Moonpenny Island (7 page)

“I bet he broke into a cottage and slept there. He does that.”

“He does?”

“Don't tell your dad, okay?”

Another secret! Flor concentrates on her lifeless sister. It's like watching one of those cement lawn-ornament lighthouses Mama sells at the gift shop. Sylvie is saying Perry wants to live someplace he can drive as fast as he wants as far as he can and
there's no water cutting him off from the rest of the world.

On the other side of the window, Flossie swishes her tail. Cecilia's black hair makes a curtain across her face. A leaf drifts down and lands on her thigh.

“He wants to live where nobody knows who his father is and he can be his own person. Oh, Flor!” Sylvie draws a shaky breath. “He quit school. What next? What if he runs away?”

Runs away! As soon as Sylvie says it, Flor can imagine it. Her heart starts to beat too fast. Going up on her toes, she leans toward the window. Waves of late-afternoon light shimmer around her big sister. Who lies there like a shell. Like her body's a shell and the real Cele has gone away. Has run away.

“No!” she tells Sylvie. “He won't. Don't worry. Teenagers say all kinds of chucklehead things.”

How can anyone lie so still so long? How can anyone be so beautiful? It's like she's in a trance. Bewitched. Cecilia and not, at the same time. Flor's heart thumps.

“It'll be okay,” she promises Sylvie, but somehow she's promising herself too. “It'll be all right.”

“You can't promise that.”

“Yes, I can! I just did!”

Flossie's ear, the one with a bite out of it, twitches like danger is near. And now something very peculiar happens. Flor has never seen a genuine dead person, but all of a sudden, she imagines her sister in her coffin. Cecilia ate the poisoned apple, or was bitten by a venomous snake, or inhaled toxic gas. There she lies, beautiful and prim as ever but dead, dead, dead.

“Oh!” Flor cries.

“What?” Sylvie says.

When Flor flings open the kitchen door, Flossie Magruder streaks off into the field. Flor rushes to her sister's side and kneels down. Cecilia doesn't move. Her thumb and first finger pinch the stem of a fairy rose.

“Cele,” breathes Flor. “Open your eyes!”

“No,” replies her sister.

And Flor isn't relieved, exactly, because she knew, in her heart of hearts, didn't she, that her sister wasn't really dead. But for one terrifying moment, death was so near, so real, Flor could feel its icy breath and see its clammy hands reaching for Cecilia, greedy to drag
her away. Flor swivels her head as if she still might spot the wicked witch, the slithering snake or cloud of black gas. She will chase it down, she will beat it back, she will . . .

Someone gulps in her ear.

“Flor? Are you still there? Are you okay?”

Flor sinks down into the grass.

“Everything's fine,” she says into the phone. “Don't worry!”

Cecilia swings her long legs to the ground and stalks away. When Flor collapses onto the lounger, its cushions are still warm from the body of her living, undead sister. Tucking the phone under her chin, she picks up the rose and starts pulling off petals.

“I know I didn't keep my first promise. But now . . .”

“It's not your fault,” says Sylvie. “I need to come home! I begged my mother, at least for the weekend, but she says I have to stay and get used to it.”

Get used to it! How can adults say these heartless things? “Get used to it” belongs in the same infuriating category as “Life isn't fair” and “Someday you'll laugh over this.” A horrifying thing must happen to
your brain as you age. It must grow tough and rubbery, like an old pork chop forgotten in the back of the refrigerator.

She and Sylvie try to formulate a plan. Running away. A hunger strike. Maybe Sylvie could do some criminal activity and get expelled.

The backyard gives way to a field, and the field runs downhill to the lake. By now the sun's low in the sky, and if Flor stays here much longer, it will sink and melt into the water. In the tall grass, a few crickets are already chirping, that slow, mournful, end-of-summer chirp, and now Flor feels worn-out. Her sister isn't dead, but she has disappeared. The odds of Sylvie running away, or refusing to eat, or spray-painting curse words on the side of a building, or rebelling in any helpful, useful way are a million to one.

“It's okay,” Sylvie says. “Talking to you makes everything better.”

“How can it? Nothing's changed.”

“I know.” Her voice is much too calm. Peculiarly calm. “But it's okay.”

Flor tries to argue this makes zero sense. It's the
kind of thing grown-ups say when they're sick of a subject. At this rate, Sylvie will either spend the year in abject misery or she
will
get used to it there, and which is worse?

“Flor, don't tell anyone what I said about my father and Perry.”

“Who would I tell? Are you forgetting I have no friends?”

The breeze scatters the rose petals Flor tore to smithereens. Sylvie sighs and hangs up.

Inside the house, a miracle has occurred. Thomas is doing his homework, though no one stands over him with a whip. He points to his paper.

“Look. The word
bed
looks like what it is.”

He's right.

“How come all words aren't like that?” Tiny candles of discovery light his eyes. “It'd be so much better! It'd make more sense.”

“I've got news. Life doesn't always make sense.”

Poof
. The candles go out. Thomas looks crushed. Aargh! What made her say a mean thing like that? Even if it's true? She might as well be an adult! Disgusted with herself and pretty much the universe,
Flor stomps around the house, which is definitely empty. No Cecilia. No Cecilia anywhere she looks.

Tonight she sends Sylvie an email suggesting they research the symptoms of highly contagious diseases. Sylvie doesn't answer.

