The Backward Season

  “I have to go back to the past and make sure you stay out of my mom’s business,” Ava stated.

  “I think you do, yes.”

  “Make sure you stay out of everybody’s business.” Her breath caught. “Except—crud. You’re meddling in my business right now!”

  “Meddling . . . or clarifying?” asked the Bird Lady. She sounded tired. She sounded, for the first time, like the old lady she was. “I’ve thought about this for over twenty years, pet. And I’ve stayed out of other girls’ business in the meantime.”

  Ava thought hard. She turned everything she knew around and around in her head. She had come up with this idea, not the Bird Lady. Knowing what the Bird Lady told her would help her, almost assuredly.

  “And someone else will help you as well,” the Bird Lady said.

  Ava stiffened. “I thought you said you no longer . . . Are you . . . are you looking into my soul?”

  “No, pet. The soul of the world, perhaps. The soul of my mistakes? But not your soul, no.”

  Ava was sucked into a memory—only it wasn’t a memory, because it was of something that hadn’t happened yet. She saw herself standing at the lake at City Park. She saw another girl standing beside her. She gasped.

  “Tally?” she said to the Bird Lady.

  “She’s another piece of the puzzle, isn’t she?”

  “She is,” Ava said. She took a deep in-breath. “Are you saying that Tally’s going to help me?”

  “I think so, if you ask her. I hope so.”

  An idea flared to life in Ava’s brain, a brilliant idea. “You have to tell me a secret,” she instructed the Bird Lady. “Something you’ve never told anyone before.”

  “What in the world for?”

  “So that you’ll take me seriously,” Ava explained. “When I go to you in the past. When I tell you to stop messing around with other girls’ wishes.”

  The Bird Lady nodded, impressed. She thought for a moment, then told Ava again about how her mother had died soon after she turned thirteen.

  “After your birthday, but before your Wishing Day,” Ava said.

  The Bird Lady gazed at her hands, which were very wrinkled. “Before she died, she took my hands—these hands—and pulled me close. She told me she loved me, and that there was no such thing as ‘normal.’” Her voice broke. “She told me that ‘normal’ was overrated, anyway.”

  The Bird Lady took Ava’s hands. “The very last thing she said to me . . .”

  “Yes?”

  The Bird Lady pulled Ava toward her. She whispered into Ava’s ear.

  “Oh!” Ava said, tears springing to her eyes. “That’s so—”

  “Shhh,” the Bird Lady said. “Shhh, now.”

  She shooed Ava toward the wisteria that hid the hollow of the tree from the rest of the world. “Go on. Be brave. Be yourself. And remember that you’re doing this not just for your mother, but for Tally’s mother as well. Daughters need their mothers, and mothers need their daughters.”

  “What about you? Will you be . . . ?”

  “I’ll be fine,” the Bird Lady said. For a moment, she looked pensive. Then she found a smile and lifted her hand in farewell.

  Ava pushed herself up and ducked out from within the hollow. Glass soda bottles clinked in her wake, and the smell of leaves and rain and earth greeted her as she straightened to her full height.

  Behind her, purple wisteria vines swayed.

  Purple, though they were named for the color blue.

  I wish Klara Kosrov would notice me.

  —NATHANIEL BLOK, AGE FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Emily, Age Thirteen

  When Emily reached the lake with her art supplies, including the new pencils Nate had given her for her birthday, she spotted Klara Kosrov curled on one of the bench swings situated around the park. Klara, who shared her birthday. Klara, whose sister Emily had seen roller-skating.

  Klara was reading a book. She was barefoot, and her long hair gleamed in the sun.

  Emily paused. Should she go to Klara? Wish her happy birthday? She grew shy, and instead sat on the grass near the water. She sketched for a bit. She was happy. A shadow fell over her, and when she looked up and saw Klara standing in front of her, she grew even happier.

  “Emily, hi,” Klara said. She wore cutoffs and a white camisole. A pale pink bra strap curved across her upper arm. She hooked it with her index finger and pulled it back into place. “Can I join you?”

  “Sure,” Emily said.

