I hold up the telephone receiver. “I was just calling home,” I say. “To let them know I’m okay and coming home later. Sorry.”

  “It’s fine,” Rhonda says. “But that phone has been disconnected for years. I only use my cell now.”

  I stare at the receiver. I put it to my ear. “Hello?” I say.

  There’s no one there. I hang up.

  “Want to use my cell?” Rhonda asks.

  “That’s okay,” I say. “I left them a note when I took off. They won’t worry.”

  “Okay,” she says. “Well, do you want to get some rest now?”

  I nod. “Just for a little while,” I say.

  She leaves the room. I immediately pick up the phone and call Percy back, but my fingers fumble on the numbers, and nothing happens. I give up and go back to her notebook, turning the pages and reading her words. One in particular jumps out at me.

  Wrongskin

  cut and stitch

  not to wound

  just some alterations

  to a suit that doesn’t fit

  sleeves too short

  legs too long

  one size does not fit all

  and no exchanges no returns

  right heart in the wrong skin

  wrong thoughts in the right head

  changeling switch, just one wish

  find some air that i can breath

  mirror shows

  stranger’s face

  speaking lines, missing cues

  in a play i didn’t write

  ink in skin

  pain reminds

  opens doors that i keep closed

  write my secrets in my blood

  right heart in the wrong skin

  wrong words in the right mouth

  changeling switch, just one wish

  find a song that i can sing

  bruises bloom

  fade to black

  poisoned veins are running

  with the sweetness of forget

  fun-house mirror

  sleight of hand

  objects may be closer

  what you see’s not what you get

  right heart in the wrong skin

  wrong love in the right hands

  changeling switch, just one wish

  find a me that i can be

  The lyrics make me think about Tom Swift and how he cuts himself to let out whatever’s inside that he wants out. I’ve never done that. I also don’t know what it’s like for him to feel like he was born in the wrong body. But I definitely know what it’s like to feel like your skin doesn’t fit quite right. That’s one of the things I love about drag. You can become anything you want to be, even if it’s just for a little while.

  Still, I relate to Percy’s words. I think most people do at one time or another. Not to the extent that a trans person does, maybe, but we all (or at least most of us) sometimes wonder who we are and where we belong. I think if anyone says they’ve never felt that way, they’re either lying or someone you probably don’t want to spend a whole lot of time with. People who feel like they fit in all the time aren’t people you can generally trust to understand very much.

  I want to read more of Percy’s lyrics, but the weight of everything that’s been happening falls on me like a blanket. I tell myself I’ll nap for half an hour, then get on the road. I close my eyes and fall asleep, my head resting on the pillow where Percy used to lay hers and dream.

  I wake up when I feel someone sit on the edge of the bed. At first I think that I’m in my own room. Then the lingering sleep clears away, and I see Rhonda smiling at me. She’s changed clothes.

  “Good morning,” she says.

  “Morning?” I laugh, thinking she’s making a joke.

  “I was going to wake you up for dinner, but you seemed so tired that I thought I’d let you sleep.”

  I look at the light coming through the curtains. It really is morning. I yawn and stretch, and Percy’s notebook slides off my chest. I catch it before it falls on the floor.

  “Thanks,” I say to Rhonda. “I guess I needed it.”

  “I have to get to the coffee shop, but you’re welcome to stay here if you need to sleep some more.”

  “I should get on the road,” I tell her. “I’ll drive you to work first, then take off.”

  We drive back into town, where I plan on just dropping Rhonda off and leaving. But she makes me come inside and have some breakfast before I go. As I eat the eggs and bacon, I wrestle with whether or not to say anything to her about Percy. I know I was brought here to meet her, and if this were a movie or a book, I would say it was so I could bring some kind of closure to her. But I don’t think that’s it. She actually seems pretty okay with things, even though I can tell she misses Percy like crazy.

  As I’m finishing my last bite of toast with strawberry jam, I decide not to say anything about ghost daughters or magic telephones. Rhonda comes over to the table carrying a menu, pulls out a chair, and sits down. “I wasn’t going to say anything,” she says, “but do you believe in fate? You know, that things happen for a reason?”

