chapter twenty

Turns out, the sparkly makeup all over Lemon’s and Kiko’s and Jules’s faces is mermaid makeup, because of course it is.

After I put Peach down in the bedroom right next to Lemon’s—which still has a mint-green comforter on the bed and mermaid posters on the walls, so I know it must be Immy’s room—I sit down under the blanket fort, marveling at the construction.

“Wow,” I say, gently touching a spot where one blanket drapes down to form half of a doorway, which they’ve tied open with a piece of twine. There’s a wooden pole in the middle, causing the whole structure to actually arch up like a tent. Binder clips hold white fairy lights in place, and when I look up, I see glittery stars on strings hanging from more clips.

“I know, right?” Jules says.

I nod. “It looks… magical.”

Except when I say it, my voice echoes with Kiko’s and I realize she said the same word at the same time. She lifts her eyebrows at me. She’s not smiling. In fact, she looks downright skeptical. My stomach twists and I look away from her.

“See?” Jules says. “Magic in the real world.”

“You guys built this all tonight?” I ask. “Like, since we left the Lancaster House?”

Lemon shrugs and flops down onto a pillow, tucking her arms behind her head. “We’ve had a lot of practice.”

“The first one we made was—what?” Kiko says. “When you and Immy turned eight?”

“Yep,” Jules said. “Except that one collapsed on us in the middle of the night and Immy woke up screaming her head off, thinking she was being suffocated.”

“No, that was you,” Lemon says, nudging Jules’s knee with hers.

“Oh, yeah,” Jules says, winking at me. I feel my cheeks warm. That wink does something to Jules’s whole face that just makes them so… I don’t know.

The word cute pops into my head again and I realize I’m staring at Jules while they stare right back at me.

“Um,” I say.

Jules laughs softly and scrapes a hand through their hair, making it stick up in every direction.

So cute.

I shake my head, then utter another brilliant “Um.”

“Oh,” Kiko says, looking between Jules and me.

“Oh indeed,” Lemon says, now nudging Kiko with her other knee. She’s grinning, while Kiko looks annoyed, and I have no idea what’s going on.

“Oh indeed-shmeed,” Jules says, slapping both girls’ knees. Then Jules clears their throat. “Now, since we are in a magical tent, you need the proper garb.”

“Huh?” I say, while Lemon and Kiko shout agreements, clapping their hands and watching Jules like they’re about to sprout fairy wings.

What they end up doing is way worse.

They come at me with a tiny brush, a bunch of glittery teal powder dotting the end.

“Whoa, wait, what?” I say, ducking out of their reach.

They pause and Lemon and Kiko bust up laughing.

“Come on, just a little blush,” Jules says.

“That is not blush,” I say, pointing at the brush.

“It’s mermaid blush,” Lemon says.

“Mermaid…,” I start, but then I notice that Lemon’s hair is plaited into one of those fishtail braids and they each have on a navy sweatshirt with sparkly iridescent flukes embroidered on it, teal definitely one of the colors shining from the scales.

I look down at my Wonder Woman shirt, suddenly very aware that I’m the odd kid out. The only one here who doesn’t have a history with any of them. The only one who never knew Immy. The only one without a closetful of mermaid tops. But somehow, right now, it doesn’t feel like I’m the only one.

It feels different. Like space.

It feels like part of.

I sigh, roll my eyes but smile, then lean forward and let Jules turn me into a mermaid.

We don’t go to sleep until after two o’clock in the morning. There’s cookie-making and movie-watching and reading Kiko’s favorite comic book series—about a Muslim girl who’s this amazing superhero—in the blanket fort. We even sing a very quiet “Happy Birthday” to Lemon and eat a bit of the cake her mom made her. It’s beautiful, a real work of art if you ask me, three layers with all the blues fading into each other just like the ocean zones, a freckled, redheaded mermaid swimming through the twilight zone.

