Prologue
Fiona
The summer sun had been so bright that year that it washed the world pale, even the sidewalk chalk we dragged across the driveway. My knees were scabbed, my elbows raw, and my drawing, a lopsided flower, looked like it had been done with my left hand instead of my right.
Across from me, Mirabelle sprawled out on her stomach like she owned the pavement, her hair spilling into the chalk dust as she worked on a princess. Of course it was a princess: perfect curls, a sparkling crown, and legs that seemed to go on forever. Everything about it was neat, pretty, balanced. Everything mine wasn’t.
“Why does yours look so much better than mine?” I asked, staring at my crooked petals until they blurred.
She didn’t even look up. “Because I’m an artist,” she said, smug and certain, then added with a grin, “And you’re a scientist. Scientists don’t need pretty drawings. They blow things up instead.”
“I’m not a scientist,” I muttered. “And I don’t blow things up.”
“You could, though.” She pushed herself up on her elbows, glancing at my flower. “Besides, that’s not bad. It looks like it’s blowing in the wind.”
I knew she was lying. The lines wobbled like they’d been drawn on a trampoline. Still, her voice softened something in me, the part that always clenched when people compared us.
“Yours belongs in a museum,” I said, pointing at her princess. “Mine looks like a baby drew it with their toes.”
Mirabelle rolled onto her back, laughing so hard her chalk rolled into the grass. “Don’t say that! It’s not true.”
“Yes, it is.” I pulled my knees to my chest, curling in on myself. “You’re good at everything. Everyone says so.”
She sat up then, brushing the chalk dust from her palms. “Not everything.”
“Like what?”
She scrunched her nose, thinking hard. “I can’t whistle. Or… hmm…” Then she sighed dramatically. “Okay, fine, maybe a lot of things. But who cares? That doesn’t mean you’re not good too.”
I kept my chin pressed to my knees. “You don’t get it.”
“Then tell me so I can.” She scooted closer, our shoulders bumping. “If you’re sad, I want to know why.”
The words were too heavy, but they came spilling out anyway. “Because everyone looks at you. Nobody looks at me. Even when we’re together, it’s like I’m not there.”
The silence was awful. A bird chirped from the telephone wire. Somewhere, a lawnmower buzzed. I wished I could scoop the words back up and swallow them whole.
Then she elbowed me, leaving a smudge of blue chalk on my arm. “That’s stupid.”
“It’s not!” I snapped.
“It is,” she shot back, her face fierce and smudged with color. “Because I look at you. And I always will. So who cares about anyone else?”
My throat closed. “You can’t always.”
“Yes, I can,” she insisted. “You’re my best friend. Forever. Even when you’re grumpy. Even when your flowers are ugly.”
I laughed, watery and weak. “They are ugly.”
“Super ugly,” she said solemnly, then grinned. “But they’re yours. Which makes them better than anything else.”
Something in me loosened then.
By the time the chalk wore down to nubs and our hands were stained every color of the rainbow, the sun had dipped low, and our parents were calling us in for dinner. The driveway turned gray again, but her words stayed bright inside me.
The first day of school smelled like pencil shavings and peanut butter.
We sat on the carpet with our classmates, legs crisscrossed, staring at the teacher’s bright smile and the posters taped to the walls. I’d clung to Mirabelle’s hand all the way from the bus stop, pretending I wasn’t nervous, but my palms were clammy and my stomach twisted.
The teacher wanted us to play Duck, Duck, Goose. Everyone giggled when they were tapped on the head, scampering around the circle. My heart pounded as the kids ran faster, shoes squeaking on the linoleum.
Then it happened.
A boy I didn’t even know slowed as he passed behind me, tapping heads: “Duck… duck…” His voice pitched louder when he reached me. “Ugly duck!”
The circle erupted into laughter.
I froze. My face burned. I wanted to crawl under the carpet and disappear. I could still feel his hand on my head like a brand.
Before I could move, Mirabelle shot to her feet.
“Take it back!” she barked, fists clenched at her sides. She was small, but her voice filled the room.
The boy laughed nervously. “What? It was just a joke.”
“It wasn’t funny.” She stepped closer, standing between me and him like a shield. “If you can’t play nice, don’t play at all.”
The room went quiet. Even the teacher looked startled.
I stared at her back, my throat tight, as she glared at him until his smirk fell away. He mumbled something, shuffled backward, and dropped into his spot without another word.
Mirabelle turned to me then, crouching so our eyes were level. “You okay?”
I nodded too quickly, blinking fast. My chest still hurt, but the laughter had stopped, and that was enough.
She leaned closer, whispering so only I could hear: “You’re not an ugly duck. You’re my duck. And nobody gets to call you names.”
The heat behind my eyes spilled over, and I pressed my face into her shoulder for a second before pulling back. She didn’t tease me. She just smiled like she knew a secret, and for the rest of the game, she sat cross-legged at my side, daring anyone else to try.
Looking back, I think that was the day something solidified between us. The driveway promises had been one thing, whispered under the hot sun and drawn in chalk that washed away with the rain. But this was different. This was public. Loud. Defiant.
She had chosen me, every time.
And even when the years piled up, when boys asked her to dance first, when teachers praised her projects louder, when her reflection sparkled next to mine, I carried that moment in my chest like a talisman.
She saw me, she always had. And when I felt invisible, when shame clawed at me, I reminded myself: Mirabelle would never let me disappear.
Authors note
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