  I hesitate a moment. “Um, maybe.” I feel like the world’s biggest liar, but I don’t know where this is heading, and I’m not sure I’m ready for it.

  Rhonda laughs. “I know it sounds hippy-dippy. But I do think things happen for reasons. Like there’s a plan of some kind, even if we can’t see what it is. Walter—my ex-husband—said I only wanted to believe there was a plan because accepting that horrible things happen to good people for no reason is too much to handle.”

  Her eyes get sad, and I can tell she’s thinking about Percy. But then she smiles. “Maybe he was right. Maybe he wasn’t. The point is, I think you and I met for a reason.”

  She takes the menu she was carrying, which has been on her lap, and sets in front of me. Only it’s not a menu. It’s Percy’s notebook. “I want you to have this.”

  “I can’t take that,” I tell her. “It’s the only one you have left.”

  “I’ve read this a thousand times,” Rhonda says. “Maybe more. Looking for clues. Hearing her voice. It’s time to let it go. And for some reason, I think you’re meant to have it.”

  I put my hand on the notebook. “You’re sure?”

  Rhonda nods.

  I take the notebook and stand up. Rhonda stands too, and opens her arms. I step into them, and she hugs me tight. “I think you and Percy would have been good friends,” she says into my ear.

  I feel a catch in my throat, and for a moment I think I might cry. Instead, I concentrate on how her arms feel around me. It feels good to be held like this, and part of me wants it to last forever.

  Rhonda lets go, and I can see that she’s holding back tears as well. “Thank you,” I tell her.

  “Don’t be a stranger,” she says. “Like I said, I don’t know why, but something brought us together.”

  I nod, afraid that if I speak, I might cry. I walk out of the Perk Me Up, turn around, and see her watching me through the window. She waves. I wave back, then get into my truck and leave before I start bawling.

  Percy’s notebook sits beside me during the ride home. Every so often, I put my hand on it, as if maybe I’ll feel a heartbeat. It’s weird to have been given something so personal, and I have no idea what I’m going to do with it. But I’m happy Rhonda trusts me enough to keep it safe.

  The drive back seems to take forever, probably because I’m anxious to be home. I arrive at dusk, hot and tired and glad to be back. When I pull into the driveway, I see Hank and Starletta walking across the yard. They’re barefoot and wearing white dresses. Both of them have crowns of roses and daises on their heads, and Starletta is carrying something in her hand.

  I get out, and that’s when the quiet hits me. The cicadas, which have been singing like crazy all summer, have stopped. Hank sees me and waves. I walk over to where she and Starletta are standing underneath the branches of the biggest elm tree in the yard. Hank is holding a small trowel in her hand.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Burying the queen,” says Starletta. She holds up her hand, and I see that she’s carrying a small white cardboard box tied with a pink ribbon.

  “The queen?”

  “Queen of the cicadas,” Hank says as she kneels and pokes the trowel into the ground. She turns over a clump of earth. “Starletta found her this morning.”

  “How do you know she was the queen?”

  “The singing stopped,” Starletta says. “And of course the crown.”

  I look at the box. “You found a cicada wearing a crown?”

  “She’s the queen,” Starletta says. “Queens get crowns.”

  Part of me wants to ask her to untie the ribbon and let me see what’s in the box. Another part doesn’t. I decide to believe that inside the box is a dead cicada with a tiny gold crown on its head.

  “How was your trip?” Hank asks, still digging.

  “Good,” I say.

  “Find what you were after?”

  “I found something better,” I say.

  Hank finishes digging the hole. Starletta kneels beside her and places the box inside. She takes a handful of dirt and sprinkles it in. Hanks adds another, and they alternate handfuls until the hole is filled in again.

  “There,” Starletta says when they’re done. “Now they can all sleep and dream for another seventeen years.”

  “All of them?” I ask.

  “Of course,” Hank says. “Once the queen dies, they all die.”

