“The front door just isn’t as much fun,” Alex said, and then smiled at her.
“This the one?” She glanced over at me.
Alex said, “The one and only Nanette O’Hare.”
“You’re a very lucky girl. This boy is a saint. A true living saint right here on Earth.”
“Okay, Mom,” Oliver said. “You can leave now.”
The woman smiled at her son, and then to me she said, “Well, nice to meet you . . . what’s your name again?”
“Nanette.”
“French?”
“I’m American.”
“Good. I like Americans.” She shut the door.
“Can we finally show her now?” Alex asked Oliver.
“I don’t know. I just met her, like, ten seconds ago!”
“Come on. Let’s show her. Look at her face. She’s trustworthy.”
Oliver looked at me and asked, “Are you for Lena or Stella?”
“You’ve read The Bubblegum Reaper?” I asked.
“Only a million times.”
Alex said, “I got him hooked a little early, maybe.”
I looked around Oliver’s bedroom and saw pictures of flowers. Endless flowers. They were all cut out of magazines and Scotch-taped to the wall—roses, lilies, daffodils, carnations, hydrangea, and hundreds of others I couldn’t even name. In between the flowers were pictures of Oliver’s mom and a dozen or so pictures of Alex and Oliver together. There was one of them lying together in a huge field of yellow dandelions. The shot was taken from above—like someone had to climb a tree to get them both in the frame.
Alex pointed to the pic. “We used a timer and some rope to get that. I had to drop from a high branch and lie down before the click. We tried maybe fifty times before we got what we were after, which is why I’m sweaty in the picture. But don’t you think it’s cool?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Stella or Lena?” Oliver said, staying focused.
“Lena,” I said.
“See, I told you,” Alex said. “She’s on your team, bro.”
“What’s with all the flowers?” I asked.
“Boys can like flowers,” Oliver said a little defensively.
“I like flowers. I’m a boy,” Alex said. “It’s absolutely true.”
“Wrigley likes flowers, too,” Oliver said. “Look.”
He pulled out an old yearbook. It was red, and 1967 was printed on the cover in oversize gold numbers.
“What is that?” I asked.
Oliver thumbed through the senior portraits until he got to the Bs. “Here.” He poked the page with his finger.
Nigel Wrigley Booker
“Nothing is more perfect than a flower.” Nigel Wrigley Booker does not describe himself as a loner. He is independent. He has his books and his poetry and his own writing. He didn’t particularly enjoy high school and is hoping that life on the other side is a bit kinder and more humane. (Death to gym class!) He hopes to publish a book of poetry at some point in his life but will write poetry regardless of whether anyone wants to read it. Favorite poem: “Fern Hill” by Dylan Thomas. Best friend: Lazy Sam, the turtle on the rock behind the high school.
When I looked at the black-and-white photo, I could see clearly that it was Booker when he was our age—only in the senior photo, he looks older than Alex and me, probably because black-and-white photos make everyone look older. He’s also wearing a skinny tie in the shot, and an old-fashioned sports coat. His hair is shaved tight to his skull, making his ears look even more gigantic. He’s not smiling, and he looks sort of beaten down.
“Where did you get this?” I asked.
“eBay,” Oliver said. “Alex found out where Booker went to high school—only a half hour’s drive away from here—and when he graduated, by writing him letters. And then we searched the Internet for months for this baby. A 1967 graduate, Eddie Alva, died, and his son sold absolutely everything he found in his apartment. Lucky for us. We got this for only four dollars plus postage!”
“It gets better,” Alex said. “Show her.”
Oliver thumbed through more senior pictures until he got to the Ts.
“Here are the twins,” Oliver said. “Sandra Tackett and Louise Tackett.”
They look so much alike you would have sworn that someone had printed the same photo twice by accident. Their dark hair is parted down the middle and hangs just past their shoulders; their necks are equally slender; they’re both wearing a string of pearls and a dark scoop-neck sweater with a lily pinned just under the right collarbone. It’s impossible to tell them apart. They even have the same exact write-up.
“What you see isn’t always what you get.” The Tackett twins enjoy tricking their fellow students. It is impossible to tell them apart, not only because they dress the same, but also because they speak and act exactly the same as well. They are virtually interchangeable and are rumored to be telepathic, although they deny this claim. Sandra and Louise were both crowned junior prom queen because the student body could not tell them apart on the night of, nor could their prom dates. Favorite song: “Paperback Writer” by the Beatles. Best friend: my twin.
Oliver said, “Look at the left corner of Louise’s smile. It’s slightly lower than Sandra’s by a centimeter or so. Like maybe she’s a bit sadder and not really wanting to go along with the joke. Perhaps because she’s not who her sister wants her to be? But not strong enough to be her own person. The type of girl who would confess to a turtle when no one else was around!”