I want my parents to laugh now so I can think about that laughter on the ferry ride to Victoria tomorrow.
But Mom’s tears are brimming over. I look pleadingly at Dad, and for once, he jumps in. “Come on, now, Gloria,” he says. “It’ll be a great summer, right? For all of us.” His tone is more forceful than usual, as though he won’t take no for an answer.
Mom closes her eyes and takes a long, deep breath. A breath like she taught me to take before math tests. When she opens her eyes, she looks as determined as Dad. “It will be a great summer,” she says with a confident smile that matches her professional clothing. “And we’ll look forward to hearing about your adventures, Ellie. I know you’ll have a wonderful time.”
I relax. Dad does too. We talk about the kite Jeanette and I plan to build together—an improvement on last summer’s design—and about the park north of Victoria where we want to picnic. Then Dad cracks a joke about being the suburb’s King of Romance this summer, and at last I hear the laughter I’ve been hoping for.
Later that evening I stuff a book and an extra toothbrush into the crannies of my backpack. I leave my iPod and my cell phone on my desk. Jeanette has banned both of them from her house. She says technology “takes people away from the moment.” Life at her house is all about “being present.” I rolled my eyes when she made that declaration. I’m going to miss my music. (Mom thinks I hate music because I don’t always want to practice my violin, but listening to great artists and wanting to practice an instrument I never liked anyway are two completely different things.)
I don’t mind leaving the cell phone behind. My friend Samantha is in Tasmania visiting relatives for the summer, and the only other person who ever calls me is my mother.
I take a last look around my room and ease the zipper shut on my backpack.
Tomorrow I will step into a completely different life.
TWO
Jeanette lives in a red wooden house with stained glass windows, four blocks from the ocean. This is my first time back here since Alison’s funeral, and the house seems half empty without her. I can’t believe she’ll never wander into the living room again to read us a funny line from a book. She’ll never whip up another batch of double-fudge brownies or create hilarious names for the new dishes she concocts for supper. I want to hear her laugh at Jeanette’s wacky ideas or have her chase me around the house in a tickle attack. At home with my parents, I could pretend that she hadn’t really died, but here, her absence is everywhere.
I was right about Jeanette though. Every now and then she looks sad, but since I got here this morning, she hasn’t spent a single second curled up in her chair, grief-stricken. She’s got too many plans. Like tonight, for example.
“You’ll love it,” she says, twirling across her living room, her blond curls flying straight out and her multicolored skirt billowing around her. She does a crazy weaving side-step across the hardwood floor and finishes with a little spin next to the piano. “Takes a bit of coordination, but you get used to it. Ready to go?”
I laugh. “I don’t have any choice, do I?” It’s Thursday evening, and for Jeanette that means Israeli dancing under the trees in Beacon Hill Park.
Of course I know better than to protest. As far as Jeanette’s concerned, the biggest sin in life is to avoid trying new things. At home, I avoid them as much as possible. My parents think it’s best to stick to what you know, and that’s convenient for me, because I hate not knowing how to do things. I never want to make a fool of myself. Jeanette doesn’t get it; she says perfection is not the point. I tell her that I’m in no danger of achieving perfection anyway.
“Nope, no choice,” Jeanette says now, pulling on strappy sandals that lace halfway up her calf. I try to picture Mom wearing something like that, but she’d say they’re too young for her, although she’s eleven years younger than Jeanette. It’s hard to believe Mom and Jeanette are sisters. Even though they are both small and blond, Jeanette is fit and strong, while Mom just looks thin and tired. They both have curly hair, but Mom wears hers short and straightened, while Jeanette either lets her curls billow behind her or gathers them all up into a messy bun, fastened with chopsticks from Chinatown. They could never share clothes.
My aunt grabs a red bandanna from a shelf and ties it on me like a headband. “There’s no dress code, but the more folksy, the better, no?” She hesitates, her hand on the doorknob. “You can borrow a skirt or a scarf too, if you want. And I’ve got some big clip-on hoop earrings.”