Claire comes home right around eleven, which means Mama must be home too. We’re all sprawled on the sectional in the living room with a bowl of popcorn between us—I can’t remember the last time I ate so much junk—watching a Pixar movie. Claire leans over the back of the couch and wraps her arms around Lemon, her face right next to her daughter’s. Lemon reaches her own arms up, tangling them around her mom’s neck. They stay like that for a long time while Kiko and Jules and I glue our eyes to the screen. I hear some murmuring, see Lemon nodding out of the corner of my eye, then hear Claire whisper “Happy birthday, baby” to her before they let go of each other. Then Claire stands there, watching us watch a movie, a sad-happy smile on her face.

She catches my eye and her smile grows a little wider.

I look away, pretending I didn’t see her. Instead, I take out my phone, waiting for Mama to call or text me, asking me where I am, where Peach is, but my phone stays dark and quiet.

“Your mom knows you’re here, sweetheart,” Claire says.

I look up at her. “She does?”

“I texted my mom while you were putting Peach to bed,” Lemon says, stuffing some more popcorn into her mouth. “So she knew how many people were over here.”

I nod but keep my phone in my hands, still waiting for Mama to text. When she still doesn’t after an hour, I turn my phone off.

Later, we all lie down in the fort, smooshed together like sardines in a can, extra blankets piled on top of us, at least five pillows underneath us. I’m right in the middle, next to Lemon, Jules and Kiko on either end. The two of them fall asleep almost immediately. Jules’s mouth hangs open a little, their arms tossed over their head, while Kiko curls up into the tiniest ball I’ve ever seen. She’s like a little squirrel hibernating. Lemon’s still awake, though. I feel her stir next to me, light and restless. Even though my body feels exhausted, I can’t seem to fall asleep either.

This is my first night away from Mama since Mum died, my first night away from any parent ever. I never did sleepovers, even before Mum died. I had friends at school and on my swim team, but I’ve always been a mama’s girl, preferring home and family to all the uncertainties that come along with best friends. It’s weird and I feel a little outside of my skin, but when I take a breath, the air flows nice and smooth.

“Can you believe how late my mom got home?” Lemon whispers.

I frown at the stars hanging above us, remembering how much fun Mama seemed to be having when I talked to her earlier. My throat goes thick as I think about it. I try to swallow it down, feel happy that Mama was happy, but I can’t do it.

“Hmm,” I eventually say.

“Do you think they like each other?” Lemon asks. “Like, like like?”

I breathe in. Out. Dread trying to rush into all the new space inside me. I shrug in a way that seems to satisfy Lemon’s question. She sighs and then leans her head on my shoulder. I stiffen for a second, then relax, tiredness finally starting to settle over my body like a weighted blanket.

“Thanks for this,” Lemon whispers, her eyes on the stars.

“For what?” I ask.

“For coming over. I mean, I have fun with Kiko and Jules. Of course I do. They’re my best friends, but it’s hard sometimes. Like Immy’s always there with us, but she’s not, and it’s just… I don’t know. But with you, especially tonight, it felt sort of new, you know? New and familiar at the same time, which is the best way it can be, don’t you think?”

I nod, but I don’t think I really know. Everything’s always new, all the time. That first Christmas Mum was gone, we were living in Santa Fe and Mama bought a tree, but she strung it with white lights instead of the colored strands we always used to use. She bought a bunch of cheap, generic ornaments at a drugstore instead of using the Popsicle-stick ornaments that I made in first grade and the Baby’s First Christmas ornaments with Peach’s and my baby pictures stuffed into them. On our birthdays, we have cupcakes now, never a cake. On Thanksgiving, Mama still makes a big dinner, but it’s quiet, not filled with Mum’s and Mama’s friends like it used to be.

Everything is new now. Everything is different, almost every day.

I hear myself release a long sigh. I’m not sure if Lemon hears it, but when she grabs my hand and squeezes it, I squeeze back.

