it loose and damp against the back of her soft, pale neck.
They tell me that nothing would have changed what happened. That nothing I would have done could have saved her.
That doesn't stop me from thinking about it until all the ifs twist themselves into a tight knot and burrow deep into my skin.
I swim in the ice-cold water, out to the island and back, over and over, until my entire body is numb and my own heart feels like it might stop. When I can't move another muscle, I lie on my back on a picnic table, reach up to the stars with one hand.
In this great, vast universe, I am nothing.
9 · Lucy
I wake up late Sunday morning, Mother's Day, to a quiet house. Dad's on the porch with a cup of coffee and the local paper.
"Where's Mom?" I ask. "Aren't we taking her out for lunch?"
He doesn't look up. "Nope. She's at the restaurant. Someone called in sick. She wants to know if you'll go in early."
I pinch my lips together. "I sort of had plans—uh, before my shift."
He puts his index finger on the newspaper to hold his place and looks up at me. "What kind of plans?"
"Well, I thought I'd stop at the cemetery for a few minutes."
He gives me a look that's a cross between worried and resigned. "Why are you always going up there, Luce?" His voice is soft, so quiet I have to strain to hear.
"I go once a month, Dad, not always. I miss her, okay?" The words rush out of me.
I used to go always. I used to go every day. Sometimes twice a day those first few weeks.
"Does it help?" he asks.
No, it doesn't help. Not really.
When I don't answer, he says, "I'll give you a lift when you're ready."
? ? ?
On the way to town, Dad doesn't let up. "I wish you'd get some new friends, Lucy."
"I have friends, Dad. Hannah is my friend."
"She's too loud."
I roll my eyes and change the subject. "So why did you tell Shay Stanford she could work down at our patio?"
Dad shrugs. "I worked out a deal with Ron and Betty. Fifty bucks a week. We could use the extra cash."
My stomach flips—I hate talking about money. I look at my dad. He needs a shave, his cheeks are hollow and there are dark circles under his eyes. He works at a plant that manufactures aluminum docks and boat lifts, but our lift sits empty. He sold the boat months ago, even though he's been working double shifts and overtime. My uncle Daniel says we can borrow his boat anytime, but I can't remember the last time Dad got out on the lake. Clayton's tuition is expensive; costs of restaurant supplies have shot up. I know money's tight.
When I don't say anything, he continues. "You'll be so busy this summer, you probably won't even notice."
Dad drops me off at the church. As he drives away my cell phone rings—the James Bond theme song. Clay.
"Hey," he says.
"How's the studying going?" I ask.
"Studying. Right. Good." He sounds ragged and rough, like he's got ashes in his mouth.
"Are you hungover? It's two in the afternoon!"
He laughs. "Maybe a little bit."
"I thought you were coming home for Mother's Day. Guess you had a change of plans?"
"Yeah. I have a final Monday morning, so, you know, I've got to study."
"Doesn't sound like you were studying last night."
Clayton laughs. "Oh, I was studying. Studying the Bud Light and the bootay."
Seriously?
"Hey, did you know that Ron and Betty rented out their house this summer—"
Clayton interrupts. "Yeah, yeah, Dad told me. Listen, you gotta do me a favor. You gotta tell Mom and Dad that I'm not coming home this summer."
"What?"
"Yeah, me and a couple of buddies are subleasing this guy's house. Total party house. Just for the summer."
"Since when?"
"Since a few days ago."
"I'm pretty sure Mom's counting on you to help out at the restaurant."
"Yeah, that's not gonna happen. Besides, I sort of have to do some makeup work for this class I screwed up in, so I figured I would get caught up and party, too. Best of both worlds."
"Best of both worlds for you, maybe."
"What's the big deal? Why do you care if I come home or not?"
"I don't. It's just—" But I do care. Everything's different. Trixie's gone, Ben's gone, my first summer without them. No Betty and Ron, no pans of brownies and plates of peanut butter cookies. I can't be without Clay, too. I can't have any more different. I take a deep breath.
"You'll be fine, Lucy. You'll tell them for me, right?"
"Why should I?"
"Come on, help me out. I want to have fun this summer. I don't want to work at the restaurant."
"Oh, it's fine for me but not for you?"
"That's right. Looking out for number one."
"As usual," I spit. "Tell them yourself."
I pull the phone away from my ear and hit end as I walk across the cemetery.
Trixie's grave is on the side farthest from the church, close to a small cluster of silver maple trees. Her headstone is red granite, small and simple. Her name, the dates, Beloved Daughter and Sister.
