18. April

18

APRIL

The idea of the contest keeps lingering in my brain. Personally, I blame it on Elias's art of persuasion. That man could sell shades to a polar bear.

"How about this one?" I ask, holding up a design sketch.

Charlie's face scrunches up. "It kind of looks like the Liberty Bell."

I slump against the couch, defeated. "Forget it. I'm not doing it."

"Yes, you are." He drops down to the floor next to me. "You've got this, Apes. You've always been great at this."

"Moping on the floor?"

"Sewing," he corrects. "Fixing, creating. Remember when I was a kid?"

"Implying you're not still a kid."

"Okay, first of all, I'm fifteen. Second, don't change the subject. You know those sweaters I had? With the long sleeves?"

"The ones that were constantly falling apart?"

"Bingo." Charlie nods. "If it weren't for you, I would've had to go to school looking like Swiss cheese. You're the one who patched them all up. Hell, the only one who even noticed."

"It was nothing," I protest in a miserable mumble.

"You did it in a single night , Apes . You were worried Mom would get mad if she found out and wouldn't let you finish the others."

"To be fair, she did get mad when she found out."

"A whole six months later, and only because she caught you doing it again. Otherwise, she never would've seen it."

I have to suppress a shiver at the memory. I may be an adult now, but Eleanor's banshee screams will stay with me until the day I croak. "Your point?"

"My point is that you're good at this. Better than that—you're great. " He boops May on the nose as he says it. Because of course there's only one place for her to be whenever Uncle Charlie's around: nestled inside his giant kangaroo pouch. Where do they even sell sweatshirts like that? And why ? "You're an amazing seamstress."

"Now, you're just trying to extort a pizza out of me."

"If I was trying to do that, I'd also add in how you're an amazing mom. So… you're an amazing mom."

I make a face at that. Compliments are already like cold medicine to me—you take them because you have to—but being called a good mom of all things…

It just doesn't feel right.

Nor the seamstress part, if these sketches are anything to go by.

"If I fold on the pizza, will you stop?"

"Nope," he replies, popping the p . Then he starts sifting through the mess of papers on the floor. "See this one? And this one?"

I squint at the sketches he picked out. "I don't know. They just feel… old."

"Vintage, maybe?"

"No, like, really old. Great-grandma's closet old."

"I don't think great-grandmas had V-necks, Apes."

And if that isn't the kind of image no one wants in their brain… "You know what I mean," I sigh. "They're… tired. Nothing we haven't seen already."

"So try again," he encourages me. "You'll come up with something."

Something else for the shredder's lunch, maybe.

God, why am I getting so testy about this? When I started sketching, I told myself it was just a way to pass the time; that I wasn't actually going to enter the contest. After all, I have a newborn to care for. I have responsibilities.

And I certainly don't have the talent. So why bother?

I gather up my sketches, wishing the penthouse somehow had a fireplace. Alas, into the shredder they go. "Let's just do something else, alright? How about that movie you wanted to see?"

"It's not a movie," Charlie says with a trademark eye roll. Seriously, teenagers. "It's an art documentary."

"Since when are you into art documentaries?"

He shrugs. "Just exploring my options."

I shake my head with a smile. Sometimes, I forget that not everyone knows what they want to do in life by their seventh birthday. This, at least, has always been easy for me: there was never anything but clothes in my head. Nothing but fixing broken things, or turning scraps of plain fabric into something beautiful.

But Charlie's at that age when you start wondering. Exploring , like he said. Last year, it was video games; six months ago, it was pro skating. A week from now, it'll be something else entirely.

I envy him. You forget how wide open the world can seem sometimes. How vast. How beautiful.

"Alright. Put it on."

As we settle on the couch, I pick up May from his pouch. Buttons takes advantage of the transition to trot close, ever vigilant. "How about you, Nugget? Wanna watch a movie with your uncle?"

May makes a cooing noise.

"I'll take that as a yes."

As the movie—sorry, art documentary —begins, I sneak glances at my baby's enraptured face. Only, she doesn't seem to care about the TV at all: instead, she's looking at us. Me, Charlie, her dashing defender Mr. Buttons. As if we're the only movie worth watching.

I make a face at her and watch her erupt in giggles.

Will she have this phase, too, one day? Will she come to breakfast in full gothic gear at fifteen and roll her eyes at anybody who questions her? Will she want to go to death metal concerts one weekend and archaeological museums the next?

Will her dad let her go?

I force myself to stop there. It's a good day today. No sense in ruining it with complicated thoughts.

For once, I just want to lose myself in the moment.

The documentary seems to be all about Bernini. I almost nod off once or twice, but my cat slaps me awake. Like, honest-to-God slaps. I have no idea where he got that habit, but I suspect June may have something to do with it. That's the way she wakes me up when I start dozing at the height of a romcom.

