She squints at the mess. “Reupholstering peacocks?”
“Costume adjustments for the summer dance recital.” I wad the turquoise and fuchsia scraps into a ball and drop cross-legged before her. “So what’s up?”
“Marco Mysterioso crashed on my couch last night.”
I’m suddenly awake. “Oh good. Oh yeah. We were worried. How did that . . . Did he call you or something?”
“Showed up at Jelly’s last night all hot and bothered.” I must’ve made a face, because Kaylee quickly rephrases. “All sweaty and rambling.”
“Yeah, he, um, he had a shock.”
“You wanna tell me about the bracelet?” she asks.
And like that, my leotard’s too snug and my tights are itchy. The world has become entirely too uncomfortable. “Wh-What did Marco say?”
“Nothing coherent. He was rambling. Delia took pity on him—I think she’s crushing on him, to be honest.”
“Delia?”
“Yeah, well, in a platonic, he’s-a-cute-kid kind of way. She’s always liked the tall, thin ones. Anyway, she force-fed him coffee and gyros, but he was going on and on about darkness and evil deeds, so she bundled him into her car and took him away from the customers. When I got home last night, he was curled on the corner of the couch staring at that journal he’s had surgically attached to his hand.”
“It’s Ali’s,” I say quietly.
“I figured. Look, he said something else when I got home.”
“About the . . . about my . . . bracelet?”
“He said it made him see things.”
My pulse pounds against my temples, against the skin of my throat. I feel it in my hands and feet.
“Did he say what he saw?” I ask, my voice rough and shaky.
“You. On fire.”
Kay lives with her Aunt Delia. Her parents live in town, but they’re, well, lost souls, I guess. When we were younger, elementary school age, they were in and out of jail so often Delia set up a room for Kay at her place. Eventually she just never moved out.
Her parents are around—always at birthday parties and family affairs, usually inappropriately clothed or looking for cash—but they can’t seem to get it together enough to really be there in any permanent way.
So, Kay has Delia.
Delia’s given her a home and stability.
And Kay . . . well, Kay’s given Delia someone to mother and quite a lot of messes to clean up.
The two of them live in a little house off of Main on a grassy lot between the train station and the high school. Years and years ago the place was painted bright green. It’s faded now, the paint peeling away from the wood siding. But instead of the house looking run-down, it has a homey, broken-in feel. The front door is my absolute favorite. The green walls chip and peel, the weather doing its thing, and Delia hardly notices, but every single year she repaints that front door. It’s bright blue, sky blue really. Like all those pictures you see of houses in Greece. Whenever I stand on her front doorstep I feel like I’m traveling to far-off places. Exotic places. With Kaylee as my tour guide.
And then there are the wind chimes. Metal and wood, both extravagant and trite—they hang in droves from the eaves around the house. When I was little I had trouble falling asleep at Delia’s. Between the trains shaking the house and the chimes responding with their exuberant jangle, I took to sleeping with earbuds jammed in my ears.
Once, though, when Delia noticed my struggle, she plopped down on Kaylee’s bed and told us a story about pixies and their jingling songs. I didn’t struggle so much after that.
Pixies.
I like that idea.
It gives the place an almost dream-like quality. Suitable for Kaylee, who’s always dreamed of far-off places.
The disaster of her childhood brought her here. To a home far more ideal and suitable for her than the place she was born into. I ponder that now as I stand on the stoop, Jake’s hand in mine. The wind is still, the chimes silent. I tap a metal ladybug hanging by the door. Her wings bump a butterfly’s, which in turn knocks a neighboring chime full of ceramic tea cups. Soon I’m surrounded by the song of pixies.
I don’t even have to knock. Delia opens the door, her face somber. It feels like we’re visiting a funeral home, and after my night at the cemetery, it’s an image I’d rather not encourage.