Stealing Our Way Home

by Cecilia Galante

  “Come on,” he says, tilting his head toward the door. “It’s okay. We don’t have to finish them.”

  It’s hot outside. For a moment, both of us stand on the front step of Dipsy Do’s and blink under the sun. “You okay?” Jack asks after a minute.

  I nod.

  “Dumb idea.” He takes a deep, deep breath and lets it out. “Come on. We have clothes to buy anyway.”

  I stay as close to Jack as he’ll let me as we walk our bikes down the sidewalk. There are a few people walking down Main Street, drinking coffee and talking on their phones. It makes me think about the man I saw on the day of Mom’s funeral. The one with the hot dog.

  We were all in the cemetery, standing around silently as her coffin was being lowered into the ground. I didn’t want to watch, because it scared me, thinking about her long arms and legs and all the muscles and bones inside of them being so deep underground, beneath all that dirt, so I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, I saw a man across the street eating a hot dog. He was actually walking very fast and eating a hot dog, as if maybe he was on his lunch break and was late getting back to work. I remember thinking how strange it was that he was just walking along and eating a hot dog while my mother was being lowered in the ground underneath all that dirt. It didn’t make any sense to me at all. But then, that was how everything felt back then. Like it had been turned upside down. Inside out. As if it might never make sense again.

  “Pippa?” Jack turns around as Murphy’s comes into view and grabs my hand. “Come on, now. Let’s get this over with, okay?”

  His hand feels warm in mine.

  I tighten my fingers around it so that he can’t let go.

  Man, I miss her.

  Sometimes, just before I get to the front door of the house, I’ll forget that she’s not here anymore, and as I turn the knob and push it open, it’s like nothing ever happened. Like everything is back to the way it was, all warm and yellow, Mom in her chair by the kitchen window, her hair pinned up on top of her head, rummaging through a cookbook for dinner ideas. She used to look up as soon as I’d come in from school and her whole face would break into a smile. “There’s my guy!” she’d say. “What can I get you before you climb up into that tree of yours?”

  And then I see her chair.

  And the empty spot by the window.

  And it’s just like what I felt at that stupid ice-cream place, drinking the same exact milk shake I used to order every time she took us shopping for school clothes. Like the inside of my stomach has dropped out. Like everything around me has stopped. And then shuddered.

  Usually when that happens, I turn back around, head out to the tree house, and pound nails into the wood until my arm feels like it’s going to fall off. Today though, I’m not anywhere near the tree house. So instead, I’m going to do what Dad keeps doing and push through it.

  I hold Pippa’s hand tight as I lead her over to the girls’ section at Murphy’s. She’s a little shaken up from the ice-cream place too, which makes me feel terrible since it was my idea, so I make a big deal of pointing out how nice everything looks on the racks. I even pull out some outfits, which is what Mom used to do, and try to get her interested.

  “Remember, Dad said whatever you want.” I hold up a peach blouse with white ruffles down the front. It’s a nice color, but it looks gigantic next to her. The tag around the collar says 14/16. “Actually, this looks too big,” I say, putting it back on the rack. “Do you know what size stuff you wear now?”

  Pippa shakes her head no and stares dumbly at the clothes. She’s still holding my other hand. I don’t have the heart to shake her off. I just hope no one I know walks in here and sees us. “Lemme look at the back of your T-shirt,” I say, yanking the neck part of her shirt out so I can check the size. “See, I was right. This says 8/10. Let’s go over here to the smaller sizes.”

  There is a silver rounder in the corner with smaller-looking girls’ clothes. I pull out a pant-and-shirt combo that says size 10. “How about this one?” It’s pink with little blue flowers on the front. A tiny bow in the middle. “The pants match, and they’re nice and soft,” I say encouragingly. “They’ll be real easy to pull on.”

  Pippa stares at it again and then nods slowly. I almost shout I’m so relieved. Maybe this won’t be so terrible after all. The remembering or the shopping.

  We go through the same routine—me holding the clothes up, Pippa nodding or shaking her head—until she has approved at least six new outfits.

  “All right,” I say finally. “I think that’s probably good for now, unless you see something else you like. Do you want to go downstairs to the dressing rooms and try everything on?”

