The next morning a police officer came by to inform Annie that her daughter had stolen a tray of cupcakes from the bakery. She’d been seen giving them out to children in the playground before the tots’ agitated mothers swooped in to throw away the suspicious treats.
“They were only cupcakes,” Annie said, quick to defend her daughter.
“They were stolen property,” the officer said stiffly.
When he left, persuaded to let the incident go unreported, Annie went upstairs and knocked on the bedroom door. It was locked whenever Elv was at home. The locks clicked open and there she was, annoyed, half dressed, her hair in knots.
“The police were here,” Annie said.
No response.
“The cupcakes?”
Elv’s eyes had a yellow cast. She couldn’t even do something nice without people getting on her case. If Meg had given out the cupcakes, she probably would have gotten a medal. She’d be on the town honor roll. “I refuse to be who you people want me to be,” Elv said.
“What people?” Annie was confused. It crossed her mind that Elv might be high.
“The human race,” Elv said disdainfully.
That night Elv burned all her clothes in a trash can. It was one more leap away from the brutality of the human world. She scooped out armfuls from her closet, collecting bathing suits, shoes, purses, socks. She saved two black skirts, a pair of black jeans, a few T-shirts, and the pointy boots from Paris. At the last minute she grabbed the blue dress her grandmother had made for her. Everything else went up in flames, even her winter coat. She poured on lighter fluid and lit an entire pack of matches. The whole neighborhood smelled like burning wool. The fire department was called in by Mrs. Weinstein, worried when she saw flames beyond her crab apple tree. Her husband’s old dog set to howling.
Elv couldn’t have cared less if Nightingale Lane was rife with ashes. She was barefoot and defiant when the firemen arrived. They made sure the bonfire wasn’t out of control, then went away, sirens blaring. For hours afterward, Annie and Meg watered the garden, making certain the embers that had fallen weren’t still burning. That night there was still the stink of scorched weeds and the sharp scent of singed tomato vines; the last of the peas on the vine made popping noises as they burst open, like firecrackers set off one at a time.
Elise told Annie she should contact the police the next time Elv didn’t come home at her curfew. But Annie was afraid such a move would make Elv run away; she could easily become one of those mistreated, sullen girls you heard about on TV, the ones who disappeared and wound up murdered. Instead, when Elv didn’t come home, Annie pulled up a chair and waited at the back door. By the time Elv finally straggled in it was early morning. The lawn had been wet and her footprints flecked the kitchen floor. She was neither surprised nor nervous when she found her mother in the kitchen. She plopped herself down on one of the stools at the counter and asked for pancakes. “I’m starving,” she said. When her heart beat faster, she felt alive. When she was hungry, she was starving.
“You can’t run around like this. It’s dangerous to be out all night. Something terrible can happen to you.”
“It already has.” Ask me. See who I am.
“Elise thinks I should call the police. For your own safety.”
Elv gazed at her mother, chin raised. “I take it you’re not making pancakes.”
“No,” Annie said. “I’m not.” This wasn’t the child she’d told stories to in the garden, her darling, trustworthy girl. “If I find drugs again, Elv, I’m sending you to rehab. I mean it.” That was Elise’s other recommendation. Don’t play around. Take charge.
Elv wondered how she’d misplaced the shoebox. Now she understood. Her mother had been there. “You went through my private belongings?” she said.
“It’s my house,” Annie said. “My rules.”
“Okay,” Elv said coolly. She took the confrontation as a challenge that would spur her on to battle. “Look as much as you want. You won’t find anything.”
Claire helped to toss away any incriminating evidence. They got rid of the needles and ink Elv kept for her homemade tattoos, the hash pipe, the rolling papers, the empty packets of birth control pills, the razor blades she used to cut herself. She said her blood was green, but it looked red to Claire when she watched the razor go into Elv’s flesh. Several times Claire had found her sister in their bedroom standing naked in front of the mirror, gazing at herself. They both stared at her body, which seemed perfect to Claire. But Elv seemed disappointed in herself. She turned to gaze at her back, searching for the beginnings of black wings. There was nothing there but skin and bones.
One morning, Claire awoke in the middle of the night to see a boy in a black coat sitting on Elv’s bed. He seemed like a dream. Claire closed her eyes and wished him away. In a little while he was gone, out the window, across the garden. It was Justin. Claire had seen him hanging around Nightingale Lane before. Once she thought she saw him in the woods nearby, crying.
AT THE END of the summer Justin Levy hanged himself in his bedroom. Elv didn’t go to the funeral, which was held in a chapel in Huntington. That night, Claire looked out the window to see her sister digging up the robin’s skeleton. Elv carefully placed the bones in a clean dish, then brought them inside. Claire crept down the stairs and joined her sister at the kitchen table. Elv had their mother’s sewing kit. There was a spool of black thread and a long needle. She was making a necklace out of the bones that had been buried under the hedge. It would be an amulet in memory of the dead.
Elv’s fingers were bleeding from her work. She had drilled little holes in the bones with a safety pin.
“Doesn’t that hurt?” Claire asked.
Elv laughed. Something caught in her throat. That happened when she thought about Justin. He was so susceptible to pain. She should have taught him how to walk through this world. She should have showed him how to lock it all away. “I can hurt myself more than anyone else can,” she told her sister. “I can do it with my eyes closed.”
People in town said Elv was a witch after she took to wearing the bone necklace. But Claire thought the necklace was sad and beautiful. Elv let her try it on once. They stood together in front of the big mirror in their bedroom. Even with her short hair, Claire was pleased to see how much alike they looked.
As for Meg, she thought the necklace was a travesty. “She can’t even let the dead rest in peace,” she murmured to Claire once after Elv had left the room. Their older sister released so much energy and turmoil, it was as if a storm had been trapped in a jar, then set free on the third floor every time she was around. When Elv drifted back into their bedroom, Meg fell silent.
“What’s wrong with you?” Elv asked her sister. In Arnelle, everyone understood that it was possible to cry without tears, to be brave even when riddled with fear. But Meg didn’t understand anything. “Cat got your tongue?”
In Arnish, cat was pillar. Said aloud it sounded vicious.
“Nothing’s wrong with me,” Meg said.
Elv