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I scooped her up and carried her into the kitchen. Maybe my nerves were still frayed from the rehearsal because she wriggled impatiently, and I realized I was probably holding her too tightly.
“Sorry,” I whispered to her as I put her down again. “I’m just really glad you’re here.”
I dropped my backpack on one of the kitchen chairs, opened the fridge, and started rummaging through the take-out containers and Tupperware of leftovers for something to eat. There were a few pancakes left, and though I was tempted, I decided I should probably eat something a little more substantial if I was going to make it through the show that night. I pulled the cover off a bowl to inspect the contents and then pulled back, retching slightly.
“Oh God, we really need to clean out this fridge,” I coughed and turned to dump the contents in the trash, but I froze.
On top of the junk mail and eggshells and extra streamers was an envelope with my name handwritten on it. I tossed the Tupperware into the sink and bent down to snatch it up. Why the hell was my mom throwing out my mail? I flipped it over to see that the envelope had already been torn open. And reading it?
I pulled a letter out of the envelope and as I unfolded it, something small fell out of it. Instinctively, I reached a hand under it and caught it before it hit the floor. I stared down at it, bemused. It was a small pouch made of purple velvet strung on a fine golden chain. I tried to open it, but it was sewn shut with gold thread. I turned it over in my hand. It smelled of lavender and the ocean, as well as other scents I couldn’t quite place.
“What the—?”
I looked down at the letter and began to read.
Dearest Wren,
Happy sixteenth birthday, my Little Bird, though I fear you are not so little anymore. I am sorry to have missed so much time with you, but now that you are a young woman, I hope you can accept this token of my affection and my apologies that I have not been able to see you. Please don’t blame your mother. She only wants to protect you, and while I certainly don’t want to be the means of driving a wedge between you, I can no longer be silent. There are things you must be told—truths that must be revealed to you, and I fear that your mother cannot see that. Come to me this summer as soon as you can, and until then, please promise me you will wear this charm. For protection. For guidance.
With all my love for a blessed year,
Asteria
I read the letter through three times, once in the numbness of shock, once more in the hopes of gleaning deeper meaning, and one final time as I allowed every feeling to bubble up to the surface. The first wave of emotion was anger. I couldn’t believe my mother would simply throw this letter away—how could she do such a thing? And then I began to wonder how many other letters Asteria may have written me, what other gifts she may have sent along tucked into envelopes that never found their way to me because of this bizarre paranoia of my mother, and the anger boiled over into fury.
I turned the little charm over and over between my fingers. I thought about Asteria’s words:“For protection. For guidance.”I couldn’t really think of anything I needed protection against, except maybe arm muscle fatigue from an impending summer of ice cream scooping; but then, that was the kind of thing Asteria used to say all the time about the little trinkets she bestowed on me—I figured she was just a bit superstitious. There was something inside of the little pouch. I couldn’t tell what it was simply by feeling it, but the herbal smell of it reminded me of those cherished birthday visits from Asteria, and so I put it on, feeling suddenly rebellious. Whatever Asteria’s eccentricities, she was still my grandmother, and I was not going to be kept from her anymore. If my mother could lie to me, steal my mail, and throw away my birthday gifts, then she shouldn’t be surprised when I abused her trust in return. I tucked the little pouch into my shirt and felt the comforting weight of it against my skin. It looked like the first place I’d be driving myself this summer was straight to Asteria’s house for a long overdue visit, and there wasn’t a damn thing my mother could do about it.
* * *
There are few places as superstitious as the theater, and one of those superstitions goes a little something like this: “A disastrous final dress rehearsal means a triumphant first performance.” Was it just something theater folk told themselves to soothe frayed nerves and battered egos on the eve of opening night? Probably. But happily, on this particular night, it turned out to be true.
Well, okay, maybe “triumphant” was a bit of a reach. But as the curtain closed on final bows and the cast erupted into cheers, I tossed aside my headset with a satisfied sigh. The few flubbed lines had been well-covered by the better prepared actors. Everyone who was supposed to have a prop in their hand had managed to find it, and Jayden must have performed an exorcism on the light board because every cue worked like clockwork. Even Mr. Pisani looked smugly pleased as he swept backstage to congratulate everyone. And Roman Peterson could muster up nothing more offensive than pulling his poet’s shirt over his head, dropping it to the stage floor and announcing that he never wanted to see it again.
Poe ran over to me and shifted her enormous bouquet of flowers to one arm so that she could hug me. “We did it!” she squealed.
“We did,” I agreed. “And you were brilliant.”
“Thanks,” she said, and there was genuine relief in her voice. That was one of the great things about Poe; she was so talented that she probably could have gotten away with being an insufferable diva, but she wasn’t. She treated every role like a challenge, not a crown that she got to flaunt at everyone else.
“I’m kind of shocked. I really didn’t think it was going to come together,” Poe admitted in a murmur.
“You’re forgetting we say that about every show,” Charlie said, sidling up to us and throwing an arm around each of us.
“Everyone looked great, too,” I said.
Charlie inclined their head in acknowledgment. “Not bad, if I do say so myself. And I stitched a few extra ruffles onto Roman’s shirt right before I gave it to him, just as a form of self-care.”
“You’re a legend,” Poe declared.
“So, Franny’s?” Charlie asked.
“Franny’s,” we both agreed.
Franny’s was the local diner. It was like a 1950s time capsule, all silver chrome exterior, red leather booths, linoleum countertops and vintage Hollywood decor, but that wasn’t why we frequented the place. The real appeal of Franny’s was that it was within walking distance from the school with cheap food and late-night hours. It was sort of a theater kid tradition to flood the place after a show, everyone donning matching t-shirts and too much stage makeup. And luckily, Franny herself had a soft spot for us, having once performed in the ensemble of the original Broadway cast of “Applause.” We tolerated her starry-eyed reminiscences of the New York theater scene in the 1970s, and in turn, she put up with the fact that we split our checks twenty ways and paid with crumpled piles of small bills and change.
My mom knew we would be at Franny’s after the show, so I didn’t bother texting her; she was at work anyway and probably wouldn’t even be able to respond. Charlie already had their license, so it wasn’t like I needed a ride home, and anyway, curfew was still a couple of hours away. So I was surprised to see my mom’s number pop up on my phone before we’d even made a dent in our mountain of fries.
Wren, I need you to come home.
