Ghosting (22 page)

And she says, “I’m sorry.”

Tears are running out of my eyes, too, and then

a man with a red face jumps up and starts yelling

about how his son is crippled for life because of

“that sonofabitch” and I realize he means me.

The judge bangs her gavel, telling the man to be quiet.

He won’t and so a sheriff takes him away.

I look at the ponytail girl, sitting next to her sister.

They are holding hands and looking back at me.

And my heart starts beating hard because just for a second

I think that maybe there still are good guys

in this world. And that maybe I shouldn’t

hand in my badge after all.

Saturday, July 9

MAXIE

It is a warm Saturday in

early July.

Mom is in the kitchen,

trying a new recipe for turkey chili,

and Dad is off at the garden center.

Now that he’s got a job,

Dad wants to get the backyard

fixed up.

The doorbell rings.

I open the door

and Anil Sayanantham

is

standing

there.

Right away I can’t

breathe.

Hi, Maxie,
he says.

Hi,
I half whisper, half say.

How are you?
he asks.

I stammer back that I’m okay.

Which,

despite my current inability

to breathe,

is actually sort of

true.

Uh,
he starts, then clears his throat.
I’ve been wanting to tell you that those photos you took, the ones in
Versions
,
were amazing. Congratulations on getting the Ellen Loomis Award. You deserved it.

Thanks,
I manage to reply.

This is so surreal,

I think to myself,

chitchatting on the front

stoop

with Anil Sayanantham.

I heard you’re going to Columbia,
I say.

Well, yes and no,
he says,
I’m actually taking a year off. Going to India to live with my mom’s family. Work in a clinic, travel.

Wow, that’s great,
I say.

How about you, next year I mean?

Uh, not India exactly, but I did get into Northwestern, which is sort of a miracle.

I hear my mom calling me

from inside

the house.

Well,
I say,
it was nice to see you, but I . . .

Maxie,
Anil blurts out, his cinnamon-colored skin tinged with a red blush,
I was wondering, if you,
well, would like to go to dinner with me next Saturday night? And maybe a movie?

I am

floored.

Is Anil Sayanantham

actually asking me out

on a

date?

Really?

Like nothing ever happened?

Like somehow we are

just a normal

teenage boy

and

teenage girl?

I can’t take it in.

I feel tears brimming up

in my eyes.

Because

Anil
is

that night.

I stare at him.

But then I think to myself

that Chloe

and Brendan

and Emma

and Faith

and Felix

are all

that night.

All of us.

And suddenly it’s like a

giant bank of klieg lights

flashes on

in my head.

Anil is also

now,

and

here,

in my front doorway,

asking me out on

a date.

So is it possible that maybe,

just maybe,

Anil
might be

a new now time,

like in Joey Pigza,

that bit I was reading Felix

when he

woke

up?

Anil is looking at me,

intently,

watching my face

as if his

entire life

depended on

my

answer.

Then he suddenly says,

Oh wait . . .

and digs into his pocket.

He pulls out something small

and puts it

in my hand.

I look down at what lies

in my palm.

A piece of frosty green

sea glass.

Then I look back up at him

and smile.

He smiles back,

that great shining smile of his

I’d almost forgotten,

and all at once

I can

breathe

again.

In fact, I feel light and radiant,

like a thousand tiny suns

are shining

in my heart.

Yes,
I say.

ANIL

1.
I feel as if
gulal
has just been

thrown all over me.

That I am drenched

with color.

A walking talking

incarnation of

radiant

Technicolor.

Tie-dyed.

Anointed.

Happy.

Tuesday, July 12

EMMA

We are at Gillson Beach,

the three of us,

Max, Felix, and me.

It is about five o’clock

on a hot, but not too hot,

evening in July.

Most of the sunbathers and

swimmers have gone home,

but the smell of suntan lotion lingers.

The sand is still warm and I dig

my toes in, gazing down at the

webbing of scars on my right leg.

We’re up at the top of the beach,

where the grassy area

meets the sand.

And we’re sitting on a blanket, eating

guacamole Felix made. He’s still obsessed

with guacamole, which is okay by me.

I have a date this weekend,
Maxie says out of the blue.

What?
I say, not sure I heard right.

A date, with Anil Sayanantham,
she says.

About time,
says Felix, giving Maxie a high five.

Well, hey, that’s great,
I say, surprised, but at the same time happy for her.

Then I lie back on the blanket,

closing my eyes and listening to the

steady gentle sound of waves on the sand.

