Words of Stone (10 page)

How many lies had she told Blaze? It was hard to keep track of them all. She had lied about her father. Lied about her mother being a scientist. She had lied about when she had arrived at her grandmother's house, so that Blaze wouldn't think she had had anything to do with the words of stone. And the words of stone were a kind of lie, too. She wished she had never written them.

Blaze had been the perfect candidate for deceit, and Joselle had gladly taken advantage of his innocence. Pinpricks of regret ran up and down her legs. No more lies, she told herself. No more words of stone. Joselle made a promise to herself never to lie again. She vowed to be honest in every way until the day she died, or as long as she possibly could. Which wasn't very long. Because as soon as Blaze's back was turned, Joselle sneaked the tiny plastic fox that Blaze had overlooked from beside his dresser and slipped it into her pocket. She couldn't stop herself.
This
is the last dishonest thing I will ever do, she said to herself. Ever, ever, ever.

After shoving the ark under his bed, Blaze pulled his bedspread down until it touched the floor, hiding the ark entirely. He appeared to be more relaxed now. “I can't play with you today,” he said. “I've got to go with my dad and Claire.”

“Where?”

“Claire is selling her artwork at a fair. My dad and I are going to help her.”

“Can I come, too? Please? If I'm there it'll be more fun.”

Blaze seemed to blossom. “Let's ask,” he said, already out the door and in the hallway.

The stairs sounded hollow as Joselle pounded down them. She caught up to Blaze and nearly knocked him over, she was moving so fast. She extended her left arm, placing her hand on his shoulder to stop herself. Her right hand was in her front pocket, her fingers wound tightly around the tiny fox. The fox was nearly weightless, but felt heavy against her leg.

From the instant Joselle slid into the van with Glenn, Claire, and Blaze, she pretended that they were her father, mother, and brother. Buckled safely into her seat, she watched them fondly. She studied Glenn first, deciding quickly that she approved of every part that formed her new father. Longish blond hair, big hands, thick wrists, scratchy voice. How are you supposed to feel about a father? she wondered. Or a brother, for that matter?

She knew a bit more about mothers. But Claire seemed very different from Vicki. Vicki was surely beautiful; she worked hard at it with lipstick and eyeliner and curlers and manicures and hair spray. Claire didn't appear to be wearing any makeup, and her hair was simply pulled back into a ponytail with a red rubber band. But she looked beautiful, too. Her features were larger than Vicki's, but more stately, as though she belonged in a painting hanging in a museum in Paris. The Beautiful Vicki would be more at home on the cover of
Cosmopolitan
.

Joselle loosened her seat belt slightly and leaned forward, her chin resting against the front seat. This is my perfect family, she said to herself. When Joselle closed her eyes, she saw them (herself included) etched onto the backs of her eyelids. An aerial view. The four of them formed a rectangle that crept along the highway slowly and silently like a small toy. She basked in her newfound feeling of belonging all the way to the art fair.

Claire had rented the van because she needed room for her artwork and her display booth. Neither her car nor Glenn's would suffice. The van was silvery gray, and Joselle imagined that it was a sleek limousine taking them to a very important private party.

Claire was driving, but Glenn helped to check for traffic as they veered into the parking lot. When he turned his head from side to side, Joselle noticed the circular birthmark on the back of his neck. “One world,” she said aloud, wanting to touch the birthmark with her finger.

“What?” asked Blaze.

“Oh, nothing,” said Joselle, blushing. “I was just talking to myself.”

Joselle and Blaze helped Claire and Glenn set up the display. Glenn and Claire did most of the work. Joselle tried to look busy, but she couldn't keep herself from holding her head high and gazing about loftily at the people who passed by. They all just assume that we're a family, she thought happily.

Joselle didn't know very much about art, but in her opinion Claire's work was exquisite. Claire was selling pins, barrettes, and a few of her boxes. Everything was gold, silver, bronze—and glinting. Claire's work made Joselle think of royalty and perfection and miniature heirlooms people tuck away in secret places that aren't found until years later.

A particular barrette shaped like a fleur-de-lis caught Joselle's attention. She looked at it longingly. She pictured her hair swept back off her face and fastened by the shiny golden swirls. She pictured strangers stopping to get a better look, transfixed by her beauty.

