The Words We Keep: Chapter 7

The light wakes me before my alarm.

It’s too bright. Too early.

Margot snuck into my bed at some point like she’s done every night since Alice left. I always wake up with a toe up my nose.

In the bathroom mirror, dark circles shadow my bloodshot eyes. I don’t even know what time my brain finally shut down last night. I kneel on the cold floor over a pink-hued section of tile grout. So much for the hours Dad spent in here with a can of Clorox and a 100-percent-blood-removal mission. I guess even industrial-strength solvents can’t get rid of everything.

On the lip of the bathtub, my razor catches my eye.

What if you don’t stop her this time, either?

I grab the razor and search under the sink and in both our desks for anything with a blade or sharp edge or the slightest bit of skin-cutting ability. I throw all the scissors and toenail clippers and even a pencil sharpener with a tiny blade into an empty shoebox and shove it under my bed.

A rumble shakes my floor, and I stumble down the stairs to where Staci, still dressed in her workout clothes from early-morning yoga, is trying to drag Dad’s desk across the wood floor in the office.

“It’s too early for redecorating.” My whole body aches. A vise squeezes my head.

“I’m not redecorating.” Staci pushes her body weight into the back of the wooden desk, which doesn’t budge. “I’m re-energizing.”

She puts her hands on her hips and stares at the massive desk that usually has all of Dad’s books stacked on it for the lit classes he teaches at the community college.

“The ancient art of feng shui,” she continues as if I’ve asked. “Your sister needs good vibes when she comes home. We all do. And the first step is opening up the home’s natural energy potential. And things like this”—she points to the desk—“need to be in command positions.”

There’s no way Staci’s moving that sucker alone, so I help her reposition the behemoth into the far corner, which is apparently the perfect location because it’s equidistant from both walls and facing the entry door, aka the primary energy portal. I don’t have the heart to tell her she’s rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic.

In the kitchen, Margot’s slurping cereal while Dad throws things into a box on the island.

“You feng-shui-ing, too?” I ask.

“Just some overdue cleaning,” he says, tossing an aspirin bottle into the box. It lands on a pile of other medicine.

“Think Alice will like my new look?” he says in a clear attempt to change the topic from the contents of the box.

Dad rubs his fingers down the beard he’s let grow since Staci said facial hair is distinguished. He’s posing like a supermodel, cracking Margot up, who doesn’t seem to notice or care that Dad’s “cleaning” is actually to make sure Alice doesn’t down a fistful of aspirin when she gets home.

When Margot runs to get her backpack, Dad stops posing to contemplate the set of knives on the counter like he’s trying to solve one of his Sunday morning crosswords. He rubs the back of his neck while he stares at it.

“Dad?” I ask. “You good?”

“Fine, fine,” he says absentmindedly before picking up the whole set and plunking it into the box.

Before English class starts, my mind is on Alice when it should be on coming up with a killer poem for this project. A vague ache wraps around my head, so I bunch up my hoodie on my desk and rest, only to jerk awake from a particularly vivid flash of Alice with deep red slices up her arms.

What if this is how it started for her?

Sleepless nights and incessant thoughts.

Heart-racing episodes on bathroom floors.

Sam stops by my desk. “I feel it is my responsibility—nay, my duty—to tell you that you look like shit.”

“I’m aware, but thanks.”

“Rough night?”

“You could say that.”

Oh, and my brain is broken.

“Alice is coming home,” I whisper. “What if—” I stop, unable to articulate the scenario in my head. The one where I don’t find her in time. The one where the blade goes too deep.

Sam gives my hand a squeeze as the bell rings.

“Hey,” she whispers, calm and sure like always. “It’s going to work out.”

To start today’s Writers and Artists Unite! session, Friedman delivers an impassioned diatribe on the power of art to transform. “Expose the dark places to the light.” He gestures wildly as he talks. “The parts that scare you most, that’s where the artist is born, for fear comes from the mind. And art comes from the heart.”

Micah’s desk is butted up against mine, but we’re working separately, unlike the other partners, who are deep into brainstorming, talking loudly and excitedly about their projects. Micah’s drawing in a sketch pad, his black hair falling into his eyes. His sunglasses are bright pink to match his socks, which today feature watermelons. I swear this kid is asking for attention, and not the good kind. His hair dances with the rhythm of his hand, holding a pen instead of charcoal this time.