  I don’t think this is scientifically accurate, but it doesn’t matter. And the cicadas really have stopped singing, so maybe Starletta and Hank are right.

  “Seventeen years,” I say. “Just like the Weyward Curse. Maybe the queen fell in love.”

  “Help me up,” Starletta says, holding out her hand.

  I help her stand, and then the three of us walk toward the house. “How’s Clodine?” I ask.

  “Better,” Hank says. “Still not talking right, but that’ll come.”

  “Dad?”

  Hank snorts. “You’ve only been gone two days, Sam,” she says. “The world doesn’t change that fast.”

  “Sometimes it does,” I say. “Sometimes it changes in a second.”

  “John’s fine,” Starletta says. “Played that awful song about a nun for about six hours straight on Sunday night, and then he seemed over it.”

  “Which awful song?” I have no idea what she’s talking about.

  Starletta hums, off-key and not quite right, but I recognize the song immediately.

  “‘Sister Christian,’” I say. “She’s not a nun. She’s just a regular sister.”

  “Horrible song,” Starletta says. “What’s motoring, anyway?”

  “I think it means driving,” I tell her.

  “Well, whatever it’s about, it seems to have helped him get over things. He’s been more himself.”

  I’m about to ask about Millard Fillmore when he comes walking into the kitchen and flings himself down on the floor with a groan.

  “He’s been sleeping on Clodine’s bed,” Hank tells me. “I think he likes the smell of the Wild Ruckus roses. So, you want to tell us where you went?”

  I think for a little bit, then shake my head. “No,” say.

  Hank nods. “Fair enough.”

  “I’m going to go take a shower,” I say.

  As I walk by, I kiss first Hank and then Starletta on the cheek. Then I go upstairs to my room. I set Percy’s notebook on my bedside table, then strip off my clothes and go into the bathroom. I turn on the water and step into the shower. It feels great on my skin and I stand there for a long time, until the water starts to run cold. Then I get out and dry off.

  Still naked, I go into my room and walk over to the stereo. Instinctively, I reach for my mother’s record collection and pull out record number 14, Nina Hagen’s Nunsexmonkrock. I start to put it on the turntable, then stop. I slip the record back into its sleeve and put it away.

  Instead, I pull out one of my favorite albums, Tegan and Sara’s If It Was You. I put it on, drop the needle, and dance. I dance because I’m happy to be home with the Grands. I dance for Percy, and Rhonda, and Clodine. I dance for Millard Fillmore, my father, and the queen of the cicadas. I dance for Lola, and Tom Swift, and Farrah and Paloma. I dance for Ilona, and maybe even a little bit for Livvie Comstock, just to show her I’m not afraid of her and her curse.

  Even if I still am.

  Thirty-Three

  I’m standing in the yard at dusk, tossing a ball of tinfoil into the air, when I see Tom Swift walking toward me.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he asks as I throw the ball up and catch it again when it comes down.

  “Playing with the bats,” I say. “They like to dive-bomb the foil.”

  He looks dubious, so I show him. I launch the ball. A moment later, a shape flitters out from the open doorway of the barn and tumbles through the air. The bat swoops low, its wings flapping, then rises up and disappears into the shadows.

  “So that’s what you do out in the country for fun,” Tom Swift says.

  “Don’t forget cow tipping,” I say, pocketing the foil ball. “When did you get out?”

  “This afternoon. Actually, they didn’t let me out. My parents made them release me.” He sighs. “They decided they didn’t like what the shrink was telling them.”

  “Which is?”

  “That there’s nothing wrong with me. That they should be supportive of my”—he makes finger quotes in the air—“‘exploration of my gender expression.’”

  “But that sounds great,” I say.

  “Not to them. They wanted him to convince me that I’m not really a guy. That I’m just confused. When he basically said that they were the ones with the problem, my father went apeshit. Demanded they let me out so they can take me to a real doctor. It was sort of ugly.”

  “What did your mom say?”

  “Nothing. As usual. She just wants everyone to pretend to be happy.”

