for him to show up unannounced; their house had kind of an open-door policy.
Fortunately or unfortunately, that open-door policy also extended to their students, who occasionally came over for help with essays, answers to questions about their assignments, or a quiet place to read when the library was crowded. Everett had become so used to this as a child that it was somewhat comforting to walk into the foyer and see a random early-twentysomething sitting in a ratty armchair.
The man looked up at Everett expectantly, and Everett found himself in the position of introducing himself to a stranger in his parents’ house.
“Hi, I’m Everett,” he said, holding out a hand. “Miranda and Dave’s son.”
The man’s face broke into a huge smile and he stood up, dropping his book on the floor. “Everett! I’m Rob. Oh, our class has heard so much about you!”
“All good things, I hope,” Everett said.
“Sometimes!” Rob said brightly.
Everett frowned. “Uh, do you know where my family is?”
“Miranda’s around here somewhere. Dave’s in the kitchen—it’s pancake night! And the little one . . .” He trailed off.
Everett stifled a smile.
“She’s sort of terrifying, you know?” Rob said, sitting back down. “I think she went to her room. I tried to ask her a question about Frozen and she . . .”
“Did she fix you with a withering glare?” Everett supplied.
Rob pointed at him. “Yes. That is exactly how I would describe it.”
“Sounds like Gretel. Nice to meet you,” Everett said as he headed up the wooden stairs, lined with a faded now-beige runner.
“See you at dinner!” Rob called.
Everett hadn’t been in Gretel’s room in ages (it was the kind of place you needed an invitation to get in, and he wasn’t on the list), but he climbed the second (dark, foreboding, creaky) set of stairs up to the turret.
He knocked on the door three times, then waited for a response.
Eventually, he heard Gretel’s voice. “Yes?” she asked skeptically. How a child could sound skeptical in one word and through a door, Everett didn’t know, but Gretel managed it.
“It’s me.”
“You’re going to have to be more specific.”
He sighed. “It’s Everett. Your brother. You know, tall, good-looking, beautiful hair—”
The door swung open and Everett looked down to see Gretel’s bored expression. “Ugh. Stop.”
“So, uh, what’s going on?” Everett asked.
“Why are you in my room?” Gretel asked, eyes narrowed.
Everett tilted his head. “Technically I’m not in your room, because you haven’t invited me in yet. Kinda rude, frankly. Maybe Mom and Dad should send you to charm school.”
Gretel rolled her eyes and stepped back, allowing Everett to walk in. He let out a childlike “Whoa” as he took in his surroundings.
It was a small room and shaped like, well, a turret, but Gretel had packed it to the gills. Bookshelves took up half the wall under the windows, and they appeared to be stacked two books deep. Twinkle lights hung from the ceiling, shining in the dusk. Glow-in-the-dark stars were stuck on the ceiling, a detail so mundane that Everett could almost pretend his sister was any other twelve-year-old. Her bed, of course, was neatly made, and he could see the indent of where she’d been sitting, right next to a stack of books.
“Wow,” he said, turning around to take everything in. “It looks . . . different than it did the last time I was in here.”
“You mean when I was a toddler?” Gretel asked dryly, sitting back down on the bed. “Yes, there’s no longer a changing table.”
Everett shook his head while looking at her. “They grow up and learn how to control their own bladders so fast.”
Gretel wrinkled her nose. “Did you come up here to talk to me about childhood incontinence?”
“No, actually,” Everett said, bending down to look at the bookshelf. Classics. Essay collections. Poetry. He could feel Gretel cringe as he pulled out a book. “I’m putting it back carefully.” He looked at her as he slid the book back onto the shelf.
“Ev!” she shrieked, jumping off the bed. “You’re not even looking at what you’re doing. These are alphabetized.”
She grabbed the book, and he put his hands in the air. “Sorry. Wow. Didn’t realize you had a system.”
“Everybody has a system,” she huffed, her arms crossed.
“Okay, well . . . have you heard of the Alice series? By, um . . .”
Everett started to pull his phone out of his pocket to look at Theodora’s email, but Gretel asked, “Phyllis Reynolds Naylor? Yes, I know it.”
Everett paused. “Really?”
“Mom gave me the whole series when