The Last Forever (26 page)

Instead, tonight, we have simply shared a meaningful event. And next we share this: a look between us that says we’ve gone from here to there, from shame to a shaky, mutual forgiveness; from a time when our lives felt like a to-scale model, three feet equaling one and a quarter inches, to now, where the whole wide world is ours.

chapter twenty-one

Datura
: angel’s-trumpet/devil’s-trumpet. Though nobody can seem to agree what to call it, there is no argument about the danger of ingesting any part of this plant, most especially its seeds. The seedpod is a menacing ball covered in sharp spines, and the flower, which possesses a strange, seductive beauty, blooms only at dusk. Datura was well known as an essential ingredient of love potions and witches’ brews, causing delirious states and death. Some believe that eating the seeds of
Datura
was what caused the erratic behavior of the young “witches” in Salem. And, in 1676, British soldiers ingested
Datura stramonium
in a boiled salad and remained in a stupor for eleven days. If this is a love potion, no thank you.

I need to choose a gift for Henry. I want it to be just right, something that speaks to our mission, how we tried to save Pix, how we sort of failed but sort of triumphed, too. I think along the lines of plants and seeds; I even consider using one of Pix’s seeds to grow Henry his own pixiebell. But it’s too much my mother and me and not Henry and me, and so I go to Old Sh**—that’s what it’s called, with the asterisks and everything.
It’s an antiques shop in town. Out front, there’s a mannequin dressed in an ancient diving suit, with a beautiful brass helmet on its head, and in the window there’s a creepy stuffed cougar, a Civil War flag, a line of tin flasks, and rusty lunch boxes with the Lone Ranger on them.

The big-bearded man behind the counter doesn’t waste any time. “Hey, aren’t you—”

I close my eyes as if I’m sleeping and rest my chin on my palm. “Her?”

He chuckles. “It was right here.” He taps the counter with his knuckles. “Mine was the first name on it.”

“Well, thank you,” I say. He goes back to breaking open rolls of coins into the register while I look around. I make several slow loops around the entire store before I spot it. It’s on a table with the sort of glass dishes you see at carnivals and a magnifying glass like Sherlock Holmes’s: a compass. A brass compass, the brass so worn that it’s almost black. It has a lid that opens and closes, and inside, the compass rose is an intricate black-and-white. This is not about our quest to find Pix’s identity—this is about what happens next.

The bearded man wraps the compass in tissue paper. “For your trip?” he asks.

“If it happens. I hope so.”

“True north,” he says.

*  *  *

A few days ago, Henry told me he’d be busy Saturday night, that Elijah wanted help with some project. I have not spilled
the secret yet, which has taken some doing, especially since I’m confused and mad that Henry still has not mentioned his birthday. But I love Henry, and I trust him, and so I keep telling myself there will be an explanation.

And, oh yes, there will be one, all right.

I’m nervous. This will be the first time I’m with Henry and all his friends, people who’ve known each other forever, and me, the interloper, the tourist, the maybe transplant. So of course I change my clothes a bunch of times and screw up my hair and have to wet it again, which makes it look worse. I do everything I can to make the situation a crisis, accidentally poking myself in the eye with my mascara wand, touching the hot part of the hair blower against my neck, spilling some I’d-better-eat-something yogurt on the shirt I finally decide on. Between bad hair and mean people and junior high, your poor old self-confidence gets so many bullets shot at it, you’re lucky if it stays alive.

I shout out a good-bye as I leave, because I’m too anxious to have any kind of annoying
Have a great night!
chats with either Jenny or Dad. I’ve written down instructions to Elijah and Millicent’s house, even though I know exactly where it is. This knowledge is sure to evaporate as soon as I’m down the driveway (see Mascara Wand in Eye, above). And so I smooth out the piece of paper on my leg and turn the key again after the car is already on, which causes the engine to scream as if I’ve just accosted it on a dark night.

So far so good.

Past Asher House (.33 miles), there is the massive oak, looming minion of Middle Earth, arms stretched in a warning I don’t heed. I turn. After that (.14 miles) is the street, Parrish Point.
Perish,
I think, because there it is, that Victorian, the kind of house that looks so gingerbread friendly in the day and so haunted house at night. This night, though, all the lights are blazing in its ornate windows, and I can feel the bass beat of loud music in my own body before I even find a place to park. My mind goes parental, the way it tends to do when things feel out of control. I wonder where Elijah and Millicent’s parents are. I wonder what the neighbors will think.

