Krissy put a hand on Saucy’s shoulder.
Saucy flinched.
Krissy dropped her hand. “Walk me out to the van,” Krissy said softly.
Something about her voice made Saucy look up. Krissy’s eyes were sad, but determined. “Okay,” Saucy said cautiously.
They walked toward the van. Krissy cleared her throat. “I was still half drunk last night when we talked. I do want you to come home with us. Will you?”
“No.”
Krissy nodded and tucked her hair behind her ears. In the morning sun, her face was soft and sad. “I didn’t think you’d change your mind. But I want us to be clear. I do want you to come home. I want this family to work. Right now, when I’m sober, I want it more than anything.”
Saucy was silent.
“But I’m glad we have some time apart. I will talk to your Daddy and tell him things. Everything. But not all at once. Do you understand?” Krissy stopped and faced Saucy.
Saucy did understand. Things needed to cool off. Things needed to be said, and it would be harder if Saucy was there. She nodded slowly.
Krissy smiled slightly. “I bet you do understand, and I’m sorry I’ve put you in this position. But I need to ask one more thing.”
Saucy tilted her head to look up at Krissy.
“I need you to talk to Aunt Vivian,” Krissy said. “You need to tell someone everything, too. So here’s the deal. I’ll talk to your Daddy if you talk to Aunt Vivian.”
Saucy started to shake her head. She couldn’t talk about the worry. Not really talk. She could tell the bare bones of it, but not what was in her head while it was happening. Not all that hurt.
“Saucy, I know it’ll be hard. I’m scared to talk to Jonathan, too. But I want this family to work. The only way that will happen is if we both work hard at it.”
Daddy yelled, “Krissy, you ready?”
She half turned and yelled back. “In a second.” She turned back. “Saucy?”
“I’ll try,” Saucy whispered.
“I’ll try, too,” Krissy said. And her eyes were full of tears. “I’ll try harder than you’ll ever know.”
The truck started up with a roar, and suddenly Baxter Street smelled like the bus station. Saucy went back to stand with Aunt Vivian and Uncle Dave on the porch of the white house.
Aunt Vivian called,“We’ll get Saucy settled in school tomorrow, then be up this weekend to get some of her things.”
Daddy blew Saucy a kiss.
Saucy felt like a heavy weight was crushing her chest. She didn’t know if it was relief because Krissy was leaving, or sadness because Bubba and Daddy were leaving.
Suddenly, the truck door flew open, and Bubba jumped out. He ran to Saucy and cried, “You forgot. I need the white rocks.”
“What for?”
“I’ll leave you a trail, all the way back to the ranch. That way, you’ll be able to find your way home.”
Saucy got her jacket and dumped all the rocks from her pocket into Bubba’s hands. He stuffed his pockets full. Then he carefully placed one rock on the sidewalk right in front of the porch.
Saucy wiped a tear away, and suddenly, the heavy weight was gone. Someday she would go home. Bubba and Daddy would make sure of it. She would get to name the first colt.
Bubba walked to the truck and set another rock in a clump of grass. He climbed into the cab and shut the door, but rolled down the window.
Krissy waved and backed the van out of the driveway. Daddy shifted into gear and followed the van down the street.
At the corner, Bubba waved once more, and then dropped a white rock. It tumbled against the curb and lay there gleaming in the fall sunshine.
The End
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DARCY PATTISON
Translated into eight languages, children’s book author Darcy Pattison writes picture books, middle grade novels, and children’s nonfiction. Previous titles include The Journey of Oliver K. Woodman (Harcourt), Searching for Oliver K. Woodman (Harcourt), The Wayfinder (Greenwillow), 19 Girls and Me (Philomel), Prairie Storms (Sylvan Dell), Desert Baths (Desert Baths), and Wisdom, the Midway Albatross (Mims House.) Her work has been recognized by *starred reviews* in Kirkus, BCCB, and PW. Desert Baths was named a 2013 Outstanding Science Trade Book and the Library Media Connection, Editor’s Choice. She is a member of the Society of Children’s Bookwriters and Illustrators and the Author’s Guild. For more information, see darcypattison.com.
