Keeping the Moon(7)
Author: Sarah Dessen

“Colie!”

It wasn’t morning. The room was dark, with the moon big and yellow and hanging just where I’d left it in the corner of the window.

“Colie!”

I sat up in bed, forgetting for a second where I was. Then it came back: the train, Norman, wrestling, Isabel’s beauty tips. My face was dry and tight, my eyelashes sticky from the crying I didn’t do anymore.

“Colie?” It was Mira, her voice right outside my door. “You have company, honey.”

“Company?”

“Yes. Downstairs.” She tapped the door with her fingers before walking away. I wondered if I was dreaming.

I pulled my jeans back on and opened the door, looking down the stairs at the lighted room below. This had to be a joke. I didn’t even get company at home, much less at a place I’d been less than a day.

I started down the stairs, squinting as the light got brighter and brighter. Everything felt strange, as if I’d been sleeping forever. I was close to the bottom when I saw a set of feet, in sandals, by the door. Two more steps and there were legs, knees, and a small waist with a windbreaker knotted around it. Another two steps, and the beginnings of blonde hair, a pair of pouty lips, and then those same eyes, narrowed at me. I stopped where I was.

“Hey,” Isabel said. She had her arms crossed over her chest. “Got a second?”

I hesitated, thinking of Caroline Dawes and all the girls like her I’d left behind.

“I just want to talk to you, okay?” she snapped, as if I’d already said no. Then she took a deep breath and glanced outside. This seemed to settle her down. “Okay?”

I don’t know why, but I said, “Okay.”

She turned and went out on the front porch, leaving the screen door in half-swing for me to catch. Then she leaned against one of the posts, bit her lip, and looked out into the yard. Up close, I hated to admit, she was even prettier: a classic heart-shaped face, big blue eyes, and pale skin without a zit in sight. Somehow that made it easier to dislike her.

Neither one of us said anything.

“Look,” she said suddenly. “I’m sorry, okay?” She said this defensively, as if I’d demanded it of her.

I just looked at her.

“What?” she said. “What else do you want?”

“Isabel.” Morgan stepped out of the shadows by the bottom of the steps. Her face was stern. “You know that is not how we discussed it.”

“It is too,” Isabel snapped.

“Do it like I told you,” Morgan said evenly. “Like you mean it.”

“I can’t—” Isabel said.

“Do it. Now.” Morgan came up to the second step and nodded toward me. “Go ahead.”

Isabel turned back to face me, smoothing her hair. “Okay,” she began, “I am sorry I said what I said. I tend to be very critical of what I don’t . . .” Here she paused, looking at Morgan.

“Understand,” Morgan prompted.

“Understand,” Isabel repeated. “What I said was rude and hurtful and uncalled-for. I’d understand if you never respected me again.” She looked at Morgan, eyebrows raised.

“But?” Morgan said, prodding her.

“But,” Isabel grumbled, “I hope that you can forgive me.”

Morgan smiled, nodding at her. “Thank you.” Then she looked at me.

“It’s okay,” I said, taking the hint. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Thanks,” Isabel said. She was already inching off the porch, toward the steps.

“See?” Morgan said to her, squeezing her arm. “That wasn’t so hard, now was it?”

“I’m going home,” Isabel told her, her duty done. She was lighter on her feet now, practically bounding down the steps and across the yard to the little white house I’d seen earlier.

Morgan sighed. Close up she looked older and pointier: bony elbows, prominent collarbone, a nose that jutted out sharp and sudden.

“She’s not so bad,” she said to me, as if I’d said otherwise. “She can just be a real bitch sometimes. Mark says she’s friendship impaired.”

“Mark?” I said.

“My fiancé.” She smiled and extended her right hand, that tiny diamond twinkling.

There was a sudden burst of music from the little house. Lights were coming on in the windows, and I caught a glimpse of Isabel passing by.

“Then why do you put up with her?” I asked.

She looked over at the house; the music was cheerful, bouncy and wild, and now Isabel was dancing, a beer in one hand. She shimmied past the windows, shaking her hair, hips swaying. Morgan smiled.

“Because, for the most part, she’s all I’ve got,” she said. And then she went down the steps, across the yard, and up the path to that little house. When she got to the doorstep she turned and waved.

“See you around,” she said.

“Okay,” I said.

I watched as she opened the door, the music spilling out; it was disco, some woman wailing. And as Morgan stepped in, Isabel whirled by, grinning, and grabbed her arm, pulling her into that warm light before the door swung shut behind them.

Chapter three

The next morning, when I went in to the bathroom to brush my teeth, I noticed the index card over the sink.

RIGHT FAUCET DRIPS EASILY, it said. TIGHTEN WITH WRENCH AFTER USING. And then there was an arrow, pointing down to where a small wrench was tied with bright red yarn to one of the pipes.

This is crazy, I thought.

But that wasn’t all. In the shower, HOT WATER IS VERY HOT! USE WITH CARE was posted over the soap dish. And on the toilet: HANDLE LOOSE. DON’T YANK. (As if I had some desire to do that.) The overhead fan was clearly BROKEN, the tiles by the door were LOOSE so I had to WALK CAREFULLY. And I was informed, cryptically, that the light over medicine cabinet WORKS, BUT ONLY SOMETIMES.

They were all over the house. I came across them like dropped bread crumbs, leading me from one thing to another. Windows were PAINTED SHUT, banisters LOOSE, chairs had ONE LEG TOO SHORT. It was like a strange game, and it made me feel unsteady and weird, wishing that even one thing was new enough to work perfectly. I wondered how anyone could live like this, but it was obvious that Mira wasn’t just anyone.

Before I got to Colby, all I knew was that she was two years older than my mother, unmarried, and had inherited all of my grandparents’ money. I also knew that, like us, she was overweight. Mira had lived in Chicago during the first few years we’d crisscrossed the country in our Volaré, and the one thing I clearly remembered about visiting her were the doughnuts she’d made out of Pillsbury biscuit dough, fried and rolled in cinnamon and sugar. She always seemed to be cooking or eating.