"Well," she continued, "we had to do a five-minute short for our midterm grade, right? They only pick two to be shown for this, like, showcase night that everyone goes to. And mine got picked!"
"That's great," I said. "Congratulations."
"Thank you." She laughed. "I have to tell you, I know it's just this school thing but I am so psyched. This class, and the communications one I'm taking… I mean, they've just really changed the way I look at things. Like Brian says, I'm learning to tell, but also to show. And I—"
"Wait," I said. "Who's Brian?"
"The TA in my communications course. He helps the professor run the class, and handles the smaller discussion group I'm in on Fridays. He's amazing, just so smart. God! Anyway, I'm really proud of this piece I did, but now I have to get up and introduce it next weekend in front of everyone. I am so nervous I can't even tell you."
"Nervous?" Of all the adjectives I would have used to describe my sister, this would never have been one of them. "You?"
"Well, yeah," she said. "Annabel, I have to get up and talk about my film in front of total strangers."
"You used to get up and walk in front of strangers," I pointed out. "In bathing suits, even."
"Oh, that's different," she said.
"How?"
"Because that's just…" She trailed off, sighing. "This is personal. Real. You know?"
"Yeah," I said, although I wasn't sure I did, really. "I guess."
"Anyway, it's a week from today. So you'll have to think good thoughts for me. Okay?"
"Sure," I said. "So… what's it about?"
"My short?"
"Yeah."
"Oh. Well, it's kind of hard to explain…" she said before, of course, commencing to do just that.
"Basically, though, it's about me. And Whitney."
I looked outside again at Whitney, who was ripping open another seed packet, wondering how she'd react to this. "Really," I said.
"I mean, it's a fictional thing, of course," she said. "But it's based on that time when we were kids, out on our bikes, and she broke her arm. Remember? I had to ride her home on my handlebars?"
I thought for a second. "Yeah," I said. "Wasn't that…"
"Your birthday," she said. "Your ninth birthday. Dad missed the party to take her to the hospital. She got back with her cast just in time for cake."
"Right." It was coming back to me. "I do remember that, actually."
"Well, it's basically about that. But different. It's hard to explain. I can e-mail it to you, if you want. I mean, I'm still tinkering with it, but you could get the general idea."
"I'd love to see it," I said.
"You'll have to tell me if it's terrible, though."
"I'm sure it isn't."
"I guess I'll find out on Saturday." She sighed. "Anyway, look, I better go. I just wanted to tell you guys about it. Everything okay there?"
I looked out at Whitney again. She'd put another layer of soil into the pots and had now picked up a hose to water them, her eyes narrowed as the drops sputtered out. "Yeah," I said. "Everything's fine."
As I hung up the phone, I heard the front door open. A moment later, when I crossed through the foyer, Whitney was lining her flowerpots up in the dining-room window. I stood in the archway, watching her arrange them on the sill in a neat row, brushing off their rims with her fingers. When she was done, she stood up, planting her hands on her hips. "Oh, well," she said. "Here goes nothing."
"Or not," I said.
She glanced over at me, and I wondered if she was going to snap at me or make a typically sarcastic remark. "We'll see," she said, then dropped her hands and started toward the kitchen.
As she turned on the faucet and began washing her hands, I walked over to the window to look at the flowerpots. The dirt in them was black and fragrant, spotted with fertilizer, and I could see beads of water here and there, glinting in the sunlight. Maybe it was a stupid exercise, and you couldn't grow things in winter. But there was something I liked about the idea of those seeds, buried so deep, having at least a chance to emerge. Even if you couldn't see it beneath the surface, molecules were bonding, energy pushing up slowly, as something worked so hard, all alone, to grow.
Chapter Ten
By that afternoon, my mother had already left two messages: one letting us know they'd arrived at their hotel, and the other reminding me where she'd left the pizza money, a subtle hint to make sure that we (i.e., Whitney) ate dinner. Message received , I thought as I walked down to the kitchen. The money was on the counter with a list of several places that delivered. My mother was nothing if not prepared.
"Whitney?" I called up the stairs. No answer. Which didn't mean she wasn't there, just that she probably didn't feel like responding. "I'm ordering the pizza. Is cheese okay?"
Another silence. Fine , I thought. Cheese it is . I picked a number at random and dialed.
After ordering, I headed up to my room and settled in to listen to the discs Owen had made me, beginning with one entitledprotest songs (acoustic and world) . I made it through three tracks about unions before nodding off, only to wake up with a start when I heard the doorbell ring.
I sat up just as Whitney passed my room and padded down the stairs to answer it. After brushing my teeth, I followed her.
When I got to the foyer, she was standing at the door, which was open, blocking my view of both her and whoever was on the other side. Still, I could hear their voices.
"… not so much their newer stuff, but the earlier albums," she was saying. "I have a couple of imports I got from a friend that are awesome."
"Really," another, deeper voice—a guy—replied. "UK imports, or somewhere else?"
"UK, I think. I'd have to check."
Maybe it was because I'd just woken up, but there was something familiar about some part of this scene, although I couldn't put my finger on exactly what it was.
"What do I owe you again?" Whitney asked.
"Eleven eighty-seven," the guy replied.
"Here's a twenty. Just give me five back."
"Thanks." I took another step. Now, I was sure I knew that voice. "The thing about Ebb Tide," it continued, "is that they're really an acquired taste."
"Totally," Whitney said.