“So very sorry,” Wallace mumbles, retracting his hand and letting it fall limp at his side. “I am Elizabeth’s attorney. And Mr. David here is your legal guardian now.” He picks up his briefcase and flips his wrist to check his out-of-date watch. “Strange she never mentioned any of this to you—”
“Is this why you’re here?” I snap at Joshua, cutting Wallace off. “Because you have to be?” My expression tightens.
Joshua’s cerulean eyes widen and finally lock on mine. “What? Of course not. El—”
“How long have you known?” My words slip through clenched teeth.
He hesitates. “Awhile.”
“So all this time we’ve been friends, it’s been a lie?”
“No. We were friends first. It was only a month ago Elizabeth came to me and asked if I’d be willing to take responsibility should something happen to her.”
“Responsibility?” My voice quivers. “Are you serious? I’ll be eighteen in less than a month. I can take care of myself.”
“That isn’t quite accurate,” Wallace interjects. “Your mother left everything to Mr. David. The home. Her bank accounts. She wanted to ensure you’d be looked after by a responsible adult. Someone who could work and provide while you finish high school and begin college.” A lady in a ridiculous black feathered hat taps Wallace on the shoulder with her dragon fingernail and he excuses himself.
Once we’re alone again I say under my breath, “You’re only three years older than me. How much more responsible can you be?”
“I’m going to take care of you. It’s what your mom wanted.” He bends the folder and shoves it into his back pocket.
I step back. Shake my head. Why would Mom keep this from me? And why isn’t she here so I can ask her?
“El.” Joshua reaches for me. “I’m sorry. We should’ve told you. If it bothers you that much, I’ll find someone else to be your guardian. I’ll do whatever it takes to make this transition as easy as possible. To make you feel safe. That’s all I want.”
Someone else. Transition. Easy. Safe. The words blur together as I retreat into the bathroom. Lock the door. Invisibility is the only way I know how to survive. Because if I let him see how much this hurts, if I let him witness the broken heart on my sleeve, he might find someone else to care for me.
Then he’ll leave me too.
And there it is. The truth. As much as I hate for him to stay out of guilt or pity or duty, it would be worse to see him go. Mom’s death is the hardest thing I’ve ever endured. If I lost Joshua, too, I don’t think I could bear it. I’m not that brave. So I’ll do what I’m best at. I’ll pretend. If he sees I’m okay, he’ll stay.
And I won’t have to feel this way ever again.
TWO
Think Again
Someone’s in my room.
I lie unmoving atop rumpled sheets. Sweat sticks to every crease and pore on my skin, reminding me I fell asleep with the space heater on again. Floorboards whine beneath my intruder’s weight. I keep my eyes closed and feign sleep. My breaths release as if rehearsed.
The light flicks on. An orange glow penetrates my eyelids.
“Happy birthday!”
I open my eyes. Mom?
So this isn’t real. Just a memory. A dream. Still, I’ll take what I can get.
She floats over to my bed. A Crumbs Bake Shop cupcake with a single lit candle rests in her palm. Blackout—my favorite flavor. Mom sits, her ageless smile beaming. “Make a wish.”
How could I forget? Every year it’s the same. At midnight on my birthday Mom wakes me and insists we begin celebrating. Except my birthday is still three months away. I laugh. “It’s not even September.”
Her brown eyes twinkle. What’s she hiding? “I know, but I thought we’d start the festivities early this year.”
Wax drips down a purple candle onto chocolate frosting. “Three months early?”
“You only turn eighteen once.” She says this every year, about every age. “As far as I’m concerned, all of autumn belongs to you this year. Now make a wish.”
“Hold on. I have a surprise for you too.” I open my nightstand drawer and withdraw the latest copy of the New York Times. Beaming, I pull out the “Arts & Leisure” section, pass it to her.
The paper crinkles as she unfolds it. “What’s this?”
“Your surprise.” I sit up and cross my legs, unable to contain the bouncing five-year-old inside. “I know you’ve postponed your dream because of me. Now you don’t have to.” I tap the paper. “Look.”
Mom gasps, covers her mouth with a trembling hand. All color drains from her face. “Eliyana, what did you do?”
My excitement falters. “I entered one of your paintings in an art competition. You know, the one that fancy gallery downtown holds every year? The one you’ve always wanted to enter but never have.” I nudge her with my elbow. More than just my mom, she’s my best friend. She deserves this.
Mom remains silent.
I shift uncomfortably. Weird. I thought she’d be excited. “Um, anyway,” I continue, the rush gone from my words, “you were selected as one of twenty artists to exhibit your work. They wanted to include your picture with the other winners, so I sent it in. I didn’t think you’d mind.”
She sets the paper down, her emotionless expression gives nothing away. Is she angry? Embarrassed? Finally she says to the wall, “You know how private I am.”
I do know. I had to sneak a candid shot for the contest because she’s always hated having her photo taken. Won’t even let me get my picture done at school, insisting she do my portrait herself, which means no yearbook photos for me. I’ve never argued against her protectiveness. Who’d want to remember my ugmug anyway? I have no Facebook account, no Twitter or Instagram. Not that I’d have any friends or followers if I did.
“Mom, your photo is in the paper because you’re an amazing artist.” My hand finds her shoulder. “I thought you’d be happy.”
She stands, tightens the tie on her robe. “Go back to sleep, Eliyana. I’ll see you in the morning. We have back-to-school shopping tomorrow. You need your rest.”
“Mom—”
“Good night.” She blows on the candle. The flame extinguishes.
And so does my dream.
The doorbell chime pulls me out of unconsciousness. I open sleep-infested eyes to a room veiled in darkness. Shards of moonlight pierce the cracks in my window blinds, scattering like broken glass on the floor. My mouth is dry and has that distinct cardboard flavor of dehydration. I smack and lick my lips. Bleh. I need water.
What time is it? I reach over and fumble for my phone, but it isn’t there. Why—? Right. I left it in the kitchen. My best guess is it’s sometime after eight at night. Then again, it could be two in the morning for all I know.
I lie still for a minute, allowing my body to wake. One eye itches and I rub it hard. Comb sleepy fingers through my hair and try to inhale some of the wind I just had knocked out of me. The dream—the memory—was so real.
The doorbell rings again. There’s movement downstairs. I’m familiar with the growing pains of my lifelong home—the arthritic pops of loose floorboards, the senile complaints of unoiled hinges. Joshua must be moving some things over from next door. If he’s going to be my guardian, he has to play the part.
I swing my jean-clad legs over the edge of my bed. A half-eaten granola bar with its trail of crumbs leading off the cliff of my nightstand begs to be rescued. My middle cramps, answering the cry audibly, but I can’t bring myself to pick up the square of oats and honey. I’m hungry, but I’m also not. No other way to put it.