Lettie
The object spins end over end, high above me. I’ve got my eyes on it. I’m not going to miss. No way. I’m locked in like a hawk on a mouse. And then, at the worst possible moment, a cloud shifts, exposing the sun’s blinding glare. A bright light hits me so hard my vision turns white. It’s a fraction of a second at most, but long enough for me to lose the target. Damn it!
Panic rises, but I’ve no time for that. Got to focus! Find it! My eyes dart left, next right. Searching … searching. Then, BAM! There it is. It hurtles toward me like a comet—impact in no time. The angle isn’t perfect. It should have been thrown higher. Velocity will be a problem, that’s for sure. I get my hands out at the last possible second, pinkies touching to form a cup.
Somehow I’ve timed it all flawlessly. I move my hands in the same direction as the egg’s trajectory. This, I know, will slow its relative speed at the point of contact. I focus on catching the sides. That’s where I want to cradle it in my palms.
The egg hits my hands with a thump, but I don’t hear a crack. I wait … but nothing, no sticky coating against my skin. I look down at my hands. There it is—intact, perfectly intact.
I hold the egg up for all to see. Cheers and applause fill the air. Dad is about twenty-five feet away, jumping up and down like the Red Sox just won the World Series. The ten-year-old kid next to me looks like he’s going to burst into tears, poor thing. Yellow egg runs down his hands like a sneeze gone wrong.
I go over to him, touch his shoulder. “Good game. Maybe next year.”
After, I run over to my dad in a sprint. We hug like it’ll be our last one ever. He’s beaming—maybe on the verge of tears? Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but he’s super happy, no doubt about it. Even though we’ve won, there won’t be any trophies this year. There’ll never be trophies again. That was Ken’s thing, and there will never be Ken again, either.
“Well done, Lettie,” Dad says. “I knew you could do it!”
“Once an egg tosser, always an egg tosser,” I say with a wink. “And you can thank my freshman physics class for the win. I knew exactly how to adjust for velocity. Next time, toss it higher, please.”
“They teach you well at UMass,” Dad says.
I smile. That’s right. UMass, not USC. Guess what I really needed was the choice, not a mandate. A degree from those schools is essentially the same thing, or so some wise old man once told me. Dad has promised to help pay for graduate school with what we’re saving. And I don’t have to be an RA, so my ratting days are done.
Dylan trots over, his skin slick with the sheen of runny yolk. “Nice work there, Lettie,” he tells me.
“Not too bad yourself,” I say. “But you and Logan have a long way to go if you want to topple greatness.”
He offers me a slight bow. “Think maybe this is good material for a short story.”
I nod. “I read your last one—it was amazing. I had no idea you had that in you.”
“Me either,” says Dylan. “And thanks for the compliment. I’ve actually decided to be an English major. Bucknell has a great department.”
“Who knew what one creative writing class would unleash?” I say.
“I can be a high school teacher—coach lax and wrestling, get the message out that wins and losses aren’t all that matter.”
“Oh, this loss matters,” I tell him, holding up my unbroken egg proudly.
“Yeah, yeah,” Dylan mumbles. He grows somber. “Feels a bit weird, doesn’t it?”
I look around. Grills. Balloons. Kids. Music. Drinks. Food. Lawn games. The Alton Road block party. Same as it ever was. But not the same. It’ll never be the same. This year everyone seems a lot more reflective. There are plenty of moments of joy and frivolity, but darker, painful reminders lurk just below the surface. In young and old alike, I see them bubble up from time to time as a look, a distance in the eyes, as though a memory had taken hold with force.
In some ways, I suppose the neighborhood has never been closer—as if we needed tragedy to become our authentic selves.
“Yeah, feels weird all right,” I say. “It’s more subdued, that’s for sure.”
Dylan nods in the direction of Aunt Emily. She’s chatting and laughing with my mom and our grandmother. “Maybe my mom is right, and having the party is healing,” he says.
“Maybe,” I say.
I’ve healed a lot, I have to admit, though I’m still working through some guilt and maybe a little PTSD. I haven’t lost my conviction to care for the planet, but I’ve realized it’s equally important to care for other people.
I watch Grandma and Aunt Emily make their way up the driveway to Willow’s house—or what was once Willow’s house. Aunt Emily bought it in the fall, after Willow and Riley moved away. The move made sense. My aunt couldn’t bear to live in a house with so many haunted memories, but she didn’t want to move away from my mom, either. She and Grandma live here now, Dylan too, when he’s home from school. Logan moved to New York for a big finance job. Good news, there was no need for an addition, as Willow’s place had the perfect setup for a one-floor basement apartment with its own exit—and a special room that Grandma uses as an “oversized closet.” Lordy!
