Free Lark by Tracey Porter Page A

Shelves of my dad’s old paints and brushes, glass jars of pigments, and all my Van Gogh books line one of the walls.
    Ian sits in the chair while I take his picture.
    “I hate this,” he says.
    “Just look at the camera,” I say. “Or don’t.” I take a few of his profile, amazed at how long his lashes are. I look through the photos carefully, searching for the right one. I’ll paint him in wild blue and orange, swirls of celadon in the back.
    It’s the night of the wake, and Ian walks me to Lark’s door and rings the bell. A woman named Carole asks us inside. She says she’s Lark’s aunt. Ian kisses me good-bye, and the door closes behind him.
    The foyer is shockingly bare. The table where the family left keys and letters is gone. The family photos have been taken down, leaving dark rectangles on the walls. Bolts of bubble wrap and boxes are stacked in the corner. I ask where Lark’s parents are, but Carole says they decided not to stay.
    “I don’t think they realized how hard it would be to see all of Lark’s friends. . . .” Her voice trails off. “It’s too much for them right now.”
    In the living room, different groups of Lark’s friends acknowledge one another with small glances and smiles. Nyetta, the girl down the street, sits on a love seat with her mother and father and her father’s new wife. Girls from school stand around the fireplace while Lark’s friends from gymnastics gather around the sofa. They wear the red-and-white ribbon from their uniform in their hair. Mothers stand around a card table in the corner of the room. They take turns arranging platters of food and serving drinks. I wish I could join them so I’d have something to do. Instead I make my way to the girls from school. Alyssa is there. I’m surprised at first, but then I remember how she knew Lark from the pool and stayed on the swim team long after I left.
    “Hey,” she says.
    “Hi,” I say back.
    “This is pretty horrible, isn’t it?” She lets her hair fall over her face, like a veil so we can confide. Away from Boston and Beth, she’s more calm and subdued.
    “Yeah,” I answer.
    “I hear you’re going out with Ian. That must be kinda weird . . . him being the only guy Lark ever really liked.”
    “I didn’t know Lark liked him,” I lie. “I wasn’t as close to her as I used to be.”
    “No one was. But she liked him, I could tell.”
    I get a little flustered and jealous, which she must have noticed, because she rushes to add that she didn’t think Ian ever liked her. “Not to be mean . . . but Lark kind of disappeared from us, didn’t she? I remember when you two were best friends.”
    Lark’s aunt invites us upstairs to her room, which is still unpacked and only slightly different from the last time I was there. The bed is made, the same flowered quilt and embroidered pillows, and her desk is still covered with schoolbooks. Above it used to be pictures of pop stars and movies that she loved, but now a collage of photos from her meets is pinned to the wall. In one Lark flies over the top uneven bar in a back flip. Her gaze is focused, thighs pulled, feet pointed, hands ready to grip. I can’t imagine anyone being stronger, or knowing her body in space better than Lark did, and I wonder how this could have happened to her. Why couldn’t she fight him off?
    Lark’s aunt steps to the middle of the room. “We’ve put a few of Lark’s things on her dresser,” she says. “Tiny things she collected or wore. Please choose something you’d like to keep.”
    Very neatly arranged on the dresser with the marble top are Lark’s hair ribbons and charms, bracelets strung with glass beads or woven from embroidery thread, a tiny pink jewelry box shaped like a heart, silver rings with mother-of-pearl and turquoise, a silk butterfly for her hair, a necklace with one half of a broken heart. On the other end of her dresser is the collection of tiny porcelain animals she’s had since she was