The Perfect Place

by Teresa E. Harris

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  About the Author

  Clarion Books

  215 Park Avenue South,

  New York, New York 10003

  Copyright © 2014 by Teresa E. Harris

  All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

  Clarion Books is an imprint of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.

  www.hmhco.com

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

  Harris, Teresa E.

  The perfect place / Teresa E. Harris.

  pages cm

  Summary: Twelve-year-old Treasure Daniels and her younger sister must move in with Great-Aunt Grace until their mother sorts herself out, but life in Black Lake, Virginia, where segregation lingers, is hard and Grace is a nightmare—at least on the surface.

  ISBN 978-0-547-25519-4 (hardcover)

  [1. Home—Fiction. 2. Family life—Virginia—Fiction. 3. Great-aunts—Fiction. 4. Segregation—Fiction. 5. African Americans—Fiction. 6. Moving, Household—Fiction. 7. Virginia—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.H24388Per 2014

  [Fic]—dc23

  2013036214

  eISBN 978-0-544-37427-0

  v1.1114

  For Taana

  One

  DAD has been gone exactly two months, one week, and four days when Mom stands up and says, “I can’t do this anymore.”

  “Do what?” I ask.

  “This,” she says, waving her skinny brown arms around like a crazy person. “Stay here in this apartment. I can’t do it. Your father is everywhere in it.”

  “No, he’s not,” my sister Tiffany says, looking around from her spot beside me on the couch. She’s seven and what my sixth-grade teacher, Mrs. Levy, would have called very literal-minded.

  But Mom is right, I guess. Dad is everywhere in Apartment 2F—his coffee mug is still in the dish drainer and all but two pairs of his shoes are still lined up against the far wall in Mom and Dad’s bedroom. The book he’s reading is still sitting on his nightstand. I like the way the house seems to be waiting along with us for him to come back. But Mom says it again: “I can’t do this.”

  “What are we going to do, then?” I ask.

  Mom doesn’t answer. Instead she goes over to the framed pictures on the mantel. She slides the photo of the four of us at the Meadowlands Fair from one location to another like a game of magic-cup shuffle until it winds up at the far end of the shelf almost out of sight and right beside the picture of her steely-eyed aunt Grace. Mom stares down at Great-Aunt Grace’s picture for a long time, and I wonder if she’s thinking about how, on their wedding day, Great-Aunt Grace told Mom not to marry Dad because he was a rolling stone if she ever saw one. Mom told me this story once when she was mad at Dad for staying out for two days and neglecting to call. I asked Mom what it meant to be a rolling stone and she pressed her lips together and shook her head, like she was sorry she’d told me the story in the first place.

  Mom turns to face us now.

  Please don’t say we have to leave without Dad.

  Tiffany moves closer to me on the couch, rests all of her weight on me. I can’t breathe. I take a puff of my inhaler. The cool air fills my lungs.

  Don’t say we have to leave without Dad.

  “What are we going to do?” I ask again, my heart banging against my ribs like a paddleball.

  “We’re going to evacuate the premises,” Mom says.

  “We don’t have to go,” I say.

  Tiffany stands beside me, hopping from one foot to the other as she waits for me to take her leftover brown rice and baked chicken out of the microwave. She has no idea what “evacuate the premises” means. Mom learned the trick from Dad—whenever he decided that it was time for us to move, he’d find a new, crazy-hard way to tell Mom and me so that Tiffany wouldn’t understand and freak out.

  I pull the cover off of Tiffany’s plate. Steam hits me full in the face.

  “You can eat in front of the TV,” Mom tells her.

  “No, she can’t.” Dad never allowed us to eat anywhere but at the dining room or kitchen table. This type of disagreement has been happening between Mom and me ever since he left. She usually wins because she plays the parent card and says, “I’m her mother, Treasure, not you.” That’s exactly what she says this time as she stands at the sink, staring out the window. Her voice is so quiet it could be carried away on the breeze ruffling the curtains.

  Tiffany scampers off, and I look at Mom long and hard. Her feet are bare, her toenails unpainted. She’s wearing a black tank top and black denim shorts. She’s been wearing a lot of black lately. I wait until Tiffany turns on the TV and starts singing along with the SpongeBob SquarePants theme song before I start talking.

  “What about your job?” I ask.

  “What about it?” Mom replies. “I answer phones for Dr. Jackass, and I won’t miss him or his stuck-up patients at all.”

  I take a seat at the kitchen table and stare at the back of my mother’s head, the tight curls of her bun. I’m not giving up so easily.

  “If we leave, Dad won’t know where to find us when he comes back.”

  Mom uses both hands to push herself away from the kitchen counter. Then she comes over to the table and lowers herself into the chair across from me. She reaches for the half-empty pepper shaker and begins to push it back and forth over the scratched wood surface. “And whose fault is it that he won’t be able to find us?”

  My skin is a different shade from hers, reddish-brown like Dad’s. I have his confused hair, too, hair that doesn’t know if it wants to be curly, nappy, or straight. I don’t look a thing like Mom. I could walk away from her in a crowd and no one would even know we were related.

