in the sun I’m still pale, my arms an unbroken stretch of freckled white until you get to the wine-colored birthmark. This dress is a lot more clothing than the bathing suit I wear to swim meets, of course, but when I’m in my bathing suit I don’t think about looking good. It’s just functional. My eyes prick as embarrassment floods my veins, and I wish I had something to wrap around me. Like a parka. “I don’t—I think it’s too revealing on top,” I stammer.
“Oh, honey, not at all. You have a wonderful upper body. You’re like a Greek goddess! We’ll pull your hair into a twist, give you some amazing drop earrings, and you’ll be the belle of the ball.”
“My cousin will be,” I say. I’m not jealous. It’s just fact.
Oona pats my arm. “Your cousin is beautiful. But so are you. Anyone who can’t see that isn’t worth your time.”
I try to see the dress like she seems to. It’s a great color, definitely. There’s just one beaded strap, which runs across my right shoulder and down the bodice. The dress is fitted, which I usually try to avoid, but the fabric is so rich—some kind of heavy silk, I think—that it flows across my body a lot better than my cheap prom dress did.
“You need the right accessories, of course,” Oona says. “Linda?” She raises her voice. “Could you grab a pair of the sapphire drop earrings? And one of those mother-of-pearl haircombs we just got in. Let’s try to re-create the final styling as best we can.”
“My ears aren’t pierced,” I say.
“Clip earrings, Linda!” Oona calls.
I blink at myself. You wouldn’t be a swimmer if you took after the Storys, my father used to say. My mother and sister could never build up that sort of arm strength. They’re far too delicate. I always took that as a subtle insult, which it probably was. A backhanded reminder that the Storys are special, ethereal, and too precious for this world. But I’m tired of hearing Dad’s voice, and Thomas’s, running through my head every time I look in the mirror. Every time I do anything. Maybe it’s time to start listening to someone else.
I meet Oona’s kind dark eyes as she loops her arm through mine and squeezes lightly. “I wouldn’t steer you wrong, Aubrey. I promise. This is beyond lovely on you.”
I still hate my reflection, but the more I look at it, the more it seems like I’m looking into a fun house mirror—a distorted image that doesn’t reflect reality. I don’t know how to see beyond it, yet, but I want to try.
“I’ll take it,” I tell Oona.
We’re too early for Dr. Baxter’s funeral on Wednesday because someone—thanks, Aubrey—insisted we leave an hour early. It took two minutes to get downtown, and they’re not letting anyone into the church yet. So Aubrey drags us, sweating in our funeral clothes, to the air-conditioned Gull Cove Island Library a few blocks away.
“We could’ve gone somewhere that serves coffee,” Milly mutters, dropping her purse onto an empty table. She’s wearing a sleek black dress and heels, her hair pulled back into a high ponytail. Aubrey is in the same dress she wore to brunch on Sunday. I brought nothing appropriate for a funeral and had to borrow a button-down shirt and a pair of khakis from Efram. The pants are too short, and the shirt is just a little too tight. Every time I move my arms, I feel like a button’s about to pop.
“I want to look something up,” Aubrey says, scanning the room until her eyes land on a row of big, blocky monitors. “Did you know that back issues of the Gull Cove Gazette are only online since 2006?”
“I neither knew nor cared,” Milly says, at the same time as I say, “Yeah.”
Aubrey cocks her head at me, and I shrug. “I used their website to research your family before I left. There’s not much about your parents in the past fifteen years, though.”
“Right,” Aubrey nods. “So I need a microfilm machine.” She heads for the monitors, and Milly and I follow, bemused.
“A what?” I ask.
“Microfilm,” Aubrey says, looping the strap of her handbag across a chair in front of the nearest monitor. “It’s, like, pictures of old newspaper articles.”
“They’re inside that machine?” I ask. It looks like a 1980s computer.
She laughs and opens the middle drawer of a towering file cabinet. “No, they’re stored on reels in here. I have