  “So, what happens now?”

  “We go home,” Tom says. “First thing tomorrow. And I get to go see some doctor my father found who will fix me right up. Oh, and when school starts again, I’ll be at an all-girls Catholic school. So that will be fun.”

  “Holy shit,” I say.

  Tom laughs. “Pretty much. I guess I’ll have to learn how to rock a little plaid skirt.”

  He’s laughing, but I can’t imagine what he’s really feeling. “Are you going to be okay?”

  He shrugs. “Eventually. This is my last year of school. I think I can handle an asshole doctor, some mean girls, and a couple of repressed closet-case nuns for a few months. I’ve got the rest of my life to be me.”

  He’s making it sound like it’s nothing, but I know it’s got to be scaring him. That’s a hell of a lot of pressure to be under, even if you know there’s eventually going to be an end to it.

  “Anyway,” he says, “I’ve got to get going. They don’t know I snuck out. I wanted to say goodbye to you.”

  It means a lot to me that he’s risked getting in trouble to see me. But I also feel guilty. “I’m sorry about throwing out your T,” I say. “And, you know, everything else.”

  “It’s okay,” he says. “It’s not like I’ll be taking T for a while. And I’m sorry I was a dick to you.”

  “That reminds me,” I say. “I have your dick if you want it.”

  Tom Swift laughs. “You know what?” he says. “I do.”

  “Come on,” I say, and walk to the barn. I locate the cooler my father and I used the day of our fishing trip, and open it. “It might have a couple of little holes in it from the fishhook,” I tell Tom as I take out the Mr. Stiffy and hand it to him.

  “Do I want to know?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “Probably not.”

  He shakes the Mr. Stiffy. It wiggles. We both laugh.

  “Every time I wear it, I’ll think of you,” Tom Swift says.

  Then he leans in and kisses me on the mouth. It’s a good kiss, not rushed or like the kind you’d give a relative. A real kiss. I shut my eyes and enjoy the feeling of his lips against mine. Sooner than I like, he pulls back.

  “I wish I was into boys,” he says.

  “Yeah,” I say. “So do I.”

  He hugs me, holding me tight. “Thanks,” he says, and I know exactly what he means without him saying anything else. This time when he lets go, it’s hard not to cry.

  “Call me,” I tell him. “Text me. Email me. Whatever you can.”

  He nods, and I know he’s having a hard time holding it together too. “I will.”

  He walks away. I stand in the doorway of the barn, watching him go. At the end of the driveway, he turns and waves. I wave back. Then he disappears into the shadows.

  Normally, I love this time of the evening, when everything slows down to a twilight stillness and the daytime world and nighttime world hang out for a little bit. Now, though, it makes me almost unbearably sad. Without the cicadas singing, it’s deathly quiet, and I’m acutely aware of how the summer is coming to a close. There are a few weeks left, of course, and it doesn’t technically end until the autumn equinox in September, but already I can feel change coming.

  My birthday is a week from today. Seven more days. But then what? Will Livvie’s curse definitely be behind me? After seeing her at the nursing home, I’m mostly convinced that the curse was never even a thing, or if it was that it’s worn itself out as she’s gotten weaker herself. But there’s still a small part of me that wonders.

  I decide I need to be somewhere else, so I get in my truck and drive to Lola’s house in town. Technically, I’m one of the owners of the house, so I don’t feel like I’m trespassing or anything. Still, it feels a little weird to be going in there alone. I’ve only ever been there with Farrah and Paloma.

  I hang around downstairs for a while, telling myself that I want to look at everything before I go upstairs, but really it’s that I’m not quite ready to be alone in Lola’s room. So for half an hour or so I go through the downstairs rooms, picking things up and putting things down, imagining Lola living here. I know the Lola I saw at the Shangri-La was one version of himself, the one he let people see. The one who lived here was a different Lola, one who apparently loved pickles (the refrigerator is filled with at least a dozen jars of them) and the Mutts comic strip (there are seven or eight of them stuck to the refrigerator with magnets shaped like fruits).