Astrid shrugged. “I’m just being crazy,” she said. She swirled her pointer finger next to her head. “I’m in an Elsewhere state of mind.” She pulled open the door to the candy shop, ending the conversation.

  Cheerful and brightly lit, the shop smelled like vanilla. Pop music—Milli Vanilli?—played softly on hidden speakers. The front section was filled with rows and rows of colorful candies in clear plastic bins or in wicker baskets lined with pastel paper. Toward the back was an old-fashioned soda fountain bar and several booths.

  Before Astrid had a chance to look any further, Cecile gasped.

  “What?” Astrid said, her heart jumping.

  “Look!” Cecile said, pointing to a shelf to the right, above a row of various fancy chocolate bars. It was the same photo they had seen in the grocery, but this one was surrounded by other pictures and ribbons and mementos, like a shrine. A cardboard display sign had the word “Candi” written out in gum drops next to an enormous glass bowl filled with M&M candies. Astrid peered in and blinked, realizing that each M&M was emblazoned with the same tiny image of Candi. Astrid picked one up and held it out to Cecile.

  They were squinting at the M&M when a bright voice called, “Hello!” Astrid turned to see Mayor Clifton barreling toward them. “Welcome to the Sweet Shoppe!” she cried. She pronounced it, Astrid couldn’t help but notice, “shop-ee.”

  Astrid quickly placed the candy back in the bowl and turned.

  “Hi,” she said politely, unable to keep a note of wonder out of her voice.

  “Hi,” Cecile said.

  “I see you’ve found our dedicated Candi shelf,” Mayor Clifton said cheerfully, smiling. Her bright red lips contrasted sharply with the startling, headache-inducing yellow of her hair. She was wearing a pink halter top that tied around her neck, a denim skirt, and tan platform sandals. Kind of a cute outfit if you were seventeen and lived in Hazzard County, Astrid thought.3 At first glance the woman appeared youthful, but up close, Astrid could tell that she was their mom’s age or maybe older.

  “That’s my girl!” the woman cried, picking up a handful of the loose M&M’s and then holding one out for Astrid to see. “Yes, that’s right. My beauty. Help yourself!” She popped the Candi-candy into her mouth.

  Astrid felt at once slightly relieved—at least she had an almost legitimate reason for the over-the-top adoration—and immediately terrified. She wondered, with rising panic, if Candi was actually there, in the store, at that very moment.

  “We actually saw her photo in the grocery store too,” Cecile said.

  “Oh sure,” Mayor Clifton said. “Kenny just loves Candi. Everyone does, of course. Most places around here have some kind of picture of her up. Have you been to the library? They have the most elegant oil painting of our girl from when she was about eleven—right over the fireplace. We used to have the painting in our house, but Candi didn’t like it anymore and I said, please, honey, please don’t make me get rid of it. How about I donate it to the library? And she is so generous, she said fine, mother. She joked that she never goes in the library anyway, so she doesn’t have to look at it, but everyone else can enjoy it!” Mayor Clifton laughed shrilly. “And it was good for the library too. It’s good for Candi to feel an . . . investment in the library. Simply heating that old building is a drain on our taxes. And we wouldn’t want her to—we wouldn’t want her to have to close it down.” She looked at Astrid and Cecile, as if waiting for them to agree; stunned, they regarded her blankly. She charged ahead.

  “Now, I wanted to make sure that I got a chance to meet you, Astrid, and to welcome you personally to Else—to Candiland!” Taking Astrid by surprise, she poked playfully with a long red fingernail. Astrid backed into a shelf, knocking over a display of Pop Rocks candy.

  Astrid stooped to pick up the scattered pouches and, upon rising, felt lightheaded. She supposed the humidity really was getting to her and, after putting the Pop Rocks down, steadied herself with a hand on the shelf. Candi’s mother didn’t seem to notice her discomfort and she prattled on, rearranging the candies: “I did see you were at the carnival last night—that was good. Although that was a terrible tragedy—what happened to Charles—I mean no one knew that would happen. Although, he did have an underlying heart condition—did you know that? Of course you didn’t. But anyway,” she waved a well-manicured hand dismissively. “I also heard that you met my Candi the other day. You two didn’t get off on the right foot, so to speak?” She laughed shrilly. She leaned in conspiratorially. “So I thought we’d go ahead and try a do-over. You’ll just apologize and then we girls can sit down and get to know each other a little better over some hot fudge sundaes.”

