Page 59 of Petrify

The pond is large enough to swim in during the summer months, but small enough that any sort of boat would be excessive. I eye the perimeter, wondering, morbidly, at which point of the silty bank did Arnie supposedly meet his end.

It’s like Henri knows the direction of my thoughts. “I don’t like my brother,” he says, crouching a few feet away from the edge of the pond.

I frown. “You don’t?”

“My parents talk about him all the time. But he’s dead. Why do they always talk about him if he’s not here?”

My teeth cut into the sensitive flesh of my lip, biting down, drawing blood. Harder, until the pain signals in my brain are screaming.

Henri doesn’t notice, drawing in the snow with a stick.

“Maybe they miss him,” I say.

“I don’t miss him.” He scrapes another line into the ice. “I hate him.”

My frown deepens. “That’s not very nice.”

“All they talk about is him.” The stick scrapes the ice with more fervor, back and forth, gouging line after line across the surface. “They told me I’m not as good as him on piano.”

“You’re younger than he was,” I say, forcing the words to come out gentle. Did he hear my conversation with Ms. Wilder? I’d thought we were quiet enough. I make a mental notenotto bring it up around Henri anymore. “And we’re working really hard, aren’t we? It doesn’t mean you can’t get there someday.”

“Father says I’m not working hard.”Scrape. Scrape.

“I think you are. Iknowyou are.”

Scrape.“I think they love him more than me.”Scrape.

The chill from the winter air penetrates through my coat, my limbs shaking, shivers reverberating through my hands, in fists in my pockets. “That’s not true.”

But Henri is smart, and I know nothing I say to him will change his mind.

“I like you,” I say instead. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“Yeah,” he admits, begrudgingly. The stick falls from his gasp, landing against the ice with a dullthud. “But they’re going to take you away from me, too.”

We make our way back inside right before dinner. Ms. Byrne meets us right in the foyer, instructing Henri to stomp his shoes off on the front step before coming into the warmth. Instantly, I begin to thaw, the shivers subsiding the moment I step past the threshold.

“You’ll freeze to death if you keep staying outside so long,” she says, giving me a look. “Or catch a cold.”

“The air is good for you,” I say, because it’s something I’ve always heard growing up.

Nevermind that Henri and I both look quite frozen already.

“Upstairs,” she tells Henri. “Let’s warm you up. Into the bath with you. Quick, it’s almost dinner.”

Henri obeys as he always does.

“Mallary.”

Reece.

He stands across the foyer. Was he waiting for us to return? Waiting forme? A slight pink flushes at his cheeks as though he himself had just ventured outside. His hand is bandaged from the elbow down, the stiff white wrapping looking cumbersome.

“What is it?” I unwind my scarf.

“I was looking everywhere for you.” And then he falters, as though he hadn’t meant to admit that out loud.

“What do you need?”