Famous in a Small Town(50)

August looked at me for a moment more, his expression unreadable.

“Let’s go,” I said, before he could speak again.





thirty-eight


When we were twelve and Flora was eleven, Brit and Flora got into a huge argument.

This was nothing special. Flora and Brit got into arguments all the time—some big, others bigger. They were usually about something completely insignificant, and involved me desperately trying to mediate.

They had different styles. Brit would raise her voice; Flora would plug her ears. They could both give as good as they got. But this fight—I don’t even remember how it started—got out of hand. We were in Flora’s room, and it was summer. The windows were open and the heat was stifling, no breeze to sway the curtains.

In my memory, I can see her room just the way it was then—a perfect snapshot. The posters of pop stars, the pink-striped bedspread. The mobile over her bed that she made herself—double-sided bits of poster board with line drawings of fairies on them that she had painstakingly colored in. The shelf crammed with stuffed animals—so many it looked ready to tip off the wall under the weight of them, their faces squished next to one another, tucked together like they were posing for a group photo.

A bookshelf stood next to Flora’s desk, and on the shelf right at eye level was Flora’s prized possession—her miniature greenhouse.

Her dad was serving in Afghanistan at the time. He had spent ages putting the greenhouse together before he left, a gift for Flora’s tenth birthday. He had worked on it at a table in the garage, setting plastic bins over the pieces so they wouldn’t get swept up or blown away. He rigged up a magnifying glass to make the tiny flowers, cut from colored paper, threaded onto green wire.

When I was really little, I thought that Flora’s dad was the biggest man in the world, as tall as a mountain. When I got older, I realized he was actually shorter than my dad—it’s just that he was built like a superhero, like one of Terrance and Dash’s action figures. I remember marveling at how someone with such bulk and strength could make something so delicate. So detailed and small and intricate.

To Flora, Love Papa, it said underneath, scrawled out in marker.

I don’t remember what Brit and Flora were arguing about. But there were raised voices and rolled eyes and hands thrown up in the air, and voices raised even louder, and then Brit was turning—this was the stomping-off portion, I knew it—but instead of stomping off, Brit grabbed something from the shelf and hurled it to the ground.

The greenhouse.

Flora let out a cry at the same time I yelled “Don’t!” but it was too late. The greenhouse had hit the floor with a sickening crunch, the plastic panels breaking apart instantly, the shelves and tools and plants inside smashing into so many tiny pieces.

We all stood there staring at it for a moment. And then Flora let out a sound, thin and high-pitched, and fell to her knees in front of the broken bits. Her hands hovered over the wreckage before she picked up the tiny orange door and clutched it to her chest, her shoulders beginning to shake with silent sobs.

I looked at Brit, her face stricken. She turned and ran out.

I knelt by Flora and put an arm around her, and she leaned against me.

“It’s okay,” I told her. “It’s okay. We’ll glue it back together.”

She said something but it came out all garbled amid the tears. All I could make out was Papa.

“We’ll fix it,” I said. “I’ll fix it.”

I found Brit in her backyard, in the tree with the swoopy branch. I was terrible at tree climbing, and it took me three tries just to get up into it. Even then I couldn’t get out onto the swoopy branch, which left me talking to the back of Brit’s head.

Except I didn’t know where to start. I knew she knew how bad that was.

“Say it,” she said after a while, her voice thick. I could count on one hand the number of times I had seen Brit cry.

“Say what?”

“That I’m the worst person in the entire world. I’m a piece of garbage. I shouldn’t even exist.”

“I don’t think that.”

She looked back at me, her face red and tear-streaked. Her voice hitched on a sob. “I do.”

It was quiet.

“I didn’t mean to break it,” she choked out finally. “I swear. I just meant to break something. Is that the same? Does it make me as bad?”

I didn’t speak. I didn’t know. The end result was the same, either way.



* * *



Brit and I slept over at Teen Zone 2, the night of the Bloomington trip. The Megan Pleasant mission that wasn’t about that at all, had never been about it, not even a little bit.

I woke up first the next morning, and stared up at the ceiling until I heard Brit move.

“You lied,” I said.

Brit rubbed a hand over her eyes and left it there. “S’too early.”

“You lied, Brit.” I pulled myself to my feet. It seemed better to have this conversation standing.

“Hate to break it to you, but I lie all the time.”

“No, you don’t.”

“If you really think that, then you think my last statement is true, ergo, I am a liar, ergo, it’s too fucking early and I am too fucking depressed to have this conversation.”