Since You've Been Gone (28 page)

“Yeah,” I said as I ran my hand along the wood of the porch, which had gotten so smooth over the years, you never had to worry about splinters. “Me too.” My mother smiled at me and
ran her hand over my head, smoothing my new bangs down. I saw that
FARRELLY
was written across the top of my new towel in big block letters, and I quickly folded the top of the towel over. “So what’s the second act issue?” I asked, hoping my mother hadn’t seen anything.

“Oh,” my mother said, taking a long sip of what I could now smell was peppermint tea. “Your father and I have just come to a difference of opinion. He wants to focus on the rivalry aspect. But the fact is, Tesla and Edison were friends. That changed, of course, but they both got something from each other. And I don’t think we should discount that.”

I nodded, like I understood what she was saying. But mostly, I was thrilled that this conversation hadn’t involved any lectures. “Well, I’m going to bed,” I said, pushing myself to my feet, making sure the
FARRELLY
was hidden.

My mother smiled at me and waited until I was almost to the door before she added, “And, Em? Don’t come in again at three a.m. and not expect any consequences.”

“Right,” I said with a sinking feeling, realizing I should have known this was probably too good to be true. “Um, got it. Night, Mom.”

“Night, hon,” my mom said. She stayed where she was, and for just a second, I thought about joining her. But I realized she had things to sort through—Edison and Tesla and friendships and rivalries. So I just looked at her for one more moment before turning and heading inside to bed.

“Wasn’t that awesome, Em?” Beckett grinned at me from across the diner booth and I tried to smile back. My brother had been staying on the ground and barely speaking since he’d found out about the camping trip, so I’d taken him to the one place I was pretty sure would cheer him up. We’d met up with Dawn and gone to IndoorXtreme late, getting there just as they were closing, so Beckett could have the run of the place. He’d scaled the climbing wall with Collins, having races to see who could get down to the ground faster. Dawn and Frank had had an epic paintball fight, and I had somehow gotten stuck with Doug at the front counter, who had presented me with the first book in the series he was obsessed with, and then proceeded to tell me how it fit into the pop culture canon at large.

“And some people think,” he’d said, as he flipped pages, and I looked longingly in the direction of the paintball area, where I could see Dawn slinking behind a hay bale, spy-style, “that Tamsin and the Elder are just rip-offs, so I don’t want that to turn you off from the book.”

“It won’t,” I assured him, hoping that this might wrap things up.

“Because that’s a stupid argument,” Doug said, clearly just warming to his theme. “Because that relationship exists everywhere. Look at Obi-Wan and Luke. Look at Dumbledore and
Harry. Look at Gandalf and Frodo. They all have these people. They have to learn from them. But then they have to find their own strength and go it alone. So it’s not derivative. Don’t listen to the message boards.” I had assured him that there would be very little chance of that, but by the time he’d started going into character backstory for me, Frank and Dawn, both paint-flecked, had called a truce, and Beckett was declared the victor, having beaten Collins in their last three races.

But despite the fact I hadn’t had any fun, it was clear my brother had, and that was what I’d been aiming for, after all. I smiled back at him and then pulled out the laminated menu, wondering why diners always had the world’s largest menus, and also if anyone had ever ordered the five-dollar lobster. We were all grabbing dinner before Dawn had to take over the evening delivery shift, and hoping nobody would want to know why one side of her hair was orange.

“So,” Beckett said, looking up from where he was dripping water on his folded-up straw wrapper, turning it into a snake, “Frank and Collins and Dawn and everyone.  They’re your friends?”

“Yes,” I said, a little surprised by the question. “Why?”

Beckett shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s just different.  You never used to have this many friends.”

I opened my mouth to say something to that, when the diner’s glass door opened and Dawn, Collins, and Frank all came inside, Dawn shaking her head at me. “Oh no,” I sighed, as I
slid to the end of the booth so that Frank could sit next to me. Collins slid in next to Beckett, and Dawn next to him, and she nodded at me.

“They’re back to it,” she confirmed.

“Don’t let me down,” Frank said to Collins, pointing across the table. “You said you’d pay this time.”

“In my life, have I ever lied to you?” Collins asked, sounding affronted.

“Let it be,” Frank said, shaking his head. “We don’t need to go into that.”

“Please stop this,” I said, but Frank and Collins just shook their heads without even looking at me. For the last three days, they had been starting their sentences with only the titles of Beatles songs. They were allowed to speak normally to everyone else—and they’d put the game on hold when they were at work—but with each other, they were locked in, trying to prove who was the bigger fan.

“What’s going on?” Beckett asked, looking from Frank to Collins.

“I wish you guys would just declare a winner,” Dawn said, then frowned. “Actually, ‘winner’ might be the wrong word in this situation.”

“Bucket,” Collins said, turning to my brother, “how well-versed are you in the Beatles?”

“I’m looking through you,” Frank said, shaking his head, and Collins pointed to my brother.

“With a little help from my friends,” he said, defensively. “Since when is that not allowed?”

“
Anyway
,” Dawn said, turning toward me. “I want to set you up with someone.” This was surprising enough that I just blinked at her, and saw Frank turn his head sharply to look at Dawn.

“I’m so tired,” Collins was saying as he flipped through the menu. “Maybe I’ll get some coffee.”

“I don’t . . . ,” I started. I was about to tell Dawn that I wasn’t interested, even though I really couldn’t have said why. It wasn’t like I still wasn’t over Gideon, or anything like that. “Um, who is it?”

Collins was snapping his fingers at Frank, who said, sounding distracted, “Right. Um . . .” A moment later, he seemed to realize what he’d done. “Wait,” he said quickly. “Help. You can’t do that. . . .”

