Callie, I think, my voice in my head getting worked up past mother-hen level and straight to human-mother-worried-about-her-baby-trapped-under-a-car-that-is-on-fire-level. Dave is at my side before I can even turn my head to lock eyes with him, and he strong-arms us a path straight though the loud, sweaty, messy crowd to the greenhouse. We get there and why the hell are there people in the greenhouse? I will call the cops on my own party just to get them out of here if I have to, and what the hell. Oh. Oh no.
Callie. Standing in front of something there isn’t a word to describe. First all I see is a massive amount of Popsicle sticks that had been, I’m guessing, intended for use as splints to prop up some plants. I get closer, pushing past the last few people standing in the way of me and my sister, and then I’m standing right there in front of this thing, and my cup falls out of my hand to the floor.
Because Callie has built what I can only refer to as an island. An island of Popsicle sticks and blades of that super-strong grass she grows, intricately braided into whole sheets on top of this island the size of a small sofa.
“Holy shit,” says, of all goddamn people, Dan. Now he’s going over to it or to Callie, who is still working, layering in more sheets of woven grass, her hands trembling and then not trembling, not at all. Dan’s leaning down to touch the island, or Callie, and that voice in my head snaps to attention and forces its way out of my mouth.
“OUT!” I shout at him, and he just puts his palms out toward me and spits out a string of “Whoa, bro, cool down, bro.”
“Get the hell out of my house, bro!” I shout again, pointing at the door, giving him the meanest eyes I can. He’s frozen where he is, in anger or confusion or both, and I shout, “Get. The hell. OUT.”
Callie keeps flinching at the noise: from the party, from the people, from the world, from me. But still she keeps weaving blades of grass into those sheets and layering them up and up. I forget about Dan for the moment, because then I see there’s a part of the island that looks like it’s shaking, like something is loose and trembling, or trembling to be loosed. And then I realize that Callie has bent some of the Popsicle sticks supporting that section, and there are these tiny little blossoms peeking out in between the trembling and the shaking. Without thinking, without taking my eyes off the miracle or curse unfolding before me, I take out my phone and start texting Stan.
callie is building a goddamn island??????
I send him a picture, which is when I see that everyone else has their phones out too, taking photos of Callie and her island.
“WHAT PART OF ‘GET OUT’ DID YOU NOT UNDERSTAND?” I scream. Dave starts physically moving people out and asks Mark to call a whole fleet of Ubers, because the party’s over. Mimi’s back here now too, helping Dave with crowd control, and slowly the greenhouse empties until all that’s left is me, Callie, and her island.
Stan texts me back: I know, and then a blurry photo of what looks like an island, like this island, but way uglier, and Ted looming over it.
come over, I text him. bring ted.
OK, Stan texts. And then a couple of seconds later: What the hell, texts Stan.
“Who are you texting?” Dave asks, returning from the house.
“Is it Stan?” Mimi asks.
“Who’s Stan?” Dave asks, and I don’t totally know what to tell him. All I can do is just look from Callie to him to Mimi and then back to Callie, who is still weaving grass, building her little world up layer by layer.
“No. Seriously. Who’s Stan?”
EIGHT
I EXPLAIN TO Dave that Stan is a guy whose brother is also an Arctic Recovery Orphan sibling while we wait for him to show up.
“We see each other at the hospital sometimes. His brother has a lot of the same . . . quirks that Callie does, which means we’ve both been in the hospital more often than usual lately, so we’ve been comparing notes. About them and about what it’s like to be in a family with them.”
“Oh. You mean you talk to him because there are things you can talk to him about that you can’t talk to me about?”
I want so badly to just yell the honest real-talk answer: “Yes! But that isn’t a reflection on you, you handsome dummy!” But I’m not rattled enough or drunk enough to mess everything up by being all open and honest, so instead I say this: “Dave, he’s had a hard time of it, way harder than me and my family, and he needs a friend.” And then, because I can’t help myself: “And there’s also the fact that he’s not as cute or smart as you, and he’s never been allowed in my room, unsupervised or otherwise, and the only thing you need to worry about when you meet him is making everything weird by acting all jealous and aggressive, because you are my guy, you dingus.”