Whatever he’s working on comes so effortlessly, I’m jealous. I stare at a blank page in my notebook. Normally, my poems kind of pour out, fully formed, as if they already existed in some ethereal space and I’m just the conduit—the hand that holds the pen. But my wellspring of creativity seems to be having a dry spell since Alice left. The only words I can conjure are the ones I make up on LogoLily.

Micah’s staring at me.

“What?” I ask.

“Just feeling sorry for that pencil.” He points to my mouth, where I’ve inadvertently chomped my pencil almost to bits. I dust the shavings off the desk.

“Guess I zoned out for a minute,” I say, as if that explains the fact that I’ve just wood-chippered my Ticonderoga No. 2.

“Yeah, you were going full beaver over there.” He nods to my blank page. “Writer’s block?”

“No.”

Liar.

He thumbs the corner of my notebook, flipping the empty pages.

“Clearly.” He searches my face, just like he did yesterday. “Could this have anything to do with our mutual friend coming home?”

My heart stops.

“You know about that?” I whisper.

He nods. “Emailed me last night.”

“Did she say anything else? Like, is she excited? Nervous?”

Fixed?

Micah leans back, a slight smirk on his face. “Those sound like excellent questions for Alice,” he says, clearly enjoying that he knows something I don’t.

I want to push for more, but Damon is watching us from across the room, ready to pounce on any opportunity to tease me for being buddy-buddy with Manic Micah. I lean back, stifling all the questions I want to ask about Alice as I return to my blank page, trying to ignore the pang of guilt—or maybe jealousy—that strikes me right in the breastbone.

This random boy knows more about your sister than you do.

Thankfully, Gifford summons me to her desk before I end up on the bathroom floor again.

She sticks a pencil into the red frizz that is her hair. She already has three in there. I picture her shaking her hair out at night, emptying an office supply closet onto the floor. What Gifford lacks in self-awareness she more than makes up for in enthusiasm. She’s taken an interest in my writing since freshman year, when I was one of only three students who showed up for her creative writing club.

“Lily, dear,” she starts, “I’m not broadcasting this to everybody, but there’s a lot more to this project than just a grade.”

She tells me the details—how Ridgeline will sponsor one team for a summer art-and-writing workshop at UC Berkeley, all expenses paid. How attendees will meet all the department heads and get a leg up on the competition for fall admission.

She keeps talking, but my brain is stuck. All the worries about Alice give way to only one thought: Berkeley.

Gifford with her lipsticked teeth and pencil-holder hair has given me the answer I didn’t even know I needed: I can’t control which version of Alice comes home from rehab, but I can control this. I can win.

And once I’m at Berkeley, whatever is wrong with me—the list in the back of my planner—will be ancient history. As long as I keep moving, whatever got Alice can’t get me, too. And Margot won’t lose another sister to the monsters in her head, and Dad won’t have to send another daughter off for cerebral repairs.

I can stop my family—and myself—from unraveling.

“You know I’m a fan of your poems, and I think you have a real shot here. But for this contest, we want something raw. Something real. Something that tells us who you are.” She smiles wide, a pink lipstick smudge on her left incisor. “Can you dig deep?”

Yes.

A million times yes.

To get into Berkeley, I can do anything.

“Definitely,” I say, holding my notebook to my chest.

I practically float back to my desk. Micah, however, is less than wowed.

“So?” He shrugs when I tell him, like I’ve just told him the hot lunch today is chicken nuggets and not that this one project could determine the entire trajectory of our lives.

“So, it’s my dream school. We have to win.”

He taps his pen on his sketchbook and cocks his scarred eyebrow upward. “Alice told me about this,” he says.

“About what?”

He waves the point of his pen in a circle in my direction. “This. How you are.”

“How exactly am I?”

“You know—gotta be the best. Get the best grades. Win all the races.”

“Alice said that? I mean, she talked about me?”

What else did she tell him?

“Yeah, sometimes between smoking weed and getting body piercings in unspeakable places, we’d do normal kid things like talk and stuff.” He leans forward like we’re sharing a secret. “And she told me all about you.”