  Klara dropped to the grass, leaning back on her palms and offering herself to the sun. “Happy birthday,” she said with a grin.

  “And to you as well,” Emily replied. She grinned, too.

  Ripples on the lake glittered. Starlings called out from whispering leaves. Emily knew it was crazy, but she felt the oddest conviction that somehow, she and Klara were occupying a sliver of time untethered from the bonds of seconds and minutes and hours. Or maybe . . . was all of time untethered by seconds, minutes, and hours?

  Maybe humans chose to count out time on their watches and clocks, and so time obliged, arranging itself into past, present, and future.

  But what if, in reality, time was time was time?

  She caught Klara looking at her funny and blushed.

  “I get spacey sometimes,” she said. “Sorry.”

  “No worries,” said Klara. “It’s part of your charm.”

  Emily blushed harder.

  “I’m kidding!” Klara said. “I mean, I’m not, but it’s not a bad thing. It’s cute.”

  “Great. I’m charmingly spacey.” Emily nodded, determined to let it go at that and not dig herself any deeper. She asked Klara what book she’d been reading—The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, one of Emily’s favorites—and they talked about how cool the idea of alternate realities was.

  They moved on to other subjects, and gradually Emily relaxed. Then Klara pulled out a bottle of nail polish and asked if Emily would paint her nails, which made Emily nervous all over again.

  “Are you serious?” Emily asked.

  “Since you’re so good at art,” Klara said. “Please?”

  “Being good at art means being good at painting nails?”

  “I’m not suggesting you grow up to be a manicurist. Just . . .” Klara giggled. “When I paint my own nails, I do a crappy job. Anyone could do a better job than I could.”

  “Oh. I feel so much better,” said Emily. She laughed at Klara’s stricken expression and untwisted the lid of the polish. “Kidding. Yes, I’ll paint your nails. I might do a crappier job than you, though. I’ve never done this before.”

  As Emily brushed pale pink polish onto Klara’s fingernails, Klara offered random commentary about various dramas going on at school. Every so often, Emily said “hmm.” She’d learned it was best if she stayed out of stuff like that.

  Emily coated Klara’s left pinky nail with polish, and that was that. All ten fingernails done.

  “Nice,” Klara said, splaying her fingers.

  Using the knuckle of her thumb, Klara tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She fanned her fingers through the air and returned to talking about school.

  “Another thing that drives me crazy,” she said. “Have you heard girls say things like, ‘I don’t have any female friends. I’m only friends with guys’? And they say it like they’re bragging?”

  Emily had overheard plenty of girls going on and on about how awful girls were, when they, themselves, were girls. She nodded.

  “I do not want to be one of those girls,” said Klara adamantly. “Ever.”

  “Me neither,” said Emily. A hum in her mind clued her in that Klara wasn’t making random conversation. Klara was leading up to something.

  “Klara, are you okay?” she asked.

  Immediately, she scolded herself. No. She was not to follow through on the feelings she got, the vibrations or thoughts or messages or whatever. She’d made a pledge to leave people’s business to themselves w
ay back in elementary school. She’d done a pretty good job, with occasional slips.

  Mainly, the slips had been minor and could be glossed over. Only two instances stood out as reminders that she needed to stay vigilant. Not just for the sake of others, but for her sake, too.

  Blurting out loud to a woman on the street that maybe she should quit smoking had made the woman’s day (and possibly the rest of her life) awfully complicated, for example.

  “What?” the woman had said, affronted. “As if I asked for your permission, little miss.”

  “It’s just . . . the baby,” Emily’d said. And then she’d realized that the woman didn’t know about the baby. That the woman’s husband didn’t know about the baby, either.

  “Pregnant? You’re pregnant, Monica?” he’d said, going pale. “But . . . I’ve been overseas for eleven months.”

  Emily wondered what had happened with that family. Did they stay a family? Did Monica have the baby? Did Monica stop smoking?

  And John Blasingame, whose father beat him. He’d left Willow Hill in the sixth grade, slamming everything from his desk into a heavy-duty garbage bag without making eye contact with anyone.

