“No, it’s okay. It’s fine. I mean, one of her worst fears for me has already happened. I’m not planning on doing any drugs, so what else can go wrong?”
Betsy sat up and leaned forward, as if her sister were sitting right in front of her. “Look, what Mom would think about you going to Halcyon doesn’t matter anymore. You’re older now and . . . I don’t think going there was a bad idea. Last weekend you were so excited about it. It’s got to be hard to get yourself back into that . . . creative place, but it’s in you. I know it is. Just give it time.” What was she saying? Trying to convince her sister to try to be more artistic, more free-spirited? She was glad Ty wasn’t there to overhear her.
“Mom definitely wouldn’t want you to give up, regardless of what she thought about you going there in the first place.”
Silence. “Maybe you’re right.” Jenna sighed. “I’m sorry. It’s late. I’m probably keeping you and Ty from going to bed. Have the girls been waking up early?”
There she went again. When conversation got too personal or raw, Jenna always changed it to something easier. But then again, so did Betsy. It was better than focusing on the things that hurt. She sighed. “Not too early. Walsh usually wakes up first, then she wakes Addie up with her singing. Then they both come downstairs.”
Jenna chuckled. “Are you and Ty surviving?”
“We’re fine. The girls will be happy to see you though when you get back.”
Jenna inhaled, then exhaled into the phone. “I’ll let you go then. I’ll call again soon.”
“You sure you’re okay? If there’s anything else bothering you . . . I’m here if you want to talk again.” It used to be so normal, so natural—confiding in each other. At one time, they were the keepers of each other’s secrets.
“I know. Thanks. I’m good.”
Then she was gone. Betsy tossed her phone down and lay back against the pillows.
She had been ten when she spotted a lofty, regal bed in a magazine and asked her parents to prop her bed up on casters. When they said no, she begged. Finally, one Saturday afternoon before her dad had to be downtown to conduct his orchestra, he brought in a box of casters. Clothed in his tuxedo and gold cufflinks, he slithered under her bed and lifted each corner, one leg at a time, and slid the casters into place. When he finished, he was covered in a thin scrum of dust and her bed was six inches higher. She beamed; he searched for a lint roller.
From that afternoon on, the pocket of space under Betsy’s bed became her and Jenna’s refuge from the world. They colored, listened to the radio, ate their pudding, and told wild, far-fetched stories filled with mermaids, dragons, dark enemies, and handsome princes. Good always won, evil was always defeated, and dreams always came true.
Later, that private sanctuary was where Jenna first revealed her love of photography to Betsy. Betsy already knew Jenna was artistic—she could draw anything, painted with quick and sure brushstrokes, and sometimes stayed after school to help clean paintbrushes in the art room. But until then, Betsy hadn’t known how much Jenna loved to take pictures.
One particular day in seventh grade, Jenna slid under the bed and told Betsy in angry whispers how she’d swiped their mom’s Nikon—the one she used to take photos of cancer patients for her inspiration wall—and taken black-and-white photos of trees and leaves to use in a presentation about her favorite artist.
“That’s awesome, Jenna,” Betsy had said. “Mom will kill you when she finds out you used her camera, but I bet your pictures look great.”
“They did, but it didn’t matter. Mrs. Lipscomb gave me a D because I didn’t use the right kind of poster board for the presentation. But it wasn’t my fault! By the time I got Mom to take me to buy some, all they had left was plain yellow. Mrs. Lipscomb wanted white trifold.”
“That’s it? She gave you a D for yellow poster paper?”
Jenna sighed. “I was supposed to use a certain kind of tape on the photos. I used the Scotch tape from the kitchen drawer.”
Betsy handed Jenna a plastic spoon and a cup of pudding. “I’m sorry.” At fifteen, Betsy already knew chocolate could fix most problems. Or at least dull their sting.
Jenna peeled the lid off and licked the pudding from the back of the shiny foil. “She also said Ansel Adams wasn’t a real artist. Or at least not the kind we were supposed to focus on. She said if I wanted to study photography, I could wait until high school and take a photography class.”
Betsy scraped her spoon around the edge of the cup to get the last bit. “Well, of course you’ll do that. You’ll probably be a better photographer than the teacher. You’re good, Jenna. Just keep practicing. Maybe Mom will let you use her camera more.”
Jenna shook her head. “I dropped it when Mr. Barton’s dog barked behind me. Cracked the lens.”
Betsy closed her eyes. That was always the way it was for Jenna. She had good intentions, but somehow she always screwed up the follow-through. So much for dreams coming true.
Now, lying in bed in her grown-up house far away from that secret shelter, Betsy wondered about all those stories she used to tell Jenna. Were they really just lies? Real life held plenty of good and evil, battles and rescues. And if you worked hard, you really could be anything you wanted to be. Right?
Maybe it was only partly true.
Some dreams were too far-fetched—the short kid who wanted to slam dunk, the chubby girl who had a crush on the prom king, the painfully shy kid who wanted
