We stand in a circle in the hallway with no idea what to do, until I realize I know exactly what we should do.
“I’ve been thinking about one of Dad’s fairy tales,” I say. They’ll think it’s a strange and stupid thing to say. And I definitely hate the sound of my own voice: too high and too breathy and always sounding like a question instead of an answer. I’m doing this all wrong, as usual.
“Not you too,” Marla says. She doesn’t get Dad and his fairy tales and his studies and the way he tells stories instead of ever talking about real life.
“It’s a fairy tale about closets,” I say. “So I made it. In my closet.” I’m not making sense, and Eleanor’s getting all sweaty worrying about why Mom is gone, and it’s not the right time. But I’ve said it and I can’t take it back.
“You want to be in a fairy tale?” Astrid says. She tries to sound nice.
“Exactly!” I say, latching on even though she has no idea what I’m talking about. “There are these princesses, in this fairy tale, and I think maybe we’re them. Or we’re like them.” I try to keep my voice calm. I try to lower the tone and make the words steady like a certainty instead of going up like a question.
Marla sighs.
“Not really them. But I think it would be fun. To try to make the fairy tale. It’s all about sisters and closets and disappearing to a place no one can find you.” This all made sense when I was in the basement finding plastic tiaras and half-dressed Barbies.
It’s not making any sense now. Not even to me. Instead it’s a sign that I’m being the desperate kind of Silly. The one who comes out when Mom’s sick.
“Oh,” Eleanor says.
“Okay!” Astrid says, though it sounds forced.
“I know how it sounds,” I say. There’s that breathiness back in my voice again.
“This is stupid. We need to find Mom,” Marla says. “Why were you so mean to her?” She’s glaring at me. “We don’t have time for fairy tales right now, okay?”
“I thought you loved all the closets,” I say. I’m careful to emphasize the word all so that she knows I could tell Astrid and Eleanor everything about her secret adventures in Astrid’s bad closet. I don’t like her high-and-mighty attitude.
“You don’t care about Mom,” Marla says like she always does. She clutches my arm on the word Mom, and I feel the squeeze in my stomach, in my heart, deep below my eyes.
“We all care about Mom,” I say. “But she’s not here right now, and we can do something cool in my closet.” I give her a look to remind her she doesn’t even have a closet that works, so her opinion doesn’t matter too terribly much. It doesn’t convince her of anything. She’s fuming, but with Eleanor and Astrid agreeing to come inside, Marla’s not about to be left out.
It’s cramped with all four of us in my little closet. All four of us and the Barbies and shoes and tiaras and bowl of water and everything else I’ve gathered to re-create the fairy tale. Before I close the door, I make my sisters read the story out loud. No one seems very convinced by the similarities.
“Huh,” Astrid says.
“Oh yeah,” Eleanor says. “I remember this one.”
Marla is refusing to speak.
When we close the door, things transform quickly. The bowl of water becomes the lake I had imagined. Trees grow from a few branches I’d laid on the ground. The silver and gold necklaces wrap themselves around the trees, over the walls, around each other. They go from dull to glittering, a quick burn, like they have caught flame.
The little plastic boat meant for the bathtub grows to fit the lake. It rocks with the small waves, and I climb on. Eleanor and Astrid can’t stop looking at the gold and silver vines, which keep intensifying in sparkle. My sisters try to join me on the boat, but when they try to put their feet on the surface, they slide right off. It won’t let them connect. The opposite of gravity.
I’m as frustrated as they are. I thought the closet was supposed to give me what I want. And I want them with me. I want them with me all the time. I’m about to say something, but I remember what Astrid actually said about the closets. That they will give me what I need, not what I want.
Like Astrid trying to climb the flower petals with me, some parts of my closet are only for me. Maybe I need that. Something of my own. The boat buzzes underneath me, changing and rumbling with magic from my touch.
“You think that boat’s gonna bring you to a prince or something? That’s what you want?” Marla says. She’s grumpy, but at least she’s finally speaking.