worse between them since we moved to Hog’s Hollow. But for once I’d like someone to just talk to me. I want to shout that at the back of my mother’s
head: Just talk to me! But I don’t, because maybe if no one says anything out loud, it can still change.
Oscar walks through, holding his stuffed bear in his mouth, and my mother smiles over at him. The cat gets a smile. She doesn’t even look at me when I
stand up. I walk into the library and sit down in front of the computer. I check my e -mail. Nothing. I e-mailed my two best friends in the City last night, mostly
questions about what they’re doing, but also wanting to talk to someone about things. No rmally I’d just call or text one of them, but it feels weird now. I feel
the same disconnect that I have with my dad. Like everyone is pretending that everything is normal and nothing has changed, but the reality is that
everything has changed and nothing feels normal at all.
The phone rings and my mother answers it. I brace myself, hoping it’s not my father.
“It’s Tally,” my mom says. So, officially I should tell her about the papers because she talked to me, but she had to talk to me, so it doesn’t count. I’m not
sure what I’m trying to prove. I mean, the papers are going to get signed and they are going to sell the apartment and no one’s going to tell me anything
until it’s done.
“Hello?” I say when I pick up the phone.
“What are you doing right now?” Tally asks.
I look around the room for a moment before admitting the obvious. “Nothing.”
“Good,” she says. “Then grab your umbrella and get down here. I have something to show you.” The phone goes dead.
I’m not sure I’m up for being around other people right now. I think about calling her back. Think about making up some reason that I can’t go, but then
my mother walks past on her way to the stove and she doesn’t even look in my direction.
“I’m going to Tally’s,” I say, my hand already on the back doorknob. She looks at me and nods, then considers the kettle in her hand. I pause for a
moment with the door partly open. She looks so sad. I should say something. I want to say something, but I don’t know what. I start to ask if she would
rather I stay, if she wants to talk or play chess or make cookies, but then she looks at me again, the frown back on her face.
“Close the door. You’re letting all the heat out.”
I shake my head, grab my windbreaker off the back hook, and put it on, pulling the hood over my head. I have to run all the way down to Tally’s to keep
from getting drenched, but the cold feels good on my face. I let my hood fall away from my head and feel my hair whip behind. I wonder if Marcus feels li ke
this when he runs. Like he’s able to get a couple of steps ahead of everything.
I can see the lights from Tally’s house up ahead. They seem to glow in the fog. I feel winded when I slow down in front of the stairs leading up to her
house. As I climb the warped steps, I think about the problem with running from your trouble. The problem is in the stopping. The whole time you think
you’re getting away from everything, the trouble is running like mad, too, trying to catch up with you.
And it doesn’t slow down when you do—it keeps on
sprinting. So when trouble finally reaches you, it hits you hard.
chapter twelve
You have got to see this,” Tally says, pulling the sleeve of my jacket and leading me to her computer.
Almost the whole screen is filled with an image of a
can of lard. Along the bottom are some of those before-and-after photos you see of women on infomercials. The first shows each woman in a too-small
bathing suit, standing in bad lighting. The second shows them smiling, in full makeup, and pushed an d pulled and tucked until they look fit. I push my damp
hair out of my eyes and sit in the other chair in front of the screen. I think about Tally’s weird new eating habits.
“Tally, are you on a diet?” I ask. She pretends not to hear me and clicks the mouse. Another site pops up, this one much busier, with links for instruction
manuals, videos, application forms, and something called “Domination.” Tally clicks the Play button on one of the videos. First it’s just a close-up of two
pairs of hands in fists, then they do the triple up-and-down move. One hand opens into paper while the other forms scissors. “This is from last year’s
championship in Seattle.” A girl who looks to be about our age is handed a trophy with three faux -
bronze hands, one in each position. A guy behind her,
wearing a Jedi costume, looks like he’s about to cry.
“What’s with Luke Skywalker?” I ask, pointing to him.
“There are all kinds of kooks who go to these things.” I can’t help but wonder what kind of kooks we are.
We watch the rest of the video as they run highlights from the competition. They actually have a reporter doing the voiceover, like it’s a real sport. Tally clicks through more videos and I half watch, half listen as she talks about more strategies and tricks. She clicks the window closed, and there’s the diet
site again.
Beneath all the noise coming from the videos, I can hear music playing. Soft guitar, slow and sad.
“What is that?” I ask.
Tally squints at the screen. “Just a Web site I’m fooling around with.”
“No, I mean the music.”
“Just music,” she says, quickly muting it.
“I liked it,” I say, but she’s already up and on her way to the kitchen. She takes out two glasses and opens the refrigerator. She stands there, staring at
the carton of milk, the pitcher of lemonade.
“Do you ever talk to your dad?” Tally asks, still peering into the refrigerator.
“Yeah,” I say, although the truth is I don’t very much. “He’s pretty busy, though.” He’s always been busy, and not just since we moved here. Too busy for
me at least.
Tally grabs the lemonade and shoves the refrigerator shut with her hip. She hits the door too hard, sending several magnets spinning across the floor. I
slide my foot out of my sneaker and use my toes to pick up a broccoli magnet. She watches me and smiles. “That’s a real talent you have there.”
