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Authors: David Levithan
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call out to me, I end up making my bed.
My door isn’t closed, so it’s easy for her to peek in. She takes one look at me tucking a sheet under the mattress and says, “This isn’t acceptable.”
I access our history and get the usual muddle of love and competition that any two sisters share. An epic argument has the same weight in Cara’s memory as a single glance of back-seat understanding.
“It’s your birthday,” Laura says. “What do you want to do?”
What I want is for what I want to actually matter.
“I don’t know,” I tell her.
She gives me a look and doesn’t even have to say it again:
This isn’t acceptable
. Then another look, as she inventories our options. I don’t need to access to understand this look. I’ve seen it enough in other older brothers and sisters.
Finally, she says, “Okay. I’ve got it. Put on your bathing suit.”
I do as she says, and when she leaves the room, I assume she’s putting on her bathing suit as well. When she comes back, though, she’s still wearing the same sweater and jeans as before. She eyes me, standing there nearly shivering in my one-piece.
“Put something on over it!” she says, rolling her eyes.
As I do, I try to search Cara’s mind for clues about what we might be doing—it’s too cold to swim outside. But I can’t find anything that helps.
I’ll just have to trust her.
I am expecting us to walk to a community center, or a Y. But instead we head up the path to someone’s house.
“Don’t be afraid of her,” Laura says as she rings the doorbell.
An old lady with steely eyes opens the door. I access Cara for a name, and the first thing that comes up is the word
witch
.
“What do you want?” the woman asks. “I don’t eat cookies or candy. And all you kids ever seem to sell is cookies or candy.”
Laura smiles, like she’s just bumped into a friend at the mall.
“Hi, Mrs. Judge,” she says. “Today is Cara’s birthday. And when she made her wish, shewished she could swim today. So I was wondering … can we use your pool?”
Mrs. Judge turns to me. “How old are you?” she asks. She makes it seem like a trick question.
“Ten.”
“And you desire to swim, more than anything else?”
I almost look to Laura for confirmation. “Yes.”
“More fool you.”
She’s looking at me so intently that it’s almost like she sees the impostor stuck inside of the birthday girl. I dread the recognition, but I also secretly crave it. Even at ten. Or especially at ten.
Mrs. Judge stands there in front of us, and I can’t tell if she’s deliberating or if we’re being silently dismissed.
Laura, undeterred, says, “Please.”
It is not as simple as this word unlocking the gates. I know this. But nonetheless, Mrs. Judge relents, in her own way.
“Do you know where it is?” she asks Laura. The implication being:
Have you been spying?
Laura shakes her head. Mrs. Judge must be satisfied by my completely flummoxed look, because she doesn’t wait for me to shake my head before gesturing us in, closing the door behind us, and leading us into the darkness of her house. The corridors are crowded with bookshelves and trophy cases. There are many photographs of a man in golfing clothes, triumphantly swinging a club. In framed headlines, he’s referred to as Horace Judge. Something about the way the house feels informs me that he died a long time ago.
“I assume you are wearing proper attire?” Mrs. Judge asks as we get to an imposing door.
“Under our clothes,” Laura answers.
“And have you brought towels?”
Laura shrugs her backpack on her shoulders. “Of course.”
“Do you have your swimming certification?”
Laura nods. I don’t even know what this means.
“Good. We can’t have any drowning, can we?”
“No, ma’am.”
She opens the door, and suddenly it’s daylight again, even though the temperature hasn’t changed. It is a large room, and its ceiling is entirely made of glass. Beneath it, a
My door isn’t closed, so it’s easy for her to peek in. She takes one look at me tucking a sheet under the mattress and says, “This isn’t acceptable.”
I access our history and get the usual muddle of love and competition that any two sisters share. An epic argument has the same weight in Cara’s memory as a single glance of back-seat understanding.
“It’s your birthday,” Laura says. “What do you want to do?”
What I want is for what I want to actually matter.
“I don’t know,” I tell her.
She gives me a look and doesn’t even have to say it again:
This isn’t acceptable
. Then another look, as she inventories our options. I don’t need to access to understand this look. I’ve seen it enough in other older brothers and sisters.
Finally, she says, “Okay. I’ve got it. Put on your bathing suit.”
I do as she says, and when she leaves the room, I assume she’s putting on her bathing suit as well. When she comes back, though, she’s still wearing the same sweater and jeans as before. She eyes me, standing there nearly shivering in my one-piece.
“Put something on over it!” she says, rolling her eyes.
As I do, I try to search Cara’s mind for clues about what we might be doing—it’s too cold to swim outside. But I can’t find anything that helps.
I’ll just have to trust her.
I am expecting us to walk to a community center, or a Y. But instead we head up the path to someone’s house.
“Don’t be afraid of her,” Laura says as she rings the doorbell.
An old lady with steely eyes opens the door. I access Cara for a name, and the first thing that comes up is the word
witch
.
“What do you want?” the woman asks. “I don’t eat cookies or candy. And all you kids ever seem to sell is cookies or candy.”
Laura smiles, like she’s just bumped into a friend at the mall.
“Hi, Mrs. Judge,” she says. “Today is Cara’s birthday. And when she made her wish, shewished she could swim today. So I was wondering … can we use your pool?”
Mrs. Judge turns to me. “How old are you?” she asks. She makes it seem like a trick question.
“Ten.”
“And you desire to swim, more than anything else?”
I almost look to Laura for confirmation. “Yes.”
“More fool you.”
She’s looking at me so intently that it’s almost like she sees the impostor stuck inside of the birthday girl. I dread the recognition, but I also secretly crave it. Even at ten. Or especially at ten.
Mrs. Judge stands there in front of us, and I can’t tell if she’s deliberating or if we’re being silently dismissed.
Laura, undeterred, says, “Please.”
It is not as simple as this word unlocking the gates. I know this. But nonetheless, Mrs. Judge relents, in her own way.
“Do you know where it is?” she asks Laura. The implication being:
Have you been spying?
Laura shakes her head. Mrs. Judge must be satisfied by my completely flummoxed look, because she doesn’t wait for me to shake my head before gesturing us in, closing the door behind us, and leading us into the darkness of her house. The corridors are crowded with bookshelves and trophy cases. There are many photographs of a man in golfing clothes, triumphantly swinging a club. In framed headlines, he’s referred to as Horace Judge. Something about the way the house feels informs me that he died a long time ago.
“I assume you are wearing proper attire?” Mrs. Judge asks as we get to an imposing door.
“Under our clothes,” Laura answers.
“And have you brought towels?”
Laura shrugs her backpack on her shoulders. “Of course.”
“Do you have your swimming certification?”
Laura nods. I don’t even know what this means.
“Good. We can’t have any drowning, can we?”
“No, ma’am.”
She opens the door, and suddenly it’s daylight again, even though the temperature hasn’t changed. It is a large room, and its ceiling is entirely made of glass. Beneath it, a
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