I steer my bike across the trolley intersection onto Eleventh Street, averting my gaze to avoid people dressed in holiday shirts and costumes. After forcing myself to finish all the housework and laundry in hopes of staying distracted, I rushed out of the house at 4:00 p.m. I left despite my rules—not even stopping to fix my hair or put on my fiercest face. I was worried that even an encounter with my handheld mirror would be risky. Yet it was leaving that was truly dangerous.
My wheels wobble on the loose asphalt as I ride along the once familiar street where fresh crops of giant cotton cobwebs, Styrofoam tombstones, and human-size ghosts formed of chicken wire and cheesecloth sprouted up overnight. My lungs contract with each scene I pass.
A group of ghosts grabs for me. I swerve. Flung outward, the duffel bag strapped to the back of my seat knocks two of the cheesecloth ghouls down. The bike frame slams sideways, and my knee hits the sidewalk. A jolt of pain rushes along the bone where concrete meets skin through the rip in my jeans.
Several pedestrians stop but I wave them off, my ears growing hot. After assuring my dad’s pocket watch didn’t get cracked, I leave the ghosts in knots of wire and gauze, reposition my feet on the pedals, and push onward with my throbbing knee.
Not receiving a single text from Uncle Thatch—besides the one he sent upon arrival at Cannon Beach—may not warrant imaginary ghost attacks; but bungling all our rituals, finding bite marks on Mom’s picture book, and having the reality of the date—signs on street corners advertising parties, trunk-or-treat locales, and professional haunted houses—heaped on top make hysteria unavoidable.
My knit beanie, snug under my helmet, warms my ears while my face and eyes sting from the crisp air. No matter that the sun came out today, the northern gusts promise we’ll be facing cloudbursts again tonight. It doesn’t bode well for the carnival.
I have to make sure that Uncle won’t be there to weather any storms, and the atmospheric variety is the least of our worries.
I arrive on Eveningside and coast in front of the bakery. The absence of Uncle’s Chevy Bolt triggers a nervous clutch in my throat. It’s a twenty-minute jaunt on bike from our house to here. I expected he’d be picking up the macarons and cupcakes by now.
So deep in thought, I accidentally cruise past Wisteria Rising. I force a U-turn against my knee’s objections. The boutique is already closed, but Juniper’s sedan remains parked out front. I’m hopeful she’s heard from Uncle Thatch. I’m also hoping she’ll be willing to run our booth by herself with the help of someone other than Uncle. There are always extra volunteers at PTA events.
Clarey’s Subaru takes up the space in front of the sedan. Once I finish my project, we can load up my bike and drive to my house, shutting ourselves in before this evening’s trick-or-treat infestation gets under way. It’s the bitterest irony about Clarey’s phobia, that despite creating the most magnificent costumes in town, he can’t bring himself to attend any crowded festivities. Yet that very neurosis makes him my ideal companion.
Just like last year, he’s getting paid to do Halloween makeup at his aunt’s boutique for a few hours today. Afterward, he’ll come to my place with his portable record player and we’ll listen to his mom’s vinyl collection until midnight—with one intermission to watch his DVD of Oceans 11, the 1960s version starring Clarey’s two idols, Sammy Davis Jr. and Dean Martin.
Ever since Clarey’s been joining us on All Hallows’ Eve, Uncle has taken a liking to jazz and blues himself; I’m banking on that shared interest to convince him to return home with us where he belongs.
I squeeze the hand brake. Alighting on the sidewalk, I pop off my helmet and limp-walk my bike to the french doors. Juniper believes plants are ornamental enough on their own, so, short of a few Mexican flame vines and orange black-eyed Susans in the display windows, her shop is blissfully free of themed decorations.
My gloves muffle my knock, but the lacy curtains on the interior tremble—proof someone heard me. Glancing at the potted wisteria display on my right, I tap one of the flowers so it releases a vanilla scent. The plant will have to be shut inside tonight, to protect its blooms against foot traffic and oncoming weather.
Then it hits me: I’m no better than wisteria. I’ve become as fragile as a flower petal.
Teeth clenched, I shove my emotions down … a last-ditch attempt to resemble the tough-as-iron and rough-as-grit girl I once was.
The right door swings inward, and Clarey fills the opening.
A sharkskin vest covers his gray long-sleeved Henley, rolled to the elbows to showcase lithe forearms. Pencil-thin dark pin-striped pants taper down his slim legs. A pair of calfskin loafers completes the look. Although my retinal perception can’t fill in the particulars, my memory still can: the main body of the shoes is printed with indigo and green platelets that resemble the hide of a dragon, and gold metal toe tips complement the claw-shaped buckle.
