“She’s another piece of the puzzle, isn’t she?”
“She is,” Ava said. She took a deep in-breath. “Are you saying that Tally’s going to help me?”
“I think so, if you ask her. I hope so.”
An idea flared to life in Ava’s brain, a brilliant idea. “You have to tell me a secret,” she instructed the Bird Lady. “Something you’ve never told anyone before.”
“What in the world for?”
“So that you’ll take me seriously,” Ava explained. “When I go to you in the past. When I tell you to stop messing around with other girls’ wishes.”
The Bird Lady nodded, impressed. She thought for a moment, then told Ava again about how her mother had died soon after she turned thirteen.
“After your birthday, but before your Wishing Day,” Ava said.
The Bird Lady gazed at her hands, which were very wrinkled. “Before she died, she took my hands—these hands—and pulled me close. She told me she loved me, and that there was no such thing as ‘normal.’” Her voice broke. “She told me that ‘normal’ was overrated, anyway.”
The Bird Lady took Ava’s hands. “The very last thing she said to me . . .”
“Yes?”
The Bird Lady pulled Ava toward her. She whispered into Ava’s ear.
“Oh!” Ava said, tears springing to her eyes. “That’s so—”
“Shhh,” the Bird Lady said. “Shhh, now.”
She shooed Ava toward the wisteria that hid the hollow of the tree from the rest of the world. “Go on. Be brave. Be yourself. And remember that you’re doing this not just for your mother, but for Tally’s mother as well. Daughters need their mothers, and mothers need their daughters.”
“What about you? Will you be . . . ?”
“I’ll be fine,” the Bird Lady said. For a moment, she looked pensive. Then she found a smile and lifted her hand in farewell.
Ava pushed herself up and ducked out from within the hollow. Glass soda bottles clinked in her wake, and the smell of leaves and rain and earth greeted her as she straightened to her full height.
Behind her, purple wisteria vines swayed.
Purple, though they were named for the color blue.
I wish Klara Kosrov would notice me.
—NATHANIEL BLOK, AGE FOURTEEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
Emily, Age Thirteen
When Emily reached the lake with her art supplies, including the new pencils Nate had given her for her birthday, she spotted Klara Kosrov curled on one of the bench swings situated around the park. Klara, who shared her birthday. Klara, whose sister Emily had seen roller-skating.
Klara was reading a book. She was barefoot, and her long hair gleamed in the sun.
Emily paused. Should she go to Klara? Wish her happy birthday? She grew shy, and instead sat on the grass near the water. She sketched for a bit. She was happy. A shadow fell over her, and when she looked up and saw Klara standing in front of her, she grew even happier.
“Emily, hi,” Klara said. She wore cutoffs and a white camisole. A pale pink bra strap curved across her upper arm. She hooked it with her index finger and pulled it back into place. “Can I join you?”
“Sure,” Emily said.
Klara dropped to the grass, leaning back on her palms and offering herself to the sun. “Happy birthday,” she said with a grin.
“And to you as well,” Emily replied. She grinned, too.
Ripples on the lake glittered. Starlings called out from whispering leaves. Emily knew it was crazy, but she felt the oddest conviction that somehow, she and Klara were occupying a sliver of time untethered from the bonds of seconds and minutes and hours. Or maybe . . . was all of time untethered by seconds, minutes, and hours?
Maybe humans chose to count out time on their watches and clocks, and so time obliged, arranging itself into past, present, and future.
But what if, in reality, time was time was time?
She caught Klara looking at her funny and blushed.
“I get spacey sometimes,” she said. “Sorry.”
“No worries,” said Klara. “It’s part of your charm.”
Emily blushed harder.
“I’m kidding!” Klara said. “I mean, I’m not, but it’s not a bad thing. It’s cute.”
“Great. I’m charmingly spacey.” Emily nodded, determined to let it go at that and not dig herself any deeper. She asked Klara what book she’d been reading—The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, one of Emily’s favorites—and they talked about how cool the idea of alternate realities was.
They moved on to other subjects, and gradually Emily relaxed. Then Klara pulled out a bottle of nail polish and asked if Emily would paint her nails, which made Emily nervous all over again.
“Are you serious?” Emily asked.
“Since you’re so good at art,” Klara said. “Please?”
“Being good at art means being good at painting nails?”
“I’m not suggesting you grow up to be a manicurist. Just . . .” Klara giggled. “When I paint my own nails, I do a crappy job. Anyone could do a better job than I could.”
“Oh. I feel so much better,” said Emily. She laughed at Klara’s stricken expression and untwisted the lid of the polish. “Kidding. Yes, I’ll paint your nails. I might do a crappier job than you, though. I’ve never done this before.”
As Emily brushed pale pink polish onto Klara’s fingernails, Klara offered random commentary about various dramas going on at school. Every so often, Emily said “hmm.” She’d learned it was best if she stayed out of stuff like that.
Emily coated Klara’s left pinky nail with polish, and that was that. All ten fingernails done.
“Nice,” Klara said, splaying her fingers.
Using the knuckle of her thumb, Klara tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She fanned her fingers through the air and returned to talking about school.
“Another thing that drives me crazy,” she said. “Have you heard girls say things like, ‘I don’t have any female friends. I’m only friends with guys’? And they say it like they’re bragging?”
Emily had overheard plenty of girls going on and on about how awful girls were, when they, themselves, were girls. She nodded.
“I do not want to be one of those girls,” said Klara adamantly. “Ever.”
“Me neither,” said Emily. A hum in her mind clued her in
