Lark’s ghost is lonely and sad, not like she was in real life. In real life, laughter burst out of her like soda does when you shake the can. She’d flick her ponytail from one shoulder to the other, then dart her eyes into yours to tell you a joke.
When my dad left, she used to babysit me so my mom could work in her office. She liked our backyard because it’s spongy and smooth. She showed me her floor routine with the handspring and splits. She taught me to cartwheel and pivot, and how to kick up to a handstand against the wall. She gave me my own set of ribbons and taught me how to make them spiral. She loved ice skating and ballet, gymnastics and diving. “Anything with form,” she said, putting her head on her knees and pointing her toes, like when you do a jackknife. She called it pike position. It was gymnastics she loved best.
“Kick your legs open,” she told me. “Like you’re doing the splits.”
I was running in leaps across the backyard, spiraling the ribbons, kicking my legs as much as I could, only my front leg collapsed and I fell like a rag doll.
Lark fell over laughing. “You’re like me! More flexible than strong.”
She said we have to be careful or else we’ll get injured.
“We’ve got to work our core,” she said, and then she showed me the right way to do sit-ups and told me not to worry about stretching so much.
Between visits I did my sit-ups and practiced my spirals. But then she went to high school, and she didn’t have time to babysit me anymore. She had AP classes and practice, competitions and science projects, newspaper deadlines and physical therapy for her bad knee.
“You’ll see,” my mother said. “You’ll be that busy when you’re her age.”
How awful, I thought.
Now I’m too old for a babysitter when my mom works at home, only I don’t like being alone.
I wish I were braver.
Lark is drifting around those woods, frightened that the tree will take her inside forever. All I have to do to save her is look.