I wake up before everyone else. I almost forget where I am, but then I feel this weight on me, much heavier than Peach. Lemon’s wrapped around me like a vine, her arm slung over my waist, her leg twisted around my ankle. I lie there for a while, the room going from dark to a soft lavender as the sun comes up.

Peach will be up soon.

Mama will want to see us.

My chest tightens, thinking of Mama. I work my way out from under Lemon, peeling back the blankets until I’m free. Lemon groans and flips over, cuddling in close to Jules on her other side. I look at them for a second, Lemon and Jules and Kiko, and my cheeks twitch, a smile trying to fit itself onto my mouth.

The smile goes into hiding when I find my phone in my bag and turn it on, the screen still blank once it powers up.

No text.

No call.

I shove it into my backpack, teeth clenched as I change out of my pajama shorts and back into my cutoffs, as I throw my bag over my shoulder and sneak out of the room. I’m about to slip into Immy’s old room, wake up Peach, and head home to find out what in the world Mama is doing, when I hear clanging around in the kitchen, like mugs clinking against each other.

My fingers tighten on my bag, and before I know what I’m doing or why, I’m standing in the kitchen doorway, watching Claire pour soy milk into a mug of coffee and then sit on a high stool tucked under the island. She opens a mustard-colored book, which is when I notice she’s got a Mason jar full of pens and markers next to her. She takes out a black pen and scribbles something down, then goes over it with a lavender-colored highlighter.

It feels sort of like spying, but I watch her for a second without saying anything, staying as quiet as I can. She’s oblivious, wearing dark-framed glasses with her short hair a complete mess on top of her head, like a fire swirling up to the sky. In the couple of weeks she’s been in our lives, I haven’t really looked at her. Not like this. I study her, suddenly wishing I could dig under her skin, figure her out, see all the reasons Mama seems to like her so much.

Do you think they like each other? Like, like like?

Lemon’s question from last night pings around in my brain as I watch Claire take a sip of her coffee, write something else in the book. After a swipe of a light green highlighter, she sighs and rubs an eye under her glasses. Then she just sits there like that, quiet and staring out in front of her with a glazed-over gaze, and it hits me.

She lost her daughter.

Immy was hers, just like Lemon is hers, and yesterday must’ve been just as hard for her as it was for Lemon. Maybe harder. Maybe—

I shake my head to get rid of the thought, swallow hard against my thickening throat. Except as I do, my bag slips off my shoulder, making a soft sound as it slides down to my elbow. Claire’s head snaps up, swinging in my direction, eyes wide.

She relaxes when she sees it’s me.

“Oh. Hi, Hazel.”

I swallow and try to say something, but my voice isn’t working yet, so I nod. She smiles at me.

“Did you sleep well?”

I shrug, determined not to talk to her and to just turn around, but somehow my feet edge themselves into the room, step by step.

“I’m amazed any of you could fall asleep with all the sugar you ate last night.” She grins and gestures to the giant Tupperware container only half filled with butterscotch chocolate chip cookies, Lemon’s beautiful birthday cake now missing a few pieces on its cake stand.

“We managed,” I say.

She smiles, flips her black pen over her knuckles. I’ve always wanted to do that, but every time I try, the pen ends up flying across the room or onto the floor.

“I’m so glad you came over last night, Hazel,” she says. “It means a lot to Lemon.”

“It’s no big deal,” I say.

She glances at me as she slips a turquoise highlighter out of the jar, uncaps it. “I don’t think that’s true. Sometimes, very small things are very big deals.”

I don’t know what to say to that, but I’ve reached the island now, my traitorous feet carrying me all the way to just a couple of steps from Claire. I glance down at the pages in her book, which are covered with neat black writing—the ink thick and almost markerlike—and blocks of delicate color. It’s pretty, so neat and organized. I can’t help but admire it even as I tell myself to stop.

“What is that?” I ask.

She glances down at her book and runs her hands over the paper. “My planner.”

