“That was very generous of you,” Dad says.
“Yes, well. I expect you will be busy clearing out the overgrowth along the front drive so it’s presentable when the family arrives on Sunday.”
Dad flattens his palm over the crown of his head, his cheeks puffing with air. Today is Friday, and the front drive is massive, witha lotof overgrowth.
I nod toward the front gate, where Mrs. Calloway idles in her Honda Accord.
Dad’s cheeks deflate with an exhale. “You’re not joining us for dinner?” he asks Twig.
“Kate’s singing the National Anthem at the football game. My parents want to grab dinner downtown before we go.”
“Tomorrow, then,” Dad says.
Twig nods enthusiastically before casting onelast longing glance at the manor. He obviously doesn’t want to leave. I’m thrilled I don’t have to.
As I walk him out, Mrs. Calloway rolls down the passenger side window and waves cheerfully. She’s a tiny white woman with a big smile, an older version of Twig’s sister, Kate. Twig looks nothing like either of them, just like he told me the day we first met. He doesn’t match his family because he’s adopted, a story he would elaborate upon later in our friendship—how as an infant, he was left on a doorstep in a basket without any information at all, leading us both to wonder, where exactly did Twig come from? We’ve brainstormed origin stories ranging from wizarding worlds to fae kingdoms to alien planets.
“This must be so exciting for you two,” Mrs. Calloway says, her narrow shoulders lifting toward her ears.
Dad might not fully appreciate how big of a deal living here is to me, but Mrs. Calloway does. She also knows how close we were to moving. Given the fact that I’m Twig’s best and oldest friend, she really didn’t want that to happen. Mrs. Calloway dotes on her son. And by proxy, Mrs. Calloway dotes on me.
Almost like a mother.
Twig opens the door and folds himself into the car. After a bit of small talk, I watch them drive away, then turn back to the gate. Not closed, but open. Because this is where I live now. I trace my finger along the Vandenberg Family crest, brandedinto the black iron—a shield with two crisscrossing keys at the bottom. In the center, a sun with thorny rays is cradled by what could be mistaken as a crescent moon, but is actually a claw.
A breeze swirls around my ankles and flutters through my hair. With it comes a vague whisper, like breath on the back of my neck. My skin prickles as I turn toward the house. And there, framed inside a window on the second floor, is a shadowed silhouette. Not a profile, but someone facing the grounds.
As though watching.
Staring.
At me.
My prickling skin turns into a full battalion of goosebumps as my attention darts to Mr. Tulane, still conversing with my dad. Then the circular drive, which is empty. No cleaning vans. No work trucks. By the time I look back at the second floor window, the shadowed figure is gone.
3
KEEPSAKES
Our new home smells like pizza, even upstairs in my bedroom. Dad ordered out from The Ember Oven. We split his favorite, the Phoenix Special—a spicy pepperoni with roasted red peppers and a drizzle of hot honey. Now he’s downstairs, hunting for the antacids. Unfortunately for him, his tastebuds and his digestion don’t see eye-to-eye.
I curl up in my window seat, listening to the night sounds outside. A chorus of cicadas and crickets. The soft chirping of tree frogs. The rustle of leaves. The creaking of branches. Somewhere in the distance, a coyote howls at the moon.
Fog rolls over the unkempt grounds. Ground lights shine through the mist, casting eerie shadows up the manor’s front. I stare at the window that caught my attention earlier thisevening, now dark and empty. The Vandenbergs aren’t arriving until Sunday. So who was that, watching us move in?
The question sends a tickle up my spine.
I’m itching to explore.
But first, I must sleep.
I pull the window closed. As much as I’d love to leave it open, there isn’t a screen. Bugs will get in. So I secure the latch and face my room with a smile. I’m all finished unpacking. Every box has been broken down and neatly stacked. Except for the one on my writing desk, set atop a tattered copy ofWhere the Wild Things Areby Maurice Sendak and an equally tattered copy of the book that brought Twig and I together,Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark.
I sit down at the desk and open the box. Years ago, it held a brand new pair of light-up Sketchers, a Christmas gift from Dad. Now, it houses an assortment of odds and ends, carefully curated over the years. A few faded postcards. The front page of a tabloid folded into a small square. A pair of movie ticket stubs. A meager stack of photographs. An antique necklace my mother never took off, more relic than adornment. A tiny hospital bracelet that once fit my wrist. A beaded rosary. A half-used tube of lipstick. A Chinese finger trap. And an old sour cream container.
Once upon a time, containers like these lined our windowsills. Mom would rinse them out and fill them with soil and seed, then set them in thesun and wait. She didn’t have a green thumb. Not like Dad. But she didn’t let her lack of natural aptitude stop her from trying. My mother loved to plant. She loved the miracle of something sprouting up from the soil when nothing had been there before. She loved waiting for new life—the anticipation, the possibility.
Of fresh vegetables.
