Pretend She's Here(88)

Yesterday I’d stood alone in the Apiary, figuring out where everyone would sit, where the lights should go. I staged it like a play. Although I hadn’t written a script—there was no point, we each had our own stories, our own points of view—I felt it was a type of theater. There had been a first, second, and third act. We had each played a role.

Bea and Patrick drove us to school. My parents were in the car behind us.

“This is the last time we’ll see the TV trucks,” Patrick said, pulling into the parking lot.

“Good riddance,” Bea said.

“You ready for this?” Patrick asked. He and Bea were in the front seat, and his eyes met mine in the rearview mirror.

“I think so,” I said.

“Definitely,” Casey said from beside me.

“Can I let you know after it’s over?” Chloe asked from my other side. “Ha-ha.”

“You’ll be fine,” I said, squeezing her hand.

When we got out of the car, Casey and I kept Chloe in between us. We walked so close together, our shoulders were touching. I felt protective of Chloe, and it made me feel like an older sister, let me know how my siblings felt about me.

When Chloe had first moved in, Mick, Anne, and Iggy had all come home from college and grad school to welcome her. Only Tommy was missing because his internship wouldn’t give him the time off, but he’d sent her a UC Berkeley hoodie and told her he’d see her soon. We’d had a big turkey dinner, a sort of make-up Thanksgiving, with all our favorite dishes and two of Chloe’s that the Porters had always served and we hadn’t: sweet potatoes with maple syrup instead of marshmallows, and Lizzie’s special M&M pie. We’d wanted Chloe to start feeling as at home as possible right away.

She’d sat next to me, her head bent down through most of the meal, and I saw two big tears plop onto her plate. No one called attention to it. We all just had our typical big family banter, with lots of teasing and laughs, and a rousing chorus of “Jingle Bells,” because we had a tradition of taking strange joy in mixing up holiday tunes. My heart relaxed when I heard Chloe singing quietly and letting loose with Oh, what fun it is to ride in a one-horse open sleigh—hey!

Now, entering Black Hall High, she pressed closer to me. She had turned fourteen in Casco Bay Development Center, and my parents had enrolled her at middle school, just across the playing fields—the one she’d attended before the Porters had moved to Maine—to finish eighth grade.

“Lizzie should be here,” Chloe said. “This was her school.”

“I know,” I said.

“Being here, I can feel her. Where was her locker?”

“We’ll pass it on our way to the Apiary.”

“The Apiary,” Casey said. “Bees?”

“Yep,” I said. “That’s why I chose it for the interview. Because you can’t just rebuild your house—you have to fix up the beehives, too.”

“Em, you don’t have to do this,” Casey said, for the millionth time. “Sell your story.”

“I don’t think of it that way,” I said. “We’re telling it.”

Heading up the stairs, it seemed that just about everyone had come to check out Casey and Chloe. Some kids acted cold and rude toward her, but most gave her smiles and hugs and told her how good it was to see her back. I couldn’t help noticing she was wearing Lizzie’s anchor necklace. I was glad.

When we got to Lizzie’s locker I stopped and pointed. I didn’t have to say a word; Chloe just knew. She brushed her fingers over the dark gray metal, gave the dial—now programmed with someone else’s combination—a gentle rattle. Then we walked along.

Marcela Perez stood at the end of the hall, right outside the Apiary. The camerawoman stood behind her, and bright lights illuminated the hallway. Marcela wore a blue suit today. She’d told me not to wear white, that it tended to bounce on TV, and she said stripes would vibrate. So, I wore a blue dress printed with pots of honey—I’d found it at the Nearly New Shop and thought it just right for the occasion.

“You did an amazing job setting up,” Marcela said. “The chairs are angled just right, and I like the way you placed the table. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were a television producer.”

“She’s a playwright and a set designer,” Chloe said. “She knows her stuff.”

“That she does,” Marcela said. “This is going to be brilliant.”

“It was your idea,” I told her.

“Well, it was the only way we could accomplish everything,” she said. “It’s my get, the program will air on my network. We’re sticking to our rules and not paying for your story.”

“But wait,” Chloe said, turning to me. “I thought this was going to help Casey and his dad rebuild their house.”

“It is,” I said. “But since I’m interviewing you and Casey, and since we’re telling what happened on our own, we can charge a fee. We’re setting up a nonprofit, and this will be the first donation. The Sarah Royston Foundation.”

“Really?” Marcela asked, taking notes.

“Yes,” I said. “Casey and his dad live in a historical house. It was Sarah’s. The Donoghues will have the top two stories, and the town is going to open the first floor as a museum to her work, tell everything about what she did for troubled girls.”