that Plato gets to spend more time with you than I do, but I’ll get over it.” His eyes sparkle as he takes a bite.
“Plato and I are through.” Embarrassed, I quickly change the subject before he can comment. Motioning toward the roof, I say, “How’s it going?”
“Okay, but it’s warm today.” He tugs at his collar. “I was actually roasting up there.”
“I’m sure it’s warmer if you’re working,” I say.
“Yeah. It’s hard to believe it was snowing just over a week ago.” He takes another bite of his sandwich, chews, and swallows. Narrowing his eyes, Ty says, “What did you mean about Plato?”
In a smug voice, I say, “I finished. You are looking at a high school graduate.”
His eyes widen. “Just like that? You don’t have to take a test or anything?”
“Nope. Just like that.” I snap my fingers, feeling different—free.
He beams. “What are you doing this weekend to celebrate?”
“Does taking Cookie to the vet first thing Saturday morning qualify as a celebration?”
“You and your mom don’t have plans?” Ty asks, frowning.
“No.” I glance away, certain my voice revealed my pathetic disappointment about Mom’s apparent indifference.
“Come here.” Ty sets his sandwich on the patio table, takes my hand, and draws me nearer to the cabin where Mom can’t see us. I back up to the wall, and he kisses me. “I’d like to take you out tomorrow night, graduate,” he says, the low vibration of his voice scattering goose bumps up my arms.
“I’d like that.” I wipe a smudge of dirt off his cheekbone with my finger and smile. “I hope you’ll clean up first, though,” I tease.
Ty’s lunch break ends too soon. He goes back to work, and I go inside. Late in the afternoon when he leaves, Mom surprises me by heading for the couch instead of the workshop. She curls up under a blanket and stares blankly at the television until it’s time for dinner. I offer to bring her a bowl of soup, but she doesn’t want anything. She hasn’t eaten all day.
Iris comes out of hiding and nudges me. I don’t need any persuading, though. If I’m ever going to ask Mom about Winterhaven, it may as well be now. There’s not ever going to be a good time, and I’m tired of waiting.
“Mom?” Bringing my own bowl of soup into the living room, I set it on the coffee table and sit down on the floor with my legs crossed. “Have we ever been to Winterhaven, Massachusetts?”
She pushes onto her elbow. “Winterhaven? Why do you ask?”
“I found a slip of paper in Dad’s workshop with Winterhaven, Massachusetts, written on it.” Which isn’t entirely a lie. She doesn’t need to know that I wrote it.
“What were you doing in the workshop?” she asks, the accusatory tone back.
Scrambling for a reason, I say, “Ty needed a tool.”
“I had him take your father’s tool chest out of the workshop his first day here. He’s supposed to be keeping it in the storage shed.”
“He is, but whatever he needed wasn’t in there.” I can tell by Mom’s expression that she doesn’t believe me, but I don’t care. I won’t let her suspicions distract me. “Have we been to Winterhaven?” I ask again.
She hesitates, then says, “We flew to Massachusetts once when you were a baby. To Boston. We were on vacation and rented a car. We might’ve driven through Winterhaven—we passed through a lot of small towns.”
I wonder if the memory I have of the dock and the lake could have taken place on that trip. I start to question her further about it, but I can’t do it when I notice that her hands are shaking as she pulls the quilt higher to cover her shoulders. I have a feeling it’s fear making them tremble. The same fear I see in her face.
Mom moves from the couch to her bedroom at ten o’clock when the news comes on. I wait until Cookie falls asleep, then go to my sock drawer and take out the spare keys Wyatt made me. Rubbing the metal of one key between my forefinger and thumb, I try to talk myself into going out to the workshop.
Of course, Iris is all for it, encouraging me with tantalizing words: Everything’s tied to the violin. To the music. I feel it.
The music? I don’t understand, I tell her.
But I know by now that Iris doesn’t understand, either. Whatever she’s channeling, it’s only arriving in snatches.