We Fell Apart: A We Were Liars Novel(12)

“You will, of course!” he says brightly. “And then you’ll understand.”

We walk in silence for a moment. Meer bends down to pick up an unusual purple rock. “I have a collection of these.”

“You grew up here, right? So you must have a lot by now.”

He puts it in his pocket. “I’m homeschooled, in case you couldn’t tell. Well, mostly. I tried going to the island schools, but June had so much to teach me. And so did the ocean. And Kingsley. Plus I naturally sleep late. I’m a night person.”

“Homeschooled is cool,” I offer. “I’ve done that a bit.”

“Some people find me…socially weird or whatever. Kids from the high school.”

“Losers.”

Meer cracks a smile. “Institutions don’t suit me.”

“How old are you?” I ask him.

“Eighteen.”

“Me too.”

“Born in September.”

“October.”

We stand there silently for a minute.

Kingsley left my mother for Meer’s. Probably, he was sleeping with them both at the same time. We both know it, but maybe Meer has always known.

“I’m older!” says Meer. His face lights up. “I’m glad you’re here, Matilda.”





14


“Should we rinse our feet?” I ask. I am carrying my sneakers and we are heading in the castle’s back door. Outside it are multiple boogie boards, a number of sandy shoes, a couple buckets. Around one side I can see an outdoor shower.

“Don’t bother,” says Meer.

I gesture to a sign. In curling italics it says Wash Your Feet.

“That’s from ages ago,” he says, leading me into an enormous screened porch that functions as a mudroom. It’s lined waist-high with shelving. Row and rows of hooks hold summer things—towels and swimsuits, rash guards, a gardening apron. Rubber boots, a collection of flashlights, flip-flops, sneakers, citronella candles. Against the walls are beach and sports equipment.

Everywhere, labels. Towels. Flashlights. Boots. They’re worn and weathered, stained in some places. “June wrote those,” Meer explains. “Like, maybe when I was around ten? Tatum was here then, but with his parents, not with us. They all lived in the pool house. Anyway, he and I made the goofy ones.” Some of the labels are in childish print, and Meer flips the printed Unicorn Food sign up to reveal a calligraphy label that says Winter Hats. Other signs read Magical Devices. Toxic Waste. Lizard Teeth. Spoils of War.

Meer puts on a pair of flip-flops he’s pulled off the shelf that clearly have the name Tatum Cooper-Lee written across the heel. “We were so many people back then. And now there’s just us four, and Kingsley. And now you? Maybe? For a while, at least. We’re fewer people, but it’s more chaos.”



* * *



—

In the kitchen, a woman stands on a footstool, shoving a piece of cloth into a large vat of blue dye. She’s maybe forty, with Asian heritage—third-generation Japanese American, I later learn. Like Meer, a slim build. Even in a high ponytail, her black hair nearly reaches her waist. She’s pretty, with feathery eyebrows and color in her cheeks, an elegant neck. She wears work boots and a sleeveless blue dress underneath an enormous blue apron.

The kitchen floor is covered with canvas tarps. The large table is pushed against the wall. The wooden counters are worn, as if they see a lot of use.

A number of clotheslines have been strung up through the room. Blue-dyed pants, T-shirts, sweaters, and curtains hang, dripping. Buckets and bowls underneath are meant to catch the drips.

“Matilda is here,” says Meer to the woman. “Matilda, this is June. My mother.”

“Thank you so much for having me,” I say.

June keeps looking into the vat, wrangling her fabric. Her hands are stained with blue dye. She has calluses on her fingers and her nails are clipped short. “Meer,” she says. “What did we decide about having people over this summer?”

Heat rises to my face. June didn’t know I was coming.

And they’ve clearly made some kind of family rule not to have visitors.

“Kingsley invited her,” Meer explains.

June stops with the fabric and looks up. “He did? Like a while ago? Or do you mean he invited her just now?”

“A couple days ago,” I clarify.

“She’s going to stay in Parchment Tower,” says Meer.

“She’s sleeping here?” June doesn’t mask her irritation, but she’s returned her eyes to the vat of indigo fabric, stirring it as they talk. “Meer, be logical.”

“He asked me to set up the Iron Room. It’s all done.”

“No. That can’t…You can’t just ask some new friend to stay here and blame it on your father.”

“I told you, Kingsley invited her. But now he’s off-island,” says Meer.

“He did,” I say. “He emailed.”

“I know he’s off-island,” says June.

“So we have to be welcoming and make up for his sloth or negligence or whatever.” Meer grins at her, like they’re sharing a family joke.

“Meer,” she says.

“What?”