The Forgetting Spell

  Ava made a pouty sound. “It’s complicated.”

  “Ugh. I’m so tired of people saying that. How is that an excuse for, like, not doing the right thing?” As she spoke, something beckoned to her from the edge of her thoughts. Then a gust of wind blew the swing forward.

  Darya gripped the ropes and turned her head so that she could see her sister’s face. Ava kept gazing straight ahead, and Darya watched Ava’s eyes change color as the swing swayed through the air. They shifted from brown to tiger’s eye golden and back again, with occasional glints of green.

  “Did you know that Mama wants me to use my wishes for her?” she said.

  Ava showed no reaction, which gave Darya her answer. “Is that such a bad thing?” she asked carefully.

  “Ava. They’re my wishes.”

  “She doesn’t want you to use all of them on her, though. Does she?”

  Darya jammed her heels into the ground and brought the swing to a halt. She pushed up from the seat and strode toward the woods. “I’m going for a walk. Don’t follow me.”

  Ava hopped off the swing and trotted behind. “Darya, wait. You said you wouldn’t be mean.”

  Actually, I didn’t, she wanted to say. I said, “Don’t make me be mean.” But what kind of messed-up logic was that?

  Don’t make me hit you!

  Don’t make me make you disappear!

  Her heart pounded. She didn’t want to be the sort of person who acted that way or thought that way, ever!

  She stopped. Briefly, she closed her eyes. When she opened them, she looked at Ava and said, “My bad. I was being a jerk.” The next part was harder, but she forced the words out, reminding herself that lying to someone you loved was sometimes kinder than telling the truth—and that truth wasn’t her jam, anyway.

  “If it’s that important to you, I’ll try to have more of an open mind about Mama,” she said.

  “You will?” Ava said.

  “It’s just hard for me, because . . . I don’t know. Maybe I’m not as mature as you are about these things?”

  “Oh,” Ava said uncertainly.

  “Yeah. But I love you so much, Ava. Just, it would be really great if you could give me some space. Do you think you could do that? Please?”

  Ava twisted the bottom of her T-shirt between her fingers. “Um, sure?”

  Darya felt a pang. It killed her when Ava was so . . . Ava. So sweet and kind and innocent.

  “Good,” Darya said. “Thanks.”

  Ava gazed at her for a long moment before heading for the house.

  “I do love you!” Darya called.

  “Love you, too,” Ava echoed, taking odd, careful steps across the yard.

  Darya thought maybe Ava would glance over her shoulder to give Darya one last look, but she didn’t.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  As Darya’s Wishing Day ticked closer, Darya sensed that something inside her needed out. No, was demanding to get out. She had so many questions, and so few answers!

  If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?

  If a mother returns from GONE, is she really back?

  If a man once had a sister, and the sister disappeared . . . did the sister ever exist?

  You’re making things worse, not better, and it seems an awful lot like you’re feeling sorry for yourself, Darya told herself when these thoughts grew too loud. So quit it, or else . . . or else . . .

  She couldn’t come up with an “or else,” so she began to give herself challenges. Or punishments? Distractions, at any rate.

  Don’t touch anything brown for the entire day—but don’t let anyone notice. If someone notices, you have to start fresh the next day. No one did notice, which maybe was good, but annoyed Darya nonetheless.

  Don’t drink anything, including water from the water fountain, from the time the morning bell rings until after lunch. That one wasn’t as hard as Darya would have liked, although the Coke she swigged once the challenge was over tasted like heaven.

  Don’t go to the bathroom for any reason from the time the morning bell rings until after lunch. That one was dreadful. She should have skipped breakfast, and she certainly should have skipped the tall glass of orange juice. By hour four, she felt sure she was going to burst.

  Go to school with greasy hair, and too bad if people think you’ve let your standards drop. Don’t make excuses. Don’t talk about it at all. And no baseball caps or messy buns, either.

  Hold your breath for a minute. A minute and fifteen seconds. A minute and thirty seconds. Two minutes. (You’re almost there! Keep going! If you were actually drowning, if you were submerged beneath a sheet of ice, for example, then you’d have no choice but to keep going, wouldn’t you?)