LET ME KNOW WHEN DARCY PATTISON HAS A NEW BOOK AVAILABLE!
mimshouse.com/newsletter
OTHER BOOKS BY DARCY PATTISON
The Journey of Oliver K. Woodman
Searching for Oliver K. Woodman
The Wayfinder
Wisdom, the Midway Albatross
Abayomi, the Brazilian Puma
11 Ways to Ruin a Photograph
19 Girls and Me
Prairie Storms
Desert Baths
The Girl, the Gypsy & the Gargoyle
Vagabond
Longing for Normal
Liberty (Fall, 2016)
Nefertiti, the Spidernaut (Fall, 2016)
Rowdy: The Pirate Who Could Not Sleep (Summer, 2016)
THE ALIENS, INC. SERIES
Book1, Kell the Alien
Book 2, Kell and the Horse Apple Parade
Book 3, Kell and the Giants
Book 4, Kell and the Detectives
THE READ AND WRITE SERIES
I Want a Dog: My Opinion Essay
I Want a Cat: My Opinion Essay
My Crazy Dog: My Narrative Essay
My Dirty Dog: My Informative Essay (Spring, 2017)
READ THE OPENING OF DARCY PATTISON’S NOVEL
A boy unites an immigrant community and rebuilds his family-using a simple sourdough bread recipe.
Eliot Winston, a grieving son, must convince his new step-mother - now Griff Winston's widow - to adopt him. But when she married Griff Winston, Marj hadn't bargained on being the single mother of a twelve-year-old boy. Alli Flynn, a foster child new to the school, convinces Eliot that he must fight to keep his family intact and the best way to do that is to help Mrs. Winston with the Bread Project, a fund raising project for the school. With his whole future at stake, Eliot tries hard to please Marj; but as the deadlines near for the Bread Project and for Marj to sign his adoption papers, Eliot finds it harder and harder to hang on to hope.
In the tradition of Dicey's Song by Cynthia Voigt, this story follows two kids who search for a family and a home.
REVIEW:
“Pattison's characters provide a reason to keep reading. In voices old before their time, due to years in the system, they describe their desperate attempts to stay relevant to the adults in their lives. A rare book featuring foster kids in realistic scenarios.” Booklist Online
LONGING
FOR
NORMAL
by
Darcy Pattison
Mims House, Little Rock, AR
Text Copyright © 2015 by Darcy Pattison.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic
BEFORE THE BREAD PROJECT BEGINS
ELIOT
Ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom.
Standing outside the gymnasium doors, a drumbeat throbbed. Yellow light streamed from the second story windows. I couldn’t hear the music’s melody, just the drum beat: ba-boom, ba-boom.
The Back-to-School party at Wilma Rudolph Elementary School had already started.
I reached for the door handle, but Marj, my almost-adoptive-mother put a hand on my shoulder. Her hand trembled. “Don’t leave me alone in there,” she said.
I understood: Dad and I had been at this school for the past six years and she was the new one here. “I know,” I said.
I took a deep breath and hauled open the heavy door. Marj lifted her chin and entered.
Followin
g her inside, I heard someone yell: “Eliot Winston! Oh, you poor boy. Come here.”
I winced.
There she was, that Mrs. Lopez. Her voice could cut through anything, even concrete. She sat beside a poster that read: “Back to School Party! Join the PTA Here!” Another poster said: “Support your PTA! School T-shirts, only $5.”
No way to avoid Mrs. Lopez, she wouldn’t let you. I led Marj toward the PTA table, but that was a problem. Because I had a mission: the Bread Project had to be toast. And I had a plan: talk Mrs. Lopez into talking everyone else into dropping the Bread Project. It should be simple, except I had to talk to Mrs. Lopez without Marj listening in.
Mrs. Lopez met us halfway from the door and pulled me into a bear hug. “Poor boy!”
I swallowed hard and pulled back, so I wouldn’t get thrown off-balance.
But I was off-balance, just walking into the school building. Tonight, I had to figure out how to be back at school and be okay.
“Ah, mi amigo.” Mrs. Lopez stepped back and held my shoulders at arm’s length. “It’s been a long summer, si?”
Turmoil bubbled up inside: this was not the time nor place, though. I looked past her, trying to get a grip on my emotions. I made myself study the three aisles of game booths. Someone had made palm trees out of the poles that hold the volleyball nets and then stuck the fake trees at the front of each aisle. Little kids crowded onto the tire base of each pole, shoving and laughing. On one tire, though, a skinny girl sat alone. She was older, maybe fourth or fifth grade, and just sat there, eating blue cotton candy.