The Rat Pack ensemble isn’t a costume. It’s trademark Clarey. He buys most of his clothes through online thrift stores, but shoes are his one extravagance. He has at least seven pairs, each with their own color scheme and theme, all of them embellished with various metal toe tips.
“What are you doing out?” he asks, unable to hide his shock while shooting a glance at the decor lining the streets. In honor of the date and Lark’s love of all things that sparkle, SFX scales shimmer along his temples and under his eyes—as if he’s some sort of ephemeral aquatic creature with oddly placed gills. He told me he was going to match them to his eyes: bright turquoise and gold.
I prop my bike against the brick wall, too distracted to even ask if he managed to coordinate the tones. “I sent you a text earlier, then called. Needed you to bring the mural by my house. My grade hinges on it, you know …” It’s a good cover. Keeps me from admitting that when he didn’t answer, an overwhelming sense of panic forced me to hit the streets.
“Oh shizzle!” He drags his phone from his pocket and fumbles with the buttons. The sun hangs low in the west, and a stray beam pierces through the wisteria branches to highlight the white pigmentation at his hairline where it fades into his darker forehead. “Sorry about that. I forgot I muted my phone during a makeup session.”
“Makeup, or make-out?” I fake a smirk, desperate to maintain the cool facade. “Oh, wait … forgot about your dry spell.”
In the two years since Clarey’s been back, we’ve both gone out with a handful of people, but neither of us can seem to muster enthusiasm for the process. It’s so much more fun to bust on each other about our lack of prospects than to actually search for anyone ourselves.
“My dry spell? That’s the Sahara calling the Mojave a sand trap,” Clarey responds to my barb, grinning. He slips his phone back in his pocket. “Pretty weird, though. How we’re both so content in our droughts,” he adds, meeting my gaze pointedly.
I’m mortified to feel heat flush through my ears, cheeks, and forehead.
“Wait, am I about to witness a Phoenix catching fire?” His smile widens. “Or is Nix Loring actually blushing?”
I roll my eyes, in no state to navigate the complexities of our circuitous relationship today. “As if. Don’t you recognize frostbite when you see it?”
“Okay. Park your stick, little Popsicle.” He gestures to the bike. “Aunt Juni brewed some lemonade-cider for the carnival. We’ll get you a cup and a gingerbread scone.”
Juniper has an open courtyard in back with a greenhouse roof. Three evenings a week, she serves her own unique hot brews and treats for high tea, a tradition she shared with her British father and Indian mother as a child growing up in London. Customers sit by the fountains in the outdoor lighting, sample her latest recipes, and admire the lush flowers and ivy hanging overhead from old Victorian streetlamps, repurposed gazebo panels, and patinaed chandeliers.
Gelid air seeps through my ripped jeans and sears my raw knee as I dig in my duffel’s outer pocket for my bike lock. Shivering, I wrap my yellow-plaid scarf tighter around my jacket’s collar. “Any chance your aunt heard from Uncle Thatch in the past hour or so?”
A burst of wind lifts Clarey’s curls, making them dance. “Not sure. He texted her last night when you fell, then this morning about the carnival.”
I kneel to snap the U-lock into place around my front spokes and a rain pipe that runs from the roof to the sidewalk—wincing as my injured skin stretches.
“I thought you hit your head. What’s with the leg?” A concerned frown tugs at his lips.
I fasten my helmet around the handlebars, then dust off my knees. “Head last night. Knee today. I crashed my bike on the way over.”
Clarey frowns. “Wait. You’re telling me that Nix Loring, dirt-bike virtuoso, king of the hill, and tree-climbing wunderkind, fell twice in two days? Clumsy isn’t in your wheelhouse.”
His pronunciation of “wunderkind” the correct way, with a v sound—when most kids our age don’t even know the word—would typically make me smile. Yet all I can think of is that I’ve got to see Uncle. Not just to be sure he’s okay, but so he can explain why Mom’s picture book and Lark’s doll contraption were in the bathroom earlier.
“What can I say,” I mumble. “I’m off my game.” Understatement of the year.
“O-kay. So … you want a Band-Aid?”
I scoff. “Yeah, because I’m five. Just get me off this sidewalk, would you?” The request comes out sounding more desperate than I like.
Clarey moves aside. Once I’m in, he secures the door’s lock and pulls something from the inner pocket of his vest, anchoring his hand behind his back before I can see what he holds.
I feel one degree better as the scent of flowers and greenery seeps into my nostrils. Even though the main showroom is indoors, a row of skylights gives it an airy feel, like a French bistro. The whitewashed brick walls and weathered benches also serve as props for assorted potted vinery. Flower arrangements—jelly jars half-filled with water and fresh blossoming bouquets—hang from twine on vintage hat racks or hunker inside antique suitcases with lids yawning wide like clamshells.