  She didn’t make it to two minutes, though she lasted long enough that a white light filled her head and drove all other senses away.

  Not bad, she told herself, sucking in great gulps of air. Oxygen rushed through her, a zillion times sweeter than Coke.

  She told herself that these tests, these challenges, would prepare her for what was coming.

  Which was . . . ?

  She didn’t know.

  On rare occasions she sensed the possibility of knowing, as if the answer was there, but hiding, like a blackbird perched in shadows. But when she brought her hands together, the blackbird took flight, transformed into a blur of feathers.

  On a Monday near the end of October—three days now from her Wishing Day—she found herself so burdened by the mysteries of life that she could hardly function. Or perhaps it was the prior night’s challenge, which was to wake up every hour on the hour and do twenty-five jumping jacks, twenty-five sit-ups, and twenty-five push-ups. Life’s mysteries, moonlit calisthenics—both nearly unbearable.

  She dragged herself through the school day as best she could, discovering as she did that she really didn’t do well with sleep deprivation. She stubbed her toe repeatedly. She bumped into walls. She forgot to turn in assignments, and she was so addled that she somehow ended up going to Natasha’s English class instead of her own.

  She took a seat at the back of the room, puzzled to see Belinda Berry in the desk beside hers. Belinda Berry was fun and popular, the coolest of the cool. Since when was Belinda Berry in Darya’s English class?

  Then Darya saw Natasha walk into the room with Stanley—and they were holding hands. At school! In front of the universe and Belinda Berry and everyone!

  “Natasha!” Darya exclaimed.

  Natasha’s eyebrows flew up. “Darya? What are you doing here?”

  “What am I doing here? What are you . . . ?”

  She trailed off. Everyone stared at her, Natasha and Stanley included.

  “Are you an exchange student?” Belinda asked.

  “What?” Darya said. “No!” She got up so abruptly that her knee thwonked the bottom of the desk. A hollow boom reverberated around the room.

  “Belinda, that’s Darya Blok,” a girl named Katie said. “Natasha’s sister?”

  Darya fast-walked out of the room and down the hall. The heels of her boots went tock-tock-tock, like a Ping-Pong ball bouncing along the floor.

  Later, in her actual English class, Darya wondered what would happen if one day she stopped coming to school altogether. Would Belinda Berry notice, or would she revert to a reality in which Darya Blok had never existed?

  Maybe Belinda would decide that Natasha had made Darya up.

  Maybe, before Mama learned to keep her mouth shut about her onetime best friend, people thought Mama made Emily up. Who would believe her if she said that actually, and unfortunately, she’d unmade her?

  How was Darya supposed to love someone who did something so horrible?

  How could anyone love someone who did something so horrible?

  That evening, Darya brought her foul mood home with her and did her best to infest everyone else with it.

  At the end of their family dinner, Aunt Vera threw down her napkin in disgust. “Darya,
enough,” she said.

  “What?” Darya replied.

  “Whatever’s troubling you, figure it out,” Aunt Vera said. “It’s clear you’re in one of your moods again, but you need to quit inflicting it on the rest of us.”

  Papa frowned. “Is something troubling you, Darya?”

  “No,” Darya protested.

  He turned to Natasha. “Natasha? What’s going on?” He blinked and gazed around the table. “And where’s Elena? Wasn’t she . . . didn’t she . . . ?”

  “She’s at her apartment,” Natasha said, as if Papa were a child.

  “Papa knows she doesn’t live with us anymore,” Darya said angrily. “Just, she promised to keep having Sunday dinners with us. That’s what you’re talking about, right, Papa?”

  “But tonight’s not Sunday,” Natasha said.

  “So?!” Darya demanded.

  Papa looked from Natasha to Darya. He drew together his unruly eyebrows, which were threaded with gray. “I . . . I’m confused.”

  “Of course you are, because everyone in this family is confused,” Darya said. “Too bad, so sad.”

  “Darya!” Aunt Vera snapped. “You are acting disrespectful and rude, and your behavior is unacceptable. Go to your room now.”