Mrs. Lopez stepped aside. “This is tu madre, your mother?”
My heart went skippety-skip. A sideways glance: Marj’s freckles looked friendly enough, even if she wasn’t smiling. But she didn’t answer the question, didn’t say she was my mother.
My throat tightened, so I could only squeak, “Mrs. Lopez, this is Marj Winston. Marj, this is Mrs. Lopez. President of the PTA.”
To see Mrs. Lopez’s smile was to understand the amazing abilities of a mouth. Her mouth was as wide as Shamu-the-whale’s, and everyone knew her business—including every one of her silver fillings. Nothing was private. She was nothing like Marj.
Two weeks ago, Marj came home with her long fly-away hair all cut off. “Precision cut,” Marj said, as if soldiering her hair would put the rest of our lives back in order. To me, Marj still looked like rumpled laundry.
“Finally,” Mrs. Lopez said. “I’m so glad to meet Griff’s widow. Such a sad thing.”
Mrs. Lopez never avoided a subject but waded right in. She had almost thrown me off a minute before, but it was the right thing for Marj. Because there was Marj’s hand, ready to shake. She even curved her lips into an almost smile, like the thumping music had loosened her frozen face. I guess Marj needed people to be honest.
“Yes, I’m Mrs. Winston. I’ve heard lots of good things about you.”
“Oh, that Griff.” Mrs. Lopez laughed and waved a hand. “Always talking about school. I bet you know something about everyone here. You know all our secrets, si?”
Marj lifted an eyebrow, “Perhaps.”
And Mrs. Lopez laughed.
Now that they were introduced, I remembered my mission: “Excuse me. Mrs. Lopez, could I talk to you about–”
“About what?” she interrupted.
I glanced at Marj, uncertain. What was she thinking about? Was she still nervous about meeting people, about being here at the school where Griff had worked?
“Do I need to go away, so you can talk?” Marj asked.
Mrs. Lopez said, “No, no! I’ll talk to Eliot later. First, there are some people who have been wanting to meet you.” Mrs. Lopez must have seen my aggravation, because she added, “You understand, right, Eliot?”
Marj shrugged a question at me. Was this okay?
I sucked on my bottom lip, angry with myself. I really needed to talk with Mrs. Lopez alone. I should’ve known Mrs. Lopez would grab Marj right away. It was like I had forgotten everything I ever knew about people at school. And would Marj be mad if I insisted on talking to Mrs. Lopez? Maybe. I didn’t know.
I shrugged back at Marj. “Sure. We can meet people first.”
“You go on and look for your friends,” Marj said encouragingly. “I’ll be fine.”
“What?” I blinked. “You just told me not to leave you alone.” And here she was taking off with a stranger to meet other strangers. And she was going to be fine?
Before Marj could answer, Mrs. Lopez put an arm around her shoulder and said, “She changed her mind. When you lose your husband, well, it’s hard to think, hard to make decisions for a while.”
Marj nodded, agreeing with her.
I just stared from one to the other, amazed. But then I looked again: Under the bright lights of the gymnasium, Marj’s eyes were pale smudges of blue-gray. Last night, when everything was dark and quiet in the house, I had heard her crying. Neither of us was sleeping well.
Mrs. Lopez continued, “Of course, she was scared coming in. She didn’t know us. But Griff told us all about her. She has amigos already, she just has to meet them.” She pulled Marj tighter, into a protective hug.
Throwing up my hands, I shook my head. Maybe I did understand a little bit, maybe it was okay. But I had to try again with Mrs. Lopez: “Please, I just need one minute to talk to you. About the Bread Project–”
“Ah, that.” Her brow furrowed, then cleared. “There’s time for that later, mi amigo. Find me later.” Mrs. Lopez’s easy-going ways were almost impossible to argue with.
I opened my mouth. Then shut it. I did want Marj and Mrs. Lopez to talk and be friends. I did want Mrs. Lopez to introduce Marj around. But I didn’t want them to talk about the Bread Project. Now that I’d been dumb enough to mention it, though, they probably would. “Sure,” I said. “I’ll find you later.”
Mentally, I shifted gears: “Say, have you seen Toby tonight?”
“Si. He’s here somewhere,” Mrs. Lopez said.