“Come on,” Blaze said, tugging on Joselle's sleeve. “Let's go spend the money my dad gave us for lunch.”

There was so much to choose from. They bought hot dogs, soda, popcorn, and—best of all—cotton candy, whipped and spun onto paper cones like fancy pink hairdos. Joselle loved how cotton candy melted when it touched her tongue. She ate hers and nearly half of Blaze's. Her teeth ached from all the sugar.

“This is fun,” Blaze said.

“Yeah,” said Joselle. “But I think I ate too much.”

They were seated at a picnic table, among many, under a large yellow tent. The sunlight shone through the tent, casting a jaundiced look onto everything.

“Want to walk around?” Blaze asked.

“Let's just sit a while longer,” Joselle said. “We can watch people.”

“Okay.”

Joselle played with the soggy paper cone from her cotton candy. “Did you ever wish you were someone else?” she asked.

Blaze shrugged. “Not really.”

“I do, sometimes.” Joselle waited for Blaze to ask: who? But when he didn't, she continued. “Is there anything about yourself you'd change if you could? Is there anything you don't like?”

Blaze shrugged again.

“I'd get rid of these awful teeth, if I could.” Joselle said, pointing to her mouth. “And I'd like to be smaller. Like you.”

“I wish I was
bigger
,” Blaze said. “And I don't like my scars. From the fire.”

Joselle played dumb. “What scars?”

Blaze got off the bench and walked over to Joselle's side of the picnic table. “These,” he said, turning his ankles and nodding. “I was in a fire one Fourth of July. I got burned—so did three other kids. It wasn't
that
bad. They did some skin grafting. I think they could do more if I really wanted them to. . . .”

Joselle leaned over and touched Blaze's right ankle. “They're tiny,” she said. “I'd take your scars over my teeth any day. I always wanted a scar. They make you look brave.”

“Really?”

Joselle nodded. “Yeah.”

“You wouldn't lie to me?” said Blaze.

“Never,” Joselle replied, feeling her cheeks turn pink as polished apples. “Let's go,” she said, rising abruptly from the bench and running toward the crowd.

“Wait up,” Blaze called.

They wove in and out of the artists' booths. Sometimes Joselle ran ahead and hid behind a tree or a group of people, then rushed out in front of Blaze. Small red flags flapped in the breeze.

“Look!” Joselle said suddenly, bending over. “A lucky penny.”

“Let's see,” said Blaze.

Joselle handed the penny to Blaze. “It's yours,” she said, “on one condition. You have to tell me your wish.”

Blaze's little fingers curled and uncurled around the penny. “Right now?”

“Think about it and let me know. But if you don't tell me, it won't come true. True, true, true,” Joselle called, running ahead again, dodging in and out of the crowd.

Throughout the afternoon, Joselle was content to sit and observe. She watched Claire interact with the shoppers and browsers. And she watched Glenn holding Claire's money box, making change when he needed to. But when she and Blaze went back to the refreshment stand to get something for Glenn and Claire to eat, Joselle did more than observe. When a boisterous man cut ahead of Blaze in line, Joselle elbowed him. “Excuse me!” she said crisply. “My friend was here first.” She felt very protective.

It wasn't until they were driving home at sunset that Joselle remembered that she had taken the fox from Blaze's room. And it dawned on her why she had done it. With the fox in her possession, she might have a kind of power over Blaze. It might add strength to her wishes concerning him. Unlike the key collection he had given her, the fox's whereabouts were unknown to him; that's why it was powerful. The fox represented her secret life with Blaze's family, the life that played out in her head.

There were occasional periods of silence as they rode. But they weren't awkward. They were breaks in the conversation in which time stood still, in which everything was suspended except Joselle's watchful eye. Even so, the ride was going much too quickly for Joselle. She wanted this day to last.

It was Blaze who broke a particularly long silence as they neared Floy's house. “Here,” Blaze whispered, his voice as quiet as insects' wings. “You found this. It really belongs to you.” He gave Joselle the lucky penny. “And you don't even have to tell me what your wish is.”

