Part 25 (1/2)

Dylan's eyebrows raise. ”That's an unexpected question.”

”It shouldn't be,” I say. ”We've talked about everything else. Why not this?”

She shrugs.

”This is what most friends talk about,” I say. ”Let's just try it.”

She turns onto her back and looks up. The sun is setting. Streaks of orange and pink line the hills.

”Let's start with Maddy. Give me two adjectives to describe how Maddy kisses.”

Dylan covers her face with her hands and grins. I edge closer to her.

”Confident,” she says. ”Graceful.” She peeks at me between fingers.

”You're blus.h.i.+ng!” I yelp. ”You've never blushed before in your entire life.”

”That's not true.” She laughs.

”Why is she blus.h.i.+ng?” Taylor yells from across the yard.

”And Taylor?” she whispers.

”Miraculous,” I whisper back. ”Sweet.”

More hours pa.s.s. People leave. The house quiets. Taylor and Jay son and Henry and Dylan and I are outside, sharing a pizza Henry had delivered. Everyone is talking, laughing, but Henry just eats and stares off into the night. We finish the pizza. The night air becomes cooler. I walk inside the house. Henry is in the foyer, sitting on the edge of the fountain under the family portrait. He had been so quiet that I didn't even notice when he slipped away. I pull my balled-up, yellow sweater from the depths of my backpack. Instead of going back outside right away, I sit down on the fountain next to him.

We don't say anything. He stares at his hands; I tug on the ends of my sweater drawstrings. Then he dips his hand in the fountain and splashes water on his family portrait.

”Life is s.h.i.+t,” he tells me.

I nod. ”Maybe.”

His face is red with anger or embarra.s.sment, I can't tell which. I glance at the portrait, then back to his face when I feel him watching me.

”But not all the time,” I say. ”I don't think all the time.”

3.

My treehouse is finished. Actually, finished finished might not be the right word. I'll say this instead: my treehouse is complete. might not be the right word. I'll say this instead: my treehouse is complete.

It has a wide, st.u.r.dy ladder that rises ten feet from the ground. It has six walls, and an opening for a door, and big openings on each side to let in light and air. The tree trunk rises through the middle of the wide floor, its bark thick and rough and strong. The ceiling is seven feet high-I had to stand on a stepladder to build it, and my dad helped me with the hard-to-reach places, by holding beams steady as I hammered, by helping me lift what was too heavy.

Mom had the Persian rug cleaned for me, and now the colors are even more vibrant than they were when I found it. On a small branch just outside a window, I've hung the wood-and-gla.s.s hummingbird feeder. I bought a really comfortable, cushy chair from a sidewalk sale, and placed it in a corner. I used the wine crates from the garage as little tables, put a vase with flowers on one, next to a picture frame with Ingrid's self-portrait in it, and a couple candles in my dad's old, hippyish candleholders. I bought sixteen simple black frames from a store in the strip mall, to frame my Ghosts Ghosts series. Then I hung them, three on five of the walls, the last one above the door. When I invited them up to see, Dad actually cried, and Mom gazed at them with this proud look, like I just painted the series. Then I hung them, three on five of the walls, the last one above the door. When I invited them up to see, Dad actually cried, and Mom gazed at them with this proud look, like I just painted the Mona Lisa. Mona Lisa.

Tomorrow is demolition, and it's also the treehouse-warming party, treehouse-warming party, as my parents insist on calling it. Maddy's coming out from the city, and Dylan's bringing some of her mom's amazing food, and Taylor and Jayson, and, of course, my parents, who have been going on and on about the dessert they're making with rhubarb from their garden. I left a message for Ms. Delani, asking her to come. She left me a message back saying she would love to. as my parents insist on calling it. Maddy's coming out from the city, and Dylan's bringing some of her mom's amazing food, and Taylor and Jayson, and, of course, my parents, who have been going on and on about the dessert they're making with rhubarb from their garden. I left a message for Ms. Delani, asking her to come. She left me a message back saying she would love to.