The new family who moved into the cul-de-sac have three young kids and full knowledge of what happened in the first-floor office—well, at least the parents know. I highly doubt they told their kids about two fatalities. All seems normal there now, idyllic even, with bikes, sidewalk chalk, sprinklers, and lots of laughter.
Willow and Riley come over to congratulate me on the win. They might not live on Alton Road anymore—they got a condo on the other side of town—but they’ll always be a part of the “block.” Riley has on her U Miami T-shirt. She’s going there in the fall after spending a gap year traveling Europe with her mom.
I guess Willow came into a lot of money after Evan died. Since the divorce never went through, the prenup didn’t matter, or something like that. My mom knows the details.
A few minutes later, Jay comes driving down Alton Road. He goes slow, being very mindful because it’s kind of mayhem here. I haven’t seen him much since he’s gone back to college. He parks in his driveway, gets out holding two Starbucks coffees.
“Thirsty?” he calls out to me. “I got an extra spiced almond milk latte—no dairy—thinking you might want one.”
Jay hands me the drink, which I receive with a smile and thanks.
“Long time no see,” I say. “Didn’t think you’d be here. How have you been?”
Jay gets out his trusty vape pen, as if needing a hit to share anything about himself. “You think I’d miss the block party? Someone has to look after you, Lettie.” He gives me a wink paired with that smile of his—that damn smile. “I’m doing great. Straight A’s my first semester back.”
My eyebrows go up. “Without hacking into the system?” I’d found out why Jay had got kicked out of his last school.
He took the jab with grace. “Yeah, all effort, no screwing around this time.”
“What about your big plans to take over the world with your mystery app?”
“Not there yet, but getting closer,” he says. “And you’ll be happy to know I think my business will help a lot of people. It’s not just a money grab.”
“But it’s still a secret?” I ask, hoping that he’ll finally share what he’s been working on.
His sly expression tells me it’s not going to happen. “Still a secret, but when I announce it, you’ll be the first to know. I owe you a lot. You helped me become a better person.”
He has a point. I’m the one who encouraged him to confess to Dylan about being the blackmailer. He assured Dylan that all the recordings had been deleted. But Jay had found his own conscience in returning the money he coerced from Uncle Ken without my prompting—though Aunt Emily still doesn’t know who was responsible for taking and returning the funds.
“What’s been going on at UMass? Have any of the guys figured out what an amazing person you are?” Jay asks.
I think I finally see some real emotion. “I’m totally into this guy with a spider tattoo on his arm,” I say. “Guess I’m still hung up on arachnids.”
Jay laughs. “They can be tricky, Lettie,” he says. “If you ever need a somewhat dubious friend to help you out of a jam, anytime, you know where to find me.”
He gives me a hug. I watch him walk away. He gets halfway to his front door before turning around to wave goodbye. I wave back … and then he’s gone.
I’m returning to the block party mayhem when I spy an unfamiliar car—a blue Mini Cooper, cute as any car can be—driving down Alton Road. We have cones set out at the end of the street to deter nonresidents, but this car came anyway.
The driver pulls to a stop in front of Aunt Emily’s new house, Willow’s old, which happens to be right next to where I’m standing. A girl exits the Mini. She has dark blond hair, striking blue eyes.
“Hey,” she says tentatively to me, “I’m looking for Riley Thompson. Does she live here?” Her blue eyes remind me of Riley’s.
As it happens, Riley is actually standing nearby. She overhears her name and comes bounding over. “Hey, I’m Riley,” she says to the girl, who looks to be about our age, maybe a little older.
The girl assesses Riley with a look I can describe only as nervous apprehension. She shifts her weight from foot to foot, not quite able to hold Riley’s curious stare. “Um, hey,” she begins, her voice soft and uncertain. “This is going to sound really weird, and I’m sorry to drop in on you unannounced and all, but … I took a DNA test. And well, um … I think you’re my sister.”
Riley’s mouth falls open. Mine does the same. For a moment she’s speechless—but then says, “You mean…”
The girl nods. “Steve Wachowski—the, er, Wookiee … he’s my dad, and I think—”
Riley doesn’t give her a chance to finish. “He’s mine, too!” She starts jumping up and down like she’s ten again. Willow comes over—there’s talk, followed by hugs and laughter and yes, tears.
That’s life here on Alton Road for you—plenty of surprises and a rainbow of emotions.
Honestly, I’ve had more surprises in the last year than I could even count. Enough that I’m thinking of becoming a double major in environmental studies and psychology. If there’s anything more interesting to study than the planet, it’s the people who live on it.