Alicia Atkins

We both liked to be alone, and we were okay being alone together.

The slope by the creek where the sun could keep us warm while we were hidden from sight of the house was our private club, where we would go with books or origami paper or markers, whatever had captured our current interest.

Sometimes we remained alone.

More often I'd arrive to find her there, or she'd show up while I was engrossed in something.

We were more than comfortable to be together in silence, which was a relief in a house with so many kids and so much chaos.

When I returned as an adult, Alicia was more sullen, the way Mom had always told me I was at that age.

I never recognized it in myself, but maybe you have to be on the outside to appreciate attitude.

She talked to me as if everything was an imposition or an inconvenience, and she had an annoying habit of speaking of herself in the third person.

Somehow, that put me in mind of the diary for the first time in years.

It was almost as hard to find a time when I was alone in the house as it had been when I was younger, but I waited for my chance.

The board still creaked to mark its place, and it still tilted up out of its cradle when I set my boot down in just the right way.

I could see the book in the shadows of the recess.

But I only crouched down at first, not reaching for it.

A smell of mustiness rose out of the hidden space, and with it came memories.

Of Bertrand, the enigmatic writer.

Of the things he wrote about doing.

Of the oddness of the second-person structure of his entries.

Of things I'd done, or meant to do.

You must be extra careful tonight because she's seen you and noticed you watching her.

So, when you commit to your plan, there is no room for a second attempt.