I've already picked out the music, and set up the plates and sil verware, so I have nothing to do but wait. I turn the music on with the volume low, stretch out on the rug, and fade in and out of sleep for a while. Each time I wake up, I look through the skylight to see how the clouds have s.h.i.+fted.

4.

I wake up at 2 A.M., only five hours before the demolition starts, and know I have to go to the theater one more time. I leave a note for my parents on my bed, slip on some jeans and a hoodie and my green Converses, grab my bag, and creep out the door.

It's pitch-black when I get there, and I silently thank my dad for forcing me to keep a flashlight in my trunk. I park in front of the library, use the flashlight to find my way to the broken window, throw my bag through it, and crawl in after.

I pull Ingrid's journal from my bag, and rip out the first page, careful to tear it cleanly. I put the drawing Me on a Sunday Morning Me on a Sunday Morning in a folder in my bag. Then I head up to the projection room for the box of marquee letters. I want to send her a message. in a folder in my bag. Then I head up to the projection room for the box of marquee letters. I want to send her a message.

If I hadn't spent all year dangling from tree branches, I would be terrified right now. I'm climbing to the top of the rickety ladder that has surely been leaning against the wall in the break room for years, with a flashlight under one arm, the bag of letters under the other. Thankfully, there is a ledge beneath the marquee where I can set everything down. It is a still, warm night. I have no idea how I'll be able to fit everything I have to say to her in this small s.p.a.ce. I take down the old words, GO DBYE & tha K YOU, and think of what to write.

I think of everything: red earrings that looked like b.u.t.tons. Stealing glances of her journal from over her shoulder, glimpsing words and phrases and parts of drawings. Grooves in her fingers from squeezing her pen too tight. The way I felt when she looked at me from behind the lens: awkward, pretty, necessary. Ditching school to do nothing. Blue veins and pale skin. You are such a nerd You are such a nerd. Red light of the darkroom across her concentrated face. A quiet hill, damp gra.s.s under our bare feet. Scar tissue spelling ugly ugly. Clear blue eyes. I'll go wherever you go I'll go wherever you go. Tall gla.s.ses of champagne. Hold still. We look amazing Hold still. We look amazing. Dancing in a yellow dress. The creek. You might be looking for reasons but there are no reasons You might be looking for reasons but there are no reasons. Slipping nail polish into pockets. I don't want to hurt you or anybody so please just forget about me. I don't want to hurt you or anybody so please just forget about me.

I sort through the letters and pull out what I need for the beginning. They snap easily into place. And even though I thought I would need every letter, I finish the first sentence and realize that it's all I have left to say.

I MISS YOU.

Carefully, I feel my way down. I return the bag to the projection room, where my backpack waits for me. I take out the journal again. The Wite-Out bird is completely chipped off now. I set the journal on a shelf between a few books and some old film reels. I stand up, walk to the doorway, and s.h.i.+ne my light on the black cover for the last time. From here, it looks like any other book.

5.

I wake up in my jeans and sweater. When I think about last night, it seems foggy and distant.

I look in my backpack, just to be sure. The zipper pocket is empty.

My parents have a cereal bowl set out at my spot at the table when I come down for breakfast. They are sitting together, reading different sections of the paper.

”We packed you a lunch,” Dad says. Mom hands me a brown paper bag. I peer inside. Peanut b.u.t.ter and jelly, an apple, a granola bar.

”Aw,” I say. ”Like sixth grade.”

Mom rolls her eyes. Dad rumples my hair.

I only have a couple minutes to get out the door. I eat my cereal, brush my teeth, say good-bye to my parents, and start walking, for the last time, to the theater.

At the corner across the street from the strip mall, I hear a low rumble come from the road. A long row of semitrucks are coming toward me. I watch them move slowly down the main road, one by one, like a funeral procession. A driver in a red hat waves. I lift my hand.

It's only a little past seven, but the sun already feels hot. Far ahead of me, the trucks slow and turn right, toward the theater. I follow.

By the time I get there, a crowd already stretches around the block, and the semitrucks are unloaded. Towering over everything is a huge orange machine. It looks a like metal dinosaur. For a minute, it makes me forget about skysc.r.a.pers and mountains-I'm sure it's bigger than anything on Earth.