  Pippa shakes her head.

  I hesitate, wondering if I should force her, and then change my mind. Trying on clothes every year when we went school shopping with Mom was the absolute worst part of the whole trip. All that off and on and rolling up of hems and adjusting of socks and underwear drove me up the wall. “Okay,” I tell her instead. “I think it’ll be fine.”

  “Hon?” Out of nowhere, a large woman with a blonde beehive appears. She has a mole on her chin and purple eyeglasses that are attached to a silver chain. My heart sinks. It’s Mrs. Murphy, the owner of the store. “Oh, Jack!” she says. “I didn’t recognize you, dear. You’ve gotten so tall!” She raises an eyebrow. “And your hair is so long!”

  I have to force myself not to roll my eyes. Or turn and run in the opposite direction. Even Mom, who never said a bad thing about anyone, told Dad once that Mrs. Murphy was the biggest busybody she’d ever met in her life. “That woman could make a full-time career out of gossiping,” she’d say, “and still have time left over to talk about something else.”

  “And this cannot be our little Pippa,” Mrs. Murphy coos. “My Lord, sweetheart, you’re practically a lady!”

  Pippa looks at her shoes. I’m not sure she remembers Mrs. Murphy.

  “How’re both of you doing?” Mrs. Murphy’s voice is overloaded with concern now, probably because she hasn’t seen us much since the funeral.

  “We’re fine.” I take a few steps back, pulling Pippa along with me. The last thing I want to do is get into a conversation with Mrs. Murphy about Mom. Or Dad. Or anything having to do with our family. “We’re just looking for some stuff for school. Thanks.”

  “You look awfully weighted down with all those clothes,” Mrs. Murphy says, holding out her chubby arms. “Can I put them in a fitting room for you while you keep looking?”

  “Oh no, she doesn’t have to try anything on.” I shift Pippa’s clothes to my other arm, discreetly pushing her behind me. “I’m pretty sure we got the right sizes. We just have to get some shoes. And I have to get a couple of things, too. You know, jeans and stuff.”

  A look of concern crosses Mrs. Murphy’s face as she glances around the store. “Is your father around?”

  “No.”

  “No?” The eyebrow goes up again. “You’re here all by yourself?”

  “I have a credit card, okay?” I don’t mean to sound as rude as I do, but the look that flits over Mrs. Murphy’s face indicates that I’ve already crossed that line. Next to me, Pippa reaches out and grabs one of the belt loops along the back of my shorts. I take a deep breath and reach into my back pocket. “I mean, my dad gave me his credit card. He said I could use it so that Pippa and I could get some school clothes, and that if there were any problems, you could call him at the car lot. Is that all right?”

  “Oh.” Mrs. Murphy blinks again, as if something has suddenly come into focus. “Well of course dear, that’s just fine.” She reaches out for Pippa’s clothes again. “Why don’t you let me hold these outfits behind the counter for you while you look for your things?”

  I hand over the clothes, relieved that she’s not annoyed with me. “Thanks,” I say. “We’re almost done.”

  “Jack, do you want any help?” Mrs. Murphy sounds slightly desperate for some reason.

  “No, really. We
’re good.” I hope I sound more polite. “But thanks for asking.”

  “All right then. The boys’ section is on the other side of the store, and all the shoes are downstairs. Take your time. I’ll be right over here when you’re finished.”

  Pippa and I head downstairs where we each find a pair of sneakers and a pair of good boots. Almost finished, I think to myself as we traipse up the steps again and head over to the boys’ department. Pippa is still as close to me as she can be without actually holding my hand, but I don’t say anything. Ten more minutes, and we’ll be done.

  I head over toward a stack of neatly folded polo shirts near the back and grab four of them. Two navy, two hunter green. Perfect. Now I need a couple pairs of jeans, maybe a pair of khakis, and we’re out of here.

  “Y’all need any help?” A voice, soft as a flower, floats over the top of the polo shirts. I look up and feel my stomach do its second belly flop of the day.

  It’s the girl from the dock.