  “We can’t leave,” I say.

  Mom wraps her long fingers around the pepper shaker and stares down at her fist.

  “I won’t leave. Are you listening to me, Mom? Mom?” I hate the way my voice sounds, high and whiny, and Mom isn’t even paying attention. I bang my fist down on the table.

  She jumps. “What the—?” She shakes her head. “You’re just a child, Treasure, and you don’t make the decisions. I do.”

  Just a child who walked Tiffany to school every morning after Dad left. Who did the grocery shopping and made sure Tiffany had something to eat every day. Who took Mom food on a tray when she couldn’t get out of bed.

  “What if we found him?” I say suddenly.

  All this time Mom hasn’t been looking at me. Now she does. “How?” she says, and for a moment I can hear it in her voice—hope. I don’t know how we can find Dad, though; wouldn’t even know where to start.

  Mom closes her eyes.
“Wishful thinking,” she says. And just like that, I know nothing I say is going to change her mind. We’re going to evacuate the premises, leaving Dad behind.

  Two

  I am lying in bed, eyes closed, when Mom comes for us. I feel her standing in the doorway of our room. She comes inside, and I don’t have to open my eyes to know that she is standing at the foot of my bed, a suitcase in her hand, two bags at her feet.

  “We have to go.”

  “Now?” I ask.

  The light from the streetlamp outside filters into the room, lifting the darkness just enough for me to see the outline of my mother. I watch as she goes over to Tiffany’s bed and shakes her. Tiffany mumbles something and won’t wake up. I stay where I am. It’s not like we haven’t moved before, but we’ve never done it in the middle of the night, and never without Dad.

  “I’m not going,” I say. “And neither is Tiffany.”

  “Fine,” Mom whispers. “Then I hope you two have some money to give to Mr. Brown when he comes sniffing around for the rent.”

  I sit up so fast I get dizzy. “What do you mean? You haven’t been paying the rent?”

  “I paid what I could, but it still wasn’t enough.”

  “How much do we owe?”

  “I don’t know, a thousand dollars, maybe more. Mr. Brown stopped by to yell at me about it the other day, talking about eviction and whatnot—”

  “Eviction?” It dawns on me suddenly why we’re leaving in the middle of the night, why Mom is dressed all in black, whispering and slipping in and out of the darkness like a shadow. “So we couldn’t stay here even if we wanted to?”

  “Nope. Not unless you or your sister have a gang of money in your piggy banks you never told me about.”

  I don’t have a gang of money. Or a piggy bank. And all Tiffany has is her Disney Fund, a three-gallon water bottle where she keeps the change that she’s saving up for a trip to Disney World. A few dollars, maybe.

  I climb out of bed and start taking off my PJs.

  Our building is only four floors, and as luck would have it, our second-floor apartment is right above Mr. Brown’s. Mom switches on the lamp on the night table between our beds. Quick and quiet as a cat, she pulls clothes from dressers, toys from shelves. It is when she is pulling down Tiffany’s dollhouse that something comes crashing down with it and hits the floor with a thud. A photo album.

  We both freeze. And wait. Nothing.

  Mom makes her way over to my desk, more careful this time, and tosses me my jean shorts and T-shirt from the back of my chair. I love that chair. Dad bought it for me. It’s purple and it spins around and around.

  I pull on my shorts and top and take my time with my socks, rolling them down my ankles into perfect doughnut shapes. When I stand up and tiptoe over to grab my sneakers, Mom rips the sheets and comforter off my bed. She folds them up fast and comes back for the pillows. She pulls off the cases and shoves as much of our clothes as she can into them. Within moments, Mom’s got most of our stuff in a pile by the bedroom door. Except for my chair.

  “What about . . . ?” I point.

  “Not enough room. Let’s go.”

  Dad would never make me leave my chair.

  Mom focuses her attention on getting Tiffany up. When she finally succeeds, the first thing Tiffany does is start whimpering.

  “No time for that,” Mom tells her, yanking Tiffany’s T-shirt over her head. She puts on the rest of Tiffany’s clothes in the same rough manner. Then she pulls the sheets from Tiffany’s bed, knocking Tiffany’s ratty yellow bear, Mr. Teddy Daniels, to the floor in the process. I pick him up and hand him to Tiffany, who squeezes him to her chest.

  “Come on,” Mom says.

  She tiptoes out of our bedroom and we follow. Tiffany trips over a lump in the carpet in the hallway. Mom pulls her up by her arm and Tiffany whines. No use, though. All Mom is seeing right now is the path from the apartment to the car. She keeps her finger to her lips.

  When we reach the living room, she points straight ahead, meaning we’re going right to the door. No detours.

  “Treasure, where are you—”

  Mom knows better than to raise her voice.

  I stop at the bookshelves and grab Dad’s favorite dictionary, the one he always pulled down to teach me new words. I know where it is, even with only the streetlights to guide me.

  “Treasure,” Mom whisper-yells. She says my name again when I come to stand next to her and Tiffany, only this time she sounds tired, not mad. “Let’s go.”