“Your planner?”

She nods.

Now that she’s said it, I notice section headings lining the top of both pages, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and so on. Still, the spread looks like art—organized art, but still art. I even see a space at the bottom that she’s filled with a doodle of a little cat, some books on a tiny bookshelf, a mug of something warm complete with delicate steam lines rising from the top. “But aren’t planners just, like, a place to write down stuff you have to do? Like appointments and to-do lists and stuff?”

“Sure. All that’s in here. But I like to make it look pretty, too.”

“Oh.”

I tilt my head and she angles the book so I can see more. Every bit of writing is also highlighted, but not with bright colors. Instead, the page is full of dusky pink and sky blue, twilight purple and buttery yellow, green like spearmint tea.

“Everything is color-coded,” she says. “I have a color for the restaurant, for appointments, for anything having to do with Lemon, for exercise, for errands. Everything.”

I nod, taking in the spread. She’s even written a word in a little box at the top of each day of the week, words like peace and balance and confidence. She’s got a busy life, writing everywhere, but somehow, the way she’s put it into this planner, so neat and organized and, yes, pretty, it makes my pulse slow down just looking at it.

“It keeps me organized,” she says, “but it also just keeps me…” She trails off and I glance up at her.

“What?” I ask. “What does it keep you?”

She sighs. “Calm.”

I blink at her, but yeah. That’s the exact word I was thinking about, the exact word that describes her book.

“Why… why do you need to stay calm?” I ask.

She laughs. “Well, everyone does sometimes. But, well, this planner helps me because I can get a little anxious.”

“Anxious?”

She nods and looks down at the pages. I wait, unsure what to say. That word—anxious—the grief counselor used it back in Berkeley. She used it a lot, even in just the couple of sessions we had. I never knew what to do with it. Neither did Mama, and then we just left and I’ve barely heard that word since.

“I used to worry a lot,” Claire goes on. “After Immy… I worried all the time. About Lemon, about me, about Lemon’s dad. I couldn’t sleep and I would have these… these times when my chest would get all tight and I couldn’t breathe. Lemon would have to help me calm down, poor girl.”

I suck in a breath—quietly, but I know Claire hears it, because she tilts her head at me—as I think of my panic attack on the beach, how Lemon knew exactly what to do.

“My therapist recommended a planner,” Claire says after a moment. “It doesn’t fix everything, but it helps me feel more prepared. If I write everything down, order my day as much as I can, I know a little bit better what to expect. Of course you can’t plan everything, but routine, seeing what I need to do all laid out before me… it helps. And spending time on making it something I like looking at, well, that’s a stress reliever too.”

We fall silent after that, as we both look over everything she’s planned for this week. On yesterday’s space, there’s not a lot written. Instead of a big to-do list, she’s drawn a mermaid. Red-haired and freckled, just like the one on Lemon’s cake. Then, near the bottom of the day’s rectangle, I see another word.

Evie.

I take a deep breath as she closes the book and hops off the stool.

“Are you hungry?” she asks.

I frown, I need to get home right on the tip of my tongue. But for some reason, I can’t get the words out. She shifts into action, pulling eggs and butter out of the refrigerator, bread and cinnamon and sugar from the pantry. I watch her start what is very obviously French toast and sink onto the stool she just vacated. I place my hand on top of her planner, the engraved design of flowers and vines soft and textured under my fingertips. We stay like that, quiet, calm, as she whisks up the eggs, soaks slices of thick bread in the mixture, then places them on a sizzling pan. Finally, she slides two pieces onto two plates, drizzles everything in butter and syrup and cinnamon and sugar, and sits down next to me on the other stool.

We eat quietly and I’m glad. I don’t want to talk to her, but I can’t seem to get myself to storm out of her house, either.

“How is it?” she finally asks, motioning with her fork toward my plate.

I shrug as I shove another bite into my mouth. No way I’m telling her this is the best French toast I’ve ever had in my life.