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  “Oh my God, is this your store?” Lauren cried. “I love this place. I’m definitely coming back next week. I wish I had a store like this. I totally want to have a store like this someday!”

  The woman smiled as she started to ring up all the clothes. If she saw through Lauren’s gushy cheerleading, she didn’t show it. Then she turned to me. “Just this?” she asked, pointing at my painting.

  I nodded.

  “I love this one,” she said. “It’s only been here a few days. Not surprised it’s moving fast. Did you see there’s a companion piece?”

  “Um, no.”

  She squeezed around the counter and plucked it from the stack of paintings in the bin—a rendition of the New York City skyline in a matching pine frame. Then she waited expectantly for praise.

  “Nice,” I said.

  “Should I wrap them together?”

  I shook my head. “No, I’m just going to get the other one.”

  “I’ll sell you both for eight dollars,” she offered.

  I thought about the crumpled ten in my pocket and shook my head again. It wasn’t just the money holding me back. In my heart of hearts, I knew that I didn’t need a reminder of the big city I couldn’t even afford to visit, the place where my life might have begun.

  “No thanks,” I said, keeping my voice friendly. “Just one today.”

  “I’ll buy it for you,” Lauren piped up.

  “I don’t want it,” I said, louder than I meant to be. “Just the airplane one. Please.”

  Then everyone was too quiet as the woman wrapped my painting in brown paper. “Thanks for shopping here, ladies,” she said evenly. “Come back anytime!”

  The silence lasted as Lauren and I walked back to her car. “Well, what do you think?” I finally asked. “Ready for that tattoo?”

  “Oh, I’m just not sure.” Lauren sighed. “I mean, I don’t want to rush it. I kind of have it narrowed down to either my hip or my ankle. One of the two.”

  “If it’s on your ankle, your mom will see it,” I pointed out.

  “Hip, then, I guess,” she said, pushing a button on her key ring.

  “What are you doing tonight?”

  “Ugh. I have to babysit the Gruesome Twosome.” Lauren groaned. “You want to come over? I could really use some help.”

  “Sure,” I said, more grateful for the invite than I wanted to let on. I loved Lauren’s brother and sister, fraternal twin tornadoes, almost as much as she did. Those kids could rip up a room in less time than it took to go pee, so I knew why she wanted my help. But beyond that, I was glad to have any reason to stay out. And from the way Lauren smiled at me, I knew she understood.

  * * *

  Much later, there was a full moon gleaming in the sky when I pulled up in front of my house, but it was still dark enough that you could pretend not to notice the peeling paint, the dandelions spawning across the yard, the For Sale by Owner sign that had been on display for nearly a year. Even though my mom was obviously home—her car was in the driveway—the house had an air of emptiness, a lonely feeling like no one lived there, which had crept over it with such stealth that Mom and I hadn’t noticed until it was too late to stop it. If I was quiet enough, I could get to my own room without waking her. I hoped.

  With my paper-wrapped painting tucked under my arm, I tiptoed up the stairs, stepping over the creaky one like I still had a curfew. That was another thing that had snuck up on us: the end of my curfew. I think it died on the day I wrote that check to my mom, just over $200,000 after the penalty tax and administration fees. Anybody who can write a check that big is way too old for a curfew. The money was much more of a security blanket than my sketchbook; I used to wrap myself in thoughts of it, imagining paint-splattered studios or gleaming labs, the college education that would determine my entire future.

  To think that there’d been a time when deciding which college to attend was the biggest problem I faced.

  Stop dwelling, I scolded myself. It was better to think about my savings account, growing by dollars and cents every week. After all, my college dreams didn’t have an expiration date. It was more like an unavoidable delay.

  Then my room was right in front of me, the door closed, like always. I slipped inside and shut the door behind me, like always, and sighed. Success.

  Or something like that.

  I hung up my new painting before doing anything else, taking down the mirror over my dresser so I could hoist the frame up on the wall. (Really, I’d rather not see myself wearing my hideous work uniforms every day, thanks anyway.) The first hang was crooked, of course, and it would have been easier with someone to help. But this was a job I had to do by myself, easing the frame by degrees until it was at least a little centered.

