And after a while, I put my arms around Margery’s waist, leaned in close against her back, and exhaled.
A few hours later, the vet called Margery and told her that Toby had made it through the surgery. He was in the recovery room, where he would have to stay through the night, but if we wanted to stop by for a few minutes and see him, we could.
I wanted.
This time, the waiting room was filled with people. A woman in a yellow raincoat sat in one of the blue chairs with a cardboard box on her lap, while two little girls ran back and forth across the linoleum. An elderly man, who was petting a small black cat in his arms, sat next to the woman and frowned at the girls. Two chairs down from him was a young boy holding a white bulldog on a leash, and next to him was Delia.
“Delia!”
Everyone looked up as I said her name, and I winced. Delia got up, though, and walked over to me. “Hey,” she said softly.
“Hey,” I replied. “What’re you doing here?”
“I hope you don’t mind,” Delia said. “I had to come. My dad …” She paused, biting her lower lip.
“Your dad?” I was confused.
She nodded. “He was the one … you know, who … who hit Toby. ”
I took a step backward. “The man in the red jacket?”
She nodded. “He’s going to pay for everything,” she said quickly. “I hope you know that. He’ll take care of all the bills. But I had to come. I just had to.”
“I’m glad you’re here.”
“Is he okay?” Delia’s blue eyes widened. “Do you know anything yet?”
“Just that he made it through the surgery.” I bit my lip. “He probably won’t wake up until tomorrow, but the vet said we could see him tonight.” I pointed to a chair next to Margery. “You want to sit down?”
“Actually.” Delia caught my sleeve. “Can we sit over here for a minute? I want to tell you some things.”
“Sure.”
We settled in across the room, close to the door. Delia took a deep breath. “I want to apologize first. You know, for brushing you off that day you tried to talk to me at school.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I get—”
“No, just let me finish,” Delia said. “I guess I kind of gave up, you know? I sort of convinced myself there wasn’t any point in staying friends with you, since you were going to leave. But then my dad came home from work and he told us what happened.” She took a deep breath and pulled on her lip. “I know he was shaken up and he’s still so worried about all of it, but oh, Fred, he talked to us. He really and truly talked.” I thought again about the night Margery had told me that Delia said we’d met for a reason. Maybe she’d been right after all. Maybe this was another reason.
“And on the way over here,” Delia went on, “I sort of realized that I was doing the same thing to you that he’d been doing to us all this time. You know, pushing you away so that I wouldn’t have to deal with how awful it would be to lose you. But the thing is …” Her voice filled with tears. “The thing is, it’s already awful. Because you’re still here.” She put a hand on mine. “You’re right here. And I’m just wasting it. I’m wasting time I could be spending with you, playing with Toby or eating at Sweetie Pie’s or practicing Quiz Bowl questions. I’m missing all of it. And I don’t want to, Fred. I don’t want to miss any of the time I have with you.”
I covered her hand with mine. I felt lucky to know Delia. More than lucky.
Delia rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. “You want to hear something else?”
“Sure.”
“I got in Michelle Palmer’s face yesterday. I stood up and told her to leave me alone.”
I gasped. “Did you really?”
Delia nodded. “Holy ravioli, Fred, you should’ve seen her face. I thought she was going to faint.” She giggled. “I can’t believe how small she actually is! When I stood up, I was literally looking down at her!”
“Oh, Delia.” I took her hand and squeezed. “Oh, man, I’m so proud of you.” We sat there for a little bit, just sort of basking in the moment. Then I turned my head. “I have some news, too.”
Delia raised that one eyebrow of hers. “Yeah?”
“I’m not going back to Philadelphia. At least not yet.” I nodded. “My mom still has to figure some things out.”
Delia sucked in her breath. “Are you okay with that?”
“I’m worried,” I said after a minute. “You know, that she won’t.”
“That must be scary.” Delia paused. “But I bet you she will. And until she does, you have Margery. And you have me. We’ll help you through it, Fred. Promise.”
I squeezed her hand again. My heart was too full to say anything else.
“There’s one more thing,” Delia said.
She didn’t have a chance to finish, because just then the door opened and the vet appeared. Margery, Delia, and I followed him down a long, brightly lit hallway. His curls were even messier than before, and there were dark circles under his eyes.
“It’s still touch and go for the next twenty-four hours,” he said. “But I’m very happy with Toby’s vital signs. They’re really strong, which is promising.” He paused outside of an exam room and put his hand on the knob. “I do have to warn you, though. We weren’t able to save his leg.”
Toby lay on a gurney in the middle of the small, dimly lit room. His eyes were closed, and a thin plastic tube snaked out of his mouth, which hung open slightly. An enormous white cloth covered his right side, just at the front where his leg had been.
I bent over him and touched the tip of his little half ear with my finger. My hand was shaking. “Hi, Tobes,” I whispered. “Hi, buddy. You made it, you know that? You made it all the way through.”
He moved his head slightly, and I knew that he’d heard me. A thump sounded at the other end of the table and Margery grinned, pointing. Toby lifted his tail again and let it fall. I could feel the breath I’d been holding release itself as I stroked his ear again. He was back. He was banged up a little, but he was still here. He was still Toby.
