For a moment, Piper appears unnerved before she quickly straightens, brushing back her hair, eyes going cold. “No, I wasn’t.”
“Yes, you were.”
Piper sucks in a breath and smiles before screaming, “I said NO, Marigold! The money in Mr. Piggy is MINE!”
Heavy footsteps crush the floor as Alec bounds up the stairs.
“Hey! What’s going on?”
“You little bitch,” I mumble, and she smirks at me.
“Nothing, Daddy,” she says, her voice light and innocent.
Alec rushes toward us, hard eyes switching from her to me, then back.
“What were you just yelling about?”
I point above her head. “She was talking to someone. In her room.”
Alec glances at Piper, head cocked to the side.
Piper’s eyes widen. She glances at me, then mumbles to the floor. “I was . . . talking to Grandma.”
Alec’s face drops as he falls onto his knees in front of her. “Of course you were, sweetheart. You used to talk to Grandma every day. And that’s okay. It’s okay. Even if she’s not here in the physical sense, Grandma’s always with you.”
Alec pulls her into a tight hug. She sets her chin on his shoulder, a nasty smile smearing across her face.
We should put her in acting school, is my only thought. She’d make us millions, and then maybe we wouldn’t have to live in this house.
Seven
“DO YOU REALIZE that books are just trees . . . with words?”
Erika gives me a lazy smile across the lunch table. She must have blazed sometime before gym and jealousy is steaming out my ears. She smokes almost every day, coming to class as calm and relaxed as I dream of being.
“Trees with words? That’s deep,” I say, stabbing my salad.
Erika grins, proud of the revelation. “Right. It’s like, the trees are talking to us, but through the page. They sacrifice themselves to be heard.”
In the corner of the lunchroom, Yusef is sitting at a table, surrounded by girls. They laugh at all his jokes, on cue, like mini robots, and he looks . . . kinda miserable. It’s not in his smile but in his eyes. He glances in my direction and I flicker away.
Erika twists her neck around and spots him. “Heard you were over Yusef Brown’s house the other day.”
“What? Who told you that?”
“Oh, girl, please. You think the first girl to walk inside the Browns’ home in years wouldn’t make headline news? Ms. Steele told Ms. Merna who told my grandma who told the rest of the city. You’re public enemy number one around here now.”
I suck in a breath. “It’s . . . fine. I’m used to being a social pariah.”
She frowns. “Really? Even at your old school?”
Shit. This could open the door to the past I need to keep shut. This place is supposed to be a clean slate.
Change is good. Change is necessary. Change is needed.
“Doubt I’m the first girl. I couldn’t possibly be the first,” I say, changing subjects. “He’s too cute to not sneak a couple of chicks through his bedroom window.”
She brightens. “Ohhhh, so you do think he’s cute! Well, I get it. I don’t talk to him much in school either. But outside of school, we cool. He usually gives me a ride up to Big Ville.”
“What’s Big Ville?”
“The prison.” She frowns. “My pops and brothers are up in there. So is Yusef’s dad. So is just about everybody’s dad.”
“Whoa,” I mumble. Across the room, a small group of girls stare at me. Not the way you’d scope out an enemy. Almost as if they’re trying to figure me out.
The rest of the day, it’s like that. More curious stares. More whispers. By the end of eighth period, for the first time since we moved to Cedarville, I’m excited to be walking through the front door of our house.
“Hey! I’m home!”
The silence is so unsettling in here, to put it mildly. Old-house noises, wind whistling through hollow walls, groaning wood, creaking floors . . . I freaking hate it.
“Mom?” No shoes by the door. Guess she went to pick up Sammy and Piper. I make my way to the kitchen, pulling out my phone to text her, and run right into an open cabinet door.
“Shit,” I mumble, rubbing my throbbing forehead. “What the . . .”
My stomach drops as I blink at the scene.
Every single kitchen cabinet door and drawer is open . . . and empty. Food, dishes, pots, pans, silverware . . . all laid out on the counters. Everything is lined up neat like building blocks, size and color coordinated.
