The only thing different was the few plastic tubs on the floor filled with various childhood items, notebooks and old school folders, award ribbons and medals from all of Astrid’s accomplishments, movie ticket stubs and yellowing programs from the Portland ballet, stuff that had been sitting in Astrid’s closet, forgotten, since she went to college.
Delilah stepped farther in the room and sat on the bed. Growing up, she hadn’t spent a ton of hours in here. She and Astrid were never those kinds of sisters, of course. Still, there were times when she’d darkened the doorway and Astrid had waved her inside to borrow a book or watch a movie on the little TV that sat on Astrid’s dresser, particularly when Isabel was hosting one of her parties and they were both dressed in ruffles and lace, tired of putting on a show and ready to simply be young girls again.
Long-suppressed memories curled through her, fuzzy as though she was waking up from a dream. She peered inside one of the tubs, which was filled with leather-bound books. Astrid’s journals. Her stepsister was always scribbling in these books growing up. Delilah never asked what she wrote, but she was sure if she opened them up right now, she’d see an entry for every single day of Astrid’s life. Delilah wondered if she still kept a journal, what she’d write for today, tomorrow.
She lifted the top book from the tub. It was dark brown leather, embossed with flowers and vines twining over the cover. Flipping it open, Astrid had written her name on the first page—Astrid Isabella Parker—along with the relevant dates, the first of which placed the start of this journal about three months after Delilah’s father died when the girls were ten years old.
Delilah fanned the pages through her fingers, the paper crinkling from age and disuse. Astrid’s neat scrawl, always in dark blue ink, blurred through her vision. She had no intention of reading the journal. This was Astrid’s, filled with her private thoughts, and even Delilah Green wouldn’t cross that line. But then, as the letters rolled by, her eyes snagged on a certain word.
Delilah
Her thumb caught in the middle, and she opened the book on her lap, flipping a few pages and scanning for her name again.
It was everywhere.
Not on every page, but on a lot of them. She blinked down at the writing, knowing she should close the book and walk out of the room right now, but something kept her there. Something childish and curious, a little girl looking for something to ease this knot in her chest.
Or, maybe, to pull the knot even tighter.
She swallowed, took a breath, and started reading on a page where her name appeared several times.
September 25th
I went to Delilah’s room tonight, thinking maybe she’d want to do our homework together or watch TV, but when I knocked on her door, she didn’t answer. And then, when I peeked inside, she was just lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling, which seems pretty boring to me, but then she’s always staring at stuff. I guess I don’t blame her. She’s sad. I know she is, just like Mom is and I am too. I don’t know how to help anyone though. When I asked her if she wanted to watch a movie, she just rolled over on her bed and faced the window. She doesn’t want my help.
October 3rd
The leaves are starting to change and it’s my favorite time of year. I wanted Delilah to come to Gentry’s pumpkin farm with Claire and Iris and me today, but I never got the chance to ask her. When Claire and Iris got here, Delilah had been in the living room watching TV, but as soon as the doorbell rang, she disappeared. She wasn’t in her room when I went looking for her. Iris says she’s a little weird, which I guess is true. I don’t know what to say about her to my friends, so I don’t say much of anything. It’s kind of embarrassing that my stepsister doesn’t seem to really like me at all. She doesn’t like Mom either, though I guess Mom’s not the easiest person to like. Even when Andrew was alive, Delilah was pretty quiet, but she wasn’t like this. I don’t know what to do.
Delilah set the book in her lap, lungs pumping hard, her memory reaching back, back, back for this time, mere months after her father’s death made her an orphan. She remembered Astrid asking her to watch TV or do homework together every now and then, but this . . . this . . . longing that seemed to fill Astrid’s writing, the worry and wonder and even hurt . . .
That was new.
That was . . . impossible. Astrid never felt like this. She never actually wanted Delilah to be a part of her family. After Delilah’s father died, Delilah was just a burden, an orphan, a strange girl messing up Astrid and Isabel’s perfect life.
Wasn’t she?
She flipped forward a few pages, landing on an entry dated that next spring when they were eleven.
March 19th
Claire and Iris spent the night last night. I’m so glad they’re my friends. Iris is so funny, and Claire is probably the sweetest person I’ve ever met. I don’t know what I’d do without them, especially with Delilah still ignoring me most of the time. Claire asked me about her last night while we were making cookies, about why Delilah never hangs out with us or talks to me. My face got kind of hot, and I didn’t know what to say.
My sister hates me?
My sister wishes she had a different family?
It was way too embarrassing to admit, even if it was true. So I just shrugged and said Delilah was a weirdo and that she just liked being by herself.
Iris nodded and called Delilah a super weirdo. Claire just frowned and went back to mixing the dough, and we didn’t say anything else about Delilah, but I knew my face was still really red, because it felt warm for the next hour. My chest hurt too, like it always does when I do something I know isn’t right, like I can’t breathe the right way or something.
Delilah slammed the book shut and tossed it onto the bed next her. Then she dived into the tub at her feet, searching for another journal. Her hands were shaking because none of this was right. It couldn’t be right.
She grabbed a hunter-green journal a few books down in the stack. Opening it, she found the date, placing it when she and Astrid were in high school, ages fifteen to sixteen. A quick scan of the first pages filled her with relief—her name didn’t litter the writing—until she got to the middle, where Delilah seemed to appear every other word.
January 11th
I swear to god, I hate my mother. Sometimes I feel like I can’t talk, can’t think for myself at all. I’m just a doll, programmed only to say “yes, Mom” and “okay, Mom” and “whatever you want, Mom.” I’m so sick of it. Sometimes, I think Delilah had the right idea—just be a total bitch to everyone, and eventually, they’ll leave you alone. I mean, Mom asks her about her schoolwork and makes sure she won’t do anything to sully the great Parker-Green household, dragging her to a few fundraisers here and there, but for the most part, Mom leaves her alone.