He, along with everyone else standing nearby, created a path for her. When she reached me, she put a hand on top of my head and gave it a little pat—a stupid habit she’d developed since she shot up three inches taller than me over the summer. Clearly we weren’t identical. With my black hair and dark eyes, and her red hair and blue eyes, we didn’t even look like we shared the same parents.
But I remembered how it used to be. I remembered all the hospital rooms. I remembered having to go to school without her, and then coming home and showing her all the pictures I’d drawn of it since we weren’t allowed to turn on our phones to take photos. I remembered the way my blood turned cold each time she looked pale, or her breathing became labored.
I remembered, when we were really little, getting out of bed in the middle of the night to check on her. To make sure her heart was still beating.
Grandmother called Prue’s heart condition the only bad luck the family had had in centuries. That’s true. But even on the worst of days, I could make her laugh with a dumb story, watch a movie with her, help her get around the house, or make her lunch when our parents were traveling. I knew all the emergency numbers for her doctors, and still do.
But Prue was a Redding, and she survived, even when doctors said she probably wouldn’t. Our parents founded Heart2Heart, an international charity dedicated to raising funds for underprivileged children with heart defects, and Prue became the face of it. The whole country was pulling for her with each surgery, and the most recent one, two years ago now, made her healthy and strong enough to do the things she’d never be allowed to before.
Prue enrolled in the Academy with me. She made friends who weren’t related to us, and those friends happened to be the kids I never told her about, the ones who would fill my backpack with dirt or steal my homework.
And then, like all of the pent-up Redding good luck previously denied to her hit at once, she became president of our class, and set three consecutive track, horseback-riding, and archery records, and won a statewide essay contest about the need for better access to clean water in underserved parts of India. The one time she had brought home a report card that had a single A-on it, the teacher actually apologized to her for failing to teach up to her standards.
Prue is amazing, anyone will tell you that. It was just…now she knew the truth about me. I couldn’t hide what other people really thought of me when she could see it for herself.
We came from a family of winners, record-setters, and firsts, and there wasn’t a day that went by that our grandmother let me forget that I wasn’t one of them.
Well, I, Prosperity Oceanus Redding, was proud to report that I was the first to set the record for the most times of dozing off during class in a single year, winning me some disbelief from parents and teachers, and twenty-four straight trips to the headmaster’s during sixth grade. The only reason they hadn’t kicked me out of the Academy was because my great-great-great-great-grandfather had literally built it with his bare hands.
You think it stinks to be named Prosperity? Try being named Prosperity when you get straight Ds in school, and everyone in your family starts hinting you should consider trash collecting instead of college. I don’t know what’s wrong with that. Trash collectors are nice people, and they get to ride on the back of trucks all day and do the important work of keeping the streets clean. That sounded pretty good to me.
But from the moment I’d first fallen asleep in his class, Mr. Wickworth had decided that I was garbage that needed to be disposed of, and Prue only proved his point when she swept in and acted like she had to clean up my messes, no matter how small.
“You know how Prosper is,” Prue said sweetly. “He’s, ah, well…he’s Prosper. But clearly he needs glasses.”
The girls behind her snickered.
“Glasses don’t fix stupid,” one of them said.
“And they won’t fix his face either,” said another.
I flinched as Prue coughed to disguise her laugh. A few of the adults nearby chuckled, craning their necks to get a better look at us. This was what it was like to be a Redding: when we were in Redhood, we were no better than zoo animals. I was surprised no one interrupted to ask for a selfie.
“Please excuse us,” Prue continued. “We’re due back at the Cottage for a family dinner. Will we see you tonight at the Candlelight Parade, Mr. Wickworth?”
The man couldn’t help himself. He actually bobbed his head, like he was giving her a little bow. “I will see you there, Miss Redding.”
“I’ll see you too,” I said between my gritted teeth. “After I get myself a pair of glasses.”
“You do that, young man,” Mr. Wickworth said. “Perhaps then you’ll also be able to spot your manners.”
I had something to say to that, but Prue tugged me away, leading us off Main Street. Behind us, the bonfire roared to its full size, sending sparks up into the shadows of the evening sky. People applauded and cheered, lining up to begin to toss in their regrets. I looked back, just once, to see the way the light made the nearby statue of Honor Redding glow so I could commit it to memory and sketch it later.
Once we were out of sight of the square, Prue finally let go of my arm.
“Why do you always have to stick your nose in everything?” I asked. “They already think I’m an idiot without your ‘help.’”
Prue rolled her eyes. “If I don’t play hero, who’s going to rescue you? Besides, we’re already late. You-know-who’s going to kill us as it is.”
Prue slowed down to let me catch up to her, digging in her bag until she pulled out a blue notebook. “Here—I accidentally picked this up instead of mine.”
Heat rushed to my face, even as my shoulder slumped in relief. I snatched it out of her hands and stuffed it into my bag, like that would be enough to bury it forever. Of course she found it. How could I have been so stupid? She probably had gone through all the old sketches with her friends, making fun of every single one. She should have just thrown it away when she realized it didn’t have her class notes in them. My breath locked in my throat.
“Some of those are pretty good,” Prue said, keeping her voice casual. “I mean, you’re no da Vinci, but they’re not half bad. I didn’t realize you still kept a sketchbook and drew those…characters.”
From the stories I used to invent to make her laugh, back when she was stuck in her hospital bed. Why did I still draw them? I don’t even know. Maybe in the hope she might want to hear the stories again. The way she looked at me, then, lips pressed together to keep from laughing, told me that was going to be the day after never.
I gripped the strap of my backpack. You don’t know anything about me, I wanted to say. This is the first time we’ve talked in a week.
“Are you ever going to show them to someone? What about Mrs. Peters?”
Here were a few things I would have done to avoid showing my drawings to the crusty art teacher at the Academy:
1. Cut off my toes.
2. Eat my own liver.
3. Walked the length of the United States to swim through shark-infested waters to Hawaii so that I could throw myself in a volcano.