The way he says it makes my heart speed up, but I feign annoyance rather than panic.

“Let’s not pretend like you know me.”

Micah smirks. “Oh, I think I’ve got you pegged, Little Larkin.”

“Lily.”

“Right,” he says, directing his pen at me again. “You were the kid who had a coloring book, and every single page was perfect. You always drew inside the lines.”

I open my mouth to protest, but he cuts me off.

“No, wait! Scratch that. It’s even worse, isn’t it? You were the kid who re-outlined the drawings before you colored them in. I’m right, aren’t I? I’m totally right.”

“A lot of kids did that.”

“Riiiiiight.” His eyes are dancing with his smile now, and I can’t help noticing that he has little gold flecks in his brown iris.

“Okay,” I say. “If we’re pretending like we know each other, then you were totally the kid who scribbled with no regard for the lines, but your parents stuck it up on the fridge anyway and declared it a masterpiece.”

He shakes his head. “First of all, my dad died when I was seven, so no plural parents here, and second of all, I am a staunch opponent of coloring books.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know—”

“Well, how would you? Few people share my particular rage about coloring books.”

“No, I meant about your da—”

“I know what you meant,” he says dismissively. “But seriously, we hand kids a picture of a duck or a cow and tell them this is the only way a duck or a cow can look. So they never venture outside the lines, and then we wonder why we’re raising a generation of drones. Don’t even try to convince me otherwise.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” I’m smiling and I’m not even sure why, except that the possibility of a clear path to Berkeley has me almost giddy, and Micah’s smiling at me in this no-bullshit way, and besides, how many high school boys get passionate about coloring books? It’s almost…endearing. Almost.

“Hot takes on coloring books aside,” I say, “the fact remains, I need to win this. And I’ve got”—I look at my blank page—“nothing.”

Micah studies me again, a look on his face like we’re sharing a secret I’m not in on yet.

“I could help you, seeing as we are partners and all.”

I lean back and fold my arms. I didn’t think Micah was even paying attention to this project.

“You write poetry?”

“Not a word. But I may have some ideas on unblocking you. Rediscovering your artistic mojo.”

I roll my eyes. Should have known he wasn’t actually taking this seriously.

“Again. Not blocked. My mojo is just fine.” The bell rings, and I pick up my notebook as I stand. The blank pages scream at me. “But, since we are partners and all, go ahead. Tell me these ideas.”

He wags a finger at me, his smile shooting his eyebrow upward. “Nice try, but I was specifically told to work on my own. It was an official Lily Larkin rule, I believe.” He closes up his sketchbook when I lean over to sneak a peek and holds it to his chest as he stands up. “Unless, of course, you’ve decided you need my help.”

We stand in silence for a few awkward seconds, waiting each other out.

“You’re gonna make me beg, aren’t you?” I say.

“I’m very patient.”

I wave Sam ahead when she stops to wait for me for practice. My mind wages a mini war with itself.

In this corner, lifetime champion and all-around fun-buster: Doubts!

You know what they say about him.

Certifiable.

And in this corner, newcomer but serious contender: Desperation!

You need this win.

Your family needs this win.

He might be your only chance.

“Fine. Will you please, all-knowing and wise art guru, help me rediscover my muse?”

“Yes.” He picks up my hand, draws a small sketch of a Winnie-the-Pooh bear on my palm, and scribbles a note in the corner of my notebook—@100-acre-wood. “Come find me.”

Then he disappears into the crowded hallway, his neon pink socks shining from a sea of khaki and denim.

“He is so weird,” Kali says, flipping my hand over to see what Micah drew. “I’m just glad I didn’t get stuck with him.”

I ignore her and text Sam on my way to the locker room.

I float through track practice. I even shave half a second off my 400 meter. Coach pats me on the back, tells me he knew I’d get my groove back. I take a cool-down lap next to Sam, whose telling me all about how her spotlight solo piece next month could land her the coveted first violin spot.

“I would be concertmaster, which is like the gold star for college apps,” she says as we run. “And you’re going to Berkeley. It’s all happening, Lil!”

Sam’s infectious positivity and the promise of this English contest keeps me smiling all the way around the track, all the way home.

Until I walk through my door.

A blue duffel bag sits in the front hallway.

Alice is home.