  Nothing, Astrid thought glumly, was less appealing.

  Mayor Clifton continued. “Candi’s at home—probably still sleeping, so you’ll stay and wait.”

  Astrid’s skin was clammy and her stomach made a weird, grumbling noise. She smiled weakly, not sure what to do or say.

  Suddenly, Astrid didn’t know if she could stomach Candi’s mother for another minute. Literally. “I think we have to go,” Astrid stuttered.

  “Oh, that’s out of the question!” Mayor Clifton let out another burst of unhinged laughter and began grabbing wildly at the chocolate bars and oversized lollypops that surrounded them. “What kind of candy can I interest you girls in? On the house!”

  The woman’s insanity, her almost hysterical enthusiasm for her own daughter, her red lips and the sweet smell from the machine spinning cotton candy, was terrifying and excessive. Astrid’s eyes shot around the room, searching for the fastest escape route.

  “I’m sorry,” Astrid squeaked, angling her face away and looking out the window. “I’m not feeling well. I think I have to go.”

  “Have to go?” Mayor Clifton shrieked. She frowned and deep lines emerged next to her mouth.

  Astrid gave her sister a beseeching look.

  “What’s wrong?” Cecile asked softly, peering up at her.

  “I don’t know,” Astrid said, looking at her sister, then at the door. “I think I might be coming down with something.”

  “No, no, no!” Mayor Clifton barked. Still clutching handfuls of treats, she walked over and placed her scrawny body in front of the door. “Please. Just wait a little longer. Candi will be so angry, I mean, disappointed, if she finds out you didn’t wait.”

  Astrid was torn between an undeniable urge to flee and a desire not to offend. It wasn’t that she disliked Mayor Clifton, but she was somehow repellent, like a stray dog with an oozing infection. She felt sorry for her, but she didn’t want to be around her.

  “I’m sorry,” Astrid said again, overcome by queasiness. “Excuse me.”

  Mayor Clifton was still standing there, blocking the door. Cecile moved toward the older woman and gently touched her arm. “We’ve got to go,” she explained. “We’ll be back,” she said soothingly. “Just tell your daughter that my sister got sick but that we promised to come back another time. Okay?”

  Mayor Clifton seemed to be listening carefully to Cecile. She nodded. “Okay,” she said. She stepped aside, but it was too late. Astrid couldn’t hold it in anymore.

  She turned away from Mayor Clifton and Cecile and threw up.

  All over the Candi shelf.

  1 Before Netflix and streaming, people used to rent videocassettes that they could play on their home VCRs. It wasn’t that bad, really.

  2 Astrid clearly had a thing for Patrick Swayze, which she was not ready to talk about.

  3 The Dukes of Hazzard was a popular TV show (1979-1985) and later, a movie (2005); character Daisy Duke’s sexy ensembles have been immortalized in the term “Daisy Dukes” to mean short shorts.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  It was Sunday afternoon—thirty hours later—when Astrid finally felt well enough to debrief with Cecile.

  “I thought she was going to have a heart attack. Like, literally,” Cecile said. “Her face got so red and there was this vein pulsing in her neck . . . ”

  Astrid laughed weakly and then groaned. “Oh my God, Cecile. The whole thing was so humiliating.”

  “And that bowl of M&M’s . . . I mean, it looked like a bowl of cereal after you . . .”

  “Stop it!” Astrid gasped, clutching her stomach. She closed her eyes, trying to push away the image of Candi M&M’s floating in vomit. “You’re going to make me puke again.”

  They were sitting on the couch in the living room. Astrid had been relieved to discover that she actually was sick—that it wasn’t the Sweet Shoppe itself that made her throw up—but that she had somehow contracted a stomach virus.

  She’d been miserable for the rest of that day, wearing a path between her bed and the bathroom and intimately acquainting herself with the toilet in their new house. Cecile and her mother made half-hearted attempts to minister to her, but neither could conceal their disgust; no one in their family had good bedside manner.

  Astrid had told them to go ahead with their plan to go to the movies that Saturday night—that she would be alternately sleeping and puking anyway. But they’d returned a half hour after leaving—drenched from a sudden storm—saying that the theater was sold out.