  I stood back to inspect my work. Yes. Centered. At least something around here was.

  And then I was so tired—that full-body tired that made every inch of me leaden, heavy, dull. This kind of exhaustion was no stranger; sleep had been my favorite hiding place for months. I swapped a balled-up T-shirt on the floor for my polo. Brushing my teeth, washing my face could wait until morning.

  I turned off the light. I fell into the bed.

  And then I sat up.

  In the seconds between turning off the light and getting into bed, something in my room had changed.

  Something was not right.

  My painting.

  What had happened to it?

  Suddenly I wasn’t tired anymore, not even a little. I got out of bed and crept closer to the painting, which glowed with ghostly luminescence. Like a moth to the flame, I approached it without hesitation, my hand reaching to touch, violating every art museum’s cardinal rule.

  In the dark, the canvas had transformed. The empty sky now glittered with stars, each one shining brighter than the real stars out my window. The wheat field had morphed into an ancient rose garden just past full bloom. Wilting petals had started to fall, drifting past thorns that jutted from gnarled stems.

  But the biggest change was that my solo aviator was no longer alone. Now there was a girl pressed behind him, her arms wrapped around his waist, her head resting on his back. Her scarf trailed behind her, fluttering in the wind. The expression on her face was what really intrigued me. That look of perfect peace, of utter contentment, of true love. The two people in the airplane were like puzzle pieces that had finally been found and fit together. Staring at her face, I wondered if anyone would ever look at me like that.

  I stepped back from the painting and made my eyes slip out of focus so that it was just a glowing patch on the wall, with all the details blurred. When I focused my eyes again, I saw something else: a message written in the stars, correspondence by constellation.

  It read: Mon amour est plus grand que les étoiles.

  Chapter 2

  September 5, 1917

  Dearest Walter,

  Scarcely twenty-four hours have passed since we parted, and yet already there is so much to tell you that I hardly know where to begin! I must apologize first for the scene I caused on the porch when we said good-bye. I had steeled myself to be bright and cheerful, that you might remember my fortitude and perhaps be strengthened by it during the long days that lie ahead. Instead, what have you to remember me by now? A blotchy face, a drippy nose, red-ringed eyes, and the dampness from my tears that soaked right through your smart new uniform. I do believe—for I do believe in you—that you will return to me safe and sound, once this dreadful war is over. Think of me sitting in the same moonlight that shines down on you, wherever you may be. The world is not so very large that this distance between us is insurmountable.

  After my disgraceful farewell to you, I expected to hide away in my room and cry and cry until I could cry no more, but that only lasted for the first fifteen hours—and then Liza came clattering up the stairs at noontime, which was strange because Liza always takes her midday meal with the other girls. She flew into our room, snapping her fingers at me and crying, “Up! Up! Get up, yo
u layabout. You’re doing no one any good by lounging away the day!”

  Before I could protest, Liza continued: “Edna Parsons is ill and not coming back to work for likely quite some time, so you’ve got to hurry now to meet the foreman before word spreads about the position! The line outside the factory tonight will have fifty girls if it has one, and there’s not a moment to lose. I wouldn’t be surprised if the break room is empty right now with all the other girls doing what I’m doing, so up! Get up!”

  Liza dove into the closet and emerged with one of her dresses—not one of mine, which were neatly pressed and ready for wearing, but her aubergine serge, the one with the edging of lace at the collar and the very straight skirt that skims right over the hips to the ankles with hardly a hint of petticoat.

  “I won’t wear your dress,” I said, finally getting out of bed.

  “You will,” she said firmly as she grabbed a brush from the bureau and began attacking my hair with it. “None of your dresses fit well enough.”

  Not everyone wants to dress as forwardly as Liza, though of course styles must change to conserve fabric for the war. It’s safe to say, however, that Liza’s motivations for dressing as she does have little to do with patriotic sacrifice.