She pours me a glass of lemonade and slides it toward me. “My dad’s busy, too,” she says. She looks at me, as if daring me to say something.
“Where is he right now?” I ask.
She takes a long drink from her glass, watching me over the rim. When she doesn’t answer right away, I wonder if maybe I’ve overstepped. I’m about to
tell her never mind, that it’s none of my business, but she finally answers. “Don’t know.” She pulls a sheet of paper off the refrigerator and reads it. “Looks
like Seattle.” She tosses the paper on the counter. “Maybe.”
“Why maybe?” I ask.
“Probably,” she says. She finishes her lemonade and puts her glass back on the counter. Hard. Probably sounds only slightly more solid than maybe.
“Do you miss him?” I ask.
She shrugs and picks up her father’s schedule. She folds it in half, then half again. She flips it as she folds, making hard creases with the side of her
fingernail. “Sure,” Tally says. “Of course I miss him.” She keeps fiddling with the sche dule, folding and refolding, not looking at me. “It was really good for a
while, you know?” Her voice gets so quiet I have to lean forward to hear her. “It was just him and me. I’d always sit right up front when he played.” She
smiles at the folded paper in her hands. “At first it was just small places, clubs and bars, but then one of his songs started getting a lot of play time.” She
peeks at me through her hair. I nod, encouragin
g her. Her face is so sad, I feel like hugging her, but she’s still messing with the paper. Tally looks down
again and continues. “He got better gigs. Bigger venues. He started leaving me back at the hotel sometimes.” She smiles over at me. “I used to raid the
vending machines and stay up watching television or playing on his laptop until he got back.”
“That sounds fun,” I say. She nods. “And lonely.”
Tally frowns. “Yeah, sometimes.” Her voice gets softer. “A couple of times he didn’t come back until the next day.”
From the look on her face I’d be willing to bet that it was more than a couple of times.
“Were you scared, all alone like that?” I ask.
“He said he didn’t have a choice.” She looks up at me. I nod, unconvinced. “It wasn’t like I could just tag along all the time, you know?”
“Then what happened?” I ask gently. “What brought you here?” Her eyes get wet, and she brushes them with the back of her hand. “There was this one time he didn’t come back for three days.”
I can’t keep the shock from my face.
“The maids were coming by the room, wanting to clean it. And someone from the front desk kept calling and asking when we were checking out. I didn’t
know what to tell them. I mean, I wasn’t supposed to let anyone in. Or go anywhere.” A couple of tears splash onto the counter.
“What did you do?” I ask, trying to think of what I’d do if I was stranded in a hotel somewhere.
“I called Poppy. When I told her where I was, she got on a plane.” She wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater. “Just because I said I needed her.”
From the tone of her voice, Tally still seems awed by what Poppy did for her, as if she didn’t deserve it.
“You did the right thing,” I say.
She nods halfheartedly. “It didn’t exactly win Poppy any points with my dad. That was over a year ago.” I don’t know what to say. When we first met, she told me she was just here for a while. That her dad was coming back to get her soon.
She opens up the paper, revealing a sleek airplane, all points and angles. She lifts the plane and looks down its back. She pulls back her arm and lets
the plane fly. It goes straight and fast, the way my paper airplanes never do. Until the end, when, instead of landing smoothly, it suddenly just drops to the
floor, its folds opened up.
The phone rings, making both of us jump. Tally wipes her eyes again and sniffs before picking it up. “Talk to me,” she says. She listens. I take a sip of
lemonade and try to let her story sink in. “Hey, Monkey Toes,” Tally says, her voice happy. I look up and see she’s smiling at me. “Want to go
somewhere?”
“Where to?” I ask.
“It’s a surprise,” Tally says, making her eyes go big. “You in?”
“Sure,” I say. I drain the last of my lemonade and put my glass in the sink. I follow Tally onto the front porch and out onto the road. I want to say something
hopeful, something that will make everything better, but I can’t even make my own life okay. How can I possibly make Tally’s life okay?
But she seems back to her old silly self. “Monkey Toes,” Tally says, pulling her hair back into an elastic. “I like it. It could totally be your RPS name.”
“I have to be Monkey Toes?”
“It could be worse,” she says, checking Poppy’s mailbox among the clump of them at the entrance to the cove.
“Monkey Face?” I ask.
“Yeah, that would be worse.” Tally flips through several envelopes, then puts them all back in the box.
“But I meant Blake’s.” We head out onto the main
road, where she stops. “Blake’s mom is picking us up,” Tally says. We wait, watching the storm clouds blow across the sky. “You’ll like her. Although,
sometimes she’s too mom-ish,” Tally says, stuffing her hands in her pockets. “Always worrying if I’m warm enough or if I’ve had enough to eat.”
“My mom does that, too,” I say. Or did, I think.
“Between Poppy and Blake’s mom, I’ve got a double helping.” I want to ask about her real mom, but I figure talking about one missing parent was enough for today. So instead I ask about Blake. “What’s the deal
with Blake’s hair?”