  Jack’s eyes get all big and round when he sees the girl from the Andersons’ dock. He takes a step back and bumps into a table covered with stacks of neatly folded sweaters. Two of the stacks tip over, spilling sweaters in lumpy heaps all over the floor.

  “Oh my goodness!” The girl steps forward, giggling a little, and reaches for the sweaters. “Oh Lord, I just folded all of those!” She sounds amused for some reason, which surprises me. I’d be mad if I’d just folded a big pile of clothes and someone came in and knocked them over.

  “Oh … ” Jack crouches down a good distance away from the girl and starts grabbing sweaters. “Man, I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s all right,” the girl says, glancing over at him. “It actually happens more than you think. I keep tellin’ Mrs. Murphy that we shouldn’t pile these things so high, but she doesn’t listen.” Her voice has a distinct twang to it, something Southern maybe, like a cowboy. She’s wearing a green T-shirt that says I HATE MAYO on the front, cut-off jean shorts, and pink cowboy boots with floppy little tassels on the side.

  “Do … do you work here?” Jack’s voice does this weird cracking thing, which has been happening a lot lately. It sounds like he sat on a tack right in the middle of a word.

  “Yeah. Part time.” The girl looks at Jack then, like really looks at him. Her pale eyebrows narrow suddenly. “Hey, were you layin’ out on a really tall, flat rock this morning? Sort of around the corner from the Andersons’ place?”

  Jack stands up so fast it’s like someone’s jerked him up by his hair, and he steps right on my foot. A little grunt comes out of my mouth as I bend over. The girl gasps and looks right at me. “Are you all right?” She says “rat” instead of “right.”

  I nod, rubbing my shin.

  “We have to go,” Jack says, grabbing me around the wrist. “I mean, we have to go pay for our stuff. Sorry again about the sweaters. Nice to meet you. Bye.”

  He half drags, half pulls me to the cash register, leaving the girl behind to fold the rest of the sweaters by herself. Not nice, I think to myself. Not nice at all, Jack. Mrs. Murphy is behind the register, punching numbers into a little calculator and writing them down on a piece of paper. I have a hard time looking at her. Mostly because she talks a lot. A whole lot, almost like she’s afraid of silence. And then there was the thing that happened at Poultney Pizza, where Dad took us one night for dinner a month after Mom died.

  It was the first time we’d been outside the house, which was weird enough. Even though it was dark and warm, being outside again after so long felt like we were walking inside some kind of tunnel. Like the whole world had gotten smaller somehow, without us even noticing. I kept blinking when we walked inside the pizza place because the lights seemed so bright for some reason, as if someone had turned them way, way up. I spotted Mrs. Murphy right away as we walked over to the counter; she was talking a mile a minute to two other people at a table in the corner. As soon as she saw us though, she dropped her voice, leaned forward, and started whispering. I didn’t hear anything, but I knew exactly what she was saying. Stuff about Mom dying of cancer. How sad it was that she’d left a husband and two kids behind. How none of us would ever be the same again, especially Dad, who considered Mom the love of his life. I knew this because I’d heard her say all of it to a bunch of other people at the potluck dinner we had after the funeral. And she had the same look on her face this time, too. Big eyes. Droopy mouth. Clucking lips. Not because she was actually sad for us. But because it was interesting. It was news. It filled the silence.

  Now, Mrs. Murphy gives us a big smile. “Hello there, you two! All set?” Her teeth are crayon-white. They don’t look real.

  Jack nods grimly. He stands with his back to the boys’ department as Mrs. Murphy rings up the clothes. Every once in a while, he does this weird coughing thing in the back of his throat, like something’s stuck in there, but I know nothing is. He’s just nervous again, the way he’s been getting lately whenever he’s around girls. He turns into a total goofball when any of them get too close. And he goes completely bonkers when he actually has to talk to one. But I know that deep down, he’s dying to talk to this one. Or at least find something out about her. So even though Mrs. Murphy is one of the last people on the entire planet I’d want to ask for something, I decide to help Jack out.

  I take my notebook out of my back pocket. Jack looks sideways at me as I start writing, but he doesn’t say anything. Finished, I put my pink glitter pen back in my pocket and slide the notebook across the counter.