I can feel Maxie get up off the blanket,

then hear the click of her camera, and I open my eyes,

to see what she’s taking a photo of.

She’s pointing her camera at a bur oak tree,

and sitting on one of the branches,

is a black bird. A crow.

And for just a second my vision goes red.

I see blood smearing the surface of

Polly’s rubber crow, and I start to shake.

Emma?
comes Felix’s voice.

Oh God, I’m sorry,
cries Maxie, instantly lowering her camera.
I didn’t think . . .

Felix reaches over

and takes my hand.

His is warm, reassuring.

It’s okay,
he says, his voice definite.
Crows are beautiful, Emma. Smart and strong. Survivors. Like us.

MAXIE

Emma is eating

a brownie,

and Felix is reading

a book out loud to her,

not
Joey Pigza but some

new book of poetry he’s

obsessed with,

about a

hidden driveway.

It must be funny because

they’re both laughing

a lot.

I wander down to

the water and walk

along the shoreline.

I am clutching the piece of

sea glass Anil gave me.

I come to this intersection

of sand and a long promontory

of rocks

that juts out

into the lake

and spot something large-ish

sticking up

out of the sand.

I think it’s just a big rock

that’s fallen

off the seawall,

but when I look closer

I see I’m wrong.

Not quite believing

what I’m seeing,

I whip out

my camera.

Lodged in the sand,

its head at an angle,

is a stone statue.

It is worn and faded

and streaked with

seaweed and lichen,

but I can clearly see that it is a

garden gnome.

I start taking photos

from different angles,

and am so absorbed that I

don’t even notice when

Felix and Emma

come up behind me.

We wondered what you found,
says Emma.

They peer at the gnome.

Excellent,
says Felix, bursting out laughing.

And the three of us

sit in a semicircle

around it

while I take a few more

photos.

I kind of remember reading about this,
says Emma,
in the town paper, about a bunch of statues that were stolen from people’s yards and then buried in the sand at Gillson Beach. Some middle school boys playing a prank. It was last summer, back before . . . ,
she trails off.

Yeah, I remember,
I say.

I gaze at the gnome

and think how he must’ve gotten

washed out

into the lake,

but the tide finally

brought him back

to shore.

And then I look at

Emma’s leg,

Felix’s fake eye,

and even into

my own fragile but healing heart

and think that somehow it all

fits together.

We fit together.

EMFAX.

On this day.

On this beach.

With this garden gnome.

In this new now time.

Acknowledgments

It has been a long road back and here is who I want to thank:

MELANIE, my editor and own personal white bird miracle, who said yes and asked all the right questions. I can’t imagine a finer travel companion.

RUBIN, agent extraordinaire, who took the train from Boston, bought me a Cobb salad, and told me what he would do. And he did it, with persistence, creativity, and grace.

DAVID and JACK, for bringing me back to life that night in the labyrinthine Italian restaurant. And also to Jack for his good will about using Joey Pigza. I know it’s the way I’d want to wake up from a coma.

CILLE, cousin/sister/best friend, who always believed.

VITA and MATT, who read the manuscript side by side in the sunroom and gave me two thumbs-up. And also to Matt for turning me on to the Poetry Foundation app.

TIM, for giving the green light, being glad to see me back, and for his excellent taste in music.

MICHAEL, former editor, former agent, and still dearest pal, for sending me pics of Aidan Quinn and for still making me laugh.

MIRIAM, who deftly guided me through the home stretch with patience, wisdom and a keen eye.

MY OHYA LADIES—Erin, Linda, Lisa, Margaret, Rae, Natalie, and Julia—whose support and good cheer have meant the world to me.

MY TROL LADIES—Beth, Carol, Claudia, the other Edie, Kristen, Lorrie, Nancianne, Sandy, and Sylvia—amazing librarians, teachers, and passionate champions of children’s literature.

DRS. TIM RICHARDS and CHRIS SAUNDERS, for their impeccable consultation on all things medical.

CHARLES, for being my first reader and best friend.

About the Author

EDITH PATTOU is the author of the
New York Times
bestselling picture book,
Mrs. Spitzer’s Garden,
as well as three award-winning fantasy novels for young adults, including
East
, which was chosen one of the “100 Best of the Best Young Adult Books for the 21st Century” by the Young Adult Library Association. It was also selected an ALA Top Ten Best Book for Young Adults, an ALA Notable Children’s Book, and a
School Library Journal
Best Book of the Year. A former librarian and bookseller, Edith Pattou lives in Columbus, Ohio. You can visit her at
www.edithpattou.com