“What was the one more thing?” I asked Delia the next day as her mother drove us home. Toby lay in his crate in between us, and Margery sat up front in the passenger seat.
“What?” Delia turned to look at me.
“Yesterday, in the waiting room,” I reminded her. “You said there was one more thing you had to—”
“Oh!” Delia smacked her forehead with her palm. “I totally forgot. Mrs. Iskra came up to me at school yesterday and said that Marissa Maynard is in the hospital with double pneumonia.”
“And?”
“And she’s like the best member of the science team this year for the Quiz Bowl,” Delia said. “She’s out. She’s not going to be able to participate at all.”
“What’s that got to do with me?”
“Mrs. Iskra said that your grades have been so good that she would waive the whole test-taking part if you would just consider joining.”
Margery turned around in her seat. “What’s this I hear about good grades?”
I blushed. “Our crazy science teacher wants me to join her team for the Quiz Bowl. She’s just exaggerating so I’ll do it.”
“She’s not exaggerating!” Delia’s blue eyes were wide. “She was totally serious, Fred. I mean it. She wouldn’t waste her time on someone she really didn’t believe in. She believes in you.” Her voice was soft. “And so do I.”
“When’s the Quiz Bowl?” Margery asked.
“Two more weeks,” Delia said. “Right before Christmas.”
Margery looked at me. “Why don’t you do it? Just for fun?”
I opened my mouth to object. And then I shut it again. Why shouldn’t I do it? I had the time now. I had someone to practice and study with. And I had a shot. It would be a little bit like reclaiming the Science Jeopardy game back at my old school.
Except that this time, maybe I could win it.
“I honestly can’t remember t
he last time I was this excited to see something.” Margery’s eyes danced as she stood across the worktable. “How long are you going to make us wait, Fred? You’re killing me.”
“I agree!” Delia laughed. “Come on, Fred! I’m dying to see it!”
“Hold on,” I murmured, sliding my fingers under the edge of the tarp again. I wanted to get it just right so that when I finally snapped it off, the plastic material would slide cleanly away from the sculpture without catching on anything. I didn’t want it to snag against any of the parts that stuck out on the sides, or worse, pull the whole thing down by accident. “How about Toby? Is he ready? Toby, you ready, buddy?”
He was in his little bed, surrounded by a pile of soft blankets, but he lifted his head at the sound of my voice and perked up his ears. Sometimes, when I looked at him quickly, I still forgot that one of his legs was missing, or that now it took him twice as long to stand up. He’d been home for two weeks, but he still struggled trying to find his center of balance. He fell over a lot, and sometimes, if he was too tired, he wouldn’t get back up right away. Until he did. That was the thing about Toby. His leg might have been gone, but his determination was not. He was a fighter. Nothing was going to hold him down for long.
Sometimes I still forgot that he was ours now, too. For real. When Mr. Carder got the news about Toby’s new handicap, he sort of threw in the towel. Margery went over to talk to him about it, and he told her it was hard enough being stuck in a wheelchair himself; he didn’t have the time or energy to worry about another cripple. My temper had flared when she told me that. She said she asked Mr. Carder if we could keep Toby, and he was quiet for a long time. Finally, he nodded.
“Probably for the best,” he said gruffly. “’Sides, we both know that dog was hers the first night she came out with that bowl of beef stew.”
Mr. Carder was still a mean, grumpy old man. But he’d given me Toby. Maybe deep down he knew Toby had given me his heart. And that I had given him mine.
Together, we’d do whatever we could to keep them safe.
“You ready, buddy?” I asked a third time. Toby barked once in response, and I turned back to the tarp. My heart was beating like a drum, and my palms were sweaty. I knew no one here would laugh at what they were about to see. No one would criticize, or point out the joints that weren’t quite smoothly attached. It was even okay if they didn’t really understand the meaning behind the sculpture, or why I’d picked this design instead of something else. That was just for me, something I’d keep in a little pocket of my heart for a long, long time. But I did want them to like it. More than anything, I wanted two of the most important people in my life to think I’d made something beautiful. That it was enough.
I gripped the edges of the tarp. “One, two, three!” With a snap and a whoosh, the plastic material slid to the floor.
“Oh!” Delia gasped, bringing her hands to her mouth.
I stared at the structure towering before us, the wide, smooth windmill blades positioned neatly on either side, each one supported by one arm of the bicycle handles beneath, like metal bones. It was easy to spot the rake; it stuck out right in front, stretching its neck for takeoff. I’d chosen two enormous hubcaps for the eyes and used the rest to fill in the body. They glittered and shone in the light, like sun dappling the trees, and then tapered off into a tail.
“It’s a bird.” Margery was walking toward it slowly, taking it in. Her eyes were wide, her voice wondrous. “Good Lord, girl, you went and made yourself a bird.” She kept walking, dipping down at one point to look beneath it, and then continuing on. “It’s exquisite, Fred. It’s just spectacular.”
