Down in the kitchen, Harmony opens a side draw filled with crayons, colored pencils and a set of elementary school type water colors. Perfect.
“What are you girls up to?”
I jump at the sound of Summer’s voice, but she looks pleased to see us together. “Ah, just a little painting. If that’s okay?”
“Sure.”
Little Harmony pulls a plastic mat that’s taller than her from the crack between the cupboards and the refrigerator. Summer snatches one side and they place it on the kitchen table as a covering. I pull the paint and brushes from the drawer. Summer fills two paper cups with water. And in five minutes, we’re ready to go.
“I have a new watercolor book for you, Harmony. What are you painting, Esther?”
“I have a project I need to get done…before work today.”
“Work? I thought it was your day off?”
I lick my lips, caught in my lie. “How did you know that?”
“I picked up your laundry yesterday.” She swallows, looking as if she’s committed a crime. “Your schedule was on your desk.”
I bite my tongue and stop myself from saying anything accusing—because I kind of feel as though she has committed a crime. She just walked into my room and looked at my stuff? “Well, I’m working on a project and I told them I’d go in today.” I don’t feel any guilt—not anymore. “I can do my own laundry,” I say. “I have been for years.”
I expect her to leave with my curtness, but she doesn’t. She sits at the table and doesn’t make any attempt to go. I open the book that’s been tucked under my arm and pull out the big summertime petals I cut from the pages of the book.
“Wow, Esther, those are beautiful.” She picks up one of the papers and holds it up to see it better. “What are you making?”
I clear my throat. “Just a tree.”
Harmony works on her book, and, luckily for me, she only wants to use the pink and the purple paints. She doesn’t mind when I pop the green, yellow, and blue from the little plastic holder they come in. I break the pieces apart and make my own colors on paper plates, yellow-green, blue-green, and on a third plate all three crushed to crumbs together. I add a little water and my new colors are ready to go.
I’ve cut two hundred leaves. My hand still aches where the scissors pressed over and over again. I have half of them painted and laid out neatly on the mat on Summer’s large kitchen table when I look over at Harmony’s project. Two of my leaves have been painted a watery pink.
“Harmony,” I moan. “Those are mine. Remember, this is yours.” I hold up the princess book Summer gave her.
“I like to help Essie,” she says, bouncing in her booster seat.
“This doesn’t help me. See? Mine are green.”
“Harmony loves pink!” she squeals, talking in third person.
My mind somehow twists and turns down a side road that has nothing to do with Harmony or my tree, and everything to do with my brother, JoJo. Did we argue? Did I annoy him? I remember playing with super hero figures together—that’s what I remember. That’s all I remember. I don’t remember fighting. I don’t remember doing little things to bother him like little sisters often do.
But then, does it matter? He is gone. And Harmony isn’t my sister.
“Oh, no,” Summer says, walking into the room, Brayden in her arms. “Harmony, did you help Essie?”
I swallow back my irritation. “It’s fine. I think I’m gonna go in to the shop and work on this.” I grab my unpainted leaves and stuff them back into the book. More carefully, I gather up the semi-damp, already painted pieces and set them on the counter.
I don’t clean up our mess. I just run up to my room and put my shoes on. I don’t know how Rodrick’s big open house can feel so stuffy. But it does. I just need to be alone. I like being alone. I’m good at being alone. That will never change—I tell myself. It’s been my mantra pretty much my whole life.
But when I hurry downstairs to grab my things, there are two pink leaflets on top of my stack of green, a Crayola girl drawn on each. Their stick figure arms reach out, and when I hold the leaves together, they touch hands.
Summer’s written my name beneath one stick figure and Harmony’s name under the other. Now, I can hear them in the bathroom just around the corner, washing Harmony’s pink fingers.
My throat constricts at the sight of the petals. Harmony and Esther.
You like being alone. A voice in my head reminds me, and I drop the leaves back to the counter before hurrying out to my car.
I’ve been working on the tree for two hours. Finn is still asleep and Marely and Danny kind of just let me do my own thing. It’s perfect. I snap a picture to send to Cytha and look at the screen. I need to figure out the branches, how to make them reach out more.
“Is it finished?”
I spin around to find Finn on the landing of the staircase. “You’re up.” A grin plays at my lips with his presence and I peer back down at my phone to study the picture. “No, not done yet. I need these branches,” I face the tree again and point to the half dozen branches I have built, “to stretch out a little more, but keeping it balanced is getting tricky.”
“Hmm. Somehow I thought we were building a pine tree.”
I snort out a laugh. “That would have been smart—and easier.” But I had this vision of my book branches stretching from wall to wall, my leaves making up the foliage of the tree. “It’s more like an oak.” I pick up the book Marley gave me and pull out the leaves I’ve cut and painted.
“Whoa, these are cool.” Finn takes one from my hand and twirls it around. He holds it up to the light and lets the sun shine through the green and the words of the story. “I like how you can still read the words on the page.”
“Yeah, I used water colors to make sure the print was still visible.”
Finn and I get to work. We build the branches, carefully balancing and bracing each book the best we can. In the end, we create the tops of the branches, the pieces too thin and fragile to create with a heavy book, from the leftover pages of the books Marley gave me.
“Do you have any watercolors?” I trim another branch and Finn watches me carefully.
“No, but Scott’s is around the corner. They’ll have some.”
We walk outside and the sunshine feels like a gift. “I’ve never breathed air like this.”
“That’s a weird thing to say.” Finn laughs.
I guess it is a strange thing to say. “It just feels different.”
“I guess I’m not picky. Any air will do.” He smirks and I bite my lip.
“How are you?” I venture.
“You mean, have I had anymore coughing fits?” His eyes crease to slits and he runs a hand through the sandy waves of his hair. “I’m fine, Esther. I’m sorry if I scared you the other night.”
He had scared me, but I’m not afraid anymore. “So, what now?” I ask.
His shoulder brushes mine. “Nothing, now.”
“I mean, there’s that list, right?”
“You’ve been talking to my mom again.”
I stop walking and absentmindedly grab hold of his forearm. “What about it? This list?”