He sighed, tore the paper in half, and tossed it into the recycling bin. I heard him mutter “Just what I need” before sitting down and ignoring me for the rest of class. As if it was my fault. On Monday he had almost been friendly. Now I was some sort of pariah he couldn’t be seen talking to—never mind helping. Several rows back, Elaine watched our interaction with a smug look on her face.
In class, we were reading Act 1 Scene 2 of Hamlet and Michael was asked to read the lead part. With his slight accent, the lines rolled off his tongue naturally. He was the perfect Hamlet. Judging from the faces of all the girls in class—even Heather’s—I wasn’t the only one affected by the sound of his voice. Hamlet’s grief-stricken first soliloquy—O, that this too too sullied flesh would melt—blazed through the room, melting a few of us in its wake. As he breathed new life into my favorite Shakespearean character, I felt like he was reading the words right to me.
The rest of the week, the teachers doubled everyone’s homework. I was assigned a six-page Gov/Econ report, pages and pages of math problems, and a quiz for Latin. Elaine had a permanent smirk, no doubt pleased by how much her article had humiliated me. Kids I barely knew whispered in the halls and gave each other looks as I walked by. Some of them asked me if the story in the Gazette was true, and a few junior girls asked me about being carried by Michael Fontaine—as if I needed reminding!
In class, Michael kept to himself. By the end of the week, it was like the incident in the forest had never happened. I wanted to ask him if he’d been at the hospital that Saturday, but he was even less approachable than usual. I’d hoped to see him at lunch or catch him alone in the halls, but outside of class he practically disappeared.
***
On the weekend, my brother Bill came up for a short visit. Mom took Saturday off and the three of us went sightseeing around the waterfront and Pike Place Market. My ankle was almost healed, so I could walk normally again. We even had a mini heat wave.
Sunday afternoon, Bill took me to the University of Washington’s Burke Museum of Natural History, so we could see an exhibit on ancient Egypt. He and I had been talking about it all summer and he’d promised to go with me. Though I’d first heard of ancient civilizations in grade school, Bill got me a book on Mesopotamia for my fourteenth birthday. I’d thought it was a joke at first, because it had mia—my name—in it. But since then, I’d been fascinated by the prehistoric civilizations, especially around the Mediterranean and Fertile Crescent.
The entrance to the exhibit was designed to resemble the temple at Luxor, with its high columns and hieroglyph-inscribed stone. If I squinted, I could pretend I was actually there. The main room opened up to be much larger than I expected, big enough to accommodate the crowd. The walls surrounding the glass cases were painted faux sandstone, and each case was labeled with the era it came from—Pre-Dynastic and Early Dynastic, and the Old, Middle, and New Kingdoms. Inside the glass cases were artifacts ranging from bronze and iron weapons to jewelry, hand mirrors, and cosmetics cases. On one side of the exhibit were replicas of paintings from inside a step-shaped pyramid; on the other side were mummies, mummy cases, and tombs. Bill and I saw a few items together, some scarabs and clay pots, but when I took my time reading everything, soaking it all in, Bill wandered off to look at things on his own.
I was inside a full-sized stone replica of the tomb of Kitines, examining an ornately painted mummy case, when Bill sneaked up behind me and grabbed my shoulders.
“Ahh!” I shrieked and stumbled backward into him.
Laughing, he caught me. “Gotcha.”
“Jerk!”
I punched his arm but he dodged it, heading toward the tomb’s exit. “You gotta admit this stuff is pretty creepy.”
“It’s not. It’s cool how advanced they were.”
Outside the tomb was a case of mummified animals that had served as pets in ancient times, mostly cats, but there was also a hawk and a tiny crocodile.
“Still want to be an archaeologist when you grow up?” Bill asked.
“When I grow up? I’m not five!”
“You know what I mean. You’re going to study this stuff next year, right?”
“I hope so.”
I stopped to admire a reproduction of a painting from the tomb of Menna, a man spear fishing in the Nile with his wife and family. The animals and marshes were captured in meticulous albeit stylistic detail, and the caption explained that the painting’s fertile environment symbolized the Egyptian belief in rejuvenation and eternal life.
“Any idea where?” Bill persisted.
“Not yet.” It depended on what Mom and I could afford, because I sure as hell wasn’t going to ask Dad for the money. But I didn’t want to get into that with Bill. Dad had paid for his education. I seriously doubted he’d pay for mine.
Near the end of the exhibit was a section on weaving. The caption outlined the evolution of fabric and Egypt’s history of working with linen and flax. When I saw it, some invisible string tugged at my insides, pulling me there.
“Saw that already,” Bill said behind me. “I’ll meet you outside.”
I nodded, my attention fixed on the display. Beside a case of fabric fragments, heddle jacks, and loom weights was a small replica of a loom that took up to four women to operate. I’d hoped something might click, but I’d seen these things in books before. They were nothing like what had come to me that day in the woods.
After the museum, Bill and I decided to go for coffee in the nearby U District. We found a small bohemian-style café with comfortable-looking chairs and dark wood walls. The place was surprisingly crowded for such a nice day, so I pounced on some red velvet armchairs and saved us a spot while Bill stood in line.
No sooner had Bill brought me a vanilla latté than something caught his attention; he did a double-take and almost spilled his cappuccino. A girl with honey-blond hair walked into the café. With her striking golden eyes and long legs, she belonged on a runway.
She walked up to the counter and ordered herself a mocha. As she did, the lights in the café dimmed and then flared. I turned back to Bill, whose gaze flicked in her direction despite his attempts to keep them focused on his drink.
“Did you see that?” I asked.
“Hmm?”
“The thing with the lights.”
“What thing?” he asked. Usually guys could be pretty annoying when they checked out a girl, but Bill was careful with me around. I could tell he was trying not to look. Having sat in class with Michael for the past two weeks, I could relate.
“Just flickering. It’s nothing.”
Bill changed the subject. “Dad’s seeing someone new.”
I nearly choked on my coffee. “Since this summer?”
“Yeah, before you left. They met through an online dating site.”
“Wow” was all I could think to say. I couldn’t imagine Dad meeting anyone online, but I wasn’t surprised he didn’t tell me, given how little we spoke. “How old is this one?”
“Closer to his age.” Dad’s last girlfriend had been only a few years older than Bill. Talk about awkward. “It’s still new, so don’t tell Mom yet, okay?
“Absolutely not. I’m not going to be the bearer of that news!” I remembered the first time Mom learned that Dad had been with another woman. I’d come home from school to find her crying on the sofa and Dad gone. It happened right after Bill went to Berkeley, so he didn’t know what we went through, how hurt she was. Even if Mom was over it now, she didn’t need to hear about Dad’s affairs.
“Well, he says to say ‘hi.’”
“Oh.” I bristled. I didn’t want to talk about dad or get any messages from him. Things were awkward enough—like he and I weren’t even family anymore. It would have bothered me that he and Bill got along, but Bill got along with everyone. His skills were wasted on computers. He should have joined the UN. Maybe he’d invent an app for world peace.