It wasn’t hard to hear the pride in her voice, and my cheeks felt warm. I didn’t know if I’d ever tell either of them about that night in the Philadelphia apartment. Or that I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about that little brown bird ever since I’d arrived at Margery’s. There was something about the way it had stayed in the kitchen all night long—with the window open wide—before finally stretching its wings and taking off. It was a little like me, I thought. I’d held on for as long as I could inside that apartment. I really and truly had.
Until I couldn’t anymore. Until I’d stretched my wings finally and flown through that window, too.
“Fred, it’s so cool!” Delia said. “I can’t believe you made it. I mean, I can believe it of course, but I … Holy ravioli, it’s just so good!”
Toby barked three times, as if agreeing with her.
I felt warm and good and happy inside, which was something I hadn’t felt in a long time. Something I hadn’t been sure I’d ever feel again.
Mom was my first family. The one who, for as long as I lived, would belong to me. And she would come back to me when she was ready. When she was better. I was certain of it.
Until she did, I would be here with my bird and my dog and Margery and Delia.
For as long as I needed to be.
Turn the page for a sneak peek at another heartfelt story, Stealing Our Way Home
Two weeks after Mom died, I got a letter and a book in the mail.
This is what the letter said:
Dear Pippa,
My name is Miss Rhodes, and I am going to be your fourth-grade social studies teacher next year. I am really looking forward to getting to know you and the rest of your class.
Since we will begin the fall term by learning about Greek culture, I always ask all of my students to read Tito the Warrior (which I have enclosed) over the summer. Tito, as you will soon find out, was only a few years older than you. He lived in a part of Greece called Sparta and was raised to be a Spartan soldier. To this day, Spartans are regarded as some of the most courageous people who ever lived.
As you read the book, please jot down at least six facts about the Spartans that you think might be important to share with the rest of the class. We’ll discuss the book and go over the information you’ve collected during the first week of school, so please come prepared.
Have a wonderful summer, and I’ll see you soon!
Sincerely,
Miss Rhonda Rhodes
I stretched out on my bed and read the letter twice, all the way through. I liked the two R’s in my new teacher’s name, the way they rolled over my tongue when I said them. My friend Susan can actually make a trilling sound when she says her R’s, almost like she is speaking Spanish, but I’ve never learned how to do that.
Miss Rhonda Rhodes.
She sounded pretty. Maybe even nice. Even if she was assigning homework over the summer.
But I groaned when I picked up the book and looked at it. Definitely not my thing. The boy on the cover, who I guess was supposed to be Tito the Warrior, and which meant (at least according to Miss Rhodes) that he was just a few years older than me, looked like some weird old guy who was trying to pass as a kid. He was dressed in a long red robe and gold sandals that strapped up to his knees, and his face was all scrunched up, as if the artist had been trying to make him look fierce but instead just made him look as if he had a really bad stomachache. Plus, he was leaning forward at a weird angle, sort of crouching a little with his hands spread out in front of him, like he was about to pounce on someone or catch something. It was strange.
But who cared about school anyway? Or some dumb kid named Tito? What kind of name was Tito anyway?
Mom was gone.
Forever.
And there was nothing that anybody could do to bring her back.
I slid Tito the Warrior between the side of my bed and the wall. Then I crumpled the letter up into a little ball and threw it in the trash can. It bounced off the lip and rolled into the corner.
Sorry, Miss Rhonda Rhodes.
Not this year.
Not this girl.
This book deals with some heavy stuff.
And that’s because life can throw heavy stuff at us. Sometimes it’s so heavy that we can’t even lift it, or figure out how to carry it while going to school and hanging out with our friends
and pretending that nothing’s wrong.
And when that heavy stuff involves our parents, things can get even trickier. Parents are the ones who bring us into this world and take care of us, especially when we get sick. They put dinner on the table and tuck us in at night and teach us how to tie our shoes. They are supposed to have all the answers.
Except that sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they have problems—like drug or alcohol abuse—that can be very hard to understand and feel too big to handle on our own. That’s what Fred realizes in this book. Her mom’s addiction to prescription pain pills affects them both very deeply, but it’s not a problem Fred can fix by keeping it secret.
I wrote this book because I want anyone who is struggling with the really heavy stuff to remember that it’s okay to ask for help. You don’t have to feel embarrassed or ashamed. Being honest about a parent’s flaws doesn’t make you a bad person. It doesn’t make your mom or dad a bad person, either. Talking about the heavy stuff is a way to share the load, so we don’t have to carry it all on our own.
If something is getting too heavy to carry, reach out to someone. There are people out there who can give you what your parents might not be able to right now. Talk to teachers, school counselors, or other family members who are willing to listen. If you are honest with them, they can help you.
Because sometimes your family is more than just the people you were born to; it can also become the people you choose.
My gratitude is boundless.
To Stacey Glick, for her unfailing faith in me, and sky-high optimism. It’s such a joy to work with you.
To Jenne Abramowitz, who has surpassed all editorial responsibilities by becoming a true and lasting friend. You work magic with words and hearts, and I am forever grateful.
To Janel McCormick and Dave Cooper, who worked tirelessly trying to restore the last seventy-two pages of this manuscript after I accidentally deleted them, and to Lisa Iskra, who assured me that the new pages I would have to write would be better than the originals.
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