“I just totally won!” Collins yelled, pumping his fist in the air. “There is not, to the best of my knowledge, a Beatles song called ‘Right Um.’ ” He drummed his hands on the table excitedly, then leaned back against the booth, like he was settling in. “Bucket, let me tell you a story. Once upon a time, there was a place called Liverpool . . .”

I looked at Frank. “Sorry you lost,” I said, even though I couldn’t be happier this game had ended.

Frank just shrugged. “I’m sure we’ll do it again at some point,” he said. “Every few years, we seem to need to try and
prove who’s a bigger fan. But listen,” he said, suddenly looking serious, the way he did when we were strategizing about my list. “I have the perfect solution for number thirteen.”

Thirteen was “Sleep under the stars,” and I looked across the table at my brother, who seemed absorbed in learning about how Paul and John met. While I appreciated Frank’s initiative, I’d had an idea for this brewing ever since I’d talked to my mother on the porch. “I’ve got that one taken care of.”

“You do?” he asked, sounding surprised. “Oh. Okay. What is it? And when?”

I just looked at him, suddenly knowing the exact right way to answer this. “It won’t be long,” I said, and was rewarded when Frank smiled, suddenly, like I’d just surprised him.

That night, I tiptoed into my brother’s room, trying not to make any noise, but finding it difficult when I kept impaling my feet on the toys that seemed to cover his floor more evenly than his carpet. “Beckett,” I whispered when I got close to his bed. “Hey. Beck.
Ow.
” I tried to take a step closer, and felt something small and plastic lodge itself in my foot.

“Em?” Beckett sat up in bed, blinking at me in the faint glow of his nightlight, which he always swore he didn’t need. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I said, trying to shake what turned out to be a Lego from my foot as I limped over to him.

“Then why are you here?” he asked, sitting up farther.

“I had an idea,” I said, crouching by the side of his bed,
trying not to put my feet any new places. “Want to go camping?”

Beckett sat all the way up, pushing his curls out of his face. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, let’s sleep outside. I have the whole thing set up. Mom and Dad won’t care.”

Beckett just looked at me for a long moment, like he was weighing whether I was being serious, or maybe if this was just a very realistic dream. “But how?” he finally asked, which was how I knew he was getting on board. “We don’t have any camping stuff. Dad and I were supposed to get it together.”

“I think I’ve figured it out,” I said, crossing my fingers in the dark that I had. “Meet you in the backyard in ten.”

Ten minutes later, almost exactly, Beckett stepped outside in his pajamas, still looking dubious. “Ta-da,” I said, hoping that he wouldn’t think it was stupid, or turn around and head back in. I had set up a mini campsite, in the very center of the yard. Since we didn’t have a tent, I’d just laid out two sleeping bags and pillows head to head.

“Really?” Beckett asked, taking a small step forward, beginning to smile.

“Put this on first,” I said, tossing the bottle of bug spray at him. It was the one thing I was worried about—since we would be sleeping out in the open, I had a feeling that unless we took precautionary measures, we were going to get eaten alive by mosquitos.

Beckett sprayed himself until he was coughing, then ran
over to the sleeping bags, tossing the spray in my direction. I doused myself in it, then crawled into my own sleeping bag.

I settled back into my pillow and looked up. I was glad that these sleeping bags were the crazy insulated you-can-take-them-on-mountains kind, because despite the fact the evening was still warm, it felt cooler at ground level, and a little damp. I looked straight up and just took in the stars shining above us, with nothing blocking their view, and suddenly regretted all the nights I’d slept with anything between me and the sky.

“This is cool,” Beckett said, and I turned my head to see him looking up, his arms folded behind his head. Neither of us knew any constellations, so we found our own, groupings of stars like Crooked Necktie and Angry Penguin, and made up the corresponding stories that went with them. Beckett’s voice had started to slow down halfway through the origin of Basket of Fries. I had a feeling he was about to fall asleep, and I knew I wasn’t going to be far behind him. I closed my eyes only to open them once more, and make sure it was all still there—the riot of stars above me, this whole other world existing just out of reach.

“Can we do this again?” Beckett asked.

“Sure,” I said, as I let my eyes stay closed this time. “We’ll do it next month.”

“Okay,” Beckett said. After a stretch of silence in which I was sure he had fallen asleep, he asked, “What about Sloane?”

I opened my eyes and pushed myself up on one elbow to get a better look at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean . . . we won’t do this when she comes back, right?” My brother’s voice was small. “You’ll probably be too busy.”

It was my first instinct to deny this, to assure him that nothing would change. But a second later, I knew that I wouldn’t be here, now, with my brother, if Sloane was still in town. I would either be hanging out with her or waiting to hang out with her. “It won’t matter,” I finally said. I could hear the certainty in my voice, and just hoped Beckett could too. “You and me. Next month. I promise.”

“Awesome,” Beckett said around a yawn. “Night.”

A moment later, I heard his breathing get longer and more even—it was a running joke in our family how quickly Beckett could fall asleep, and apparently being outside wasn’t impeding that.

I rolled onto my back and looked up at the stars. Beckett’s words were reverberating in my head, but for some reason, I didn’t want to think about what would happen when Sloane came back, how things might change. Instead, I looked over at my brother, already fast asleep, before letting my own eyes drift closed, feeling like maybe I’d been able to set something right.

Just because I knew what Sloane had intended with some of the items on the list didn’t necessarily mean that I wanted to do them. The next day I’d stood at my dresser, my neck itching from where the mosquitos had gotten me, staring down at number five. I knew what she meant by “Penelope,” and I also knew what she wanted me to do. Even though I knew it hadn’t moved, I reached into my top drawer and pulled it out, staring down at it, my picture and the unfamiliar name, realizing that this was probably the one I needed to do next.