There’s an eager ruff followed by claws clicking speedily across the stained cement in time with a metallic whir.
“Hey-a, Flannie.” I bend down to hug her furry neck. She drags her wet nose along the edge of my beanie, pushing it loose. I shove staticky hair off my face and check her mechanical leg and harness for signs of wear, although it makes me oddly queasy to look at it today.
She breaks free, snuffling her way around an old wooden wheelbarrow filled with flowering sweet pea where she dropped a rubber mouse. As she gnaws on the toy, the squeaks feel louder than they are … disproportioned alongside the quietly trickling garden fountains that break up the winding paths throughout the showroom.
I bend closer, studying the bite marks in the plastic, thinking of the damp, swollen pages in my Goblin Market picture book now stashed inside the main compartment of my duffel bag with my paintbrushes. A sour taste fills my mouth.
“So, want to tell me what happened last night?” Clarey jerks me out of my dark musings. His lean body reclines against a trellis wrapped in ivy. “Your uncle said you were out for a sec after hitting your head.”
I lower the duffel from my shoulder and lift a bouquet from its display. It’s Clarey’s responsibility to prep the fresh merchandise each day. I bury my nose in the blossoms, inhaling the floral scent that always clings to his skin and clothes—seeking the comfort it provides. “Can’t remember much. The details feel hazy to me, like it was someone else’s experience.”
He cocks his chin. “Cranial swell-age?” he teases.
“Something like that,” I answer, any effort to appear calm shattering all around me. “Could you get your aunt for me? I need to talk to her.” I polish the glass jar with my gloves, then set the flowers back in their suitcase.
Clarey puts his other arm behind him; his shoulders twitch, like he’s passing the hidden item back and forth from hand to hand. “I don’t know,” he baits. “I think we should test you for head injuries first. Riddle me this …”
And in that moment, I know what he’s hiding. Clarey likes to dip into his arsenal of music-related trivia questions when I’m being too serious or morose, and he keeps his harmonica on deck in case I need to hear a riff as a hint. It’s how his mom used to quiz him when she introduced him to her favorite genre of music. And the way he brightens up when playing songs that remind him of Breonna—the way he becomes that animated boy again, the one I knew from elementary to middle school before we both lost loved ones—always manages to put me in better spirits.
“First hint: He was the original star of folk blues in the 1920s. And hint number two …” Clarey draws his left palm from behind his back and surprises me by brandishing not his harmonica, but a small lemon wearing a pair of permanent-marker sunglasses. I’m actually disappointed; I could’ve used a song.
He laughs, mistaking my frown for confusion. His irises reflect the skylights in facets—as do the scales that glimmer on his skin. “C’mon. I’m practically handing the answer to you. This lemon should be on a silver platter.”
I nibble my lip ring and peel free of my gloves, dropping them next to my duffel bag. “Who is Lemon Brite?” I ask in the required Jeopardy! format, substituting Uncle’s preferred brand of dish soap in place of the musician’s name that I can’t remember.
“Sorry. The answer should’ve been: Who is Blind Lemon Jefferson?” A smug smile underscores his usual expression of pity for my ignorance. “To think this lemon gave up the spotlight in my aunt’s cider for such a sad display.”
Losing all patience, I cup my mouth and shout, “Juniper! Are you here?”
Clarey snorts, juggling the lemon. “Chillax, okay? She’s in the courtyard.” He points to the keys hanging below the door’s handle. “Hand me those, would you?”
I work them loose, and he drops the lemon to catch them midair. “I’ll tell her you’re here. Then we’ll set up the tarp and get out your paint cans.”
I’m confused for an instant before remembering my trumped-up reason for venturing out, and that I do still have a class project to complete. “Thanks.”
Scooping up the lemon in her mouth as if it’s a tennis ball, Flannie trots after her owner, but pauses to look between the two of us.
“Stay.” Clarey jangles the keys over his shoulder and disappears through the french doors leading to the courtyard.
Flannie plops down at my feet. I’m mesmerized, torn between fascination and fear as her teeth indent the lemon’s rind.
“All this time, and I’m still gobsmacked by it.” Juniper’s British accent shatters my trance.
“Huh?” I dig my fingers into my hair, massaging my scalp.
“What you did for our little cyborg pup.” Juniper smiles at me, looking like spring in a crocheted dress and headband of fresh flowers. She offers one of the steaming cups of lemonade-cider in her hands.
“I don’t deserve credit. The technology wasn’t mine.” To quell the chill around my heart, I take a sip and the sweet-tart flavor warms me from head to toe.
“Tosh. It’s not like you nicked your sister’s invention.”
