Page 41 of When We Were Magic
“Shut up,” Paulie says, but I hear the smile in her voice. “I’ve been studying for the ACTs for like … four hours.”
“You dropped me off at home two hours ago,” I tease.
“Okay, but itfeelslike four,” she says. “The point is, Iris shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry about your dads.”
“It’s okay,” I say, even though it isn’t, because it’s easier tosay “It’s okay” than to keep trying to dance between mad at Iris andtoomad at Iris and mad at myself and sad about hurting Pop. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” I add, because that’s more true.
“Okay. Anyway, it’s been a weird time over here. Want to hear about it?” Paulie asks, brightening.
“Absolutely. Wait, I thought you’ve been studying?”
“Well, yes, okay, but not the whole time I’ve been home.”
“Oh my god, have you actually opened a study guide tonight at all?”
“Shut up,” she says, and then “hang on,” and I hear rustling and a click as she gets up to close her bedroom door. “Okay, so, I got home and my mom was beingtotally bizarre,” she says in a soft voice. “I walked in the front door and she was sitting in the kitchen and drinking wine and looking through this photo album, right? But get this: I went to look in the album over her shoulder, and it was all pictures of me.”
“Uh, okay? How is this weird?” I ask, lying back on my pillows and trying, in some corner of my mind, to remember the last time I talked on the phone with someone for this long. Usually I just text with all the girls, but it’s kind of nice to be hearing Paulie’s voice. I can picture the way she chews on her thumb when she’s thinking about how to phrase something.
“I mean, it’s a little weird because she’s drinking wine by herself in the kitchen. But then, check this out, extra weird-factor: she was looking at pictures of me, but this other kid was Photoshopped into like … all of them.” She pausesfor a moment. “Yeah, I know, it’s totally bananas, right? She was acting like I was supposed to know who this kid was, and I was like ‘I don’t get what you’re trying to do,’ and she gotreallyupset. She acted like I was being mean or something, I don’t even know.” Paulie sighs into my ear.
“I don’t get it,” I say. “Who was the kid?”
“I don’t know, some little boy,” she says. “It was like she added him into my entire childhood, like she was writing fanfiction about me or something. How did she even find the time?”
I frown. “It wasn’t Drew?”
“Who?”
I feel hot and cold all at once. “Drew,” I repeat, sitting up slowly. “Your little brother, Andrew.”
“Ha,” she says, a humorless parody of a laugh. “Yeah, okay, sure.”
“What?”
“Did my mom put you up to this? And if so, can you please tell her it isn’t funny?”
“Why would you think that?” I ask. “I don’t talk to your mom. Paulie, are you feeling okay?” I’m about to ask her if I should come over, but then I remember Pop’s face, and I know that I have to be at home tonight. Even if he’s still mad at me … I shouldn’t leave.
“I’m fine,” she snaps. “I just don’t get what you and my mom are trying to do. She kept talking about ‘Drew’ too and I don’t get thejoke, Alexis.”
“There’s no joke,” I say softly. I feel dizzy. “Andrew was yourlittle brother’s name. He, um. He died a long time ago. When you were both little kids. I wouldn’t mess around with you like this. I’m telling the truth. I …” I hesitate. “I pinky-swear.”
She knows I wouldn’t swear to her on a joke. She has to know it. There’s a long pause on the line, long enough that I ask if she’s still there. “I’m here,” she whispers. “I have a little brother.” Her voice is strange, distant—it sounds like she’s underwater.
“Hada little brother,” I correct softly, because I think she needs it.
She’s silent for a long time again before she says, “What happened to him?”
I swallow hard and pull one of my pillows to my chest. “He drowned,” I whisper. “When you were seven and he was four. Your babysitter wasn’t watching him and he fell into your swimming pool. That’s why your dad had it filled in.”
There’s a loud, hard sniff. “He died,” she says evenly. “My little brother died.”
“Yeah,” I say, my eyes starting to burn.
“I can’t remember,” she says. “I try to remember and I can’t. Why can’t I remember?”
“You mean like … like he’s fading or something?” I say it knowing that’s not what she means, but hoping, desperately hoping, that it is.