I have a sudden longing for Meg and my own friends, who I’ve so carelessly tossed aside. You can ignore a person’s calls only so long before they give up on you. I haven’t heard from Meg in weeks. I feel all wrong here. Meg and Caitlin and Hannah and me, we’re not really party people. We’re friends-in-small-groups people. I don’t even have much party experience, except for some band get-togethers of Meg’s that I went along to. A track team party with Dillon at Matthew Harris’s house. My skirt feels prissy, and so does my little present in the same box and with the same reused bow from Dad’s gift. All I need is a pair of patent-leather shoes, and I’d be the same me I was in the third grade, when I went to Ivy McLellan’s birthday party, but only because her mother insisted she invite every girl in the class.

The lawn is huge. It’s beyond huge; it’s parklike. Nearly an estate. I hike across it, not seeing the paved walkway a few
yards away. The front door is open. People are spilling out onto the porch. A lot of people. I’m surprised. I didn’t think there were that many people our age here, unless Elijah also invited everyone in the class. There are the glowing orange tips of cigarettes, beer in cups.
Alcohol and minors!
my parental mind screams. And, now, too, all the power talk I’d given myself while getting ready—
You can do it! You look great!—
is hightailing it out of here. It’s running for its life. Straitlaced vibes are shooting out in every direction from my body, and I don’t know how to hide them.

I walk up the steps. I smile at the two guys and two girls on the porch. I attempt to hold my little present casually. I attempt to walk into the house in my little heels casually too. They are people-pleaser heels. Newly grass-stained people-pleaser heels. My skirt is shouting
Like me!
to the various tossed-on jeans and shorts. This is not one of those surprise parties where people jump out from furniture. Everyone is here already.

I look around for Henry. I am desperate to see his familiar face among these other ones. I see Millicent on a couch with her arms slung around two guys. This seems insensitive at Henry’s birthday party, if you ask me. She’s laughing it up, and the guys have swoopy hair like Elijah, and one is wearing an argyle vest (or gargoyle vest as Dad calls them) that no one would be caught dead wearing in San Bernardino. He has his hand on her leg.

The music is so loud that my eardrums are thrumming. People are actually standing right next to the speakers! Do
they want to be deaf in their later years? And do I smell the familiar grassy scent of pot? I try to loosen up. I even give my shoulders a shake, which causes my purse to fall on the floor. I am scrambling down there to get it, and some girl bumps me with her rear end. I’ve been worrying that everyone will stare at me, but the opposite is true. No one seems to even notice I’m here.

I wind my way around bodies and large, dark pieces of furniture. It’s a serious house. There are Oriental rugs. There are chandeliers. I try to find the kitchen. I assume it will be the friendliest place, as kitchens often are, and so maybe that’s where I’ll find Henry.

Okay. I see Elijah. He’s over by the fancy stainless refrigerator, leaning a shoulder on it. He’s talking to an older man, who is wearing a bow tie and black-framed retro scientist glasses. Nerd-hip, gotcha. Elijah is laughing, and then he reaches up to straighten the man’s tie. The gesture surprises me. It’s almost flirtatious.

And then, thank God! There is Henry! He is by a long table, dunking a chip into a bowl of dip, eyeing Elijah. He doesn’t see me. His face—I don’t know. He looks pissed. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen Henry angry before. His cheeks are flushed red. His eyes are narrowed almost meanly.

I edge my way toward him, scooting around the edge of the room so that I can take him by surprise. I grab a pinch of his white sleeve and tug.

“Hey,” I say. “Happy birthday.”

He spins around. He looks shocked to see me. “Tess!” he says. “I guess this was Elijah’s big mystery project. I didn’t know he invited you.”

“And I didn’t know it was your birthday,” I say.

“Oh!” He laughs a little. His face goes from flushed to pale. “No. It’s not. My birthday is in February. This is”—he gestures up to the black balloons that say
HAPPY 50TH
—“an attempt at irony. A surprise on me, ha-ha. Elijah’s idea of a . . .”

Self-centered bid for attention, if you ask me.

“Joke,” Henry says. “You brought a present.”

He seems sad about that. The present itself seems sad. I feel suddenly sad, sad and a little humiliated at my earnest gift, as if maybe Henry and I have a relationship that’s not meant for his real life. “I’m sorry,” I say. It’s the wrong response, but the one I most feel.

“Oh, don’t be sorry! He should have told you.” I don’t know what to do with the gift now. It’s wrong here. It’s too sincere.