“Sammy,” I chuckle, grabbing a box of granola.
Outside, Buddy hysterically whines on the deck, staring in as if he’s been out there for hours.
The front door clicks open.
“Hey! We’re home!” Mom calls. “Marigold? You here?”
“I’m in the kitchen.”
Sammy runs in first full speed, sliding across the floor in his socks.
“Whoa . . . dude? What are you doing?”
I laugh. “What? Nothing, I haven’t touched this little science experiment of yours.”
Sammy frowns as Mom and Piper enter, carrying grocery bags, stopping at the entryway, stunned.
“What the . . . Marigold!” Mom shrieks.
“Huh?”
“What did you do?” She looks around the room in sheer exhaustion. “Are you . . . is this . . . were you looking for bedbugs again?”
“What? NO!”
But just the mention of them makes me start to itch, and to be honest, this does look like something I would do on my worst days. But I didn’t.
“Look at this mess! I don’t have time to clean all this up. I have to start dinner and finish another two thousand words tonight to stay on deadline.”
Piper cautiously steps around the kitchen in awe.
Baffled, I glance at Sammy. “Wait, this wasn’t you?”
“No! We just got home. . . .”
DING DONG DING DONG
Mom groans to the sky and drops her bags. “What now?”
As she stomps to the front door, I survey the kitchen, the room now off-putting. Something like this . . . would take hours, and they just got home. I rub my arms, a chill running through me.
“Are you Piper’s mama?”
A harsh voice snaps from outside and I rush over to the kitchen doorway. On the porch is a Black woman, her long thick hair tied into a low ponytail. At her hip is the mini version of her. Big beautiful eyes, long lashes, staring into the house . . . at Piper. Piper calmly walks into the hall, stopping a few feet from the door.
“Um, yes. I’m—”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m Cheryl. So listen, I don’t know what you folks do out in California or wherever y’all from,” she says, hands waving. “But around here, we keep our children on a short leash, you understand? Now I ain’t the one to tell a mother what to do with her children, but it just ain’t safe for our babies to be playing in them damn houses.”
Mom frowns, trying to compute. “Sorry, I don’t understand?”
Cheryl juts her lips toward Piper. “At school today your little girl tried to convince my Lacey to come play with her in one of the abandoned houses!”
Mom whips around at Piper, who only stares at Lacey.
“Piper,” Mom gasps. “Is this true?”
Piper doesn’t flinch, her cream face still, lips in a hard line. A wide-eyed Lacey clutches her mother’s jean jacket, trembling.
“She said she plays in them houses all the time,” Cheryl continues. “Invited her over to have some sort of tea party. Do y’all know how dangerous them houses are? Besides them falling apart, you know what kind of people be in there squatting, smoking, and shooting up drugs? These girls could get raped and we’d be none the wiser!”
Mom is horrified. “Piper, what were you thinking! We told you not to go near those houses!”
“Marigold plays in them too,” she shoots back.
The rug rips out from under m
e and I fall on my tailbone.
“What?”
“Oh. I see. It’s a family problem,” Cheryl huffs, crossing her arms.
Sammy and I exchange a shocked look. Indignant, Mom steps into her line of sight.
“Now, Cheryl, I know you’re upset . . .”
But Cheryl ignores her, dragging Lacey down the porch steps, grumbling.
“You stay away from those people, you hear! Stay away from that little girl at school too. And tell your friends to do the same. Can’t trust these new folks as far as you can throw them.”
Mom slams the door closed, spinning to us. “Has everyone lost their mind! Piper, it’s bad enough the whole neighborhood acts like we’re lepers, now you want them to think we’re unfit parents too? And why would you rope Marigold into this?”
“Because I’ve seen her go in there in the mornings. She’s doing drugs!”
All the blood rushes to my feet as Mom shoots me a glare. But there’s no way Piper could’ve seen me. I’ve been careful.
“Oh, really?” I sneer, calling her bluff. “So which house?”
Piper falters, pointing out the window. “The one next door.”
Got her!