The way she used to wake you up , whispers the voice inside my head, sharp as a dart.

Right. That's not my life anymore. Not the mornings spent fighting with the water heater, and not the evenings spent curled up on the couch with snacks of dubious origin and a bossy cat in both our laps. The bickering, the banter, the food fights.

The laughter.

So much for staying in the moment.

I snap myself out of it one more time, determined to enjoy the documentary. Or at least not fall asleep during it. That's when something catches my eye on the screen: a statue of two figures intertwined, a man and a woman, her arms stretched to the heavens as if trying to escape. I squint at the odd shape of her fingers, trying to make out what's wrong with them. Because they almost look like…

"Laurel," Charlie answers my unspoken question. "Those are laurel leaves. She's turning into a tree."

"Why?" I frown.

"It's a Greek myth," he explains. " Apollo and Daphne. "

"Oh, so it's not just art, history, video games, and skating? You're also a mythology buff now?" I tease.

"Bite me," he retorts, but he's laughing. "I had a Percy Jackson phase in fourth grade. Pestered Mom for a library card every other day until she gave in."

"Seriously? How did I miss that?"

As soon as the words come out of my mouth, I realize: fourth grade . Charlie must have been around nine, which means I was just turning eighteen then. It was when…

When you left your parents and never looked back.

God, what is it with my brain today? Why do I keep knocking myself down on purpose? And why am I wondering if May will leave me, too?

You know she will. She'll see how unhappy you are and find someplace else to be. Another home. Another family.

"Look," Charlie snaps me out of it. "They're about to explain it."

I push my nasty internal monologue away and shift my attention to the screen.

"‘… no longer able to escape Apollo's pursuit, Daphne prays to her father to save her. Bernini's sculpture captures the moment of her metamorphosis: her fingers elongate into branches; her toes root into the ground; her body becomes enveloped in a thick layer of bark. There is desperation in her final stand, but also a combined and conflicting sense of yearning. While it is Apollo who yearns to trap her into his arms, Daphne who yearns to be freed. Ironically, it is only by losing her freedom completely that she finally manages to save herself, becoming truly free. Bernini's craftsmanship in this piece…'"

Without thinking, I place May in Charlie's arms and pick up my sketchbook. "Apes…?" he asks.

I don't answer.

I don't know how long I stay like that, tracing my pencil across the paper like a woman possessed. All I know is that the world disappears. For one, blissful moment, there isn't a single thought in my head that isn't, Draw. Make something good.

When I finally come up for air, there's a finished dress project in front of me.

Charlie pauses the documentary, then leans over to gawk. "Sis, this is…"

Embroidered lace for the corset. Tulle for the skirt. Chantilly lace for the details. "Do you think this could work?" I ask, suddenly uncertain.

But Charlie beams at me. "Are you kidding me? This is the sh?—"

"No swearing!" I jump up to cover May's ears.

"Apes, she's one month old. She has no idea what it means."

"You don't know that. She could be a prodigy."

"And if you don't submit this, I'll put on Kanye West right now. Good luck covering her ears then."

Now, that's a threat. "Fine, fine!" I give in. "I'll… consider making it. Maybe."

"‘ Let's have a toast for the douche ?—'"

"Okay, I'll make it! Happy?"

"Very." Charlie grins.

For the first time in forever, I feel that familiar itch come back to my hands: the itch to work. To make something out of nothing. "Then… would you mind staying a little longer to watch her?" I ask.

My brother beams. "Throw in that pizza you were talking about and you've got a deal."

"Only if we get pineapple."

As I start moving around the room, that tickling frenzy already taking me over, my thoughts finally grow quiet. For the first time today, I feel like I can breathe . Like I don't have to worry about tomorrow.

Which is, of course, when the doorbell rings.

"Grisha?" I frown as I answer. "Is something going on?"

"Not at all," he reassures me. "I was just given this for you."

He holds it out formally, all butler-like. And that's fine, because this is Grisha we're talking about, right? Except that in his hands is an oval, golden plate. And on top of that…

"A sealed envelope," I mutter.

"Very old-fashioned," Grisha comments, not without a little admiration.

"Does it say who's it from?" It's a stupid question. Deep within, I already know.

I take the envelope and rip off the wax seal. Charlie hovers close, having sensed something's wrong. "April? Is that…"

You are hereby invited for afternoon tea at the Flowers Mansion,

13 West 10th Street. Time and details on the back.

"From my dad," I confirm. "And that's not all."

"What else?" Charlie frowns, concern suddenly on his face.

"It's…" I try to find the words, but they fail me. All I have is questions.

Why this? Why now?

And most importantly…

How does he know?

"It's addressed to me," I swallow thickly, "and…"

How does he know about her ?

"… and to May."