“Holy sh—” he starts.
“Shh!” I grab Henry’s hand and drag him into my mother’s bedroom. “Don’t say anything. And turn around. All the way.”
I hurry to my mother’s closet and push back the hangers.
“Azra! How could you not tell me you can read my mind!”
“I said ‘Shh!’” I look back to find him staring at me. “And I also said, ‘turn around!’”
Long-sleeved wrap dress or suit with the pencil skirt? Dress. I don’t want to be fussing with tucking anything in.
“For how long?” he says. “And how come you didn’t tell me? Can you read minds other than mine? It’s not just me, right? What … what else have you heard?”
I pop my head through the opening of the dress and wrestle it down. In front of the mirror, I adjust the neckline. I’ve been keeping my long hair down lately. I figure enough time has passed that no one remembers my shorter cut. If they do, whatever, I’ll say it’s hair extensions.
“See,” I say, “this is why I didn’t tell you. I haven’t told anyone, not even my mother. It’s just easier this way.” I smooth the fabric over my hips. “You can turn around now.”
Henry stuffs his hands in his front pockets. He’s wearing the pants whose pleats I erased.
“They look good on you,” I say.
“Yeah?” He looks down. “Something seemed different when I put them on, but I guess it’s just your mending.”
“Uh-huh.” I hide my smile. “Must be.”
“But Azra, seriously, don’t go reading my mind without warning me. That’s not cool.”
I roll my eyes. “I didn’t mean to. I’m still getting the hang of it. Believe me, I don’t want to be reading teenage boys’ thoughts any more than you all want me reading them.” He blushes as I face him. “Well?”
He doesn’t say anything.
“Henry? Is it okay?”
Still nothing.
“Will you please answer me?” I whine.
“I am,” he says.
You look like the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen.
“Stop that,” I say, feeling my own cheeks burn. “And thanks.”
38
“Let me just get my bag,” I say to Henry as I open my bedroom door. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”
Even from the doorway, the stupid gold envelope perched on top of my pocketbook can’t be missed. The paternal side of my family is having too much fun toying with me. They can’t drop it for a single day. Not even for the day of a funeral.
“Bring it,” I say.
After everything I did the other night, there’s nothing I can’t do, there’s no wish I can’t grant, and, more importantly, there’s no wish I won’t grant. I’ll do whatever I have to do to keep those I love safe.
I tear open the envelope. I curse and smile at the same time. You’ve really got to hand it to my family. They’ve got some couilles. That’s French for balls. Henry taught me that.
Megan Reese. Nate’s twelve-year-old little sister is my next assignment.
*
Henry takes my hand as we cross the threshold into the Reese home. We were both anxious to leave behind the cloud of gloom that hung over the funeral parlor. The years of sadness that oozed from every dusty curtain, every worn velvet chair, every piece of dark wood molding was to be expected. I was na?ve enough to think this reception at Nate’s house would be different. But the only thing lighter here is the paint on the walls.
Maybe I’ve been sorting through some weighty topics of late, but it’s nothing compared to what’s going on for the people in this room.
The last time I was in Nate’s house, I didn’t have time to take a tour. This time, I don’t want to. The hand-knitted afghan draped over the back of the sofa, the model sailboat on the dining room buffet, the photographs on the mantel of a family of four reduced to three make me long for the funeral parlor. Where the cold is expected. Like the bright winter sun, all the things here that should exude warmth lure you in only to bite with the bitterness of a subzero New England day.
Just as Henry and I find Chelsea and the rest of the beach crowd, Nate’s grandmother glances our way. She lifts her chin and smiles warmly as she pats Nate’s forearm. He tugs on the collar of his white dress shirt and gestures for me to come over.
I leave Henry’s side and walk self-consciously across the room. Everyone’s eyes follow me as I approach the stars of the funeral, because that’s what Nate and Megan are, no doubt about it. They are the main players on this perverse stage.
Nate grasps my hand and draws me to him. Megan leans against him, holding his other hand with both of hers. I feel like a fraud standing with them, but each time I try to excuse myself, Nate assures me he wants me to stay. So I do.
People flood the room, floating in and out, asking about Nate’s mother, saying how sorry they are about Nate’s father. Variations of the same themes dominate: “He was so young.” “You are so young.” “You’re the man of the house now.” “God works in mysterious ways.”
It’s clear that everyone means well, but it’s not long before I’m numb. The words bounce right off; nothing sticks. After a while, nothing seems sincere. Maybe it’s different for Nate and Megan, but I doubt it. They look vaguely distracted, like they are present only in body, not in mind.
The stream of people slows, which makes me nervous. With all those people filling the silence, the odds of me inadvertently reading Nate or Megan’s minds were low. I don’t want to hear their thoughts, especially Megan’s. I don’t want to know what she’s going to wish for. Not now, not in the midst of this. It can wait. The 10 on the back of her candidate card means finding out what she wants can wait.