Five

Overheard Conversations

Mornings were always early.

The moment her alarm went off, Fin stumbled down the ladder and into the minuscule bathroom. Mom had come home sometime around eleven at night, and Fin only had a dim memory of hearing the key in the lock. Fin was used to waking up on her own and making a breakfast of whatever leftovers she found in the fridge. This morning, it was cold lasagna—which wasn’t bad. A little drizzle of olive oil and some salt, and she was almost awake by the time she’d eaten half of it.

There wasn’t a school in Aldermere; the town wasn’t big enough to merit one. Fin, Eddie, and the other town kids walked down to Highway 101, where a bus took them north to the next town over.

Fin walked into the big house through the back door. Eddie was at the dining room table, head on the wood next to a half-eaten bowl of mushy oat bran. Fin set her backpack on the other chair and his head jerked up. “—’m awake,” he said, blinking blearily at her.

“Sure you are,” she replied, smiling. She liked being better than Eddie at one thing, even if that one thing was being awake early. It made them feel a little more equal. “You going to finish that?”

Eddie picked up a spoonful of oat bran and dolefully shoved it into his mouth.

“You should get a move on, Eddie,” said Aunt Myrtle, bustling through the dining room. She still wore her nightgown and a terry-cloth robe belted around her waist. She held out glass containers to both Fin and Eddie. “Here, take some protein balls.”

Fin dutifully put the protein balls into her own backpack. Sure, they were weird, but she’d probably eat them if she got hungry enough.

“Listen, you two,” said Aunt Myrtle. “This weekend I’m spending two nights in Eureka. And your mom will be working late again, Fin. I was thinking . . . maybe you and Eddie could watch the house?”

Fin blinked. “Us? Alone?”

“You’re old enough,” said Aunt Myrtle reasonably. “I trust you. And besides, even when she’s at work, your mom is only a ten-minute walk away. I’ll leave the emergency numbers next to the phone and make sure there’s plenty of food in the fridge. Both your mom and I would feel better if you were in the big house, keeping an eye on things.”

It was a big responsibility to watch the house in her aunt’s absence. “Okay.”

Aunt Myrtle smiled. “You’re good kids. You’ll do fine.”

The back door swung open, and Mom stepped into the dining room. She wore a crisp white shirt and slacks, her hair pulled into a ponytail. “Morning,” she said briskly.

“Good, you’re here,” said Aunt Myrtle. “Angie, can we talk upstairs?” She started down the hallway, then added, “Don’t forget your backpack, Eddie.”

Eddie grumbled into his breakfast.

Mom kissed Fin’s hair, then followed Aunt Myrtle upstairs.

“So,” said Fin. “They’re leaving us in charge of the big house?”

“Well, it’ll give us time to work on our science fair presentation this weekend,” Eddie replied.

Fin just looked at him. “You’re the only person I know who’d work on school stuff instead of eating candy and playing video games.”

“We’ll do that too,” said Eddie. “After we grab four or five native plants and maybe two lizards. I’ll find the kind that won’t fight each other. Somehow I feel like a lizard battle royale wouldn’t get us a great grade.” He glared down at his breakfast. “Maybe if I find a really rare kind of lizard, I can finally get first place over River and his oh-so-great energy-converting Popsicle windmill.”

Fin snorted with surprised laughter. “Good plan.”

Eddie ate another bite of oat bran. “I’m going to beat River. This year. I can feel it.”

“Sure,” said Fin amiably. She rose from the table. “Listen, I’m going to use the bathroom and then we’ll head out, okay?”

He made a noise of acknowledgment, but she was pretty sure he was still imagining himself with a first place ribbon.

She walked up the stairs, one hand on the dented railing, but her footsteps slowed when she heard voices. She’d forgotten that Mom and Aunt Myrtle were up here. The sound of her own name made her go still, her foot frozen over one step.

“—thought Fin was done with the tea shop.” That would be Mom. “I don’t know what to do, how to keep her from going there.”

“Listen, Angie. I have a counselor friend up in Eureka,” said Aunt Myrtle. “I was going to ask if maybe she’d use a sliding scale. Then it wouldn’t cost so much.”

Fin could hear her mother’s hesitation in the silence.

“You can’t expect this to go away. Mental health disorders aren’t something that vanish if you ignore them. You’ve tried ignoring it for far too long.”

“I know,” said Mom, and she sounded exhausted. “I’d hoped she’d outgrow it, maybe if the constant moves stopped . . . but I suppose we should try this.”

“My friend specializes in child psychology,” said Aunt Myrtle. “She’s nice. If I ask, she’ll probably be amenable.”

Chest too tight, fingers too cold, Fin took a step back down the stairs. Then another. And another. Until she stood at the bottom, and her back was to the wall and she tried to breathe.

A counselor. Fin knew what that meant. She’d read about them. A counselor was the person kids were sent to when they were screwed up.

Fin’s hands clenched.

She felt like there were two versions of herself—the girl who flinched at the sound of ringing phones, who worked up every fearful moment in her head, who listened at cracked doors and windows.

And then there was the girl she wanted to be. She caught sight of that girl only in glances, in moments when she walked by a window and barely turned her head. She saw a girl with flashing brown eyes and a half smile, who looked like she knew all the secrets of the world. She was the kind of girl who read old mystery books in the cafeteria without fearing what anyone would think. She raised her hand in English class, because she’d done the reading weeks ahead of time. She didn’t necessarily have more friends, but she didn’t crave them. That version of Fin was comfortable with herself.

Fin couldn’t ever be that girl. She tried—she tried so hard. To do the breathing exercises like her mother had taught her, to push past the fear, but that only ever seemed to make it worse.

And now even Aunt Myrtle thought she needed a counselor. She thought Fin had a disorder.

She wanted it to stop. To have a week, a day, an hour—just a minute—when she wasn’t afraid.

She thought of the taste of Ceylon tea, of leaning over a crystal mortar and pestle and whispering a memory.

Fin had never stolen before. She was far too aware of how it would feel to be caught, too anxious of the consequences. But she wouldn’t steal now either. She had a key, so it wouldn’t be breaking into the tea shop. She would pay the normal price.

She would . . . make the tea herself.