Despite everything, I felt a small thrill. School was starting, and Toby and I were in sixth grade, the oldest. The leaders.
Another PTA mom took over the membership table. “Take a long break if you need,” she told Mrs. Lopez.
Figuring they were done with me, I turned toward the booths and came face-to-face with a scrawny girl who came out of nowhere–she startled me. Her lips were blue, blue from eating cotton candy. Stumbling back, I mumbled, “Sorry.”
Mrs. Lopez said, “Eliot, this is Alli. She’s new, and she’s sixth grade, like you. Can she go around with you and Toby?”
ALLI
Mr. Porter dumped me just inside the front door of the gymnasium.
He walked in, saw this woman and said, “Mrs. Lopez, I have to work the game outside. Can you keep an eye on Alli? You heard she’s staying with us for a while?”
Mrs. Lopez leaned over and pulled a stack of shirts out of a large box. “Your first try at a foster child, si?” She shook out a tiny shirt–must have been an XXX-small–and folded it, while Mr. Porter introduced me to her.
“Si, leave her to me.” Mrs. Lopez pointed at some fake palm trees. “Sit over there for now.” She shook out another shirt and started smoothing it flat. “When things calm down,” she said, “maybe we can walk around.”
“Can’t I walk around by myself?” I protested.
Mr. Porter winced. My voice had that effect on some people. Talk softer, some said to me. But that didn’t help, my voice was just rough.
Mr. Porter said, “No, you can’t go around alone. Not your first week with us. The state says someone has to be watching you.”
I frowned, irritated at being treated like a child. But I finally shrugged, realizing that there was no fighting the red-tape. I’d just wait until Mrs. Lopez was busy, and then I’d look around.
“Thanks,” Mr. Porter said to Mrs. Lopez. “You need anything else?”
“No, you helped enough, getting all the tables set up, carrying in all our b
oxes. Gracias.” Mr. Porter shot me a last order: “Don’t wander off, Alli. Make sure Mrs. Lopez knows where you are. I’ll be outside, in back. Have a good time.” Then he walked off, energetic-like, with his hands in his jeans pockets.
And there I was. Alone.
So what? I could take care of myself.
Volleyball poles and construction paper leaves–what a sad palm tree. But the base of the pole was a tire, a decent place to sit. I dug into the pocket of my school uniform, found the money from Miss Porter, Mr. Porter’s sister, bought blue cotton candy and sat down. To watch. To get an idea of what this place was like.
Families started to trickle in. Mostly little kids. But now and then someone who might be in my grade, sixth grade. At my old school, I was supposed to be the spelling bee champ this year, supposed to be with my friends for one last year before moving up–instead, I had to change schools. And the first day here, I was abandoned.
Abandoned: Latin derivation: Forsaken or deserted. A-b-a-n-d-o-n-e-d.
Would sixth grade be easy at this school? How long would I be here? Where would I be for the seventh grade? Seemed like all I ever did was ask questions that had no answers. Like, was Mandy okay?
“Eliot Winston!”
I winced at the loud voice and missed the rest of what was said. I didn’t miss who said it, though, Mrs. Lopez. Over her other clothes, she had pulled on a school T-shirt in an awful shade of green. “Perfectly dreadful color,” as Mrs. Ferguson, the art teacher from my old school would have said.
Mrs. Lopez marched up to a skinny boy, then grabbed and hugged him. Like a pit bull clamping down on a Chihuahua puppy. I guessed he was the fourth or fifth grade. Finally, the boy–Eliot, she called him–squirmed loose.
‘Course I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but then nobody ever notices me.
“Really, just one minute,” Eliot said. “About the Bread Project, just one–”
Bread Project? What was that? The boy acted like he didn’t want his mom to know about it. Was it something important at this school?
I stood and stretched and thought I’d walk around now that Mrs. Lopez was busy with that kid. Over by the door, huddling like they were afraid to move, were two girls wearing head scarves. Probably the new girls from the Herat family. When I registered for school yesterday, the counselor was talking about them. About the Kurdish family with nieces coming in soon. About this neighborhood, south Nashville, which had people from over 40 nations. Kurds, Somalians, Sudanese, Egyptians, Arabs, Indians, and lots of Hispanics from lots of South American countries. The counselor had a world map on her wall with pins stuck in it. Her third year at the school, she said, and she couldn’t believe immigrants were still coming in so fast.
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