Ask the Passengers

I have too many uses for it now.

Are we okay? I ask them. Will you be okay without me?

The back door slams. The blanket is warm, and when Ellis lifts it up and pushes me over with her hip, I open my eyes and say, “Dude. You’re killing my perfect nap.”

“I want to know what you do out here,” she says.

“Uh—obviously, I lay here.”

“Yeah, but why? What for?” She snuggles close to me and sucks the warmth out from the whole blanket. “You know, most people don’t lie around looking at the sky for hours on end.”

“I’m not looking at the sky,” I say. “I’m watching the airplanes.”

“Oh. I didn’t know you were so into that shit.”

I gesture to our yard full of birdhouses. “I think it’s the freedom they represent,” I say.

Ellis pauses. “It’s not like you’re in a burka and living in North Africa or, you know, severely oppressed.”

“Depends how you look at it, I guess. Anything can be true or false if you turn it upside down.”

“That philosophy stuff is making you weird.”

“Maybe.”

“So then, what freedom do you see in the birds and the planes and the table here? Freedom from us? Freedom from high school?”

I don’t say anything. She’ll laugh. And I can’t trust her not to repeat it to Claire. But then I realize this is an opportunity. Ellis wants to talk. And if I don’t open up now, I might not get another chance with her.

“You promise not to tell anyone ever?”

She pulls her hand out from under the blanket and points her pinkie at me. I link mine into it. “Sister swear.”

“Okay. I sent them my love because I didn’t need it here,” I say. “Mom never loved me, and Dad was too busy doing other stuff, and you didn’t love me because Mom had turned you against me, and then when Dee came along, I knew I couldn’t love her even though I love her more than anything. But I knew I wouldn’t be allowed. Not by Mom, not by Unity Valley. Not by you. Not by anyone.”

“You didn’t think you needed love here?”

“Right.”

“And by Dee, do you mean Dee Roberts? Because that is total news to me.”

I realize that I didn’t really tell Ellis anything yet. “Yes.”

“Wow. I had no idea,” she says.

“Glad to hear Unity Valley gossip lines are still overlooking the obvious stuff. God, you’d think Aimee Hall would have been all over that.”

She snaps her hand up. “Never say that name to me again.” Then she starts sobbing, which is out of place.

“El?”

I give her a minute to get her head together. “There’s something I’m not telling you.”

“So tell me,” I say.

She breathes a few times and gets a grip. “I caught Aimee Hall talking about you on Monday at lunch. I walked in late, and she was saying the usual stuff, to the usual audience, you know?” she starts.

“But then she said that you’d once tried to kiss me and that I’d told her that, and I was sitting right there and I said that I didn’t say it and that it never happened and that it was wrong to make up and say shit like that.”

“Oh,” I say. Tame. Seriously. Morons exist. There’s a paradox for you.

“And rather than say she was kidding or whatever, she exploded in front of everyone in the caf and said I did say that and that I was lying about never saying it.”

“Shit,” I say. “That’s harsh.”

“Just wait,” she says. “So I say, no way, I would know if I ever said that because it was about my own f**king sister and that it was wrong to say that you’d tried to do anything to me and that you aren’t some sort of weirdo lesbian ra**st or anything.”

“Ew.”

“Then she said that yeah, I told her you tried to kiss me, but the truth must be that you did kiss me and I liked it. She said—and I mean, still in front of everyone, including the usual tennis people and whoever was earwigging from the tables next to us—she said that it must run in the family and that we were probably sleeping together and with a mother like ours, it was easy to see why we chose to become lesbians.”

I try not to laugh at the last part, but I can’t not laugh. “Sorry,” I say. “I’m not laughing at you.”

“I’m glad you can laugh. I can’t.”

“Dude, in a week it will blow over, and Aimee Hall will make up a new story about someone else. You know it.”

“But this shit lives on! Like—Tim Huber will probably always believe that you only dated him because you felt sorry for him. Doesn’t that hurt?”

“Something tells me that Tim will be quicker to remember that after he broke up with me, I started dating girls, you know?” I say. “Eventually, I think most people will notice, you know, when you find some cute guy and marry him and have a bunch of kids, that you might not be g*y and sleeping with your lesbian sister. If they believe lies, then that’s their problem, not yours.”

I see her watching a plane. I think she’s sending love to it.

“You know, in ancient Greece, Aristophanes would write plays about how much of a dipshit Socrates was and perform them right there in Athens. Talk about cutthroat, right?”

“Maybe we can do that with Aimee Hall.”

I laugh. “That would be hilarious,” I say.

“We could make the backyard into an outdoor playhouse on the weekends in summer and run a play a night.”

“We can call it Believe Nothing,” I say.

“You’re reading too much Plato, Astrid. I think we should call it Aimee Hall Is a Secret Lesbian Who Has Slept With All of Your Mothers. Bet you it will draw bigger crowds.”

“True,” I say. I’m watching the same airplane as she is now.

“Are you going to keep sending your love to them?” she asks.

“Probably a little.”

“I just did it, and it feels nice.” She’s lying there, staring up, and I’m looking at the side of her face. We used to lie like this as kids, when Mom and Dad would let us have pretend sleepovers in the living room.

She sighs. “I’m officially freezing.” She sits up and stretches her back. “I’m outta here. Want to watch a movie together? Wizard of Oz?”

“Definitely,” I say with a smile. This is serious progress.