It was quite unfair. No, Anna thought it was entirely unfair. The adults were ruining everything, much as she hated to admit it. She knew everyone was hurting now, especially Martha and Melchior. And neither of their parents cared- visibly, anyway. Of course, Anna's mother and father knew she was calmer now, a little more insightful. They simply wanted what was best for her, to protect her, and she understood that perfectly fine. She didn't mind at all. They loved her dearly, and that was all that mattered.
But it was most ridiculous; how many of the girls knew more than two lives had ended that season? Most, if not all, didn't know Wendla was with child when she died. (Anna only knew because Melchior had shown the boys a letter, and Georg had told her in private about it.) Melchior's and her child would never grow up to know the promises its parents had made, had wanted to keep. And this was what saddened Anna most of all. She sighed. This never-to-be child - they hadn't even known if it was to be a girl or a boy! - wasn't going to have the life its parents had wished it to have.
All of it made Anna want to cry. It sickened her that she was at all, even remotely jealous of Wendla; it was obviously wrong to want to be someone other than yourself. Envy was a sin. And to envy one who was dead, even! But, Anna reasoned, she didn't like that part one bit, didn't covet the grave and the waxy face, the glassy stare that signaled no thoughts. What she wanted was the intense love Wendla had given and gotten, and her child.
By seeing Melchior break down and cry over Wendla's grave, less dignified than anyone could ever know he'd been, Anna was wistful and lonely. She sat back on her heels, adjusting the back of her long, sensible dress to lie flatter or her curveless body. She drank in the memories, the ones nailed to her wall, those pasted into her photo book, the ones just in her head, and she wondered how that would feel. What one would think when you knew your own existence was a miracle.
Looking out the window, Anna stood up in one fluid motion, hands never touching the floor (a trick she had learned from Thea). It was raining again, she noticed, like it had been, steadily, for the past few days. She saw a figure with his hand held over his head like a small, futile umbrella, his face turning up to see if he could spot someone up where she was. He ran up the steps, he must have seen her, and she pushed open the window, squinting into the sleet down at him. "Georg? Georg Zirschnitz?" and she skidded downstairs as quickly as she could, opening the door. "Are you alright you're soaking wet come inside now," she rushed out.
Taking hold of his coat sleeve with three fingers pressing the cloth between themselves and her thumb, Anna pulled him gently inside. She gave a quick glance around the house, listening closely for her parents, and then closed the door and ushered him upstairs. Urging him to move quickly and quietly, she tiptoed upstairs right behind him, whispering, "It's improper to bring a boy inside my room- my mama would be appalled, but you really need it."
Georg's arms, his whole body, even, were shaking, water dripping from him like snowflakes from a shaken washing-line. When he spoke, his teeth chattered, squared-off pearls in his icebox mouth. "I'm sorry to intrude, I know your parent's don't approve, I tried, I couldn't-"
Anna interrupted him with her still ever-so-quiet voice, "Don't worry, I'll get you something to wear, I'll get you a blanket," and she scurried off and back, fetching one of her father's jumpers and a blanket from the linen closet in the hallway. He started to dry his hair carefully, but she stopped his hand with the butterfly-touch of her own, telling him, "No, you should get something dry on first, I don't want you catching pneumonia." Georg nodded, and shook his neatly-done hair with a sour look on his face, one of a feeling I-really-don't-want-to-be-doing-this-and-it-pains-me-greatly displayed clearly all over it.
Dropping his bookbag from underneath his shirt where it was protected from the rain, Georg said 'Thank you' with his eyes and with his smile, but his mouth let out, "Oh, right, okay." After his sopping school jacket was cast aside, he unbuttoned his top and peeled it off his pale white-blue skin. Both teenagers were breathing as though they'd run in a storm- well, Georg had good reason, as he had done just that. His chest rose and fell, bare and drying for a few solid moments, until Anna shoved the blanket towards him, flushing coral and turning away.
She said, "Better, that's better," pointedly not looking at him, not looking at anything but the solid black insides of her eyelids.
Steadily drying now, Georg looked at Anna with nothing but goodnaturedness in his eyes, a real "Thank you" falling from his lips this time. As he was stepping in front of her so as to face her without having to touch her, she realized they hadn't said much at all the whole time. To her surprise, he quickly stooped and dropped a gentle kiss onto her lips, then grinned.
Something fell into Anna's eyes at the feeling, and Georg didn't know what feeling it was; whether it was anger, happiness, shock, disgust, or what. "Georg, we can't-" Her rebuttal was interrupted into a muffle as he kissed her again, one hand behind his back, the other at her waist. He felt her smile now, into his lips, and he pulled back, picking up his bag, shirt, and coat.
As she watched his half-clad back retreat from her bedroom, something clicked inside her. She smiled wider. Maybe Wendla wasn't worth envying after all.