What Never Happened

by Rachel Howzell Hall

That was my last plea for help—if I needed something, I’d find a way to get it myself. Because promises are potato chips. They’re cheap. Easy to break. Too many hurt your heart.

child. Guilt is irrational, Dr. Tamaguchi has told me several times. Guilt demands ransom even though you’re broke, and it demands that you keep it company even though it’s fused to every molecule in your body. Guilt makes you scream, “What more do you want?” even though it’s already taken everything, including your happily ever after.

Fog drifts along Beacon Street. Out on the ocean, lights from marine vessels blink. Somewhere in Avalon, a monster is brushing his teeth or making a bologna-and-cheese sandwich for his loved ones . . .

“You be careful, young lady,” Loretta warns. “Remember you and I understand what this place did to your family.” She pauses, then adds, “That evil is still here. I can feel it.”

As we stood near the botanical gardens, Langston spit a tangerine seed into the dirt. Fran lunged for that seed and slipped it into the bag. “We can’t have outsiders propagating,” she explained. “See: there are no citrus trees on Santa Catalina. If one were to grow, what would happen? It would wreck the ecosystem of the entire island. Just like the other outsider trees—eucalyptus and palm trees. We’d have to kill that tree, no matter how much we all love fresh orange juice. It would be for the best. We must do everything we can to protect this very fragile, very special place.”

whispered

” “I’m trying to write about