I didn’t speak.
“For Mother, if not for ourselves,”
she said. She was holding my pinkie tightly in hers. I hated to think it and certainly wasn’t going to say it, but to get through this dinner and this night, she was right. I shook our pinkies, and she let go of mine.
“Now, let me tell you all about it,” she said, pulling her legs up so she was in a lotus position, the way we sat whenever we were talking intimately with each other in her room or mine. She patted the bed, and I sat. “There’s this boy in the nuthouse. We both call it that. Neither of us cares how it makes us look, which was one of the first things that attracted me to him. His name is Cedar Thomas. Can you imagine anyone naming their son after a tree?
“He’s half Cherokee, and it comes from one of their legends describing how God created night and day. The people first asked that there be no night, but that got them exhausted, so they asked for no day, and that caused them to starve, from lack of crops. Many died. So then they said it was all a mistake, and God created night and day. He felt bad about the dead, so he created the cedar tree and put the spirits of all the dead in it. So when they smell a cedar, they smell their ancestors. That’s pretty neat, right?”
“Yes,” I said, impressed. “But why is he there?”
“He tried to kill his little brother because he thought he saw an evil spirit in him,” she said with stunning nonchalance.
“Saw an evil spirit in him? How?”
“Cedar was into some crazy stuff like peyote. But he’s so sexy-looking. He has these onyx-black eyes and a kind of olive complexion, with ebony hair he keeps long, down to his shoulders. They wouldn’t dare cut it. He’s very proud of his Indian heritage and keeps himself in great shape. He talks a lot about the aura around people. He says an ancient medicine man taught him how to see it. Fascinating, right? We spend every free hour together. It’s hard to do much more than talk, because everyone’s watching you breathe,” she said, her voice full of frustration. “He hates one of the attendants because he calls him Chief. We play around and plan how we’d like to kill him. Just kidding,” she added quickly. “But remember, it’s better to release your aggression in nonviolent ways. He pumps iron. I’ve done some great work in arts and crafts.
“He couldn’t go home for Thanksgiving,” she concluded. “That’s why I’m not so terribly upset about going right back. Don’t tell Mother any of this.” She paused, but before I could say a word, she added, “You look good. You look . . . older. You have something to tell me, too, don’t you?”
“I like the school. It’s called Littlefield.”
“Yes, Daddy told me. Not too snobby?”
“I get along with the girls I want to get along with.”
“And? Come on. I told you my secret. Tell me something no one knows.”
“It’s not a secret. I’ve been seeing one boy.”
“Good. Let’s hear about that. He’s not coming here for Thanksgiving, is he? I mean, I hope he is.”
“No. He has a family, Haylee.”
“Right.” She shrugged. “Some other time, maybe. So? Don’t just sit there like Buddha, Kaylee. Talk.”
How much should I tell her? I wondered. My memory of our sharing secrets and dreams was somewhere inside a fog. Too much had happened for me simply to return to the comfort we’d once had when we revealed intimate thoughts to each other.
“I didn’t get into any social life for a while, Haylee. It wasn’t easy getting used to being away.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Anyway,” I said, ignoring her, “we’ve gone out only a few times, so there’s not much to say other than I like him. He’s very bright, witty, and—”
“Good-looking, I hope.”
“Yes.”
“What’s his name? You know that by now, right?” she asked, smirking.
“Very funny. Troy.”
“Troy.” She sat back and repeated it as if she were trying it on for size. “I like it. I hate boys with ordinary names. It shows that their parents have no imagination. At least Mother came up with interesting names for us. Everyone says so. What kind of dates did you have?”
“Rides, pizza.”
“And?”
“I’ve been to his home.”