Trixie's mother, Jane, has planted flowers, the earth damp where it's recently been watered. She's been here today. This is her first Mother's Day without Trixie.
At the foot of Trixie's grave is a small stone bench with cherubs carved into the legs. I sit and face the headstone.
"Hey, Trix." That's how I always begin.
And then I talk.
I talk about Emily and how excited I am to be her nanny this summer, even though I'm not all that excited about cleaning the cabins and hauling trash around. I tell her about my phone call with Clay, about Hannah and Dustin and the movie last night and how it still feels weird to go to the movies without her.
I tell her about the Clarks and the renters and Simon and his Dr Pepper T-shirt. "And, um, he's pretty cute," I say. "What do you think? Should I go for it with Simon the Renter?"
I move from the bench to kneel close to the headstone. I stroke my fingers over the tops of the marigolds.
"I've been seeing Ben around a lot lately. I'm worried about him, Trix. He's always so angry. He won't talk to me. I mean ... I know it's hard for him without you. I get that. He misses you. But what I don't understand is why he had to take it out on me. Why did he push me away? Why did he say those terrible things?"
Trixie doesn't answer.
Only one person can answer those questions.
"I'm trying to be brave, Trixie," I whisper. "It was a lot easier when you were around to remind me."
I stand and brush grass from my knees. I reach into my pocket for a root beer barrel, twist the cellophane wrapper open, and place it on top of Trixie's headstone. I leave her a piece of candy from Sweet Pea's every time I visit, and every time I come back, it's gone. Root beer barrels, cinnamon disks, butterscotches, jawbreakers. All her favorites. I like to think she's enjoying the candy, even though it's probably taken by a raccoon or squirrel.
"I'm going to ask him," I say. "The next time I see him, I'm going to walk right up to him and ask him why he pushed me out of his life." I bring two fingers to my lips and then touch them to the top of the gravestone. "Later, Trix. I miss you."
I turn. My breath catches when I see Ben standing on the front steps of the church, leaning over the railing. He's watching me and he looks so sad. I wonder how long he's been there and if he could have possibly heard anything I said to Trixie.
I drop my eyes and walk down to the street. My brilliant plan to confront him, to get my answers, is crushed into the grass beneath every footfall.
10 · Ben
Lucy's at the cemetery.
It's Mother's Day, Mum's first without Trixie. I stopped going to church after Trixie died, and I never go to the cemetery, but this morning when Mum asked me to go, I didn't have the heart to say no. And it was bad. Mum cried and Dad hugged her and I sort of hung back at the edge of the row of headstones and let them have their moment.
She's not there. Trixie died, and what we put in the ground is a shell of what she was. I don't go into her room, and I can't bring myself to sit at her grave.
What good would it do? It wouldn't make me feel better.
Mum's been crying most of the day, so when Dad asked me to run back up here and bring her some lilacs from a bush at Trixie's grave, I went.
But Lucy's here.
I stand on the front steps of the church and I watch her. She's talking, but she's too far away for me to hear. She stands up and pulls something out of her pocket and places it on top of the gravestone. She kisses her fingers and presses them to the stone. I try to swallow the lump that's suddenly in my throat. I shouldn't be watching this.
Before I can move off the steps, though, Lucy turns and sees me.
Oh God, please don't let her walk over here and talk to me now. I don't think I'll be able to keep it together. She must feel the same way, because she puts her head down and scurries away, fast.
I hate this. I hate that I can't figure out a way to make things better. I hate that I don't deserve to be forgiven.
I walk over to Trixie's grave and pull Mum's garden shears out of my back pocket. I've got to make this quick.
There's a root beer barrel on the stone. Trix and Lucy loved going to Sweet Pea's on Saturday mornings to spend their allowance money on candy. They'd come home and sit in the sunroom to divide up the bag—hard candy for Trixie, chocolate and fudge for Lulu.
Once, a few summers ago, I followed them to Sweet Pea's, made it seem like I was running an errand for Dad to the hardware store.
"Why are you following us, Ben?" Trixie asked.
"I'm not," I said, slowing my bike so that I didn't run into them.
"You're not supposed to ride your bike on the sidewalk," she said.
"Who's going to stop me?"
"Go home."
"I've got to pick up some nails for Dad."
"Nails?" Trixie cried. "What does he need nails for?"
