Mirrored (20 page)

Goose glances at the TV. “Oh, wait—this is my favorite part. Ferris is in a parade.”

And then, in a second, he jumps up on the coffee table, imitating Ferris. “‘And I’d like to dedicate it to a young man who doesn’t think he’s seen anything good today,’” he lip-synchs with Ferris. “Give me Izzy’s hairbrush.”

I give him a look like WTF, but hand him the hairbrush. So when Ferris starts singing “Danke Schoen,” Goose does too.

Danke schoen, darling, danke schoen.

Thank you for all the joy and pain.

I can see the actor, Matthew Broderick, on the television, and Goose doing a perfect imitation of his every expression, every gesture.

“You’ve obviously seen this movie a lot,” I say, laughing.

He ignores me, still singing, “
Danke schoen
 . . .” and dancing. Then, he holds out his hand. I take it, and I dance with him. It’s fun,
and for a while, I forget that my life is a mess, that my family is gone, and I’m never going to go to school again. Goose is good at making me forget the bad stuff.

How will I live without him?

But that night, when I go to bed, I have another nightmare. Again, I’m picking apples with my parents. This time, when I pick the ripe, green apple, it turns black, then melts to molasses. The molasses spreads up my hand and turns my arm black. Then, my whole body. It consumes me until I am gone.

I wake, remembering something: Violet’s maiden name. Appel.

Violet is the apples. They destroyed my family, and they will destroy me.

The dreams mean I will never be safe. She’ll find me sooner or later.

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Even though I can sleep all day, I never get enough rest because my dreams keep me up all night, worrying, not just worrying about Violet and Kendra but worrying about the Guzmans, what they’re risking, keeping me. Despite Jorge’s assurances that they want me, I can’t help but think they’d be better off if I just disappeared.

Of course, if what Kendra says is true, I’ll be disappearing soon anyway, and that worries me even more. Where will I go? Who will I live with? Will I ever have any friends? And what if Violet finds me anyway? I can put these questions out of my head in the day, but at night, they dance in my head like sugarplums on acid, keeping me awake for hours.

But, the night after
Ferris Bueller
, I decide to turn in early, to read until my eyes shut without my help. I know Goose has that chem test
the next day, and I want him to study. But when I get to our room, Isabella is still coloring.

“You should put that away,” I say. “Your mom’s going to tell you to soon.”

Isabella has been very cutely obedient. Doing everything I say. Goose says, jokingly, it’s because she looks up to me. I think it’s just because I’m new.

But, apparently, the novelty has worn off because she says, “I’ll wait until Mommy tells me.”

“And then, about ten minutes more, I bet. And then, she’ll be mad and take away TV tomorrow. Don’t you want to watch
Liv and Maddie
together? It’s our favorite show. Come on, I’ll help you clean up.” I start gathering her crayons. It’s a big box with a hundred twenty, and I know she likes when I put them in rainbow order, so I start with the reds. “You get the oranges.”

She does. It takes forever because she’s just a little kid and some crayons are in the middle between red and orange, like mango tango. Finally, she hands me the ten oranges, and I fit them next to the reds. “Now, start on yellows, and I’ll do greens.”

She picks up a lemon-yellow crayon and holds it aloft.

“Do you love my brother?” she asks.

The question startles me for a second, and the magic mint crayon slips from my fingers. Once I catch it, I consider her question. I know any answer I give will be trumpeted not only to her brothers but to the neighbors and everyone at her school. I also know that five-year-olds only define love one way: a boy and a girl K-I-S-S-I-N-G. Neither yes nor no will yield a good result.

I think of Goose at the piano, playing music like falling water.

Finally, I say, “Of course I love all your brothers. And your mommy and daddy and you too.” I pick up the screamin’ green.

“I meant my brother, Goose. Are you his girlfriend?” she says.

“Silly!” I laugh. “We’ve never even been on a date. We’re friends.”

Blue violet, red violet, violet blue . . .

Isabella rolls her eyes. “I mean—”

“Izzy! Time for bed!” Stacey’s voice mercifully interrupts us.

“In a minute!” Isabella says.

“Now. Brush your teeth. I think I saw something crawling around between them earlier. I’m checking your toothbrush.”

Isabella thrusts the various yellows into my hand and walks out, huffing.

After she leaves, I quickly gather the blues and violets and purples, then the neutrals. I’m in bed with my eyes closed and the pillow over my face by the time she comes back, safe from questions I can’t safely answer.

Fortunately, she doesn’t revisit the subject the next day. I feign sleep in the morning, until she’s gone. In the afternoon, I’m listening to Jonah when she gets home. She shares my Jonah obsession to a major degree now.

