Awful. “You sound like the last peals of a deflating balloon.”
“That’s a good way to describe it.” Thomas nodded.
“And most of the time,” said Savannah, “the accusations of vocal fry are totally misogynistic. Mostly young women broadcasters are accused. Which, of course, conveniently overlooks the fact that just as many men exhibit vocal fry as women.”
Thomas shrugged. “What she said.”
“And I know what you’re thinking, Maggie,” Savannah added. “But no. It’s neither the result nor cause of any gory medical conditions.”
Maggie mock-scowled. “You ought to be kinder to me. I am your elder.”
She suddenly remembered the day she first met George. It was May 1978. At the stoplight at Twelfth and La Salle. He stood directly in front of her, apparently fresh from the barber’s chair because the skin on the back of his neck turned from bronze to pale in the narrow space between the old hairline and the new. There was also a heart-shaped freckle behind his right ear, and she found it nearly impossible to resist touching it. She’d said, “I’ve always loved a man who smells like Barbasol and talc.”
They married eight weeks later.
Maggie didn’t believe in living life small. She believed in living. Period.
“Trust your instincts, loves,” she said finally. She looked at each of her grandchildren in turn. Savannah. Then Thomas.
Too afraid to stop them, huh? Bess whispered.
Oh, perfect, Maggie replied. Now you show up?
Trigg:
OMG!!!!! [screaming cat face emoji] You’re gonna be famous!!!!!!!!!!!! [microphone emoji] [dancing woman emoji] [fireworks emoji]
Trigg:
You totally have to do it. I don’t know why you’re even thinking twice about it. [thought cloud emoji] [thinking face emoji]
Trigg:
Your dad is going to be so normal. Like, normal normal. Norm. We’ll just call him Norm. Normal Norm. [Caucasian male face emoji] [geek face emoji]
Trigg:
Plus, this is what you want, right? Big time producer. OMG!!! What if you get discovered and they make your story into a movie?! That could totally totally totally happen. [popcorn bucket emoji] [movie ticket emoji] [movie camera emoji] Can I be in the movie?
Savannah:
Nobody is even going to care, stupid. Settle down.
[yoga pose emoji]
Four
Savannah
The next day, Savannah sat in her eleventh-grade English class, her favorite. Most of her classmates were morons, but the books their teacher, Mrs. Thornbird, assigned were great. Plus, she gave them writing projects every week—and on those, Savannah excelled.
The bell rang and Mrs. Thornbird instructed the class to pipe down. She’d graded their one-act plays and she wanted to read an example aloud.
“I won’t say whose work this is, but I want you to listen up for how the student uses dialogue to craft the story. It’s really well done.” She cleared her throat. “This is titled, Midnight Visit.”
Savannah panicked. She sank down in her seat as low as she could, though even if she could have sunk all the way to the school basement, it wouldn’t have been deep enough to hide from what she knew was coming.
“We open on a young woman in bed,” Mrs. Thornbird read. “She’s dressed in her nightgown and has obviously been sleeping. An elderly woman sits on the side of the bed, looking at her.”
ELLIE: Oh! I was hoping you’d come tonight. I’ve missed you so much.
Parker White piped up from the back row. Because of course he would—he never had anything better to do than mock Savannah. “Oh,” he purred, his voice all churlish and high-pitched. “I was hoping you’d come tonight.” Then, growling, he responded to himself and said, “Oooh yeah, me, too, baby.”
“Parker White!” Mrs. Thornbird barked.
Parker mumbled an insincere apology at the teacher while flashing Savannah a Cheshire Cat smile.
Idiot, she mouthed.
Mrs. Thornbird continued.
[Ellie moves to prop herself up. The elderly woman smiles at Ellie but does not speak.]
ELLIE: There’s so much I’ve been wanting to tell you. Where should I start? School isn’t very much fun, so that’s nothing new. And life at home is just, you know, life at home. But I’m still glad you came.
[Ellie moves as if to hug the old woman but stops.]
ELLIE: To be honest, I’ve been sort of sad lately. Okay, maybe that’s obvious. You probably already know how I feel.
[Ellie waits for the visitor to respond. When she does nothing more than continue to smile, Ellie speaks again.]
ELLIE: Is that why you came? Because I’m so sad? Did I summon you? Did you feel how much I needed you? Because, I’ve thought about it a lot—A LOT—and I don’t really understand what you can see and hear and feel of me. I mean, why can’t you come visit every night? I want you with me all the time. Mom says you are. She says that we can talk to you whenever we want. That even though we can’t see you doesn’t mean you aren’t with us. But I don’t know how to feel you, except during times like now, when you visit me.
[The elderly woman moves a hand to Ellie’s back.]
Mrs. Thornbird dropped the script to her side. “The play goes on for several more pages, but that gives you a good example of what I’m talking about.”
She moved across the room, dropped Savannah’s script on the pile of assignments, and perched on the corner of her desk. “After hearing that, what do you think the author did particularly well?”
She waited, but no one raised their hand. Typical. No one in their class was dumb enough to intentionally make themselves vulnerable to the endless cycle of ridicule that was life at Lincoln High School. At least Savannah had an excuse to keep her hand down, given that she wasn’t about to compliment her own work.
“Ms. Westlund.” The teacher pointed to Carrie Westlund, who was more famous with her Instagram followers than anyone they were in class with. “What do you think the author did well?”
Carrie tilted her head and stared at the ceiling. “Well, it sounded pretty real. Is that right?”
“It’s your opinion, Ms. Westlund—there are no right and wrong answers.”
“Okay, then, yeah. The dialogue sounded real.” Carrie sat back in her chair, looking relieved to have that over with.
Then, in a move that seemed to surprise Mrs. Thornbird as much as anyone, Savannah’s best friend, Trigg, raised her hand.