  “Fine! Happy to!” Darya shot back, heat rising in her face. She shoved her chair away from the table, hating the fact that the people she loved most didn’t have a clue what she was feeling.

  Natasha pushed her chair back, too. She followed Darya to the bottom of the staircase and grabbed her shoulder, whipping her around.

  “Aunt Vera is already suspicious,” Natasha said under her breath. “Do you want her to figure things out? About Mama?”

  “What if I do? How is keeping her in the dark a better option? How is keeping Papa in the dark a better option?”

  “Mama needs to tell them herself.”

  “Then she should tell them! What’s stopping her?”

  “You are, Darya. You know that. You’re the only one who can fix things, and she’s waiting for you to tell her you will!”

  Aunt Vera poked her head into the hall and said, “Girls! No more bickering! Natasha, back to the table. Darya, up to your room.”

  She slept fitfully. The following morning, she woke up with her heart banging. The T-shirt she’d slept in was damp with sweat, and her covers were tangled and half-flung from the bed. She’d dreamed something terrible; she just knew it. Only, she couldn’t remember what.

  Her bad mood hung over her all day, and when she got home from school, all she wanted was to take a nap. Just as she was about to drift off, Ava knocked on her door.

  “What?” Darya snapped.

  Ava stepped into her bedroom. Her hairbrush hung from her hand. “You’re not mad at me, are you?”

  “What? No. Why would I be mad at you?”

  “I don’t know. But I don’t know why you’re mad at Natasha, either. Or your friends. Are you mad at your friends?”

  “Did you want something, Ava? Or are you just here to annoy me?”

  “Oh!” She held out her brush. “Will you give me a high ponytail?”

  “You want me to do your hair? Now? No, do it yourself.”

  “But you do it so much better,” Ava wheedled.

  “Because I care about stuff like that. You don’t.”

  “I do so.”

  “Since when?”

  Ava shuffled uncertainly.

  “Since when, Ava?”

  “Never mind. I guess I don’t need you to.”

  In a flash, Darya was up from her bed and had Ava by the wrist. “Ava? What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Nothing! Stop it! Just, I don’t want to be Bumpy Ava!”

  “Excuse me? Who’s Bumpy Ava? What’s a Bumpy Ava?”

  “It’s fromarmersettanatasha,” Ava said, cramming her words together.

  “What?”

  Ava took a breath. “Mama’s letter to Natasha. I didn’t mean to bring it up.”

  “But you did, so you have to explain. She called you ‘bumpy’?”

  “Not me. Molly.”

  “Molly as in Molly? Natasha’s best friend, Molly? Mama left notes for Natasha about Molly?”

  “Not the notes. I’m talking about the letter, the one she wrote before she disappeared.”

  “Oh, right,” Darya said, though this was the first she’d heard of any such letter. She felt wounded and embarrassed and . . . betrayed, but she tried not to show it.

  She let go of Ava, took the brush, and started brushing Ava’s hair. “Now I understand,” she said conversationally. “I don’t remember the Molly part, though.”

  “Well, in kindergarten, people used to call Molly ‘Bumpy Molly.’”

  “Oh yeah,” Darya said, jerking at a tangle. “Why was that, again?”

  “Ouch! Because Molly’s ponytail always had bumps in it. So I don’t want to be Bumpy Ava, that’s all.”

  “You won’t be, because I don’t do bumps,” Darya said. She gathered Ava’s hair in one hand. “Do you have a hair thingie?”

  Ava handed her a stretchy loop of ribbon with the word Gratitude written across it in swirly letters.

  She pulled Ava’s hair through the ribbon once, twice, and then half-through again. She left the ends of Ava’s hair trapped by the ribbon, creating a poufy loop of hair that dangled halfway down her back.

  “Hey,” Ava protested, reaching back to touch it.

  “It’s not bumpy,” Darya countered.

  Ava freed the ends and shook her hair so that the ponytail hung right, and the exchange made Darya’s chest loosen. It was because Darya, whenever she did Ava’s hair, always left a sneaky ponytail pouf, which Ava always immediately depoufed. Darya was comforted by the reminder that some things didn’t change.