  “We’re sorry to see you go, John,” their teacher had said.

  He’d grunted. Emily had seen the bruises on his arms, despite his long-sleeved shirts. He’d kept his head ducked, but thoughts and images from him came at her hard and fast.

  A tall woman with a clipboard standing in a dismal living room. A beat-up sofa, a tattooed man with belligerent eyes.

  Child protection services. The best interest of your son.

  Get out of my house, or I’ll shoot you for trespassing.

  Emily hadn’t intervened, not that time. She hadn’t messed up by saying something she shouldn’t have. The memory of John’s last day in Willow Hill was painful for a different reason. What if she had spoken up, back in third grade? Nagged John until he’d gone to the teacher, or what if she had gone to the teacher herself? Might things have ended up differently?

  Still, the rule Emily tried to follow was to stay out of people’s minds as best she could. If people chose to share things with her, fine. Otherwise, her policy was to plug her ears and shut her eyes and go la la la.

  “Never mind,” Emily said to Klara, trying to take back her prying question. “None of my business.”

  “It’s no big deal,” Klara said. She looked at Emily speculatively. “But how’d you know something was wrong?”

  “Uh . . . I . . .”

  Klara moved on without her. She made a wry expression, placing her hands on her thighs and taking care with her nails. “Only, it would be nice to just cut through all that crap. The drama, the posturing, all of it.”

  “Girl drama, you mean?”

  Klara laughed. “Girl drama. Yeah.” She hesitated, and Emily knew, once again, that she was working up to something. Emily kept her face neutral.

  “I could be mistaken,” Klara said, “but I have the feeling you’re someone who could do that.”

  “Do what?”

  Klara bit her bottom lip. “Just . . . not be shallow all the time.”

  “I hope I’m not shallow. I don’t want to be.”

  “That’s the thing! I don’t think you are!” Klara said fervently. “Like in fifth grade? With that Holly girl?”

  Emily wrinkled her nose. Holly, who wore loads of eyeliner and her ironic plaid skirts. Who told Emily that her parents’ divorce was Emily’s fault, regardless of what her parents might or might not have claimed.

  “She was a jerk, but you were nice to her,” Klara said.

  “You remember that?”

  Klara shrugged.

  “Holly wasn’t the greatest,” Emily agreed. “But underneath, she seemed sad. People act mean for all sorts of reasons.”

  “See?” Klara said. “A shallow person wouldn’t have said that. A shallow person would have said, ‘Holly was a turd. I hope she gets stomped on in a tragic camel stampede.’”

  Emily gave her a look.

  “Omigosh. Now you’re worried about Holly and camels, aren’t you?”

  “I’m not!” Emily said.

  “Protest if you must, but I read you like a book. You, Emily Blok, are genuinely concerned about Holly’s risk of camel-trampling, which makes it official: You are a good person.”

  Emily felt warm with pleasure. “I’m . . . just me. But thanks.” She paused. “I don’t want you or Holly to get trampled by a camel. For the record.”

  “For the record, Holly’s on her own when the stampeding starts. I’ll pull you to freedom, though.”

  “Thank you.”

  Klara leaned forward, laughing and hiding her head with her hands. When she pulled her hands away, her fingernails remained as flawless as ten perfect seashells.

  “Do you ever wonder why we are who we are?” she asked. “Like, why I’m me and you’re you. Why we exist at this exact moment in time?”

  Emily felt a tingling sensation all over her body, like the fluttering of tiny honeybee wings. She thought of fireflies and stars and how bright the moon glowed on clear, cold nights. She held Klara’s gaze and thought of magic. Klara’s eyes widened, telling Emily that she felt it, too.

  Energy hummed between them, weaving their souls together, and Emily didn’t stick her fingers in her ears and go la la la.

  Friends, thought Emily. The word felt exotic. Klara and I are going to be friends.

  Her prediction was slightly off, as it turned out. She and Klara weren’t going to be friends. They already were. It happened in a heartbeat,

  just

  like

  that.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Ava

  On the third day of the third month of Ava’s thirteenth year, Ava awoke to the smell of bacon. Bacon and pancakes to celebrate Ava’s Wishing Day, along with syrup and mini-marshmallows, which Aunt Vera strongly disapproved of.