“He’s soooo cute!” she says.

I laugh. “You’re, like, five years old.”

“Six. You know I had my birthday last week.”

“Okay, six. Sorry. You’re not supposed to be obsessing over rock stars.”

“Why not? You do.” She turns away, singing “Yes, Baby, Yes,” and shakes her hair to indicate she wants me to braid it again. I oblige. I saw a style with a braid across the forehead, and I’ve been wanting to try it. I get her hairbrush and start brushing out her golden waves.

“Well, I’m older than you,” I say. “I’ve been obsessed with Jonah for, like, a year, and I’m getting less obsessed.” It’s true. Without
Laurel’s influence, it’s less fun. “Do you know I was supposed to go see him in concert?”

“You were? Like, see him in person? Wow.”

“I know. My friend, Laurel, and I got tickets the first day they went on sale. We had floor seats right near the stage where he could see us if he looked down, and we were going to make posters so he’d notice us.”

“What were the posters going to say?”

I can’t tell her about
Dare to eat a peach.
Not only will she not get it, but it also sounds completely stupid when I say it out loud. So I say, “But now, Laurel’s going with this other girl, Britney. It makes me so mad. I really wanted to go.” I want to cry, not about Jonah. That was a complete fantasy. But about Laurel, being trapped inside, basically losing my life.

“That’s what you’re upset about? A stupid concert?”

It’s Goose. He was late coming home from school today, and I’ve been waiting for him. I finally mastered
Für Elise,
and I’ve waited to play it for him, my only audience. Now, he’s standing in the doorway, staring at me with something like disdain.

“Jonah Prince, really?” he says. “You’re stuck here all the time. You’ve had to quit school. My parents are taking risks having you here. I never go anywhere anymore, just so I can entertain you, and you’re upset because you can’t go see Jonah Stinking Prince and his diaper pants?”

His words are like a bee sting, or a hundred. I turn on him.

“It’s not the only thing I’m upset about, and you know it.” Even more, I want to cry. Why is he being such a douche? Can’t he see that Jonah is a
symbol
of all those other things? Like having to go to Ohio or
France
with Kendra. Like maybe never seeing him again? “You don’t have to stay home for me. No one told you to. Go out with your other friends if they’re so great.”

He looks at me, sucking in a breath. “Maybe I will. And maybe if you’d stop playing his insipid music night and day, I could actually think straight and study.”

The chorus of “Yes, Baby, Yes” is playing. Those are pretty much the only lyrics. It is insipid. Still, I say, “You said you liked it. Were you just playing me?”

“Yes. I mean, no.” He rolls his eyes. “I was being nice.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you should keep
trying
to be nice.”

He stalks over and pulls the plug on the speaker. Isabella starts screaming that he’s in her room. Finally, he leaves. I scramble up the ladder to my bed to cry, but not before I rip down the photo. I don’t want to throw it out, though. It’s from the book Goose got me. Even though Goose hates me, it has meaning. Instead, I hide it under my pillow. Isabella turns the sound back up as soon as Goose leaves, louder than before, so Jonah is screaming, “Yes, baby, yes!” but when I close my eyes, I can’t picture Jonah’s face, only Goose’s face, disappointed and angry at me.

Stacey calls us for dinner, but I say I feel sick. I’m mostly embarrassed. When Isabella comes back to the room, I pretend I’ve gone to bed early, even though it’s only seven and still light out. Eventually, she leaves.

A little later, there’s a knock on the door. I ignore it, even when I hear Goose’s voice, saying, “Celine? Come on, Celine. I didn’t mean it. Come play the piano with me. Or just talk to me. Anything.”

I bury my head deeper under the pillow, ignoring him, even though I know I’m being a brat.

“Celine?”

I don’t answer, and finally, he goes away.

But I don’t sleep. I can’t. I stay awake, listening to the muffled noise of the television, the whirr of the blender making more smoothies, the boys fighting and flushing toilets. Goose knocks two more
times, and I want to talk to him, but now, I’ve pretended so long that I can’t. Of course he was totally right. It’s dumb to fantasize about a rock star I’ll never meet. I know that. Eventually, Isabella goes to bed and all the noise gives way to the wind chimes on the patio and the stop-start of the air conditioner. I’m lying there, wide awake.

Hours later, I hear a knock on the window.

“Celine?” The voice seems to be coming from inside my head. Kendra.

I slide down to the floor and pad toward the window in my bare feet. When I get there, I have to look down. She is disguised as Stacey. But her voice is still Kendra’s.

