Twice Shy by Sarah Hogle (i am malala young readers edition .TXT) 📗

in here is thick, soft, frosted in gray dust that compresses white in footprints I leave behind. Dust coats the heavy, bulbous television set and twin bed, the duvet cover I once thought was patterned with half-moons but now see are peach slices.

I spin 180 degrees, watching a younger version of myself sit down on the ottoman next to the bed. I’m showing Uncle Victor my comic strip. You’re so talented, he says. He’s got a grave, serious voice that acts like a gavel, pronouncing everything he says to be the word of law. It also acts like truth serum. When Victor turns his solemn brown eyes on you, all your secrets come tumbling out. Aunt Violet hovers behind me. She’ll wait until I leave before trying to cajole him into eating more, but I’ll catch wheezy bits and pieces from down the hall: Stomach’s bothering me. Please, sweetheart, I can’t.

He died not long after I left Falling Stars. Judging by Violet’s magazine stockpile that dates back twenty years, that’s when she started accumulating so much stuff.

The oxygen machine is gone. When I was a kid I didn’t think about why Violet and Victor had separate bedrooms, but my guess is she couldn’t sleep with the sound of that machine. I pop open the VCR to look at what he last had in there: a home-recorded Casablanca. Recent tapes in the stack next to the TV are all home-recorded, too, inscriptions written in green permanent marker: Moonstruck. Quigley Down Under. Planes, Trains and Automobiles. Everything is as he left it on his last day here. His sweaters are folded in their drawers, photo albums still on the lower shelf of his nightstand—the top one, avocado green, filled with Polaroids of their numerous yearly trips. They loved visiting new countries, trying the local cuisine, staying in family-owned inns instead of chain hotels to absorb more of the culture.

The wristwatch in his catchall dish is no longer ticking, its battery having quit at 5:12. I’m about to leave, closing the door behind me, when I notice the three large rectangles on the wall above his bed. I’m sure I’ve noticed them at another point, but they’re interesting in a way that only an adult who’s foraged between couch cushions for pennies to buy something off the dollar menu can appreciate.

They’re framed collections. Coins on beds of red velvet. Vintage stamps. Signed baseball cards in mint condition. I take a step forward, studying them. Holy crap.

“Maybell!”

I jump, spinning, almost running face-first into the wall. “What?” He’s upstairs. He can’t hear me. “What?” I call, louder.

No response. This is one of Wesley’s signature moves: he’ll call my name when he needs something, but when I yell back What? he goes radio silent, forcing me to go to him to see what he wants. Or I don’t have to go to him, I suppose, but I do anyway. One of these days I’m going to yell and make him come to me instead.

I pull open the door, but my head is full of coins and baseball cards, so I open the wrong one. It’s Victor’s closet. I gasp out a breathless “Ooooohhhhh.”

Bzzz, bzzz.

My phone’s vibrating. I send it to voicemail, then receive a text. This is Wesley.

I’m still staring at my phone in surprise when the number flashes across my screen again, buzzing in my hand. I answer it. “Hey, come up here,” Wesley says into my ear.

“How’d you get my number?”

“Why do you have a picture of me on your phone?” he shoots back.

Ugh, not this again. Cherish the past, Wesley, because the grace period for treating your feelings with kid gloves has expired and you’re not getting away with throwing that picture in my face to avoid answering questions you don’t like.

“Why did you have a picture of me in the attic? Hand-drawn, which is even more questionable than a real photograph taken from your brother’s public Facebook page.”

His mutterings fade; he’s lowered his phone, probably making a face at the ceiling.

“I can’t go upstairs because I just made the most magnificent discovery,” I continue airily, confident that our stalemate has divested him of that particular weapon. “Come down here and take a look.”

“My discovery is better.”

“Sincerely doubt it. I found a Christmas tree.”

Five seconds pass. “. . . So?”

“So, it’s one of those fancy ones! With fake snow! It’s got to be like ten feet tall. I found it in Uncle Victor’s closet.”

“I don’t see what’s special about finding a Christmas tree.”

This man has no soul. I begin heaving the tree out of the closet. The branches have been smoothed down so that it takes up less space in storage, but it still scratches the frame up as I ease it out. And it’s unexpectedly heavy. Fake snow showers my hair and shirt. “My uncle Garrett was right. I did grow up to be a tree-hugger.”

“That’s great. Come upstairs, you’ve gotta take a look at something.”

“Can’t. I’m putting the tree in the ballroom.”

“Right now?”

“Yes!”

“It’s April. Actually, no, it’s technically May now.”

“Christmas is a state of mind, Wesley.”

“Why do you sound so terrifying when you say that?”

This thing weighs about as much as a real tree. I grunt as I drag it down the hall, careful not to bang into any chandeliers. There’s a medieval iron one in the kitchen that’s my favorite, with candlesticks going around the circular rim. “I . . . just . . . want . . . to . . . see,” I bite out. Pine needles jab my hands.

“In May.”

“I’ll put it right back.” I’ve reached the ballroom. It’s in a state of chaos because whenever I find something cool, I bring it in here. It’s going to be my favorite part of the house after I’m finished making it magnificent and less like the set of The Nanny. So far I’ve got a hodgepodge of candlesticks, clocks (all kinds: grandfather, cuckoo, carriage), old books, sculptures, wall hangings, fancy pillboxes, a barrel I might try to convert into a table, and a tangled heap of silk wisteria. I don’t know what