I hand it to him anyway. I try to remember that Henry loves me. “You can open it later. Maybe at home or something.”

He takes it, and we’re awkward together again. I try to smooth over the moment. I try not to be as sad and disappointed and out of place as I feel. I shout, and he leans in. I make my voice jovial. “You know all these people?”

“Not all,” he shouts back. “Some are Elijah’s friends. Him.” He nods toward the man.

“Bow tie man.”

“Right.”

Someone jostles Henry. “Empty cup, birthday boy!” a tall, lean guy says, and snatches Henry’s cup off a nearby table.

“This is some place,” I shout again. This is the degree to which Henry and I are not being Henry and I. I am saying things like
This is some place.

“The parents are both . . .”

“Psychiatrists. You told me.”

The lean guy comes back with two cups—one for me and one for Henry. They are filled with ice and some kind of brown—

“Home brew,” the guy says. “Hey, I’m Jackie Jack.” He holds out his hand. I don’t know if this is his actual first and last name, or an adorable nickname he calls himself. Still, he’s the only halfway friendly person here, so I’ll take it. I take the cup, too, have a swallow. It’s a blazing fire rocketing through my body. My lips turn instantly to rubber and my knees weak.

“Jackie Jack Jack,” I say. And then the bow tie man is cruising around the food table with a little plate, and Elijah is next to us.

“Having fun, birthday boy?” He shoves his hands in his pockets, rocks on his heels. “Hey, Tess. You made it. Look here, we’re all together in one place. All in the very same
room
.”

“Are your parents out of town, or something?” I ask.

“They’re at a hotel. They’re guilt ridden over their deep-seated lack of interest in us, so they give us anything we want.”

“As I tell my mother, you weren’t exactly
available
. . . .”
Millicent has ditched her boys, and now she’s here, nibbling a carrot stick. “No wonder I’m depressed half the time.”

“Kids of head doctors are well versed in parental blame,” the bow tie man says. He is piling on pieces of cheese and something that looks like bean dip.

“They think it’s a sign of our mental health,” Elijah says.

I think it’s a sign they’re spoiled brats, but I don’t say this.

“I think it’s a sign you’re spoiled brats,” Henry says.

Did I mention how much I love him? I chuckle. My knees are weak, and my heart is on fire, but it’s a good kind of fire. I take another sip.

“Are you mad at
me
, Lark?” Elijah asks.

“Not at all.” The tips of Henry’s ears are red.

“Sulky, jealous boys,” Millicent says. She’s yanking my arm and pulling me away from Henry. “You should meet Drew.” I give Henry a Save Me look, but he’s busy glaring at Elijah. I want to go home. I don’t understand what’s going on here, but I feel like I’m in a game, and I don’t know what the game is, let alone what the rules are.

“Drew, Tess. Jenny Sedgewick’s granddaughter, but she has no artistic talent.” Millicent laughs a twinkly laugh.

“Neither do I,” Drew says. Drew is a rumpled-looking guy with a brown-blond head of curls. He seems uncomfortable in his shirt—at least, he keeps squirming around in it and readjusting. I know how he feels. Drew tells me he’s an oceanography student at the University of Washington’s Parrish Island lab. For the next twenty minutes he tells me various
facts about ocean mammals, while I ask polite questions and look for Henry out of the corner of my eye. Drew is actually very nice, with a nervous laugh and one untied shoe, but I finally excuse myself to use the restroom.

I want to find Henry, but Drew points upstairs to where the nearest bathroom is, and since he’s watching, I now have to go there whether I need to or not. It’s pretty quiet upstairs. At least, the thrumming and the thumping are muted, and no one seems to be up here. The rugs are thick. There’s a grandfather clock at the end of one hall and a writing desk at the end of another, with a quill pen on it and a silver paperweight in the shape of a leaf.

I am suddenly filled with the spirit of Grandfather Leopold. I tip open one of the doors—Millicent’s room, obviously, and then Elijah’s. He makes his bed like he’s in the military, and she makes her bed like she’s in a hurry. There are matching bookshelves in each room and matching desks. I am taking inventory. Elijah has a hockey stick and a military jacket on a hook, and . . . A girl laughs; her footsteps are on the stairs. I hurry out of there. Before I go back downstairs, I actually think about pocketing that silver paperweight. Maybe it’s rare and extraordinarily valuable, and I will take it from them and keep it for generations. More likely, it’s not even silver at all.