“Celine? May I come in?”

“Come in, then,” I whisper. And immediately, she is there beside me.

“It’s, like, midnight. What is it?”

She melts into her own face and grows about a foot. “I’m sorry, Celine. I think I was wrong last week. About Violet. She’s not leaving.”

What else is new?

“And I think she might be onto me. That’s why she lied. She may know I helped you.”

This is worse news. “So she knows I’m alive?”

“I’m not sure. But you should definitely lay low.”

“How much lower can I lay? I’m in total hiding.” I have another horrible thought. “Does she know I’m here? Are the Guzmans in danger?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t think so.”

“You don’t
think so
?” I glance at Isabella, sweet Isabella asleep in her bed, her French braids still intact. “How about you
know
instead of thinking? I can’t put them at risk.”

“I’ll find somewhere else for you to stay, another place, another
town. Just don’t talk to anyone right now. Don’t even trust me if I come to your window.”

I’m thinking maybe I shouldn’t have trusted her in the first place, but I don’t say it. She’s trying to help. If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t even know about Violet’s intentions. I’d probably be dead. My head is awhirl with jumbled feelings, but mostly regret, regret that I have to leave here, leave the people I love, people who have protected me. Goose, whom I adore despite his recent meanness. Yet I don’t see any other way.

“How will I hear from you?” I ask.

“Through the mirror, only the mirror,” Kendra says.

And then, she’s gone.

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I stumble back to bed and find the mirror under my pillow, as I knew it would be. But now I can’t sleep at all. I have to go away. I have to leave to protect the Guzmans. It’s not fair to them. I should rest up, then sneak away in the morning. It’s hours before I sleep again, and then, I am awakened too soon, by a hand in the darkness.

“Celine?”

Goose. He’s climbed up the ladder even though he’s afraid of heights. He nudges my shoulder. I smell that citrus cologne he’s been wearing.

I have never been good at giving people the silent treatment. When Laurel and I would fight, we’d say we were never speaking again. That would last an hour. I can never handle someone I love being mad at me. One of the most heartbreaking things about my
father’s death is that I was so mean to him. I would have broken—if he hadn’t died. I don’t want to leave on bad terms with Goose. I may never see him again.

So I say, “What, Goose?” not even sounding mad.

“I’m so sorry. I . . . it wasn’t you. I had a crap day. I got a D on a pre-calc quiz.”

“A D?” He’s good at math, usually. At least, he understands the chem math a lot better than I do. “Ask if you can do extra credit, maybe.”

“Yeah, maybe. That’s not the point. The point is, I was a douche, and I’m sorry. I’m upset that you’re leaving, mainly.” He doesn’t know how soon I’m leaving, and I decide not to tell him. He’ll just try to get me to stay.

“Okay,” I say. “But listen. You can do stuff with your other friends, you know. Just leave me home playing ponies with Isabella. I like it, and I’m not going anywhere.” A total lie.

He tries to brace himself on the rail of the bed. “I know. I want to hang with you. Can’t you tell that I . . . ?” He stops, then drops down to the floor.

“Tell what?”

“Nothing. I don’t remember what I was going to say. But we have fun together, don’t we?”

“So much fun I ruined your grades?” I know the D is because he was hanging out with me too much.

“That’s my fault, not yours,” he says. “I know you’re lonely, no matter what you say. I’m sorry you can’t go to the concert. I know it was important to you.”

“It’s not that big a deal. I know the Jonah thing is stupid.” He must think I’m such an idiot. “I was more upset about Laurel. Laurel’s going with someone else. It feels like she forgot all about me.”

“No, she misses you.” He kicks the floor. “Shit. I forgot to tell
you. I saw her the other day, and she said she misses you so much. She doesn’t understand why she hasn’t heard from you.”

“Oh, wow.” Now, I feel worse because she probably thinks I forgot all about her, and I can never tell her otherwise, tell her I miss her.

From below me, Isabella yells, “Would you guys be quiet! I’m trying to sleep. I’m going to tell Mom you were in my room.”

“Okay, I’m sorry.” Big talk from a kid whose hair I do three times a day. To Goose, I say, “I’ll come down.”

We go to the kitchen, and over Cheerios, Goose says, “Maybe they’ll do one of those 3D concert movies next year, and I can take you to it.”

I smile. “You’re so sweet.” Even though a 3D movie isn’t the same as actually being in the room with Jonah. But I think of what Kendra said. By this time next year, I will be in some other place, far away from everyone I know.

Or I could be dead.

