The Names They Gave Us(49)

Keely nods. “Yeah. I’ll tell Garcia. She has to leave and teach volleyball to the seventh graders.”

I’ve only been in Rhea’s cabin one other time, when Anna invited me in to watch a movie after lights-out. Her room is small and on the first floor, and it is full of Anna things: a scuffed-up soccer ball in the corner next to her cleats, a tote bag full of yarn and knitting needles, photos of her family wearing cream-colored sweaters in a backyard.

The door is open, and she’s bundled up in bed, gaze locked on her laptop. It’s playing a movie or something—young bickering voices in the otherwise quiet room.

“Hey,” I say, lingering in the doorway. “Can I come in?”

Her eyes flick up to me. “Sure.”

“Sorry you’re having a bad day. Can I do anything?”

A shrug, shoulders barely lifting above the bedding. The top blanket is one of hers, knitted in navy and white for her favorite soccer team. Or, as she and Mohan call it: football.

“Anna.”

She looks up at me again but says nothing.

“Well, okay. But if you change your mind . . . I’d like to help. You’d do it for me.”

This seems to land, and she considers my presence in front of her. “You can stay here for a little bit. If you want to. I might fall asleep, though. I took medicine that’s supposed to help me relax enough to sleep.”

“Not a problem. You hungry?” I hold out the plate, which is heavy with a turkey burger and sweet potato tots.

“No, thanks.”

“More for moi.” I pull her desk chair up to the bed and dig in. “You missed quite the breakfast bickering match this morning. There were tears.”

“Jones told me. I’m actually terrible with confrontation. Poor Manda and Wren. Seventh grade is just a shitshow, top to bottom.”

“Right? It’s just like . . . a full year of acne and awkward body stuff. And the social cruelty—it’s like kids are figuring out how to be truly mean that year.”

This makes Anna smile a bit. “You’re telling me.”

“Oh . . . Lord.” I try to imagine navigating junior high as a trans girl. How kids might be.

She laughs darkly at my expression. “Yeah, well. I survived.”

“Well, anyway,” I say. “If you feel better, do you still want to go into town tonight?”

“Yeah. Jones has that band practice to prep for their July Fourth set.”

“Right. And I was thinking I could do your makeup.”

“Oh, really?” At this, she sits up.

“Mm-hmm. I have some navy mascara that doesn’t quite work on me but I think will be perfect with your coloring.”

She sighs dreamily. “Excellent. I just need my body to stop gushing adrenaline into my bloodstream before then. Pray for me.”

Her tone is flippant—joking. But I would pray for her. I will. I may not exactly be on speaking terms with God about my own life, but I still send up prayers for my parents and friends sometimes. I can’t help it; it’s like releasing the worries that clutter up my heart. Their names, my holy words, sent heavenward. Which reminds me.

“Anna?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s your last name? It’s not . . . Anna, right?”

“No!” She almost laughs, which feels like a victory. “No one uses it because it’s hard to say. ‘Meero-suave.’ Spelled M-i-r-o-s-l-a-w, though, so everyone says ‘Myro-slaw,’ like ‘coleslaw.’?”

“Meero-suave,” I try to repeat, attempting to roll the “r” the way she did.

“Polish. It’s a first name usually—not sure how it became our last. We’ve traced it back to Ellis Island, but not much before. It means ‘peace.’?”

I frown, imagining Anna’s ancestors at Ellis Island. I see them in black and white—why do I always do that? The pictures didn’t have color, but the people did. They were real, flesh and blood. “You should make people say it. To refuse to learn someone’s name just because it’s hard to say . . . I mean, it’s so narcissistic.”

She grins. “Well, the truth is . . . I just like people calling me Anna. Having a hard-to-pronounce last name is an excuse.”

“Okay, so what are we watching?” I turn my chair so we’re facing the same direction: toward the laptop. “Toil and Trouble? Oh my gosh, I love this show. Are you getting Wi-Fi?”

“Here? Yeah, right. I have them on DVD.”

“Oh my gosh, me too! I’m kind of obsessed. My ex thought it was so stupid.” It startles me, that I said “ex” like that. I don’t know when I started thinking of Lukas as that. Maybe just now.

“The Pauser hated T and T???? Yeah, he had to go.”

Anna watches the screen for a few moments as the girls conjure a spell in their dormitories. They circle around a bowl, which is wide-mouthed and tarnished gold. Black stone cauldrons are too basic for the ladies of the Bishop School for Talented Young Women.

When the camera has panned to each girl, Anna says, “I’m a total Carolyn.”

Carolyn, who is enduringly kind but harbors the pain of accidentally killing someone before she could control her magic. She feels at home with the other witches, but she’s often shown on-screen by herself too. An introvert who loves people.