  “Such a sweet tooth,” she tutted, passing the bowl of tiny marshmallows to Ava. “Where did you get that from? Certainly not from me.”

  Aunt Elena joined them for breakfast, which was lovely, but which highlighted the fact that Mama stayed away.

  At least Angela stayed away, too, Ava thought. She told herself that Papa understood that Wishing Days were for members of the family, and she chose to find hope in the fact that he honored that. She told herself that he must still long for Mama. Angela couldn’t replace her. No one could.

  The meal was a mishmash of happy banter and sticky syrup fingers. Everyone fussed over Ava, and when Aunt Vera refused to let the girls help clean up the dishes, they happily obliged. Natasha led them to the rope swing Papa had made, which had a wooden plank to sit on. Mama used to love the swing. She still would, if she were here.

  And she will be, Ava told herself firmly.

  Natasha and Darya allowed Ava to sit on the swing since this was her special day. Natasha pushed her from behind, and Darya, standing in front of Ava, return-pushed her in the opposite direction, pressing her hands to Ava’s bare feet and shoving. She felt like their plaything as they passed her back and forth. As they outlined their plan for how and when Ava would carry out the ritual of her Wishing Day, she felt even more so.

  “We’ll climb to the top of Willow Hill as soon as the moon comes out,” said Natasha.

  “All three of us,” said Darya. “I don’t think we need the aunts. Do you, Natasha?”

  “I don’t think we should bother Mama, either,” said Natasha, and the way she phrased it stung. A mother should want to be there for her daughter’s Wishing Day. It shouldn’t be “a bother.” But if Natasha and Darya were going along with the group lie, who was Ava to break rank?

  “Once we’re at the top of the hill, we’ll let you go to the willow tree by yourself,” Natasha went on. “But we’ll stay close. Ten feet away.”

  “And you know what to do, right?” asked Darya. “Touch the bark and make your wishes?”

  “Sounds good,” Ava said.


  It did, in theory. Just, Ava had her own plan already in place. For hers to work, she had to agree with her sisters. She had to go along with their assumption that she’d carry out her Wishing Day the way they’d carried out theirs, at the ancient willow at the top of Willow Hill. That she’d touch the bark, close her eyes . . . do everything just like they’d done it, as if that were the law.

  It wasn’t. Girls could make their Wishing Day wishes however they wanted. For Ava’s sisters, as well as Mama, Aunt Vera, and Aunt Elena, as well as their mother before them and so on, making their wishes at the willow tree was a time-honored tradition. But sometimes traditions had to be broken, because sometimes cycles needed to broken.

  Ava felt guilty for misleading Natasha and Darya, but only slightly. They were pushing her around, literally—and why?

  Because they saw her as a baby.

  She considered what Aunt Elena had said, about how Natasha, Darya, and Ava were a unit, and that one day Ava might miss being treated like the baby. Not today.

  “Will you two please stop pushing me?” she said. “If I don’t quit swinging, I’m going to faint.”

  When they didn’t comply, she said, “Or throw up. If you don’t stop pushing me, I’ll throw up. I mean it.”

  Natasha grabbed the ropes and stilled the swing, and Ava hopped off. The world swayed.

  “You are the best sisters in the world,” she said as she headed across the yard. “Thanks for everything!”

  “Where are you going?” Darya called, exasperated.

  “For a walk, just to think about things. I’ll be back!”

  “Think about what?” asked Darya. “What you’re going to wish for?”

  “Uh-huh,” Ava replied without turning around.

  “That’s good,” Natasha said, always the oldest sister. “Just remember: You can’t wish for anything foolish or dangerous or whatever. You can’t go against me on this, Ava. I love you too much to risk letting you get hurt.”

  “Uh-huh!” Ava repeated.

  “Believe it or not, I do too,” Darya said. “Would you turn around?”

  Ava stopped, took a breath, and turned around. She pasted on a compliant-little-sister look of confusion. “Yeah?”