Emmy Levine Saves a Life

Chapter 2

The chain-link gate slams behind me as I cut through the backyard at my mom's house, the browning grass crunching slightly under my feet. The shade of the house drops the temperature even more and my shivers shake droplets off of Nolan's umbrella as I fumble for my keys.

I unlock the door and push it open, breathing in the warm, vanilla-scented air mixed with the smell of fresh laundry. That's how this house has always smelled — even in my earliest memories of living here as a kid, back when hurricanes were just big rainstorms and parents were always married.

Back when it was my only home, instead of my home for the weekdays. Now, weekends are for Dad and my step-mom, Sheila.

I sometimes wonder if it's painful for my dad to live so close to our original home, since the house he bought is just down the street. It was one of the things they decided early on in the divorce — they wanted to make things easier for Hope and I, and part of that was living close.

It does make things easier, and I appreciate it, even if I forget to say so. When I was little and my parents were my whole world, it used to feel like I was leaving half my heart and soul whenever I left to my other parent's house. Now my world has grown, but it still helps that the distance is short.

In a lot of ways, I prefer life now, though I still imagine how it would be if my parents were still married. I can only say that because the pain has faded a lot over the last decade, and I have new family members to love. I've gotten used to the new way of things. It suits us, and we're happy.

I brush my shoes on the mat and slip them off, sliding them onto the shoe rack and pulling on my slippers. They slap against the gray-paneled flooring as I make my way up the stairs, past my step-brothers' room, and toward my mom's office.

I reach for the doorknob, then pause, leaning closer to listen. I hear the distinct sound of her video-chatting with a client, their friendly voices going back and forth in a continuous melody.

I won't interrupt, I think, walking into the next room: the one I share with Hope.

Our room looks like a collage — a hodgepodge of different interests scattered all over our different sides of the room. On the bulletin board over her bed, Hope has posted photos upon photos of her with her friends doing musicals, hanging out at each others' houses, and just taking silly pictures together.

That nauseating pang of envy returns to my stomach as I look toward my own board — at the single photo of Nolan and I as preschoolers that sits among ticket stubs and notes my parents have written me.

I close my eyes and imagine the board full of pictures of me at meets running alongside friends and rivals. In the center of my board is a blown up photo of the whole team huddled around a trophy, the light shining off the golden metal.

I can do this, I think in the moment. I can handle cross-country tryouts. But then doubt creeps back in and I shake my head hard.

Packing doesn't take long, since my room at Dad's has nearly everything I need. I throw in my toothbrush and retainer, the book I'm reading, and then I pick up the set of birthstone earrings my mom gifted me one year.

Perfect for tomorrow, I think, the tiny blue sapphires shimmering in my hand as I admire them. I slide them through my earlobes and give them a little twist.

Zipping my duffle bag closed and slumping it over my shoulder, I leave, taking the stairs down with tiny, quick footsteps. The bag beats against my backpack as I trade my slippers for shoes again and push open the back door.

It's stopped raining now, and a rare beam of sun shines through the clouds and warms my hair. The weather is so unpredictable here. In an hour it could be seventy degrees or snowing, or maybe a tornado will blow through.