Page 77 of Pieces of Ash

“I miss him,” I hear myself say.

If we should ever be separated by mistake, you and I…

“Me too,” she whispers.

“Il nous aimait.”

“Yes,” she agrees. “He loved us a lot.”

“Don’t be mad at me, tamia.”

She rolls her eyes at me. “You know what? I’d settle for the CliffsNotes version, Jules. You don’t have to tell me every detail of your secret past. I just want to understand.”

And so, while my foundling siren, with lips like honey, showers by herself upstairs, I tell my sister the shorthand version of what happened. She is held rapt by the story of a young Secret Service agent called up from a routine detail in Annapolis to cover for a sick agent in Cartagena, Colombia. Unfortunately, however, I also have to hear her gasp with shock and sympathy as I continue the story, as I tell her the dirtydetails of a job gone wrong and a lapse in judgment that will haunt me for the rest of my life.

“Oh, Jules,” she sighs, and for the first time since I started talking, thirty minutes ago, I realize that it’s quiet upstairs. No more shower. No more singing.

I lie back on my bed, looking up at the ceiling, at the tree of knowledge taunting me with its perky blossoms and shiny red apples. “Yeah.”

“How could you—” She breaks off whatever she was about to say and sighs again. “It is what it is.”

“Mm-hm.”

“No one died,” she says, then amends her statement. “As far as you know.”

Except my career. Except my life.

“Thank you for telling me,” she says. “I won’t…I won’t tell anyone.”

“Great,” I say, feeling like there’s a fifty-pound block of concrete on my chest. I can’t bear it. “Tamia? Are you…I mean, are you, you know, disappointed in me?”

I hold my breath, waiting for her answer. Thankfully she doesn’t take long to say, “I’m disappointedforyou. It was your dream.”

That’s true. It was.

Protecting the president? The vice president? What higher honor could there be in the world than giving my life for that of a great man? Even now, even here, I can think of no greater calling.

“But,” says Noelle, and as she shares her next thought, I need to remind myself that she’s a college student in liberal Vermont, “considering the current administration, maybe it’s for the best. Would you really want to take a bullet for one ofthem?”

“Hey, now,” I warn her. “Love or hate the person, you need to respect the office.”

She snorts.

After a while, she says, “Actually, yeah, you’re right.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s not really about a specific person, is it? It’s about protection. It’s about protecting someone who needs you. Hmm.” She hums softly at the foot of my bed, like she’s having a revelation. “You know what? It’s not too late for that. There are lots of ways to protect someone weaker than you, Jules. Heck, everyone’s pretty much weaker than you. It’s easy pickings.”

Her words, so unexpected, surprise me. “What do you mean?”

“The Secret Service is glamorous, right? Sure. Protecting a president is cool. But if your heart wants to protect someone, well, you could join the local police force, you could teach a self-defense class, you could get a job in private security. I mean, there are a million ways for you to still do good, you know?” She clucks her tongue. “Anyway, thanks for telling me.”

I think over what my smart little sister has said and murmur, “Mm-hm.”

“I’m all sweaty. I’m taking a shower before bed.”

I hear her open and close the bedroom door, and a moment later, the water rushes next door.