“She’s lying! I’ve never been anywhere near that house!”
“And there’s no way to get inside,” Sammy adds. “You’ve seen it, Mom, the place is the only one on this block locked up like a fortress.”
“Piper,” Mom groans.
“No! I’m not lying!” She points in my face. “Ms. Suga’s seen you! She knows what you’re trying to do.”
Mom pinches the bridge of her nose. “Piper . . .”
“I want my daddy! You can’t call me a liar! I want my daddy!”
Mom rubs her temples. “Everyone go to your rooms. NOW!”
8:30 p.m. ALARM: Don’t forget English homework.
I stare up at the ceiling, phone calling for my attention, but I can’t stop replaying the afternoon over and over in my head. Even if Piper pointed to the wrong house, she was a stone’s throw away from the truth. Was she following me, watching me from her room? There’s no way anyone could see from that far. And—
Ughhhh! That freaking smell is back!
It must be coming from the vents, so there’s clearly something dead and stuck inside the walls. Sometimes, I can’t smell it at all. Other times, it’s suffocating. Mom keeps calling Mr. Watson to come by and investigate, but he seems to be too busy and I’m nearly out of oils to burn. I can’t go another night without sleeping. This calls for something stronger.
A puff of thick white smoke halos the burning sage as I wave it around my room. My guru always says when used properly, sage can help to cleanse the energy of a place. And we could sure as hell use some of that. Ever since we’ve moved here I’ve felt off. But it’s not just me; Sammy too. And Mom, and Bud. Maybe the whole house needs to be cleansed.
I step into the hall, waving the sage in all four corners, then hit the bathrooms, the kitchen, the living room and dining room.
Sammy coughs, opening the front door to let in the cool night breeze. “Geez, are you trying to smoke us out too?”
“You’ll live,” I grumble, waving the sage inside the sitting room before heading back upstairs to do the bedrooms.
Piper is standing in the threshold of her room, lava lamp glowing behind her. She stares at me, her dark eyes following my every move.
“What?” I snap. “What’s your problem?”
She takes a deep breath and boldly raises her chin. “This is Ms. Suga’s house.”
“Okay . . . and?”
“And she doesn’t like this smoke stuff.”
I roll my eyes. “Whatever, Piper! You’ll get over it.”
“She said she doesn’t want you selling drugs in her house either.”
I swallow to hold my composure. There’s no way she could know.
“What are you talking about? Where did you—”
“She says you have to leave. The rest of us can stay, but you have to get out. She doesn’t want a junkie in her house.”
That’s it. I’m tired of this little girl pissing me off.
I storm up to her, blood surging.
“Or what?” I challenge her. “What if I don’t leave? What are you going to do about it, huh?”
The red glow behind her suddenly brightens, like a flare. But it’s not coming from her lamp. It’s an orange light coming from outside.
“MOM!” Sammy screams from downstairs. “The house across the street is on fire!”
Alec shoots out of his bedroom. “Raquel, call 911!”
“Daddy,” Piper calls.
“Stay there, sweetheart,” he shouts from the bottom step. “Stay with Marigold!”
I shove Piper out of the way, rushing to her bedroom window. 215 Maple Street is ablaze, flames bursting out of the windows, flicking into nearby trees. Alec runs out to the end of the driveway, stretching the water hose as much as possible.
Mom rushes downstairs. “Girls! Put your shoes on and grab what you need in case we have to evacuate.”
That’s when I look down. Piper already has on her shoes under her princess pajamas. There’s fresh mud on her sneakers. We meet eyes, hers giving away nothing, and I walk back into my room, holding in a scream.
Eight
EVEN THOUGH 215 Maple is a blackened, charred carcass, with smoke still swirling into the sky, it doesn’t look much different from any of the other houses. In fact, it looks more at home on our block than we do.
I stare from our front porch at the smoking pile of wet wood, biting my nails to keep my teeth from chattering.
I’m not cold. I’m shook . . . with the fire department investigating the ruins, mere yards away from my secret garden.