  Ava admired herself in Darya’s mirror. “Thanks.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Darya said. She waved her off.

  Bumpy Molly, she mused. It was an odd story, because Molly wasn’t bumpy now. Molly took a lot of care with her appearance. In fact, hadn’t Molly called Natasha “Bumpy Natasha” at some point?

  Yes, she had!

  “Let me,” Darya recalled Molly insisting when she and Natasha were maybe ten and Darya was nine. Molly had undone Natasha’s ponytail and done it over. “You don’t want to be Bumpy Natasha.”

  Natasha had blushed—and remembering it made Darya blush.

  Why? It wasn’t as if Molly had called Darya “Bumpy Darya.”

  Anyway, who cared about being “bumpy”?

  Well, lots of people. Girls, at any rate.

  But why would Mama include something like that in a letter she wrote eight years ago? And why would Ava know about it, but not Darya?

  Darya strode out of her room and down the hall. She barged into Natasha’s room.

  “Hey!” Natasha protested.

  “Did Mama write you a letter before she left?” Darya asked.

  “Yeah. So?”

  “Did you let Ava read it?”

  Natasha looked uncomfortable. “No, but I told her about it. Why?”

  “Because you should have told me about it, too. If you told Ava, you have to tell me.”

  “Actually, I don’t,” Natasha said. “It’s my letter, so I get to decide what to do with it. You can decide what to do with your own letter.”

  Silence deafened the room.

  The color drained from Natasha’s face.

  “Mama left two letters?” Darya said.

  Natasha tried to speak. It came out croaky. “Three, actually. One for me, one for you, one for Ava. But we’re supposed to read them on the exact day of our Wishing Day, and not before. We aren’t allowed to read them before.”

  “How interesting,” Darya said, adrenaline surging through her. “But if it’s my letter, then I get to decide. Isn’t that what you said?” She held out her hand. “Give it to me.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “No,” Natasha said. “Your Wishing Day isn’t till Thursday.”
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  “Two whole days away,” Darya said. “Big whup.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, but I’m going to follow the rules.”

  “Who made you the big boss? Did you read yours on your exact Wishing Day?” Darya sketched a rough timeline in her head, based on what Natasha had told her. “You couldn’t have, because . . . wait, how did you even know about these letters? You didn’t start talking to Mama till after your Wishing Day.”

  “Okay, but if I’d known about her letter beforehand, I’d have followed her instructions and read it when she said to.”

  “Why?”

  “What do you mean, why? Because that’s what she wanted.”

  “Would you have changed your wishes? Would you not have wished for Mama to come back?”

  Visibly, Natasha tried to regroup. “Besides, Mama wanted Papa to give them to us. I’m not supposed to be the one.”

  Natasha’s strategic skills needed some work, Darya thought. “Did Papa give you yours?” she asked, adopting a fake-puzzled tone.

  “Yes, actually!”

  “Really? He just up and gave it to you? Or did you go to him and say, ‘Hey, Papa, did Mama by any chance leave a letter for me way long ago? ’Cause if so, I kinda need it, please.’”

  Natasha folded her arms over her chest. Her nostrils flared.

  From down the hall came the sound of Ava’s raised voice. She was addressing a bird—no, scolding a bird.

  “You need to share with that little bird, you big meanie bird!” Darya heard her little sister say. She was no doubt standing in front of her window, hands on her hips and eyes blazing. It wouldn’t be the first time she gave a blue jay—or cat or puppy or squirrel—a piece of her mind. “Sharing is caring!”

  Natasha grimaced and rose from her bed. “Let’s go outside.”

  “So we can get my letter?”

  “So we can hear each other talk.”

  Darya grabbed her army jacket and trailed Natasha to the backyard, where yellow and orange leaves covered the ground. The wind stirred among the trees, sending more leaves fluttering down as Aunt Vera came out of the house with a bag of trash. She spotted Natasha and Darya and gave a brisk nod.

  “It’s about time you two sorted things out,” she called.