  Mrs. Murphy looks startled. “For me?” she asks, glancing at the paper. I nod. She leans in again, reading silently as Jack’s face gets more and more puzzled. Then her face brightens. “Oh, you mean Shelby?” she beams, pointing to the girl. “Right over there?” I nod again. “Yoo-hoo, Shelby!” she calls, rolling up on her tiptoes. “Will you come over here for a minute, dear?”

  Jack stares at me, furious. “Are you crazy?” he hisses under his breath. “What are you doing?”

  I want to write, “Trying to help you,” in my notebook, but I don’t have time, because Shelby is already standing next to Mrs. Murphy in her I HATE MAYO T-shirt and pink cowboy boots with the floppy tassels.

  “Shelby,” Mrs. Murphy says, putting an arm around her shoulder, “I want you to meet Jack and Pippa Kendall. They live on the lake, too, just a few houses down from where you’re staying.”

  Shelby smiles. “Yeah, we sorta just met over there.” She jerks her head in the direction of the sweaters, which, I notice quickly, have all been neatly refolded and stacked. “Y’all live on the lake?”

  I nod.

  Jack grunts.

  Shelby smiles. She has a very pretty smile. “Cool.”

  “How old are you now, Jack?” Mrs. Murphy sounds very excited suddenly as she looks at him.

  “Twelve,” Jack mutters.

  “Oh, and Shelby here just turned thirteen!” Mrs. Murphy puts an arm around Shelby and gives her shoulders a little squeeze. “And how about school, Jack? What grade will you be going into this year?”

  “Seventh.” Jack’s eyes are boring a hole into the top of the glass counter.

  “At the middle school, right?”

  Jack nods.

  “Oh!” Mrs. Murphy stares happily at Shelby’s profile. “So will she!” She gives Shelby’s shoulders another squeeze. “She’s been so nervous about starting at a new school without knowing anyone, haven’t you, dear? And now look! You’ve all met each other. Maybe you can even sit together on the bus!” Mrs. Murphy shakes her head. “I don’t know about you, but I think it is absolutely fortuitous that you both came into the store today!”

  Jack grunts and shoots me another dagger look.

  But I’m not worried. He’s embarrassed right now, but I’m pretty sure he’ll thank me later.

  And I don’t know what the word fortuitous means, but the way Mrs. Murphy and Shelby are grinning, I’m pretty sure that’s a good thing, too.

  I cannot believe my little sister.
Here I am, all choked up that she’s communicating again after four months, and she goes and writes, “Who is that new girl over there?” in her freaking notebook! To stinkin’ Mrs. Murphy, no less, who will probably get on some sort of secret intercom in her house and announce the whole story to the rest of the town by this afternoon.

  I could kill Pippa. I really could.

  Except that there’s a little part of me that’s actually kind of relieved. I mean, she did kind of just do me a favor, when you think about it. I wouldn’t have said anything to Mrs. Murphy about Shelby, and I definitely wouldn’t have talked to Shelby in school or anything. Not in a million years. I don’t know why exactly, but girls make me nervous. Especially girls that look like Shelby. I’m always afraid I’m going to say something stupid or something that will make them roll their eyes. But now I’m actually a little bit ahead of the game, if you want to look at it that way. Now, thanks to Pippa, I know Shelby’s name (which I never would have guessed, not in a million years), how old she is, and that she’s starting seventh grade at Poultney Middle School next week.

  Oh my God.

  She’s starting seventh grade at Poultney Middle School next week.

  Which is the same grade I’m starting.

  Which would be the coolest thing in the world if I hadn’t just knocked over a whole table of sweaters she’d just folded and she hadn’t seen me staring at her from Finster’s Rock this morning.

  I can feel my face burning just thinking about it. The sweater thing was an accident, but I don’t know how I’ll be able to explain the Finster’s Rock situation. I’ll have to lie if she asks me about it again. I can’t come across as some kind of crazy person right from the start. She’ll think I’m a stalker. A weirdo. My chances of getting to know her will be totally shot.

  “Shelby’s from Texas.” Mrs. Murphy is still talking, but Shelby has leveled her big green eyes at me. Almost as if she already knows that I’m thinking about the rock. And lying about it. As if she’s going to call me out on both.