“Klara, are you okay?” she asked.
Immediately, she scolded herself. No. She was not to follow through on the feelings she got, the vibrations or thoughts or messages or whatever. She’d made a pledge to leave people’s business to themselves way back in elementary school. She’d done a pretty good job, with occasional slips.
Mainly, the slips had been minor and could be glossed over. Only two instances stood out as reminders that she needed to stay vigilant. Not just for the sake of others, but for her sake, too.
Blurting out loud to a woman on the street that maybe she should quit smoking had made the woman’s day (and possibly the rest of her life) awfully complicated, for example.
“What?” the woman had said, affronted. “As if I asked for your permission, little miss.”
“It’s just . . . the baby,” Emily’d said. And then she’d realized that the woman didn’t know about the baby. That the woman’s husband didn’t know about the baby, either.
“Pregnant? You’re pregnant, Monica?” he’d said, going pale. “But . . . I’ve been overseas for eleven months.”
Emily wondered what had happened with that family. Did they stay a family? Did Monica have the baby? Did Monica stop smoking?
And John Blasingame, whose father beat him. He’d left Willow Hill in the sixth grade, slamming everything from his desk into a heavy-duty garbage bag without making eye contact with anyone.
“We’re sorry to see you go, John,” their teacher had said.
He’d grunted. Emily had seen the bruises on his arms, despite his long-sleeved shirts. He’d kept his head ducked, but thoughts and images from him came at her hard and fast.
A tall woman with a clipboard standing in a dismal living room. A beat-up sofa, a tattooed man with belligerent eyes.
Child protection services. The best interest of your son.
Get out of my house, or I’ll shoot you for trespassing.
Emily hadn’t intervened, not that time. She hadn’t messed up by saying something she shouldn’t have. The memory of John’s last day in Willow Hill was painful for a different reason. What if she had spoken up, back in third grade? Nagged John until he’d gone to the teacher, or what if she had gone to the teacher herself? Might things have ended up differently?
Still, the rule Emily tried to follow was to stay out of people’s minds as best she could. If people chose to share things with her, fine. Otherwise, her policy was to plug her ears and shut her eyes and go la la la.
“Never mind,” Emily said to Klara, trying to take back her prying question. “None of my business.”
“It’s no big deal,” Klara said. She looked at Emily speculatively. “But how’d you know something was wrong?”
“Uh . . . I . . .”
Klara moved on without her. She made a wry expression, placing her hands on her thighs and taking care with her nails. “Only, it would be nice to just cut through all that crap. The drama, the posturing, all of it.”
“Girl drama, you mean?”
Klara laughed. “Girl drama. Yeah.” She hesitated, and Emily knew, once again, that she was working up to something. Emily kept her face neutral.
“I could be mistaken,” Klara said, “but I have the feeling you’re someone who could do that.”
“Do what?”
Klara bit her bottom lip. “Just . . . not be shallow all the time.”
“I hope I’m not shallow. I don’t want to be.”
“That’s the thing! I don’t think you are!” Klara said fervently. “Like in fifth grade? With that Holly girl?”
Emily wrinkled her nose. Holly, who wore loads of eyeliner and her ironic plaid skirts. Who told Emily that her parents’ divorce was Emily’s fault, regardless of what her parents might or might not have claimed.
“She was a jerk, but you were nice to her,” Klara said.
“You remember that?”
Klara shrugged.
“Holly wasn’t the greatest,” Emily agreed. “But underneath, she seemed sad. People act mean for all sorts of reasons.”
“See?” Klara said. “A shallow person wouldn’t have said that. A shallow person would have said, ‘Holly was a turd. I hope she gets stomped on in a tragic camel stampede.’”
Emily gave her a look.
“Omigosh. Now you’re worried about Holly and camels, aren’t you?”
“I’m not!” Emily said.
“Protest if you must, but I read you like a book. You, Emily Blok, are genuinely concerned about Holly’s risk of camel-trampling, which makes it official: You are a good person.”
Emily felt warm with pleasure. “I’m . . . just me. But thanks.” She paused. “I don’t want you or Holly to get trampled by a camel. For the record.”
“For the record, Holly’s on her own when the stampeding starts. I’ll pull you to freedom, though.”
“Thank you.”
Klara leaned forward, laughing and hiding her head with her hands. When she pulled her hands away, her fingernails remained as flawless as ten perfect seashells.
“Do you ever wonder why we are who we are?” she asked. “Like, why I’m me and you’re you. Why we exist at this exact moment in time?”
Emily felt a tingling sensation all over her body, like the fluttering of tiny honeybee wings. She thought of fireflies and stars and how bright the moon glowed on clear, cold nights. She held Klara’s gaze and thought of magic. Klara’s eyes widened, telling Emily that she felt it, too.
Energy hummed between them, weaving their souls together, and Emily didn’t stick her fingers in her ears and go la la la.
Friends, thought Emily. The word felt exotic. Klara and I are going to be friends.
Her prediction was slightly off, as it turned out. She and Klara weren’t going to be friends. They already were. It happened in a heartbeat,
just
like
that.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Ava
On the third day of the third month of Ava’s thirteenth year, Ava awoke to the smell of bacon. Bacon and pancakes to celebrate Ava’s Wishing Day, along with syrup and mini-marshmallows, which Aunt Vera strongly disapproved of.
“Such a sweet tooth,” she tutted, passing the bowl of tiny marshmallows to Ava. “Where did you get that from? Certainly not from me.”
Aunt Elena joined them for breakfast, which was lovely, but which highlighted the fact that