  “Apparently you have to get your tickets in advance,” Cecile had told Astrid as she sat, somehow sweaty and freezing at the same time, next to the toilet. “It was like a Hollywood opening. People were so serious about the whole thing—and everyone gave us the cold shoulder.” Cecile looked at her sister. “It was a little weird,” she confessed.

  Astrid frowned and then lurched over the toilet.

  It was the following afternoon that Astrid was able to nibble on some crackers and make her way downstairs to the couch to watch TV with Cecile. They were in the middle of The Lost Boys—which Astrid was truly enjoying—when the doorbell rang.

  The sisters looked at each other. Their mother was at work. They didn’t really know anybody in town. They hadn’t ordered food, weren’t expecting anyone.

  Because of the movie, Astrid first imagined vampires, asking to be invited in. That wouldn’t be the worst thing, if said vampires looked like Jason Patrick or Kiefer Sutherland.1

  Her mind, though, then next turned to the possibility of Mayor Clifton, come to check on her, bearing M&M’s imprinted with Candi’s face. She shuddered.

  “Should we just not answer it?” Astrid proposed.

  Her baby sister assumed the adult role. “That’s ridiculous,” she said, but there was an edge to her voice. “Of course, you should answer it.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because I’m only twelve.”

  “You’re turning thirteen in like fifteen minutes,” Astrid retorted. “And I’m not dressed,” she said, indicating her sweat pants and ratty tee-shirt.

  “Um, you’ve actually left the house in that exact outfit several times,” Cecile pointed out. With more urgency, she hissed, “Hurry up!”

  “I’m sick!” Astrid protested.

  Cecile sighed, rose, and walked to the entryway.

  Astrid waited on the couch, concealed from sight. She heard the door swinging open and a woman’s voice ringing out.

  “Hi, sweetie. I’m Denise Alexiadis from next door. This is my son, Vince. Is your mom around?”

  “Oh, hi. No, she’s not here. But come in. I’m Cecile.”

  Knowing she would be visible in a moment, Astrid heaved herself off the couch and padded toward the door. A tall, dark-haired mom-type person stepped into the house, followed by a tall boy.

  The guy, Vince, turned to face Astrid and her poor, beleaguered stomach fell through the floor and landed with a thud in the damp basement.

  He had brown hair and icy blue eyes, an angular face, and a slim, but fit, physique. He had a long scar across one cheek—Astrid couldn’t help but gape momentarily—but even with the scar, or perhaps because of it, he was totally amazing-looking. Astrid almost laughed out loud. He really could have been one of the sexy vampires from the Lost Boys.

  And then, of course, she remembered her disheveled, un-showered, sweatpants-ed self.

  And then, remembering her recent humiliation in the cafeteria and subsequent loss of control at the Sweet Shoppe, her stomach dropped even lower—through the basement, the sediment below the house, the Earth’s crust, then mantel, before landing with a thud in the planet’s molten core.2

  Mrs. Alexiadis smiled. “Hi there!” she said to Astrid. “We’re so happy to have new neighbors!” She was carrying a tray of foil-covered food which she briskly handed to Cecile, her many plastic bracelets clicking together cheerfully. “There was no one in the house for so long . . . it was kind of sad. We were so pleased when we heard it was sold!”

  “Yup,” Astrid said, lamely. “Here we are.” Astrid leaned against the wall and looked down at her feet. Naturally, her socks didn’t match.

  “That’s a ziti,” Mrs. Alexiadis said to Cecile. “It can be frozen if you want to save it.”

  “Wow.” Cecile smiled, holding the tray in front of her like an old-fashioned vendor at a baseball game. The ziti smelled delicious and, as if her gnarly appearance wasn’t embarrassing enough, Astrid’s empty stomach audibly growled. She winced.

  “We will definitely eat this tonight!” Cecile said, smiling at her sister before marching off toward the kitchen.

  “Thanks so much,” Astrid said, making a conscious decision to act more like a normal human being. “I’m sorry I’m not dressed, I was sick . . .”

  “We heard,” Mrs. Alexiadis said.

  Vince nodded affably.

  “You heard?” Astrid asked weakly.

  “It’s a small town,” Mrs. Alexiadis said.