  Mom had already been down to the car a few times before she woke us up, but there’s still the stuff from our bedroom to be carried downstairs. Tiffany whines again because she wants to be carried too, but Mom tells her to cut it out, and none too nicely, either. Mom says this time down is the last trip—we have to get out of here before Mr. Brown catches us. I grab as much as I can.

  “Tiffany, put that bear in here and carry this.” Mom holds a bulging pillowcase open. Reluctantly, Tiffany places Mr. Teddy Daniels gently inside and takes the pillowcase. Mom makes Tiffany carry a few other things too, and Tiffany does so with limp arms and tears in her eyes.

  We will take the back stairs, Mom tells us—someone might see us on the elevator—and hold our breath, praying we make not even one sound.

  Mom pushes open the door to the stairs. The stairwell echoes like the inside of a tin can. First Tiffany and then me. Mom is last.

  I know before my foot hits the first step that I should’ve stopped to put the dictionary in my backpack. Carrying it and trying to hold on to two dolls and a pillowcase full of clothes, my arms tremble and then burn. My muscles tell me to let go, and I do. Everything falls and hits the floor. The dictionary hits the hardest.

  “Jesus Christ, Treasure,” Mom yelps.

  My heart is beating somewhere in my throat and I’m ready to cry. But there’s no time for that. When I reach down to gather the things as fast as I can, Mom stops me with a finger to her lips.

  “Shhh!”

  What did she hear? If Mr. Brown finds us here, he’ll have every right to call the cops. Tiffany looks up at me from a few stairs below, stricken.

  We all listen now. Silence. Mom swears. She never does that unless she’s fighting mad.

  “Sorry,” I whisper, as we pick up the things I’ve dropped.

  Mom doesn’t look at the stuff as she shoves what she can into my arms and takes the rest herself. But she doesn’t get it all. There, just there, on the step right below me, is Dad’s dictionary. I reach for it.

  “Leave it.”

  Mom stares down at it. Her face is unreadable.

  “Leave it,” she says again.

  I do. And feel something inside me break.

  Mom helps us dump the rest of our things in the back of our Ford Explorer. The truck gleams blue and silver in the moonlight. Dad bought it used for Mom three years ago as a surprise, and she hated it from the moment she laid eyes on it, I could tell. She’d never said so until after Dad left this time. Every day now she says something about how it’s so ugly it practically makes her eyes bleed. In goes my nebulizer, which Tiffany dubbed my asthma machine, followed by the pillowcases full of clothes from our bedroom and Tiffany’s Disney Fund.

  “Wait! I want Mr. Teddy Daniels,” Tiffany says, and Mom sucks her teeth because she forgot which pillowcase he was in. She finds him at last and thrusts him at Tiffany, who asks, “Did you remember to pack his clothes?”

  “Yes,” Mom replies, and goes back to packing the truck.

  “Are you sure?”

  Mom whirls around.

  “She’s sure, Tiffany,” I say quickly to avoid a meltdown. “I saw her pack them myself.”

  Tiffany nods, satisfied. I didn’t see Mom pack Mr. Teddy D.’s clothes, but she probably did it before she woke us up. She’d never leave his stuff behind.

  My eyes find the face of our apartment building. There’s a plaque above the back door, and above it a dim, buzzing light. I know that the plaque
reads APARTMENT’S FOR RENT. FOR MORE INFORMATION CALL BROWN & ASSOCIATES AT 973-627-3746. There was scarcely a time we went through the back door that Dad didn’t stop and draw our attention to that plaque and what he called the “reckless apostrophe” in APARTMENT’S.

  Mom finishes loading up the truck. She goes around the side and opens the back door, calling us over with a jerk of her head. We don’t move.

  “Come on and get in.”

  We do as we’re told, first Tiffany and then me. No fighting over why neither of us gets to sit in the front seat. No Mom telling us it doesn’t matter because we’re all going to the same place any old way. No words at all. We leave, as still and quiet as the night.

  Three

  I remember the night before Dad left. We’d been living in Cedar Hills for months, and he’d come home from work, smiling and laughing, sometimes kissing Mom on the lips in front of Tiffany and me. For months he had nothing negative to say and then suddenly one day, something came up. It always started with something. This time it was sunlight.

  “There is a pall over this house,” Dad said.

  “A ‘pall’?” Mom asked. It was dinnertime. She paused, her fork halfway to her mouth.

  “Pall. Something that covers and produces an effect of gloom,” I said.

  “Exactly. Look around you.” Dad pointed with his knife. “We’ve got every light on, and it’s still dim in here. Sun’s not even down yet, and look at all the shadows. These dark walls. It’s like living inside a coffin.”

  “We can repaint,” Mom said.

  “Let’s paint the walls purple!” Tiffany shouted. If it were up to her, the whole world would be the color of grape soda.

  “Purple’s too dark,” Mom said. “What about a buttery yellow? Or sky blue? Bring the outside in?” She leaned forward in her chair, as though sitting on the edge of a cliff. As though if Dad said no to a new paint color, she’d pitch forward and fall. “Yes” would bring her back from the edge.