“You’re not going to stop going in the closet, huh?” I say, nicely so Marla knows that I’ve heard her and agree about Astrid and Eleanor. She puts her hand on my leg, and it’s so cold the iciness travels through my pajamas and makes me shiver.
“They can’t tell us what to do,” she says. I try to nod. I hope my eyes aren’t as black as hers. I hope my limbs aren’t as cold. I hope I don’t have the strange smile that looks more like a frown than anything else. I want to check on my little hidden star, just to remind me of the things in the world that are light and warm and silent and lovely. I need some magic. I need some closet. I need a swim in a silver lake that glitters and a walk through a forest of sunflowers that are taller than pine trees.
“I can trust you now, right? You get it?” Marla’s big dark eyes look at me. Even the lashes look darker, longer, thicker, more like spiders and less like feathers.
Star, star, star, I say in my head to stop the pain gathering there, behind my eyes, near my ears, the middle of my neck.
“I don’t like it,” I say, trying to find the right words. “I don’t like Astrid’s closet. Or the secrets. Or that Eleanor is out with her secret boyfriend. Or that Astrid isn’t up here with us. Or that you didn’t eat your bagel downstairs.” I can see sun peeking through clouds outside the window. Normally I would think it is beautiful, but right now I can only think of how Astrid’s terrible closet might reimagine it. It might turn black or grow so large it takes over the sky, or swallow me whole.
“You know what Eleanor says about you? She says you’re too young to be in the closets. She says we should glue yours shut,” Marla says. She crosses her arms over her chest. I know Marla well enough to guess that she’s bluffing, but it somehow hurts anyway. “It shouldn’t surprise you, them saying that. This is how it’s always been.”
“You miss Mom even though that never changes either,” I spit back. It’s the kind of thing I would only ever say when I’m not thinking things through, when my filter is off because there was a lot of sugar in the fruity bagels and I haven’t slept enough.
“What if we could get Mom back and get Astrid and Eleanor to think of you as not a kid? What if both things were possible?” Marla says. I don’t think she believes the second is possible at all, but there’s a desperation in her voice, and she cements it after her next deep breath. “I need you,” she finishes. “Okay? I need you.”
My throat tightens, and I consider crying but think better of it, because Marla won’t think I’m strong and capable and mature if I start crying. Then she’ll quickly not need me anymore anyway.
“Okay,” I say. The tightness in my throat turns to almost suffocation. The last time Marla trusted me, she took me into Astrid’s terrible closet. Maybe Marla trusting and needing me isn’t the best idea ever. Marla moves closer to me. Lengthens her legs next to mine. She’s got on ridiculous Christmas socks that make no sense in July, and she wiggles her toes in them nervously.
“Okay. So. My closet,” she says, and stops. It is not a full sentence, so I keep my eyebrows raised and my head tilted in her direction and try to not say WHAT? WHAT? over and over again to make her finish.
“The bad closet,” I prompt. It’s hard to forget about melting walls and too-sharp leaves.
“No. I’m not talking about Astrid’s closet now. I’m talking about mine. My closet works too,” she says. “I have a special closet too.”
I can’t help rolling my eyes.
Marla is someone who lies. Or, not quite lies. Marla believes the things she says even when they are not true. What is the word for that?
I don’t know, but when she says she has a magic closet, just like the rest of us, I know it can’t be true. Watching someone lie makes me tired, and I’m already so tired from Astrid’s closet and missing Mom and hating that I miss Mom, and all the lies and secrets that have been piling up all summer.
“I’m going to take a nap,” I say. I will probably not take a nap. I will probably visit my star, then go into my closet. I want to bring a single feather in there and watch it fly as slowly as a lazy river moves. I want to see something ordinary become beautiful, and forget that sometimes ordinary things become evil.
Marla grabs my hand. “It’s not like your closet. Or Eleanor’s. Or Astrid’s. It’s a whole other thing,” she says. She won’t let go of my hand. I try to wiggle my fingers a little, to let her know her tight grip is hurting me, but she only squeezes harder. I wonder if you can pass out from excessive hand holding. Maybe?
“Marla.”
“Silly. I mean, Priscilla.” She loosens her grip on my hand and takes a deep inhale. “I need you to come inside with me.” She lets go of my hand entirely. Clears her throat. Her eyes are going back to their normal color, and her cheeks are returning to a pale pink. There’s that ridiculous prettiness again.