  In the matter of the dress, Liza would not budge, and her exuberance was infectious. Suddenly I was arranging my hair and, without even asking, Liza took Charlotte’s Sunday hat from her room and pinned it right onto my head. Hardly ten minutes after she’d burst into my room, we were outside. (Liza herself wore no hat, truly a testament to the haste with which she’d rushed from the factory!)

  It was such a gray and lonesome sky, Walter, looking as if it would rain, and I regretted leaving home at all. But as Liza and I ran to the factory, the grayness seemed to lose its oppressive character, and I wondered if perhaps the sun would shine after all.

  At the far end of Dover Street, we saw Minnie Johnson and her sister, Eugenie, and they were heading straight to the factory as well! Liza and I didn’t say a word, but she grabbed my hand, and we ran even faster, our heels clacking on the cobblestones. Once Minnie and Eugenie saw us running, they started running too. Well! What do you think happened next? Liza nearly yanked my arm from its socket, and we were the first to reach the heavy metal gates. She pulled them closed behind us with a clang so loud I could feel it in my teeth.

  My other piece of luck was that Eugenie’s shoe fell off. (Now I wonder if it was Minnie’s shoe she was wearing, and if Minnie was trying to make her over as Liza had done to me. Really, why else would Eugenie wear such dainty shoes, with those sweet little buckles, given her current place of employ? And with those dreadful Womanalls she’s forced to wear, poor dear!) Eugenie lost a few moments trying to put her shoe back on, moments of which Liza and I took full advantage as we raced up the stairs to the foreman’s office.

  Just outside, Liza paused and turned me to face her. She stared at me with a critical eye, then adjusted my hat and pinched my cheeks three times, though I don’t know why. Looking at Liza is generally like looking in a mirror, and if my cheeks were half so flushed as hers, I must have been looking very cheery indeed, despite all the tears I’d shed.

  The foreman was finishing what smelled like a liver sandwich from his tin pail. He did not look pleased to see us.

  “Was I not clear, girlie, that I’m not to be disturbed during my lunch?” he snapped at Liza, not even glancing in my direction. Her head ducked down as in a moment of bashfulness, entirely put on, because when she looked back up, her eyes were snapping merrily.

  “Your lunch looks nearly finished to me,” Liza said impertinently, and I felt my cheeks flush even more at her boldness. But—and here I realized why she had insisted that I wear her dress—his wide, shiny face broke into a smile that I did not like one bit.

  Liza leaned forward and placed a cookie on his desk, one that she must have nicked from the kitchen on our way out. “Mr. Mills, you ought to meet my sister,” she said. “At least to eat this cookie she made. Lydia’s first rate in the kitchen, you know. And other places.”

  (Are you smiling, Walter, as you read this? I know you think Liza’s brashness is quite a joke, but I was embarrassed by her as always. In the assigning of qualities, I seem to have been blessed with enough modesty for both of us, while she lacks the slightest sense of propriety.)

  “Is she now?” Mr. Mills asked, turning to me with that odd smile. His glance roamed toward the floor, where I looked too, and saw nothing of interest but the toes of my shoes. “Then why is she such a skinny, small thing?”

  “She’s just sixteen, but she’s a hard worker,” Liza said in a rush.

  “Oh?” Mr. Mills asked as his eyes traveled back up to my face. “And what work do you do, girlie?”

  Liza nudged me, and I tried to find my voice.

  “I’m a laundress,” I finally said softly.

  Mr. Mills’ smile vanished. “Thank you anyway,” he said, reaching for his coffee.

  Liza’s eyes were flashing with fury, and I knew the moment we were outside she would light into me. But I didn’t know what I’d done wrong.

  “No, no, no,” she said loudly. “That’s not right at all. She does a little laundry from time to time, but she’s actually an artist!”

  Mr. Mills laughed, not unkindly—at least it didn’t sound unkind. “An artist like you?” he asked Liza.

  “Even better,” Liza announced, and only I knew how much it pained her to say that.

  Mr. Mills looked at her sharply, then turned back to me. “Let me see your hands,” he ordered.