  Astrid sighed. “Yeah. It was pretty dramatic, I guess.”

  “Hopefully you’re on the mend,” Mrs. Alexiadis said. “And you’ll be back at school tomorrow? You’re a senior?” She raised her eyebrows, all mom-enthusiasm.

  Astrid tried to muster some enthusiasm of her own. “Yup.”

  “Vince too,” she said, still smiling.

  Vince bobbed his head in a studiously indifferent way, as though he were listening to some music no one else could hear. Astrid wondered if he was capable of speech.

  “Cool,” Astrid said, letting her gaze rest on the wall behind Mrs. Alexiadis’s head and trying to sound bored. Vince thought he was studiously indifferent? She’d show him studiously indifferent.

  “And you’ve settled in okay?” Mrs. Alexiadis asked.

  “Uh huh,” Astrid said.

  “I’m sure you miss your home in Queens.”

  “Yeah,” Astrid confirmed, snapping back into the conversation. “I’m actually heading back. Next weekend? When we have the day off for Rosh Hashana.” Seeing the questioning expression on Mrs. Alexiadis’s face, Astrid said, “The Jewish holiday?”

  “Is that so?” Mrs. Alexiadis said, her smile strained. “I’m sure that will be . . . nice.” Before Astrid had time to wonder if Mrs. Alexiadis’s reaction was evidence of anti-Semitism, she threw a curve ball. “Vince, maybe you’ll walk Astrid to school in the morning? You two probably leave around the same time.”

  “That’s okay,” Astrid said to Vince. “You don’t have to. I like to be early anyway.”

  Rather than assuring her that leaving early would be no problem, Vince simply stood there, saying nothing. Astrid saw him shoot a look at his mother, which his mother ignored.

  Cecile returned, taking her place beside Astrid.

  “No, it’s no problem,” Vince’s mother insisted after a pause. “Vince likes to be early too.”

  He clearly does not want to walk me to school, Astrid thought. Why can’t she leave it alone.

  “Really,” Astrid said.

  “It’s fine,” Mrs. Alexiadis started.

  Cecile’s head turned from person to person, as though she were watching a tennis match.

  “Mom,” Vince interrupted. He speaks, Astrid thought. “She doesn’t want me to walk her to school. Okay?”

  “Well, it’s not that,” Astrid said. They all spoke over each other, awkwardly stopping and starting. “I just—” Astrid said.

  “Of course,” Vince’s mom said.

  “I think it’s settled then,” Vince interrupted again. He took a deep breath. “I’m not walking you to school,” he said. “Nice to meet you,” he said in a way that suggested that it hadn’t been nice at all. He turned and opened the door for his mother.

  Mrs. Alexiadis looked embarrassed and annoyed. Seeing that she wasn’t going to walk through the door as invited, Vince gave a quick nod and then stalked out of the house and down the porch steps without waiting for her.

  “Teenagers!” Mrs. Alexiadis said to no one in particular. “Am I right? Who am I asking? Anyway, it’s good to have another, I don’t know, non-traditional . . .” She took a breath. “You know,” she said. “I’m a single mom too.”

  “Oh,” Astrid said, agreeably.

  “Just heat and eat,” she said, nodding toward the kitchen. She patted Astrid’s arm and sighed. “Give your mom my best.”

  “Will do,” Astrid said with false cheer.

  “Bye, girls.”

  “Bye,” Cecile called as Astrid shut the door.

  “That was rude,” Astrid said.

  Cecile furrowed her brow, confused. “I hate it when neighbors bring us food,” she said. “The nerve.”

  “I meant the guy.”

  “The hunk?” Cecile said. “Yeah, he wasn’t very friendly.”

  Astrid shook her head. “Whatever. I’m not into preppy.”

  Cecile shrugged and headed to the couch.

  “And non-traditional?” Astrid continued, rolling her eyes. “Is divorce nontraditional now?”

  Cecile shrugged. “We’re not in in the city anymore,” she said.

  Astrid flopped on the couch dramatically. “You can say that again,” she said, picking up the remote and nodding at the TV “This place is even freakier than Santa Carla.”

  1 Two of the stars of this excellent 1987 film.

  2 Astrid had just read about the layers of the Earth in her Earth Science textbook; Mrs. Monroe would have been proud.

 

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