the conversation. Sheâs mad at me and desperate to make sure I feel the deep, dark crevices of that anger and disappointment.
âAll I wanted was to get out of this stupid house for five minutes. You had one small job and you couldnât even do that right,â Eleanor says. Iâve never seen her like this, like Mom. Ready to explode with only a tiny push of an invisible button.
âIâm sorry. I saw these photos she was looking at and I got all weird and you know when Iâm around Mom I can act sort ofââ
âSilly, itâs late,â Eleanor says. âIâm tired. I had a bad night. You shouldnât be pretending youâre, like, mature enough for this stuff. Itâs okay. We donât expect that fromyou. Thatâs why we take care of you. Because you need us. And we thought you might be ready for more, but clearly, clearly youâre not.â
âOkay,â I say. But it isnât.
Thirteen
I go looking for Marla in the morning.
Sheâs not in her sad, gray-walled room with its tarnished brass bed that she begged Dad for. Sheâs not in the kitchen or the TV room. Sheâs not on the porch next to Dad, stealing the comics section from his paper. Sheâs not in the bathroom with the claw-foot tub that she likes to take long baths in. I think maybe Iâll check in Momâs sewing room, but weâre not supposed to go in there, and I donât want to get myself or anyone else into any more trouble. I even approach Mom and Dadâs room, but I can hear Momâs heavy breathing, and I donât think sheâs awake.
Eleanor and Astrid have the television on downstairs. Ihear loud voices and cheesy music and the volume moving up and down every few seconds, because Eleanor likes it loud and Astrid likes it quiet. I should not sneak into their room without asking. Iâm in more than enough trouble with Eleanor already.
But I have a creeping feeling about Marla, and I need to know where she is, I need to see that sheâs okay.
Guilt is this thing that feels gray and heavy. Itâs a cement wall between me and the rest of the world. Sleeping and eating and writing LilyLee are stuck on the other side, with me stranded over here, unable to do anything at all.
Iâll do anything to tear it down.
So I head into Eleanor and Astridâs room. The beds are made. The shades are drawn. Eleanorâs closet door is open, and nothing interesting is inside.
Astridâs closet door is closed.
I look under the beds and take an extra-long look at Eleanorâs closet, in case somehow Marla is hiding in the back.
She isnât.
She is in Astridâs closet. The bad closet. Alone. I know it.
âMarla?â I say at the closet door.
âOne second.â Her voice sounds far away.
âAre you really in there?â It is a stupid thing to say, but I say stupid things when Iâm nervous.
âOne second. I promise, Sil,â she says. Marla calls me Sil instead of Silly when she likes me, which is almost never. I stand outside the door with the worldâs straightest back and widest eyes.
I do not open the door. Itâs pretty possible that I donât want to go in there, curious or no.
The things Astrid said about her closetâvague half sentencesâwere creepy. Eleanorâs mouthâthe way it turned down and got crooked when she talked to me last nightâwas even scarier.
It would take a lot for Astrid to avoid something magical, I think. Eleanor likes night-lights when sheâs sleeping and flashlights when sheâs camping and explicit itineraries when sheâs doing anything else. But Astrid is her perfect counterpart. She likes playing hide-and-seek in pitch black and sleeping outside instead of in the tent and running off for a little while when weâre on the beach, terrifying everyone but most especially Mom.
Iâm not sure I want to see anything that Astrid is too