I turn at Flint Oil Industry and continue to follow the signs. At some point, the tank farms, high distillation towers, and pipelines appear in front of me. In the daylight, there’s nothing mysterious, nothing magical about them. Without thinking, I walk past the oil refinery to the old quarry and the disused train line to Inver Grove Heights.
In my mind, I see James, Arizona, and me as children, chasing the rails as if they were moving. It’s May, and the snow in Minnesota has finally melted. Ari and I hide from James behind the raspberry bushes, snacking on unripe fruit and getting pink fingers. We laugh. Little do we know that the next morning will change everything. Later, we sit on the tracks that are no longer in use.
“I want to be a painter, like Mom,” Arizona says at one point as she inspects her delicate pink fingers.
“Me too,” I say, because Arizona’s ideas are always the best.
“I’m going to be an animal trainer,” James announces cockily, standing up and grinning down at us as he casually swings an invisible whip.
“Oh yes, let’s play circus!” Arizona squeals with delight, jumping up and rushing forward with me in pursuit. We both roar like wild lions, but, of course, Ari is even wilder and harder to tame than me.
Later, as the sun sets and bathes Willow River in a coppery red light, Ari and I sit on the tracks of the old railroad bridge while James puzzles together pieces of splintered wood.
“You don’t really want to be a painter, do you?” she asks me quietly so that James can’t hear.
I shake my head.
“Then why did you say that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Kans! Everyone has to want something for themselves, right? Otherwise, you’ll always be in my shadow, just like Grandma says.”
I think for a moment, and the wordsshadow magicflutter through my head, words from a poem written by Grandma herself. “I want to write books like Granny,” I whisper, and suddenly a strange excitement burns in my heart, like when you truly want something for Christmas but don’t know if you’ll get it.
Ari sighs deeply, relieved. “Phew! Thank goodness, Kans.” She wraps her arms tightly around me and presses her forehead against my cheek. I’m afraid she’s about to say,It’s not like you know how to paint. Instead, she says, “You have to write. I loooove your stories. Nobody does it better than you. And I can always brag later that my sister is a famous author.”
Warmth floods my heart, filling me with happiness and pride.
“You may be quiet, but you have this gift... or something. People just can’t see it. But I... I see it, Little A.”
The “A” stands for Alligator, her personal pet name for me.
I haven’t heard it in a year.
I swallow as I suddenly find myself back in reality. She can be like that too, my sister. My dear, sweet Ari. At least, she was like that once.
I realize that the last time I felt happy and complete was at the Old Sheriff.
It would be a good place, I think. High enough.
Chapter 3
Iforgot how high the Old Sheriff really is. The bridge spanning Willow River is over three hundred feet long.
With my head bowed, I leave my bag at the edge of the forest and work my way down the rotting railroad ties to the middle of the bridge. There hasn’t been a railing here for a long time; the rusted steel struts that support the entire structure protrude laterally over the edges of the bridge like iron fingers. I carefully walk to the edge of the railroad ties and stare down.
The enchanted river, Willow River, roars beneath me. My eyes see emerald green, wild, and mysterious, but inside me, it’s cold—as if I lacked any response.
I can’t do it. Or can I?
The world seems small from up here. I feel removed from it, but most of all from myself. It’s like James says: I have no idea where I disappeared to. And I feel like I’m getting increasingly more lost every day. Am I the girl who hears threats whispered to her every hour and is ignored by those who don’t participate? The girl you do whatever you want to?
The truth is, I no longer have the energy to look for another version of Kansas.
For seconds, I stand there, unable to stop looking down. It must be windy because a subtle tremor runs through the crowns of the deciduous trees. How high up am I? A hundred feet? A hundred and thirty? I’m bad at estimating heights, but it seems enough to be deadly.
Will I faint beforehand, or will I feel the impact? How does it feel? Should I write a farewell letter first?I never lied. I never came on to Chester, and I didn’t steal anything or secretly spy on the boys’ locker room. Do you believe me now?For a split second, anger flares up inside me, but even that is dulled. I wish I could see Dad’s face when he finds out I jumped, even though I know it is childish.
