knew.
When Mom shipped out the Korean chest, she impulsively had the room freshly wallpapered in a green pattern that looks like battle lines of asparagus, and carpeted with a cream-of-tomato red rug. She then bought a pull-out futon, moving it into the space the chest had occupied. “Now you girls can have guests sleep over in here,” she explained, answering the question Geneva and I had been silently asking during those weeks of frantic redecorating. “It’s very modern and charming now.”
“Friends to lure onto the spooky second floor of 176 Waverly,” Geneva had said smirking.
“If you can stay the whole night you get a bag of gold,” I added. “Mom must have got her redecorating idea straight from Dr. Bushnell. He’s always saying how we have to move away from the other Shepards. Maybe this is Mom’s way of moving.”
It’s hard to leave behind the other family though, especially since their story is common knowledge in our school. Elizabeth herself was a student at Ambrose, so there are teachers who remember her, and returning alumnae seem to feel duty bound to tell me about how they knew Elizabeth in some small way.
There is even the annually given Elizabeth A. Shepard plaque for Excellence in Tennis and Sportsmanship. Mom presents it every year at the school’s seventh grade commencement. I won it last year, although it probably should have gone to Moira Radcovich. I play a decent game of tennis, but nothing special. Mom had hugged me on stage, in front of the entire sixth, seventh, and eighth grades. It had been a horrible day, not only because I was completely unprepared for Mom’s outburst of Ick, but because every single clapping hand in that auditorium knew the same thing: those Shepards are still kind of a mess.
“Holland, what are you doing?” Geneva hollers from the kitchen, which is just beneath Elizabeth’s room. “I hear you bumping around up there! We’re starting to talk about painting.”
“Coming!” The scent of coffee is powerful, drifting up through the vent. They must be brewing another pot.
The top of Elizabeth’s desk is furry with dust. I trace long, swirling letters through it, bravely spelling out Louis Littlebird. Each L rolls deliciously through its loops into a name hard and bright as a spring sky. I let myself stare a moment, then squeak my fingers over the words, swatting dust up into the air, which makes me sneeze, lose balance, and take flight, just as the phone rings. I run downstairs and pick it up in the den.
“Holland? You sound out of breath.”
“I was running.”
“How’s your sister?”
“Better since she got her way.”
I imagine Mom on the other end of the line, a silver button earring in one hand while the other cups the mouthpiece. “I can be home by eleven, I think, if Lucy can cover my phone.”
“Don’t worry about us. When we got home—” Then I stop. If I remind her that Annie is painting here this morning, Mom might send me back to Ambrose. “When we got home,” I repeat, more slowly, working out the lie, “Geneva said she felt better, and we’re going back to school after lunch.”
“Really?”
“She said she wanted to start the day over. She was never that sick, it was mostly a temper tantrum.”
Mom exhales through her nose, a sound like wind through leaves. “And you’ll call me if the plan changes? Because I really don’t want you missing school, Holland.”
“Don’t worry about us, Mom. I’ll take care of everything.”
“Well, all right.” Mom sounds uncertain. “If you’re sure. Call if you need me.”
“Bye, Mom.”
The bad aftertaste of deceit lingers in my mouth after I hang up the phone. I run into the kitchen; maybe a cup of Annie’s coffee will smooth it over.
“A couple of things everyone should know about painting a mural,” Annie is saying as I join them. She and my sister sit cross-legged on the kitchen floor. Geneva’s face is rapt with concentration.
“Sit down,” Geneva
When Mom shipped out the Korean chest, she impulsively had the room freshly wallpapered in a green pattern that looks like battle lines of asparagus, and carpeted with a cream-of-tomato red rug. She then bought a pull-out futon, moving it into the space the chest had occupied. “Now you girls can have guests sleep over in here,” she explained, answering the question Geneva and I had been silently asking during those weeks of frantic redecorating. “It’s very modern and charming now.”
“Friends to lure onto the spooky second floor of 176 Waverly,” Geneva had said smirking.
“If you can stay the whole night you get a bag of gold,” I added. “Mom must have got her redecorating idea straight from Dr. Bushnell. He’s always saying how we have to move away from the other Shepards. Maybe this is Mom’s way of moving.”
It’s hard to leave behind the other family though, especially since their story is common knowledge in our school. Elizabeth herself was a student at Ambrose, so there are teachers who remember her, and returning alumnae seem to feel duty bound to tell me about how they knew Elizabeth in some small way.
There is even the annually given Elizabeth A. Shepard plaque for Excellence in Tennis and Sportsmanship. Mom presents it every year at the school’s seventh grade commencement. I won it last year, although it probably should have gone to Moira Radcovich. I play a decent game of tennis, but nothing special. Mom had hugged me on stage, in front of the entire sixth, seventh, and eighth grades. It had been a horrible day, not only because I was completely unprepared for Mom’s outburst of Ick, but because every single clapping hand in that auditorium knew the same thing: those Shepards are still kind of a mess.
“Holland, what are you doing?” Geneva hollers from the kitchen, which is just beneath Elizabeth’s room. “I hear you bumping around up there! We’re starting to talk about painting.”
“Coming!” The scent of coffee is powerful, drifting up through the vent. They must be brewing another pot.
The top of Elizabeth’s desk is furry with dust. I trace long, swirling letters through it, bravely spelling out Louis Littlebird. Each L rolls deliciously through its loops into a name hard and bright as a spring sky. I let myself stare a moment, then squeak my fingers over the words, swatting dust up into the air, which makes me sneeze, lose balance, and take flight, just as the phone rings. I run downstairs and pick it up in the den.
“Holland? You sound out of breath.”
“I was running.”
“How’s your sister?”
“Better since she got her way.”
I imagine Mom on the other end of the line, a silver button earring in one hand while the other cups the mouthpiece. “I can be home by eleven, I think, if Lucy can cover my phone.”
“Don’t worry about us. When we got home—” Then I stop. If I remind her that Annie is painting here this morning, Mom might send me back to Ambrose. “When we got home,” I repeat, more slowly, working out the lie, “Geneva said she felt better, and we’re going back to school after lunch.”
“Really?”
“She said she wanted to start the day over. She was never that sick, it was mostly a temper tantrum.”
Mom exhales through her nose, a sound like wind through leaves. “And you’ll call me if the plan changes? Because I really don’t want you missing school, Holland.”
“Don’t worry about us, Mom. I’ll take care of everything.”
“Well, all right.” Mom sounds uncertain. “If you’re sure. Call if you need me.”
“Bye, Mom.”
The bad aftertaste of deceit lingers in my mouth after I hang up the phone. I run into the kitchen; maybe a cup of Annie’s coffee will smooth it over.
“A couple of things everyone should know about painting a mural,” Annie is saying as I join them. She and my sister sit cross-legged on the kitchen floor. Geneva’s face is rapt with concentration.
“Sit down,” Geneva
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