Saturday afternoon, Ali parked her bike on the grass between the large, crooked wooden sign that read ANTIQUE WAREHOUSE and Aria’s parents’ battered, blue, bumper-sticker-plastered Subaru wagon. Aria had called her about a half hour ago—her family was coming here to shop for a table, and did Ali want to meet her? Ali had nothing to do, so she’d agreed. Besides, it was tense inside her house—doors kept slamming, her parents passed each other without speaking, and at one point her mother answered the ringing phone, said nothing but sighed, and then slammed it down. Ali needed to get out.
Ali pushed open the barn door and blinked in the darkness. The antique store smelled like a strange mix of mildew and freshly squeezed lemonade. An oldies station was playing on the radio, and everywhere she turned were piles of junk. Old toys, ugly rugs and blankets, and chairs that would definitely collapse if someone sat on them. More clocks than Ali could count sat on every available inch of counter space. Aria’s brother, Mike, who was in sixth grade, banged on the top of an old pinball machine to get it to work. Then he turned to Ali and gave her a long, amorous stare, just like he always did. Aria’s brother was so into her—he’d once even tried to kiss her at one of Aria’s sleepovers.
“There you are,” Aria said, touching Ali’s shoulder. Ali spun around and took in her friend. It seemed as though the pink streaks in Aria’s hair had multiplied, and she wore long feather earrings that grazed her shoulders. Tucked under her other arm was her stuffed pig puppet, Pigtunia, which her father had brought her from Germany.
“Only babies carry stuffed animals,” Ali chided.
Aria spun around and shrugged, holding up the puppet and making her oink. “Pigtunia wanted to go for a ride. How could I say no?”
Because she’s a puppet? Sometimes Aria was such a freak.
“Hey.” Aria touched a Tiffany-style lamp on the table with Pigtunia’s snout. “What do you think? Aren’t these things worth a lot of money? And look—it’s only twenty-five dollars!”
Ali snorted. “I’m sure it’s a knockoff.” This was the Main Line, after all. Even junk shop owners knew what a real Tiffany lamp was worth.
Up ahead, Mr. Montgomery, who Aria called Byron, turned to a smaller, round table with a tile top. “How about this one?”
Mrs. Montgomery—Ella—sniffed. “That won’t fit all four of us. Or is that the point?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mr. Montgomery demanded, crossing his arms over his chest. His tweed blazer had a hole in the elbow.
Mrs. Montgomery pushed a lock of her brown hair behind her ear. “Forget it.”
“I don’t want to forget it.” Aria’s dad guided his wife around a corner. They spoke in whispers. Mike looked up from the pinball machine, his brow furrowed.
Ali turned to Aria. “What’s up with your parents?”
Aria shrugged. “They always get like this when they shop for antiques.”
By the way Aria’s throat bobbed when she swallowed, Ali knew she’d hit a nerve. But you had to be blind not to notice that Aria’s parents’ relationship had changed. In sixth grade, Mr. and Mrs. Montgomery spoke French at the dinner table when they wanted to say romantic things in front of their kids. These days, they barely ate dinner at the same time. And once, not that long ago, when Ali had slept over at Aria’s, she’d gotten up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom and noticed that Aria’s mom was sleeping in the guest room. Aria said it was because her dad snored, but the house had been awfully quiet that night.
Ali wanted Aria to confide in her if she was worried—maybe if Aria did, Ali could open up about her own family worries. But Aria didn’t work that way. While the other girls had their own reasons for ingratiating themselves to Ali, spilling their secrets if she so much as asked how their day was, it was hard to get Aria to open up. In fact, Ali wasn’t exactly sure sometimes what Aria got out of the friendship. Sure, she liked being part of a clique, but she often held Ali at arm’s length, keeping her feelings close to the vest. Sometimes, it made Ali fight for her affection and attention even more. Other times, it just annoyed her.
Suddenly, Ali spied something on one of the tables. An old, silver pocket mirror with delicate engravings on the handle and the back was propped up next to a stack of books. Her doctors had used a very similar mirror during group sessions at the Radley.
She shut her eyes, a memory flooding back. Miss Anna, the psychologist, would pass the mirror around to each girl, telling her to look into it and share with the group what she most wanted to be. Most girls would give touchy-feely answers: I want to be strong; I want to be better; I want to be happy. But Ali had gazed at her reflection, her features matching her sister’s. She hadn’t said she wanted to be her sister, though, as most people at the hospital would have thought. She’d said, I want to be free.
She slipped the mirror into her bag and walked away.