Page 33 of Persephone's Curse
“Absolutely,” I said. “Unless you make me run three miles a day.”
“It’s all about the give and take here,” Bernie said. “You’ll also have todust.” She fake-shuddered.
I surveyed the table. Mom looked really, really pleased. Aunt Bea looked content and happy. Bernadette looked glowing. If I had a mirror, I imagined I’d look a bit like all three of them combined.
Later that morning Mom went for a hike, Aunt Bea went to teach a class, and Bernie and I headed to Church Street, tucking ourselves into the corner of a small café and ordering two steaming hot chocolates.
“It’s an art interpretation class,” Bernie said. “I’ve gone to it a few times; it’s really good. They’re learning about John Singer Sargent. Aunt Bea calls him the ‘eternal boy crush of art students everywhere.’”
“Should we have gone?”
“I considered it, but ultimately I thought our time would be better spent getting hot chocolate, vintage shopping, and wandering around aimlessly.”
“I do love wandering around aimlessly.”
“I know this about you.”
I thought of Evelyn then, of walking across the park with her to get to school, of the way we could walk in silence the entire time, then each have the same thought at the same time, look at each other and smile, a moment of sister intuition, of sister ESP, of sister mind reading. I wondered what she was doing now. I felt terribly guilty for abandoning her.
“Don’t be weird, Winnie,” Bernadette said (another moment of sister ESP). “Everything’s fine.”
“What if it’s not fine, though?” I responded. “What if it’s really, really not fine?”
“What’s not fine?” Bernie pressed. “Name one thing.”
“Global warming.”
“Name two things.”
“Evelyn’s in love with Henry.”
I blurted it out before I meant to, the words taking on a life of their own, becoming slippery and wet and way too eager to make themselves known.
Weakly, I added, “She made me promise not to tell you.”
Bernadette took a positively languid sip of her hot chocolate, set the mug back down on the saucer and said, “You’re really not the most observant.”
“You know?”
“Of course I know,” Bernie said. “Clara and I both know. We’ve known for, like, six months.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“You didn’t tell me, either.”
“I’m telling you right now!”
“And what’s your point exactly? What’s the big terrible thing here?”
“She isn’t going to leave,” I said, my voice suddenly too loud, catching an unfortunate lull in the general din of the café. I cleared my throat, scooted my chair closer to Bernadette, and tried to give her a look that conveyed the severity of the situation. She looked rather blankly back at me, so I assumed my telecommunication wasn’t working properly. “Like, ever. She isn’t going to leave the house, ever. No college. No traveling. No life, noanything.”
Bernie’s brows furrowed just a smidge. “What do you mean? Did she tell you that?”
“She’s inlovelove,” I said. “Likeseriouslove.”
“Well, sure, but—”
“And ifyouwere in love love, would you go away to college or get married to someone else or would you stay with the person you loved?”
