The Last Secret You'll Ever Keep by Laurie Stolarz (summer reads txt) 📕

no missed messages. “Did you try to call me?”

“Why should I have to call?” Aunt Dessa’s face wilts like a rose in the heat.

“I’m really sorry.” I wilt too.

Her gaze lands on the syrup bottle clenched in my hands before continuing to travel around the room as though searching for other things:

The yoga blanket … Check.

My mom’s sweater … Check.

The starry doorknob, my basket of troll items, and the collection of fire extinguishers … Check, check, check …

“I’m sorry,” I say for a third time, hoping the tension in her face will break.

But she remains as rigid as steel with her lips screwed tight. Eventually, she starts to turn away, but I stop her before she can.

“Did you buy a garden gnome?” I ask.

She moves closer as though to hear me better. “A what?”

“A garden gnome—one of those ceramic ones … about a foot tall? I saw one on the back deck.”

Her face furrows. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“A garden gnome,” I say once again, getting up from the bed. “I can show you.” I lead Aunt Dessa downstairs and through the dining area. I flick on the outside lights and peel open the sliding glass door.

The outdoor table sits in direct view. But the garden gnome is no longer there. In its place is one of my aunt’s ceramic planters—a red-and-green one with flecks of gold and black.

I close my eyes. My stomach twists.

“Terra?”

“Did you put this here?” I ask.

“The planter? No. Did you?”

Did I? Is this what I picked up and moved? Was my mind playing tricks? Are my meds screwing with my brain?

Or is it possible I dreamed up the gnome? Had I somehow fallen asleep on the deck? Did I ever leave my bedroom?

“Terra?”

“It was here,” I say, searching anyway, beneath the table, behind the potted plants … I pull out every chair.

“When did you see it?”

“Late last night. I came out here in the rain.”

“What were you doing in the rain?”

Panic fills my mouth: a sickly, sour taste. Sometimes I forget to lie. “I just wanted to sit,” I tell her as if sitting in the rain is normal.

Aunt Dessa clasps her hand over her mouth.

“I mean, I thought I heard something. There was a clanking sound, so I came out here … But maybe what I saw was this planter.”

“And you think the planter made a clanking noise?” She looks toward the row of potted plants. “Nothing appears broken or disturbed.”

“So, maybe what I saw—and heard—was an owl.”

And maybe the owl was a ceramic planter.

And maybe the planter was a garden gnome.

And maybe the garden gnome is a big red flag that I can no longer trust myself, that I’m truly going crazy.

NOW

32

Back in my room, I change into my mom’s old sweater and burrow beneath the covers. I need to sleep, but thoughts spin like hamsters on a wheel, inside my head, keeping me up. What are the odds that someone who knew about my case placed the gnome on the back deck—only temporarily—as a joke or to make me feel crazy?

Or what if the guy who took me left it? Could it have been a warning that he’s somewhere nearby, waiting to take me again, just as Peyton fears with her captor too? Do either of those scenarios even make sense when the person would’ve had no way to predict I’d ever see it?

And what if the gnome was never really there? If I’d only imagined it? My heart races at the mere possibility; somehow, it’s the most terrifying option of all.

I rub my cheek with the cuff of the sweater, thinking how Mom used to tell me how strong she thought I was. But I don’t feel strong. I feel more like the way she sometimes got, when she’d curl up into her shell like a hermit crab—like the time I came home from school and found her on the living room sofa staring out into space. The TV wasn’t on. There was no book in her hand. I stood in the doorway waiting for her to acknowledge my presence, but it was only when I scooted down and touched her bony fingers that she finally noticed I was there.

“Terra?” Her eyes met mine. “You’re home early. Was it a half day?” She was still in her pajamas from the morning. The coffee Dad had made her—and poured into the smiling heart mug—still lingered on the table beside an untouched breakfast cookie. She obviously hadn’t gone to work.

“Having one of those days?” I asked her.

Mom faked a smile, but her eyes filled up, which was my cue. I turned away to allow her to cry in peace.

With my back to her, I asked, “Are you coming to my belt ceremony?” For tae kwon do.

“Would it upset you if I had to miss?”

“No,” I lied.

“I’m so proud of you.” Her voice crumbled like cake. “You’re so strong, so resilient. You’ll always be just fine—no matter what happens.”

If only she could see me now.

I stare at the window, half wishing the rainbow bird would visit me again. Somehow the bird, with its unicorn stripes and sparerib gift, seemed so much clearer than this.

Sometime later, my aunt comes into my room again. “Terra?” She sits down on the edge of my bed, no longer wearing the pale green scrubs. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

I roll onto my back to meet her eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, what was all of that about downstairs, earlier?”

Where do I begin? And do I even know?

She takes my hand and pats it like a wounded animal—stroke, stroke, stroke. The gesture takes me aback, and I can feel it in my chest—a churning sensation inside my heart. I pinch my leg beneath the blanket to make sure I’m fully awake.

“Are you feeling confused again?” she asks.

Did the confusion ever stop? Pinch, pinch, pinch. My lids feel heavy. My brain is fuzzy.

“Terra?”

What does she want to hear? That I’m questioning my reality? That I lied about the well? Sometimes