What if they go searching the other houses? What if they find it? Will they look for fingerprints? Am I in their system—
“How do you think it started?”
My head snaps to Sammy, standing beside me. “Huh? Oh, I don’t know. Why would I know?”
“You think it was one of those . . . squatters?”
I suck in a breath, trying to hold off the image of a body beneath the rubble, fried to a crisp. “I . . . I . . .”
The front door clicks open and Piper peers out before stepping onto the porch, standing on the opposite side. She doesn’t acknowledge us, just stares at the house, face devoid of emotions.
I’ve been trying to rationalize the night to myself. That’s what people do when faced with conflict. They take a beat, rationalize, then reconstruct what actually occurred. Piper had mud on her sneakers, but that could be from anywhere. She’s a curious puppy, shoving her nose in everything with a sniff. She went out to the front yard maybe . . . but there’s no way she started that fire. No way are we living with a mini arsonist. She’s not that crazy.
“Hey! Where are you going?” Sammy calls after me.
“Stay there,” I shout, speeding down the walkway. I need a better look.
Across Sweetwater, folks gathered at the intersection, craning their necks to see the wreckage but not daring to come any closer. Alec is talking to who I could only guess is the fire chief judging by a squad car, giving his account of the blaze.
The charred chimney stands like a tall redwood, ignorant of the carnage below. Pressing my belly against the yellow police tape, I stand among a few unfamiliar onlookers. My eyes water at the aggressive stench of burnt things. A porcelain tub that looks like it once belonged on the second floor, which is no longer there, sits in the center of the rubble, a white spot in a sea of blackness.
The cleanup crew is small. A couple of men in gear and two Cedarville pickup trucks. They don’t even seem official or that interested as they lazily fish through the soot.
Which makes sense considering how they cleaned up the rest of the houses in Maplewood. Why would anyone want their city to look like this?
“Was anyone inside this time?” one of the men beside me whispers.
“Not that the
y can tell,” the other says with a sigh.
He looks down at the crowd gathering at Sweetwater and chuckles. “Gotta light a house on fire once for me to get the message. That’s for sure.”
It clicks why their faces and presence feels so off-kilter to me. These men, the fire department, and the onlookers, they were the most white people I’ve seen in weeks. And I don’t know why, but I don’t want them here. I can only imagine how my neighbors on Sweetwater feel.
I glance back at the porch. Piper smirks, then skips back inside.
“Hello! Welcome,” Mom says cheerfully at the door. “Come on in, please!”
I recognize Mr. Sterling from his picture on the Foundation’s website. He’s short, with a small, somewhat wrinkled face, olive skin, bushy eyebrows, and shiny black hair with silver roots, his cologne flooding the room.
“Well, hello, Raquel,” he says. His smile is so bright it seems unnatural. “At long last, we finally meet.”
“Welcome,” Alec says with a sturdy handshake. “Glad you could make it.”
“Thanks again for having us,” Irma says, unwrapping the silk scarf choking her neck. “I just swore you were going to cancel, considering all the excitement you had last night.”
“We heard about the house,” Mr. Sterling says, peering across the street. “Close call for sure.”
“Thank God you’re all okay,” Irma adds.
“Yes, speaking of ‘all,’” Mom says, motioning toward the stairs. “May I present Marigold, Sammy—”
“And my Piper,” Alec adds emphatically, and I have to resist rolling my eyes.
Mr. Sterling smiles at us. “Hello there!”
Sammy waves through the banister. “Hey.”
“You’re really dressed up,” Piper says, regarding his suit, which shines like a new quarter.
Mr. Sterling bends to her eye level. “Why, you don’t miss a thing, do you?”
This is going to sound kinda extreme, but I already don’t like this guy. His flirty familiarity is somewhat off-putting. Or could be my inability to trust strangers.
Alec clears his throat. “Well, come on in! Make yourself at home. You own the place, after all.”
Mr. Sterling chuckles but doesn’t correct him with something like, “Oh no, Alec. This is your house now, friend.” Instead he and Irma follow Alec into the dining room.
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