In theory, I know Juniper’s right. But in practice, I can’t forget that I would never have thought of the prosthesis on my own. It was Lark’s animated arachnid-doll invention, the way its eight glittery metal legs moved—crablike and hinged like real knee joints when activated by an intricate gear system connected to the movement of the vinyl cranium—that inspired me. I simply took it apart and let her vision guide me. Now, after my scare in the bathroom with the doll, I can’t imagine ever touching it again.
“You honored your sister’s design by expanding on it.” Juniper tilts her head, causing the salt-and-pepper layers over her ears to splay out like soft horns from the edge of her headband. The white in her hair is the only betrayal of her forty-five years, given that her dewy skin has barely a wrinkle. “You made it something useful. That’s teamwork at its finest.”
It’s a lovely sentiment, yet the word “teamwork” reminds me of the grimalkins’ taunting song from my dreams: A sister will cheer along the tedious way … and fetch the one who went astray.
I fight the urge to tear up. “That’s what Lark always wanted … to build things that mattered,” I say absently.
What I don’t say is that she also wanted to win notoriety, and I put a crimp in that. Which makes me taking home the local Young Inventors’ postgrad engineering internship last year—by reworking her innovations into a dog’s mechanical leg—an undeserved honor.
Juniper pulls her glasses down from their perch atop her headband and settles them over her nose, narrowing her doe-eyed gaze. “And you helped her accomplish it, Nix. Now, frame that Young Inventors’ award. Then patent the design, sell it, and use the payoff for a fabulous art school.”
I groan. “Really? This is what you and Uncle talk about when you hang out?”
I know better than to say on your dates, because they’d both deny it. Even though they plan their lunch breaks so they can eat together every day, they text constantly, and she’s dubbed him “an unusual kind of handsome” while he calls her “a most alarming sort of pretty.”
“Can’t you two think of anything more interesting? Politics maybe … global warming. I can make a list of grown-up topics for you.”
She laughs—an adorable wobbly sound that’s always reminded me of a goat’s bleat—sputtering her sip of cider back into her mug. Steam fogs her lenses, and she lowers the drink to give them time to clear. “You are his favorite topic, little bird. He’s absolutely chuffed anytime you come up.”
Her response is the perfect opening. “Have you heard from him since this morning?”
“No. He hasn’t answered my texts. I assume he’s a trifle busy. Last one I sent, I told him I’m over to the beach myself with the fare in a half hour. No need for him to make the trip back this late. I’ll carry your art piece, too.”
I gulp down the rest of the warm cider, unsure how to answer.
“Won’t it be dry by then?” she asks in response to my silent hesitance.
“Yeah. The paint only takes thirty minutes. But …”
“Something else gutting you?”
“He hasn’t checked in with me like he said he would. And … now he’s not showing up when he said he would. It’s not like him. Not on this day.”
Her forehead folds to empathetic creases. “Sure, sure. I was assuming he was just lagging about. But I’ll call the bakery, see if they’ve heard anything. Sound good?”
“Yeah.” I hand off my cup; it’s a testament to how scattered I’ve been that I didn’t think of that myself before hitting the streets on my bike. “Awesome new recipe, by the way.”
She smiles gently.
We both turn when Clarey shuffles loudly through the double doors in back, lugging my mural. “I thought this scene was of you and your uncle.”
“Well, yeah.” I originally penciled it out on graph paper, and was pleased how the idea transferred to fit a two-by-three-foot particleboard. Clarey went with me to buy the paints, choosing bright purples, reds, greens, oranges, and blacks per my request. As much as I hated asking for help, I couldn’t let pride get in the way of a good grade.
In the finished product, Uncle and I stand side by side with exaggerated features … malformed eyes, giant toothy smiles. His hair hides under a chef’s hat while mine sweeps up in a chaotic Mohawk to spotlight my widow’s peak. Gears and sprockets spring out from my skin in tribute to my piercings. Hunkered beside us, as if luring us into the forested background, are two goblins—not the kind from my books that are as tall as humans, but dwarfish green creatures like from the movies, with long hairy chins and pointed heads. They’re both holding baskets of fruits that glisten, dewy in the moonlight. Their expressions are comically sinister—with gazes as black as coal. Once I complete the mechanism hinging the smallest goblin’s wooden elbow, his forearm will move in a beckoning motion.
“So … when did you make these changes?” Clarey appears both puzzled and disturbed as I wind my way around flower-and-leaf-filled benches, trunks, and wheelbarrows to see where he’s pointing.
At first, I don’t catch his reference. It’s the image of me I painted—overblown Mohawk and cheesy smile. Then a chill raises the hairs along my arms as I home in on the subtle details: a gap in the girl’s front teeth, the absence of a widow’s peak at the tip of her forehead, and not a single piercing in sight.
The residue of cider on my tongue curdles to an acidity more bitter than raw lemons—because standing next to Uncle Thatch, in my place, is my dead sister Lark.