  My hands! My pride and my shame! I gave Liza a pleading look, but she was still so angry at me that, under her fierce gaze, I knew I had no choice but to pull off my gloves.

  I suppose I should be grateful for my vanity, because I know my hands would be much the worse if I didn’t coat them in warm beeswax every evening and wear soft cotton gloves while I sleep. I knew that helping Mother with the laundry would eventually wreck my hands as it has wrecked hers, but I’ve tried so hard to protect them. At least I have succeeded in part, because there is just the one burn on my right wrist, and they are not nearly so cracked and scaly as Mother’s hands.

  Mr. Mills’s eyes narrowed as he examined my hands. “Wiggle your fingers.”

  I did and felt ashamed that a stranger was paying such close attention to me.

  “What type of art?” he asked.

  “She’s a p—” Liza began.

  “I’ll hear it from her mouth, thank you,” he interrupted her.

  “I paint,” I told him. “Oils, mainly, when I can buy the paint. Sometimes I mix tempera, if there’s egg to spare for binding the pigment.” I did not add that there usually isn’t.

  He nodded, almost to himself. “Well, those are the finest-looking hands I’ve ever seen on a laundress,” Mr. Mills finally said. “Which leaves me to think you’re not quite as hard a worker as your sister would have me believe.”

  Oh! The way I blushed again, and my ears were burning.

  “But perhaps you’ve been protecting your hands in the service of your art,” he continued. “In which case, all the better for me, provided that you’re as capable as your sister in that area.”

  Liza’s shoulders went a touch straighter, which was an encouraging sign.

  “You’ll have a provisionary period,” he said, “to make sure you can do this work. It’s very important work, you know. We hire only the best girls to do it, and I can assure you there are many more who’d be happy to take your place. I just have to put the word out, and they’ll come running.”

  Liza’s foot brushed against mine.

  “Yes, sir,” I said right away. “Thank you, sir. I’ll work very hard for you. I promise.”

  “Tomorrow at seven, with your sister, and you’ll start your training. Now let me finish my lunch in peace,” Mr. Mills said, reaching for the cookie Liza had dropped on his desk. We hurried out of his office and passed by Minnie and Eugenie, and my, their faces were
sour!

  I waited until we were outside before I threw my arms around Liza’s neck. “Thank you, Liza. Thank you, thank you!” I cried.

  “You nearly ruined it all, you know,” she scolded me. “A laundress! Shame on you!”

  “Some warning might have been nice,” I retorted. “You never told me not to say that.”

  Liza shrugged away from me, and just as quickly her face was beaming again, all sunshine and roses. “Just wait till Mother finds out you got yourself a position at ARC!” she crowed.

  A horrible thought hit me then. “But who will help Mother with the washing?”

  “Oh, Charlotte will, or we’ll hire someone,” Liza said, dismissing my worries with a wave of her hand. “You won’t be making what I’m making, of course—you’re not experienced enough—but you’ll still earn double what you’re earning now. Mother will be thrilled!”

  Liza glanced at the clock atop the factory’s tallest tower. “I don’t have time to walk you home, little sister,” she said. “Be a good girl and take in all your dresses at the bust. An inch or two ought to do it. And ready yourself for your last afternoon as a laundress!”

  Liza kissed me on the cheek, and I squeezed her hand, hard, to tell her how grateful I was. Just as she skipped back into the factory, a very sullen Eugenie emerged. At that, I hurried on my way. I had no desire to exchange words with Eugenie, and the clouds above had started to crack apart, dissolving across the sky so that the sun could shine through. It seemed like a very favorable omen indeed.

  Our apartment smelled of wet linens and lye. Mother and Charlotte were home, and the great steel tub was already burbling on the stove. Quickly I changed into my work dress so that I could relieve Charlotte; from her grateful smile, I knew she’d scurry off to work on her poems. Somehow I managed not to speak of my new position. I was certain that Liza would want to be there to take full credit, which she surely deserved. Mother knew at once that something had happened—here I was, out of bed, with a smile flitting across my face when I least expected it, and yet still so sorely grieved in missing you.