“Listen, you’ll get out. You’ll come back here, or I’ll go to Ohio. Or even France. We’ll do stuff together. You heard what Kendra said. Violet will move on. No one’s that crazy.”

You don’t know Violet.
“You’re probably right.” I don’t want him to worry any more than he already has.

“Of course I am. What are you doing today?”

Leaving.
Suddenly, I just know it. I have to leave, have to protect them from Violet. That’s more important than anything else, even than seeing him again. “I don’t know. I guess I’ll practice the piano a lot. Your mom has a PTA meeting, and then, she’s taking Jeron for a checkup, so I’ll be all alone.”

“I wish I could stay home with you, so you won’t be lonely.”

“I’m fine. Really. You should go suck up to your math teacher.”
Forget me.

“I will.”

I watch him trying to catch a stray Cheerio that’s floating away like a little life ring. This is probably the last time I’ll ever see him. I stare at him, memorizing his eyes, his dimple, everything about him. I don’t want to go. Yet, what choice do I have? A lock of hair falls into his face, and I reach to move it. He looks up at me, raising an eyebrow.

“Violet always told me people treat you better if your hair is neat,” I say. “Besides, it covers your beautiful eyes.”

I remember what Dorothy said to the Scarecrow:
I think I’ll miss you most of all.

He smiles halfway. Our eyes meet, and for a second, we just stare at each other. He smiles big. “Yeah. My hair should be more of a priority, I guess. I should get going.”

But he stands there, still staring. Suddenly, I want to tell him lots of things, that I don’t really care about Jonah, for one. That no one in my entire life has ever been as nice as he is, for another. It’s weird that you can just meet someone, and right away, they mean so much to you. But if I say that to Goose, he’ll know something’s up, that I’m running away, and I don’t want him to know. I don’t want him to stop me. I don’t want to leave, but I have no choice.

I wish I could stay here. With him. Forever.

So I wait until he’s picked up the cereal bowls and is on his way out before I say, “I really appreciate everything you and your family have done.”

He shoulders his backpack. “Please stop thanking me. Anyone would do this, anyone decent.”

“Guess I don’t know many decent people.”

“Why don’t you get some more sleep?” he says. “I’ll see you later.”

It’s just barely light out. I say, “Okay.” I want to hug him, feel his arms around me one last time. But, instead, I wait until he closes the
door, then go back to my room.

I watch him out the window, feeling like my bones may crumble, as he runs to his car in the morning rain. Then, I watch the car’s taillights get smaller and smaller until they disappear entirely.

I lie in bed, tears running down both cheeks, my fist in my mouth so as not to wake Isabella with my sobs. I will never see him again.

And he is the only one who ever rescued me, truly rescued me when I really needed it.

I sleep, fitfully, dreaming of apples, exploding like the bomb at Hiroshima, taking me up in a mushroom cloud to the top of the world. The dreams make me sure that leaving is the only way. I’m not safe. Nothing will make me safe. At least, if I leave, I won’t endanger others. I can’t put the family I’ve come to love in danger.

When I wake, Isabella is gone, Stacey and Jeron and the boys too. I’m sorry I can’t say good-bye to them, but I can’t. I stuff my few possessions back into my backpack. I take the songbook Goose bought me, not as a souvenir of Jonah, but as a souvenir of Goose, of our time here.

I go to the bathroom to brush my teeth.

On the counter, I find a sheet of paper.

It’s a poem, the poem Goose said he’d leave for me someday. I see the title, “Going to Target With Her.” I smile and feel like I’m about to cry at the same time. It’s about that day at Target, with Willow. I’m a little surprised that he would write a poem about Willow, or leave it for me, when he said he wasn’t in love with her, when she dumped him. Then, I read it.

Going to Target With Her

Going to Target with her

Driving the ass-backward long way to Target to spend more time with her

Rather than cramming for the test I need to ace

Time I couldn’t have gotten otherwise

At Target with her

Trying on cheap, stupid, beautiful red and purple Target hats,

Trying to make her laugh and pose for pictures I take

Telling her we’re there for a different reason

Lying that we’re there for a different reason

When really, I just want to be with her

At Target with her

Hoping her tiny, white butterfly hand will brush against mine across the displays of socks and gloves,

And she’ll see me differently.

Differently than everybody else.

But she doesn’t.

Taking pictures of her trying on stupid hats

Taking selfies, but really, training my phone on only her

At Target with her

Goofing around in frozen foods

At Target with her

Her and another girl, the girl I was supposed to be at Target with

The girl I used to think I maybe liked until the first day I met her, the first time I heard her voice, the first time I talked to her

And I knew

That she was the arrow that hit the target that was my heart.