"Dunno. He said for me to pick up some two-and-a-half-inch siding nails." I thought that sounded believable enough. "So that's what I'm doing. What are you doing?"
"You know what we're doing," Trixie said. "We're going to Sweet Pea's." She stopped and turned around, her hands on her hips. Lucy stopped, too, her hands jammed in the pockets of her shorts. She stared at the ground, didn't look up at me.
"Why don't you ever buy me any fudge, Lulu?" I asked. Her head snapped up, and her eyes were wide with something—surprise, fear, I didn't know. "Hey," I said, "I'm only teasing."
She blushed and turned away, started walking again.
"Leave us alone, Ben," Trixie said. "Go buy your nails."
Later, after Lucy had gone home, I found a piece of maple fudge, my favorite, wrapped in pea green tissue, on the desk in my bedroom next to my rock tumbler.
After that, every time the girls went to Sweet Pea's, I found a piece of maple fudge on my desk later. For two years. Until Trixie died and there were no more trips to Sweet Pea's, no more sounds of laughter from the sunroom.
I try not to cry as I cut a few blooms off the lilac bush, but I can't help it. I brush the tears away with the back of my hand before I walk back down the hill.
I was right to avoid this place. I won't come back here again.
The Tallest Tower in All the Land
Trixie and Lulu loved to explore their world. They hiked in the woods and swam in the lakes. They caught fish and threw them back for another day.
They climbed trees in the park, giant box elder and oak, even though Lulu's heart raced with fear as she searched for footholds and held on with sweating palms. "Be brave," Trixie reminded her, and Lulu was. When she could go no farther, she looked out over the beautiful, tranquil lake for which their town was named: Halcyon. She had never seen anything so stunning. From here, at the top of this box elder tree, the lake was theirs. It belonged to them.
And then one day, Trixie's brother, Ben, told them he knew of a place with an even more spectacular view, the tallest tower in all the land. The entire countryside laid out before them—sky and cloud, lake and pine—for as far as the eye could see.
Lulu wondered if she would ever be able to climb such a tower, or if her fear would keep her away.
But one day, when Trixie was feeling particularly adventurous, the two best friends left behind their serene lake in search of the new and the unexplored, the promise of something they'd never before beheld.
If Lulu had been afraid of climbing the giant box elder tree in the park, she was paralyzed with fear when they finally reached their destination that perfectly cloudless summer afternoon. The blue sky stretched out above them, and when Lulu tipped her head up and saw the giant wooden structure before her, her knees began to shake.
"How tall is it?" Lulu asked.
Trixie did not know, exactly, but Ben had told her that there were one hundred and thirty winding steps to the top. "Lulu," Trixie said, "I know that deep inside, you have the courage to climb to the top of that tower."
So Lulu closed her eyes, and she reached down deep to the place inside her soul where she kept her most guarded reserve of courage, the one she relied on when she was most in need but kept protected because she did not want to use it all up at once. She began to climb.
And the climb terrified Lulu in ways she could not have imagined. She had felt dizziness before, but this sensation—the sky spun, the tower itself swayed—rocked her to the core. Many times, Lulu and Trixie paused so that Lulu could place both hands on the wooden railing, close her eyes, and wait for the world to come to a halt.
"We're almost there," Trixie said in a tender voice. "You'll be glad for it."
They climbed and rested and climbed again for what seemed like hours.
Finally, Trixie and Lulu reached the top of the tower. Lulu's balance returned and her stomach stopped its relentless lurching.
And the view, as Ben had promised, was spectacular.
In every direction, their world had no end. They looked across the tops of pine and oak and maple, of birch and aspen and willow, to the myriad lake and river and pond, all glimmering in the summer sunlight. The sight took their breath away.
Lulu turned to her best friend. "This is the most amazing thing I've ever seen," she said.
Then Lulu glanced to the floor of the platform, which was covered with fragrant creeping thyme. Before her very eyes, the purple flowers multiplied and swirled around her feet, the end of a trail that tumbled down the stairs, all the way to the ground.
"Trixie, look!" Lulu cried. "Where did it come from?"
Trixie smiled. "From you, from your footsteps." She reached out and squeezed Lulu's hand.
The friends gazed upon their world a bit longer until the sun dipped below the trees to the west. They began their climb down through the cover of thyme, but Lulu was not as terrified as she had been going up.
When they reached the safety of the firm, solid earth, Trixie looked at her best friend with a smile and said, "Always remember that the thrill of the view is worth the terror of the climb."
Lulu would remember those words for the rest of her life.