Tally laughs. “When I first moved here he had this sad mullet thing.” I squinch up my face, making Tally laugh harder. “It was bad.” She shakes her head.
“He was my first friend when I moved here. My only friend.” She’s quiet for a moment, thinking. Then she smiles at me. “So, want to know Blake’s
nickname?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer. “Major Manure.” I raise my eyebrows. “That is worse,” I say. “Why?”
“One, he lost a bet. And two—you’ll see.” Tally lifts her hand to wave as a red farm truck slows down and pulls onto the shoulder. As we walk toward the
truck, a rich earthy smell gets stronger and stronger. Tally pulls open the passenger door and slides into the middle. I say “hi” when she introduces me to
Blake’s mom. It isn’t until we’re under way that I realize what’s in the back. Even a ci ty girl like me knows what manure looks like, and lucky me, now I’m
aware of what it smells like when a mountain of it is about three inches away. Tally laughs when she sees my face.
“Sorry about the smell,” Blake’s mom says.
“What smell?” I ask, making them both laugh. I laugh, too, but the whole way to their house, I breathe through my mouth.
The air in the greenhouse is thick, so thick you can see it moving in the breeze from the overhead fans.
“It’s a little humid in here,” I say. Blake just nods,
but I notice that the points of his hair look like they’re wilting a bit. Tally is near the back of the greenhouse, trying to open one of the crank windows. Blake
walks past with some sort of brown liquid in a bucket. He ladles a spoonful over each plant as he passes.
“Yum, huh?” Tally says, walking back over to me. “Poop Soup.” I wrinkle my nose and she laughs. “It’s all-natural.” She laughs again as my face stays
contorted.
Blake walks past again and I catch another whiff of the mixture. “Manure du jour,” he says. He makes his way down a long line of tomato plants.
“Cream of Crap,” Tally says.
“Dung Drop Surprise,” Blake says. By now they are both laughing. I can’t help but smile.
“Jus d’excrément,” Tally says.
“Lame,” Blake says. He walks back over to us and points the spoon at me. “Now you.” I close my eyes and try to run through all the words I know for poo. “Reese’s Feces?” Blake squints at me for a moment. “Not bad,” he says. “For a beginner.” He puts the bucket down beneath the table and pulls out cardboard trays. He
thrusts one into my hands and gives one to Tally, who tries to protest. “Oh, hush. It’s not like you have anything better to do.” She frowns at him and he
frowns back, making her smile. “Here, Penny, you take the middle aisle.” Tally makes her way over to the right. “Only pick the red ones,” Blake says loudly.
She waves the back of her hand at him and disappears behind a forest of tomato plants.
“Couple weeks ago Tally was here helping me and she picked a bunch of unripe ones. My mom had a fit.
Luckily she convinced her buyer that green
tomatoes were all the rage.” He reaches into the leaves of a plant. When he pulls his hand out he’s clutching an orange-and-red-striped tomato about the
size of a grapefruit. “Okay, this is what you’re looking for,” he says. He pushes his thumb gently against the tomato and pulls it away, leaving a faint mark.
“Pretty, aren’t they?” I nod. “They have a gruesome name, though. Bl oody Butcher.” He puts the tomato in my box. He works alongside me, trying to look
like he
’s not checking every tomato I pick.
“So what’s the mystery with Mr. Fish?” I ask, trying to keep my voice neutral. What I really want to know is more about Marcus, but talking to Blake about
him is too weird.
Blake pulls a tomato off the next plant and examines it. It’s dark purple, almost black. “He’s building something up in the woods above town,” he says.
“Building what?” I ask.
“Not sure,” Blake says. “Radio towers or something.” He puts another tomato in my box. “Maybe he’s trying to contact aliens.”
I keep picking, working up my courage for another question. Finally I ask, “Do you know Marcus very well?”
“I did,” Blake says. “I mean, before.” He’s quiet for a minute. All I can hear is the whir of the fans above us. “I don’t think anyone knows him now,” he
says.
“Except Charity,” I say.
“I doubt it,” he says. He makes his way around the corner to the next row, and I think we’re finished, but he pauses. “Don’t let Charity get to you. She’s
mostly harmless.”
Mostly, I say to myself as he walks away, his box slapping against his leg. I’m not so sure. I’ve seen her be nasty to other kids, but with me she turns the
meanness volume way up. She doesn’t even try to lower he r voice when she’s ragging on me. About my hair, or how I’m dressed, or just how I talk. And
she never lets up. But it’s the Marcus stuff that drives me really bananas. She’s always talking to him or walking with him. And she makes sure I notice.
“Hey!” Tally yells over the buzz of the fans. “When do we get a break?”
“When you’ve actually done some work!” Blake yells back, making me laugh. Not even the thought of Charity can ruin my mood for long. I vow never to
eat another tomato as I fill my box. Every once in a while Tally yells a gripe about working conditions or child labor laws, and Blake tells her to hush and
get back to work. The humidity is making my hair stick to my neck, but as I get into a rhythm of picking, I realize I’m humming—something I haven’t done in
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