Free Waiting for Unicorns by Beth Hautala Page A

even at Mom’s funeral, which I barely remember.
    After it was all over, my heart finally caught up with my head, squeezed around that absent good-bye, and down inside where I was most real, I knew she was truly gone. Then Niagara opened up in me.
    I cried at the breakfast table when Dad tried to make oatmeal for us, because he didn’t really know how to do it. I cried getting dressed for school because Mom wasn’t there to tell me how nice I looked or to make sure my socks matched. I cried in the lunchroom at school and didn’t care who saw me because it didn’t matter what people thought anymore. I cried doing my homework because Mom wasn’t there to help, and I cried myself to sleep at night because she wasn’t there to tuck me in. Mom wasn’t there, and she never would be again.
    And then, as fast as it had started, it stopped. Like a faucet finally turning off. I didn’t stop on purpose, the tears just quit coming, and I was relieved.
    I haven’t cried since.
    Not when we sold our house in town and moved to an apartment close to the institution.
    Not when my cat got hit by a car right after Christmas.
    Not when I didn’t get asked to the middle school dance.
    I just couldn’t imagine a reason to cry over anything else. And even if I could, I wouldn’t let myself. I refused.
Nothing
could ever be that bad again.

    I must have fallen asleep, because a while later I woke up to the sound of creaking floors. Sura pushed my bedroom door open with her shoulder, and it whined on its hinges. She carried a tray of tea and warm toast, and though I didn’t want to admit it, it smelled
perfect.
Sitting up in bed, I pulled my pillow up behind me, and Sura set the tray on my lap.
    â€œYou may find the tea different than what you’re used to, but it will help,” she said. “I added honey, to sweeten it up.”
    I peered down into the cup of golden liquid. “What is it?”
    â€œ
Chaithluk
tea.”
    â€œChaithluk?” I asked.
    She nodded. “Stinkweed. A bit like chamomile, but the plant grows here on the tundra. It will help your throat and fever.” She rubbed her arms to demonstrate. “Take the ache away.”
    I nodded, nervous, and took a tentative sip. It was bitter. But only at first. And it did make my throat feel a little better.
    Sura stood beside the bed, watching. But she didn’t touch me and she didn’t sit down. As she turned to go, I caught her sleeve.
    â€œThanks,” I said. “This is nice.”
    Sura nodded, accepting the compliment. Then she left me in my room with only my thoughts for company.

SATURDAY MORNING, I MET THE Guitar Boy. Officially.
    Plodding down the stairs, rubbing sleep from my eyes, I found him at the breakfast table eating pancakes as fast as Sura could flip them. His guitar hung over the back of his chair where he’d taken it off, like the way a man removes his hat in church. Sura and Simon were laughing—his warm and boyish, and hers as warm and rich as the hot chocolate she made. Her eyes squinted up all tiny when she laughed, and I stood on the step, watching, confused.
    They
knew
each other.
    I’d assumed Sura just knew
of
Simon. But they talked like people who’ve known each other for a long time. And she hadn’t told me anything about him. Not a single thing. She just let me wander off the other day and go looking for him. That lonely feeling was creeping into my chest again, forming a lump in my throat.
    I chewed on the ends of my hair, wanting to run back up to my room. I turned on the stair, hoping I could creep up quietly without them noticing. But Sura must have heard me. She cleared her throat, and I turned to find a setting at the table where she’d laid a place for me.
    â€œCome and eat, Tal,” she said, pulling me down the stairs with her smile and a plate of homemade pancakes. I sighed and reluctantly came down into the warm kitchen.
    On the