The paper smells like his cologne, just a little. Underneath the poem is a photo, a selfie Goose took that day. He’d taken it of all three of us, but in the photo, you can only see part of Willow’s arm.

Training my phone on only her.

I stare at it a second, realizing that I, not Willow, am the “her” of the poem. The poem is about me, about that day at Target.
Driving the ass-backward long way.
I remember how long it took to get there and, especially back, how Goose made a wrong turn on the way from Willow’s house to mine. Stupid. He asked me to go because he liked me.

Maybe loved me.

Loves me.

I remember what he said about showing me his poetry: “Okay, how about this? Someday, I might leave a poem lying somewhere, where you can find it. Just don’t ever tell me you read it, okay?”

But how could he expect me to say nothing?

I sink to the floor, reading it over and over to see if I could be wrong, yet I know I’m not.

I wanted to leave today, right now, to protect him, his family, from Violet. I love them and need to protect them. This makes it worse. He endangered himself because of how he feels about me. Yet how can I leave without talking to Goose? If I leave, he’ll think I ran away because of the poem. But that’s not it at all. Not at all.

The doorbell rings. My pulse quickens. Is it him? I know he skips sometimes, or takes

“personal days.” But he wouldn’t ring the doorbell, unless he forgot his key. I want to see him again, so much. Maybe he did forget his key. I’ll check. I start for the door, then go into the bathroom to put the poem back where I found it, facedown on the pink tiled counter. Maybe he changed his mind about showing me. Maybe he came home because he wants to get it back. I sprint for the door.

But when I bend to look out the peephole, I see only an old woman holding a Publix grocery bag of mangoes, standing in the rain.

Kendra.

I have to get her to help me leave tonight, after I talk to Goose. I open the door.

She looks confused. “Who are you?”

Not Kendra.

Through the mirror, only the mirror.
That’s what Kendra said. But this isn’t Kendra. She must be the neighbor, the nice lady with the mangoes. I make up a name. “I’m, um, Mary, the Guzmans’ cousin. I’m staying with them a while.”

“Pretty girl.” With her free hand, she reaches out to touch me. She is old, with wrinkles atop her wrinkles, white hair piled on her head. I back away. Stupid. She’s just an old woman, a
nice
old woman. I step forward, letting her touch me. The rain is falling, but she doesn’t seem to care.

“Thank you, ma’am. Stacey’s not home.”

“I came to bring her these.” With great effort, she lifts the bag of mangoes. “Do you like mangoes?”

“I do.” They smell overripe, rotten. “We’ve been making smoothies from them.” I start to take the bag from her, but she pulls it away.

“Have one plain.” She reaches into the bag and takes out one that is mostly scarlet, about the size of her clawed hand, perfectly firm with no brown spots. “Nothing like a mango, fresh from the tree, juicy . . . succulent.”

“Thanks. I’ll have it later.”

“Oh. Okay, if you don’t like them.” But she keeps holding it out in her veiny, spotted-brown hand. “I always save the nicest ones for my neighbors, and this is the best one of all. Isn’t it pretty?”

I nod. It is beautiful, so red it almost glows. The most beautiful mango I’ve ever seen.

The old woman is looking down. She drops the hand holding the mango, slowly. “It’s just, they don’t last very long.”

It’s so ruby red.

“I . . . okay. I’ll try it.” I hate to hurt her feelings. She seems like a nice old lady.

“Just one bite. You’ve never had one fresh picked, I’ll bet. Why, when I was a little girl, we used to put a straw right into them and drink the nectar. You should try that.”

“I don’t think we have a straw, but another time.” I reach for the mango. It is hot, probably from the sun, though it’s morning, and the light isn’t too bright yet. I examine its surface, looking for the perfect place to bite. It is smooth as porcelain, red and yellow as flame, no green, every part as perfect as the next. “Looks yummy.”

“Try it then. It won’t make you fat, if that’s what you’re worried about.” She laughs.

Her lips are so wrinkled, and there are hairs sprouting atop them. Suddenly, I don’t want to bite it, but what else can I do? Throw it back into an old woman’s face? Just a small bite. I choose a red part and sink my teeth into the thick flesh. The bite mark shows a crescent of yellow, like the sun.

Only after I’ve bitten it does the old woman look up at me. I notice her eyes. They’re not old at all, and they’re familiar, so familiar.

It’s the color. They’re not blue.

They’re violet.

The bite of mango catches in my throat. I choke as I fall to the ground.

I hear her laughter.