When it finally stops raining, we emerge and go looking for the time capsule. It’s only three weeks since the apple-twisting incident, but it could be years: the ivy is out of control, there’s a wasp orgy over the rotting fruit on the ground, and the grass is beyond “needs cutting” and into “Ned’s hair” territory.
Grey would murder us. He liked the garden untrammeled, so there’s no distinction between “grass” and “flowerbed” and “tree.” Most years, it’s impossible to lie straight on the lawn because he plants yellow tulip bulbs willy-nilly. But this is neglected. It’s a mess. As though without him, we don’t give a shit.
“I missed this,” Thomas beams, taking off his Windbreaker. “That after-rain smell. I swear it smells different in Canada.”
Bentley’s paradox says that all matter is pulled to a single point by gravity. Apparently for me and Thomas, that single point is this tree. He stretches up, up, up, revealing a sliver of stomach, as he flings the coat onto a high branch, showering us in rain.
“Oops,” says Thomas, twisting back around towards me. “There’s something about this tree, isn’t there?”
We’re both rain-damp now, silver droplets lacing our hair like dew. He watches me as I dry my face with the edge of my sleeve.
“Petrichor,” I blurt.
“Is that Klingon?”
“The after-rain smell. That’s the name for it. It’s wet bacteria.”
Congratulations, Gottie. Last time you were under this tree with Thomas, the stars went out. Now you’re talking about wet bacteria.
“Petrichor, really,” says Thomas. “Sounds like one of Sof’s bands. Or your dad when he talks German.”
“That reminds me—Papa said I had to tell you to phone your mum back, and stop wiping her messages off the blackboard and pretending you’ve called.” I prod at the wet earth with my shoe. “Whatever you’ve done, you have to talk to her sometime. Like, when you’re back next door in a month?”
“Right,” says Thomas. He leans back against the tree trunk. “Next door.”
There’s a pause. I know he and his dad don’t get along—and actually, none of the messages on the blackboard have been from him. But should I not have mentioned his mum either?
Then he smiles, wickedly. “Why do you assume I’ve done something?”
“Instinct.” The word flies out of my mouth automatically, and Thomas cracks up. “Prior experience. Fundamental knowledge of you. History. That time with the pigs. Mr. Tuttle. A big, doomy sense of foreboding.”
As I list our past, my mind jumps to the future—Thomas next door, clambering through the hedge, biking to school, eating cereal together, hanging out at the Book Barn. He’s home, and it will be a year so different from the one I’ve just had.
Thomas smiles, pushing himself off the tree trunk.
“Race you,” he says, his leg already swinging onto a low branch. Next thing I know, he’s a few feet above me—I can see the bottom of his Adidas. “It’s still here!”
“What’s here?” I thought we were going to dig up the time capsule?
“Come up and I’ll show you!” He pokes his head through the leaves, offering me his hand.
When I’m sitting on a nice, sturdy branch next to him, I open my mouth, but he puts a finger to his lips, then points. Tucked inside the tree is a rusty metal tin, one of those beige petty-cash ones, with a handle on top and a loop to use for a padlock. Our names are written in marker pen on the lid, and sitting on top of it is a frog.
“Oh,” I say, not recognizing it. The box, I mean, not the frog. Though I’m pretty sure I haven’t seen that before either. “This is the time capsule? We didn’t bury it?”
Thomas shakes his head. “We found it.”
I turn my head to look at him, his face leaf-dappled in the sunshine. We used to climb up here all the time, but now we’re both too big for the tree, crammed into the branches.
“Oh. You really don’t remember this?” he asks.
I have to hold on to his shoulder with one hand, so I can show him my left without losing my balance.
“All I know is we talked about the blood pact at the Book Barn,” I say, waving my palm, “then waking up in the hospital with this.”
“Right. That makes sense. Hold on.” Carefully, he leans forward and lifts the frog onto his finger, then stands up on the wonky branch and reaches over to put it on a cluster of leaves.
I’d swoon right out of the tree if it wasn’t a totally Isaac Newtonian thing to do. Then Thomas does it for me.
“Whoa!” As he turns to sit back down, his foot slips on the wet branch. Without anything to hold on to, he windmills his arms for a second, one foot hanging off the edge. I freeze, already watching a future where he falls in slow motion.
Time speeds up when he regains his balance with a “Phew” and grins at me. “Think I just won Canada the gymnastics gold for that, eh?”
“Graceful,” I say to cover my panic, grabbing his arm at the elbow to steady him as he sits down. It’s not entirely necessary—his center of gravity seems fine. But then he grabs my arm back, in a strict violation of the Spaghetti Arms Principle.
“Thank you.” He settles next to me. We’re still holding arms. Not hands. Arms. I’m holding elbows with Thomas Althorpe, and it’s ridiculous.