E
very Saturday afternoon, Dad takes shooting practice at the targets behind the VFW. He likes to keep his shooting skills sharp, just in case an escaped convict hops the ferry and holds the island hostage. After Dad does his meticulous gun-cleaning ritual, he locks his revolver away again till next Saturday.

Today his brain slips some essential gear. He suggests Thomas come target shooting with him. Thomas, of course, goes out of his minimind with excitement.

What is Dad thinking?

Mama is a monument of indignation.

Thomas is six years old! He can't even tie his own shoes! When Dad replies he learned to shoot at that age, like most island boys do, and did she ever consider she babies that boy too much, Mama brings up her Cleveland cousin who got shot, a terrible story that always makes her cry.

It's downhill from there.

Flor is upstairs on the landing, guarding the phone, waiting for Sylvie to call. Thomas crouches beside her, shooting his finger between the spindles of the banister. Cecilia? Maybe she's in her room. Maybe she's gone. Basically these days it's the same thing.

Mama says, “You always . . .” and “You never . . .” Dad dwindles. Sunlight tumbles through the landing window and tries to tickle Flor's feet. The day is pretending nothing's wrong.
Look at me
, it says.
I'm all about sunshine and happiness!

Not here. Not in this house.

“Bang!” Thomas whispers. “Bang!” But after firing off a few more rounds, he lets his arm fall to his side.

“Never mind.” He leans over the banister. “I don't
want to go anyway. It's not worth it.”

A pause. Both parents look up, and for about three seconds they both look sorry. Even a little ashamed. For three seconds, they could be TV parents, who realize the error of their ways, and order in pizza, and start holding family meetings where every opinion matters, and here comes the happy ending, lifting you on its wings.

For three seconds.

“Go out and play, you two,” Dad says then. “We'll settle this. It's not your business.”

Even Thomas recognizes this for the insult it is. He balls his fists. He puffs his cheeks. As if they're babies! As if they don't notice, or will forget, the things that get said around here. As if how their parents hurt each other is
not their business
?

Flor grips the phone, which refuses to ring. If only Sylvie still lived here, Flor could escape to her house now. If only Cecilia hadn't disowned them, Flor wouldn't be on her own now. Lonesomeness chokes her insides like a garden full of weeds.

“Go on!” Mama shoos her hands. “You heard your father.”

“No!” Flor's had it. She shoos her hands back. “It
is
our business. We live here. This is our house as much as yours!”

“What did I tell you about flipping that lip?” Mama's hands go to her hips.

“Don't make her more madder,” Thomas begs.

Too late now. Flor's had enough. Enough! She's got no one to turn to except her own self, and if she doesn't say what's inside her, something bad will happen. She will wither. Shrivel. Maybe even disappear, wink right out, that's how it feels. Mama shakes a finger. Flor shakes hers back.

“If we fight we get punished!” The words tear out of her. “You should too!”

Like Flor broke some curse, Cecilia's door blasts open. She was in there after all!

“Flor's right!” Cecilia's eyes and mouth are big. Huge. “We're sick of you fighting! What's wrong with you? Why don't you stop? Do you need professional help? Are you psychotic?”

Dad has started climbing the steps, but he freezes. Cecilia? Cecilia flipping the lip?

“Cele's right!” cries Flor. “This is all messed up! It's not how a family's supposed to be.”

“Everybody's yelling.” Thomas puts his hands over his ears. “Please stop yelling, please.”

“You don't just hurt each other! You hurt us too!” Cecilia leans over the railing, pointing, accusing. “Don't you see that? Or don't you even care?”

Her sister taking her side turns Flor bold and crazy.

“You're so selfish!” she shouts. “You should be ashamed!”

“That's enough!” yells Dad. “Enough out of you both!”

“I hate this!” cries Cecilia. “Hate it! You make me want to run away!”

Run away!

That's too much for Thomas. He starts to wail. Which makes Flor feel terrible, but there's no stopping her big mouth.

“No! If they hate each other so much, one of
them
should go! Just get it over with!”

Thomas wails louder. Even Cecilia looks shocked.

Flor's clattering down the stairs, stumbling at the bottom, tripping headlong toward the door, and neither parent tries to stop her. Good! Because they
can't. She spoke the truth and she feels terrific. Terrific! She grabs her backpack from the hook and bangs out into the too-bright, too-cheerful sunshine. It's so bright, for a moment she's blind.

That's when she realizes she's still holding the cordless phone. Which hasn't rung, like it's frightened too. No way is Flor going back into that house. She shoves the phone into her backpack, grabs her bike, and jumps on.

“Flor! Stay! Stay!” Her brother's in the yard. His thin voice chases her down the road.

F
lor digs her toes into the rim of the old quarry. Her heart's a circus, with trapezes and tightropes and people shooting out of cannons but no nets—someone forgot the nets. She can still hear Thomas begging her to stay. And Cecilia threatening to run away. Loudest of all is her own voice, saying “One of them should
go, go, go
. . . .”

Usually, riding her bike till she nearly has a heart attack calms her down, but not today. Today everything's different. Even Moonpenny Quarry. It quivers in the sunshine, rays of light bouncing off the rocks
or getting sucked into the dense, scrubby junipers. The quarry is supposed to be peaceful, but this afternoon it buzzes with secret energy, crackles with a life all its own. Flor hesitates, but where else can she go?