The Fairy in the Ceiling

People say that you can smell death. They’re right, but you don’t just smell death, you feel it, breathe it, taste it, cry it, live it. When death strikes it’s an assault on all your senses. I should know. Three hours ago Aunty Flora died, just dropped dead as if it was nobody’s business. Then again, Aunty Flora did everything like it was nobody’s business, so dying was no exception. My parents died when I was one. With all my relatives being dead except Aunty Flora, I was headed for the orphanage. But, Flory, as I called her, told them, “No way am I turning my own blood away to an orphanage” and she and Mandy took me in.
Flory loved me better than anyone in the whole world, except Mandy of course. She would’ve loved Mandy better, if Mandy would only let her. Mandy was her only daughter. She’s twenty now and very pretty in a classic way. Her big problem with her mother was that Mandy always believed Flory belonged in an institution. Let me set the record straight: Flory did not belong in an institution! She was eccentric and I loved her all the better for it. Because of Flory we live in the only pink house in Riverview, we drive a hot pink station wagon and park it in our pink garage. Two months ago, when Flory and I finished reading Gone With The Wind, she took me by the hands and said, “ Honey, in this world I have truly loved three things:you, Mandy, and the color pink.” She really and truly loved pink.
Right now I’m lying on the fluffy pink rug in Flory’s room. The room smells like peppermint, just like Flory. I feel a little guilty about yawning at a time like this, but sadness is tiring. Some snarly looking undertakers came by half an hour ago to take my Flory away in a pickup truck. I asked Mandy what they were going to do with her, she said that Flory was going to be cremated. I know what that means and I don’t want to think about it. I haven’t cried yet, neither has Mandy and I’m surprised about what I feel, or what I don’t feel. Flory was the only parent I ever really had and I haven’t shed a single tear. I’m not surprised about Mandy though, she’s strong “just like a bull” as Flory used to say. When we were younger, Mandy used to think of me as a real sister and we would play in the garden together. Once we found a plump white mouse that we named Mr. Mousekowitz. We fed and played with him every day until a snowstorm struck. We were trapped inside for three days, happily drinking hot chocolate and listening to Flory read us fairy tales. When we could go outside again, Mr. Mousekowitz was dead. I cried for days but Mandy didn’t cry at all. Upset at being so sensitive I asked Flory why Mandy didn’t cry. “Listen to me.” Flory said stroking my hair. “ Mandy is a guarded girl, she doesn’t like to ever show what she’s really thinking. You, my dear, are different. You are comfortable showing your feelings.You are just as strong. Just like a bull.”

I sit up and ease my way over to Flory’s bed. On the table sits a plate with a piece of casserole that Mrs. Anderson brought over. I’m hungry, but I decide not to pick at it. I can’t bear to betray Flory like that. Mrs. Anderson was the only person that Flory ever hated. “ Don’t ever hate, my girls.” She would tell Mandy and me. “ Hatred is a sick emotion and the greatest of evils.” Mrs. Anderson, though, certainly deserved Flory’s hatred. She is the cattiest woman that ever lived. She called Flory crazy to her face and never let her join the PAT or the Ladie’s book club. What made Flory hate her though is what she did to Mandy. When Mandy was seventeen she ran away with Mrs. Anderson’s son Peter to get married. Peter was 22 and had dropped out of college. Flory never told me the rest but I do know that Mandy came home without a ring on her finger. She never spoke to Peter again. Flory never forgave Mrs. Anderson for raising a son who would take advantage of a young girl that way. I’ll bet she only brought over that casserole in the hope that Flory won’t haunt her. If Flory did, I would certainly approve.
I go back to the fluffy pink rug and lie down again. I stare up at the ceiling, at a crack that looks like a fairy. Mandy walks in and lies down next to me.
“Hi,” She says.
“Hi.” She takes my hand and squeezes it. I’m surprised. It was like being in the garden again.
“ What are you looking at?” She asks.
“ Do you remember the fairies?” I say. Mandy nods, I’m glad, I hoped she would remember. One June night when I was seven and Mandy was thirteen, Flory had called us out to the garden right before sunset. She stood under the wide-branched oak in the yard staring up at the dark hole that looked almost like a secret cave in the tree . She put me on her shoulders. “See girls.” She said as she pointed at the mysterious hole. “ That is where the fairies live.”
“There’s no such thing as fairies.” Mandy said defiantly, looking at Flory with contempt.
“Of course there are fairies.” Flory said. “Everyone knows that,” and she cupped a butterfly in her hands. “ They are everywhere for those who believe.” She opened her hands and the butterfly fluttered away. We spent the whole summer playing in the garden looking for fairies. As we searched, Flory would sit on the bench and make us fairy paper dolls. Flory’s favorite was the one we named Jezebel. She was very small and wore a pale blue dress. She had Mandy’s hair and my eyes with Flory’s face. She was the perfect combination of all of us. On the fluffy pink rug I gaze at the ceiling and notice something I had not seen before. “The crack in the ceiling looks like Jezebel,” I tell Mandy, and for a moment I’m almost happy. She looks at me with a mixture of disbelief and shock. Then her eyes water and tears rush down her pretty face.
“Yes.” Mandy says, with a melancholy smile. “She really does.” A huge lump takes shape in my throat and I shed my first tear. Mandy looks at me and leans over for a hug. At first I’m hesitant but then I remember we are both alone. We have both lost. But now I know that we are alone together.

Julian Franco
Age 13, Grade 8,
Brooklyn Friends School
Silver Key