Page 8 of The Immortalists

“Well, sometimes plans change. Sometimes they have to.”

Klara raises an eyebrow. “So why don’t you change yours?”

“I can’t. I have exams.”

Varya’s hands are rigid, her back straight. She has always been uncompromising, sanctimonious, someone who walks between the lines as if on a balance beam. On her fourteenth birthday, she blew out all but three candles, and Simon, just eight, stood on his tiptoes to do the rest. Varya yelled at him and cried so intensely that even Saul and Gertie were puzzled. She has none of Klara’s beauty, no interest in clothing or makeup. Her one indulgence is her hair. It is waist length and has never been colored or dyed, not because Varya’s natural color—the dusty, light brown of dirt in summer—is in any way remarkable; she simply prefers it as it has always been. Klara dyes her hair a vivid, drugstore red. Whenever she does her roots, the sink looks bloody for days.

“Exams,” Klara says, waving a hand, as if exams are a hobby that Varya should have outgrown.

“And where do you plan to go?” asks Daniel.

“I haven’t decided.” Klara speaks coolly, but her features are tense.

“Good lord.” Varya drops her head back. “You don’t even have a plan?”

“I’m waiting,” says Klara. “For it to be revealed to me.”

Simon looks at his sister. He knows she’s terrified about her future. He also knows she hides it effectively.

“And once it’s revealed to you,” says Daniel, “this place you’re going. How will you get there? Are you waiting for that to be revealed to you, too? You don’t have the money for a car. You don’t have the money for a plane ticket.”

“There’s this new thing called hitchhiking, Danny.” Klara is the only one who calls Daniel by his childhood nickname, knowing it calls up memories of bed-wetting and buck teeth and, most of all, a family trip to Lavallette, New Jersey, during which he could not help but shit his corduroys, ruining the first day of the Golds’ vacation and the backseat of their rented Chevy. “All the cool kids are doing it.”

“Klara, please.” Varya’s head snaps forward. “Promise me you aren’t going to hitchhike. Across the country? You’ll be killed.”

“I won’t be killed.” Klara takes a drag and blows smoke to the left, away from Varya. “But if it means that much to you, I’ll take a Greyhound.”

“That’ll take days,” says Daniel.

“Cheaper than the train. And besides. Do you really think Ma needs me? She’s happier when I’m not around.” The revelation that Klara would not be applying to college was followed by long screaming matches between her and Gertie, which gave way to bitter silence. “Anyway, she won’t be alone. Sy’ll be here.”

She reaches for Simon, gives his knee a squeeze.

“That doesn’t bother you, Simon?” Daniel asks.

It does. He can already see how it will be when everyone else is gone, he and Gertie trapped alone inside a never-ending shiva—“Si-mon!”—his father nowhere and everywhere at once. Nights when he’ll sneak out to run, needing to be anywhere but home. And the business—of course, the business—which is now rightfully his. Equally bad is the thought of losing Klara, his ally, but for her sake, he shrugs.

“Nah. Klara should do what she wants. We got one life, right?”

“Far as we know.” Klara snuffs out her cigarette. “Don’t you guys ever think about it?”

Daniel raises his eyebrows. “About the afterlife?”

“No,” says Klara. “About how long yours’ll be.”

Now that the box has been opened, quiet falls in the attic.

“Not that old bitch again,” Daniel says.

Klara flinches, as if it’s she who’s been insulted. They have not discussed the woman on Hester Street in years. Tonight, though, she’s drunk. Simon sees it in the glaze of her eyes, the way her s’s slosh together.

“You guys are cowards,” she says. “You can’t even admit it.”

“Admit what?” asks Daniel.

“What she told you.” Klara points a finger at him, the nail painted with chipping red polish. “Come on, Daniel. I dare you.”

“No.”