The penny floated on the sweaty creases of Joselle's palm. She was touched. She pushed the penny into her pocket with the fox. Then she opened her mouth and tapped out “When You Wish Upon a Star.” Her fingers smelled metallic.

Blaze joined in on his own teeth. They played it together, smiling, until the van pulled up to Floy's front porch.

“H
ow was your day?” Floy asked, head poised, waiting. She had been leafing through a magazine. It lay open on her lap.

“It was the best day of my life,” Joselle said. She flung herself onto the sofa, her arms spread out over her head like a giant V. She sighed dreamily.

“I'm glad you had a good time,” Floy said. “Tell me about it.”

Joselle lay motionless on the sofa. She couldn't tell Floy. If she did, wouldn't Floy feel terrible? Wouldn't it bother her that her granddaughter could have more fun with someone else's family than she ever could with her own? “I can't exactly explain it,” Joselle said finally. “I mean, it wasn't
that
great. It was okay.” Her lip flickered. She forced a laugh and got up to go to the bathroom. “I've had better days. For sure.”

Floy closed her magazine. “I can't keep up with your thoughts,” she said.

In Joselle's dream the moon was blue. And then it became a penny. And then it vanished. She sat up in the middle of the night with Blaze's words on the tip of her tongue: “You wouldn't lie to me?” And her answer haunted her: “Never.”

She rose from the sofa and walked to the front window. There was no moon. It was raining. Water streamed down the window as though she were under the sea. She felt regretful. Joselle pulled her purse out from beneath the sofa. She searched for her four-color pen.

While the slow steady rain tap-tap-tapped against the house, Joselle darkened the ball-point-pen tattoos on her thigh. When they faded, she would darken them again. She would keep them as a reminder. She would keep them until she told Blaze the truth.

About everything.

The words of stone.

Her father.

Her mother.

The tiny fox.

Joselle placed the lucky penny under her pillow. She wished that when she told Blaze the truth, he would forgive her. She wished that she had a million lucky pennies; she felt she needed that much luck.

When Joselle woke up again, it was still raining. She put on her bikini and ran up and down the front sidewalk several times. The rain chilled her, and goose bumps sprouted on her arms and legs. But she felt much better, exhilarated.

She came inside, toweled off, and wrapped herself around a steaming cup of tea. Floy's door was still closed to the morning, so Joselle was very quiet. She wanted to get out of the house before Floy got up. She pulled her extra-large white T-shirt on over her damp bikini. The shirt fell to her knees, covering the tattoos easily. She wore her new sweater, her dangly rhinestone earrings, her red rubber thongs. She brushed her hair back into a ponytail as Claire had done yesterday. Joselle's ponytail wasn't nearly as long as Claire's, but she thought it looked smart, and with her hair away from her face, her earrings were more visible. She left a note for Floy by the coffeepot.

Puddles dotted Floy's lawn like scattered mirrors. But Joselle didn't mind. She hopped off the porch and skipped across the soggy yard toward Blaze's house, her feet sliding in and out of her thongs. Floy's umbrella shielded her like an enormous lavender flower.

She didn't feel brave enough today to tell the truth. She just wanted to see her friend.

T
he steely smell of rain was in the morning air. Blaze liked rainy days. “That's the artist in you,” Nova said time and time again. “Most creative people like gray weather.” Blaze didn't know if that was true, but he knew that Glenn also liked dark, stormy days. And according to Glenn, Reena had felt exactly the same way.

Reena hadn't been a painter, but a writer. She had majored in English in college. Before Blaze was born, she had taken a job with the local newspaper, writing book reviews. After Blaze was born, she stayed home with him, hoping to write a novel one day. Glenn said that Reena was never satisfied with her attempts at a novel and therefore had never kept any of them. Sometimes Blaze pretended that his mother
had
written a book. A book that could be checked out at the library. A book with secret references to him.

Blaze's train of thought was broken by a series of loud knocks on the door.

It was Joselle. She smiled radiantly and waved at Blaze, then flew off the porch into the rain. Instead of holding her umbrella above her, she swung it around, turning circles with it, dancing. She raced about like a top—spinning, twirling, laughing.