I stayed in Houston and Dad went to rehab. Then, back to Garland with my grandparents and Dad, driving the whole way without stopping, but I didn’t care.
As soon as I came back to Garland, I exhumed Plant (exhume is my new favorite word) and put her in a wide new pot.
exhume v.: to dig up something buried
Mrs. Dupree walked over while I was watering Plant and asked would I like some apple pie and to take home a couple of her own plants.
“I have so many from Mr. Dupree’s service, and I can’t possibly take care of all of them,” she said. “We are both good with plants, don’t you think?”
The next day, I hung out with Charlotte, who couldn’t shake loose of Christopher and had to go through another breakup with him before she realized his being a jerk was more of a permanent flaw than a passing phase.
That first week back to Garland, I didn’t see Finn much. He avoided his house because of his mother and said he was holing up in the library studying.
It isn’t until today, when I climbed back up on the stump outside to watch Sanchez Lawn Service mow Mr. Gustafson’s lawn, that I talk to Finn. I guess I am so distracted, I don’t notice it when he drives up to our curb and rolls his window down.
“Why do you stand up on that stump?”
“Because no one else does it,” I say, jumping down and sticking the landing. I walk to his car, lean on the window frame. “Going back to college with your girlfriend the dictionary?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll be happy to know I’m completely, entirely, absolutely over my crush on you,” I lie. “So you know, you can still send me e-mails and texts.”
“That’s good.”
“We’ll always have The Price Is Right.”
“And hats.”
“And Harper Lee.”
“Speaking of hats, I have something for you.”
He hands me a bag with his bowler hat inside.
“Keep it for me, okay?” he says, and I know right then I will have it forever. Let Lisa have her first French kiss. This is better.
When he drives away, I mouth the words I still love you, Finn Reynolds.
Then I put on my new favorite hat, skipped a rock down the sidewalk, and thought about calling Lisa and planning a trip to the mall. There is still almost one month to go before I have to face seventh grade, and my wardrobe needs attention. Maybe I’ll just wear this hat when I present the dreaded Family Tree Project. I’m not completely certain about what my project will include, but now it feels more like an annoyance than a giant problem. Anyone watching the news this summer already knows about my mother anyway, so I will just have to find my courage. I can say I don’t know a lot about her and we are not close. The rest is none of your business. That is the truth.
Now, I go into the garage to get a nail so I can hang Finn’s hat in my room. What do you know, the garage door screeches open and scares me to death. I hate this house. There is Dad with a big smile on his face.
“Where are the nails?” I ask him.
“What do you need a nail for?”
“To hang something on my wall.”
“How about your new wall?”
“What are you talking about?”
And here is the next piece to fall that I didn’t see coming. Tonight at dinner, Dad announces to me and my grandparents, “I bought us a house on Harvard. Two blocks over. All the walls are white. We can paint it whatever color we want.”
Well, I wasn’t expecting that.
He hugged me tight and then smiled all through dinner. I’ve never seen him smile so much. After, I helped Grandma clean up the kitchen, where she’d made breakfast for dinner, which isn’t that a cool idea? French toast, maple sausages, and fresh fruit. She made our ugly rental kitchen smell sugary. I will make our new one smell good, too. There will be plants everywhere, with Plant, the queen of all plants, in the window over our new sink.
When I go to my room, I find a neat stack of washed clothes at the edge of the bed. This is something my grandmother has done. Washed my shorts and shirts and folded them all in neat squares. I tell myself I will do this at the new house. Take my laundry fresh from the dryer and fold it neatly, put it in my drawers from light to dark the way she has arranged her drawers and closet. Arrange my makeup drawers so they look like a fancy cosmetics counter, put scented paper in every drawer and cabinet, especially those containing my one year’s supply of feminine products. Grandma liked my idea of going to the super club store and saving me the embarrassment of ever asking Dad to buy them.
I go to the kitchen to thank her and find her wrapping sandwiches in wax paper. I don’t know anyone else who does this except for my grandmother. It is strange and wonderful at once, makes the meal seem gift wrapped especially for you. I think it’s something I would like to do for my own children. She also has the ironing board out. There are signs that she’s just finished ironing my dad’s underwear. This is definitely not something I will do for my children.
“I always look forward to our visits,” she says, with a little bit of sad in her voice. I want to say, “You do?” But it isn’t right to question her. “I talked to your father, and we agreed on something. Or rather, I let him know how I feel, and now he agrees. It’s time for you to get your ears pierced. He said he would take you next Saturday.”
She touches my shoulder, her hand trails up to my hair and hooks it behind my ear. “Little diamond studs would be nice, and they go with everything.”
A surge of warmth and love comes up through my chest. I hug her, lean into her with the weight of my newfound happiness. I don’t think she expected it, because her body flexes backward. She and I have never been affectionate. But there we are, two people hugging in a kitchen like it happens every day.
“We have to tell your father a few things about girls, you and I. He doesn’t always remember,” she says.
In my room, I put on my pajamas and sit on my bed. It is not my fake diary that I reach for now. It is too much work to keep up and so last year. I pull out my green composition book and open it to a clean white page. There are a thousand and one thoughts I want to write, some just for me, a letter to Atticus. And a letter to Mr. Wistler that might just have to say Thank you for being the best teacher ever. But the words won’t travel from my brain to my hand just yet.
I keep thinking about how this summer went so fast and I want to slow it down now. Pause it and replay it in places. The moment my lost pages caught in the trees. The way her hair hung around her face. The cracks of sadness in my father’s heart. The boy with a thousand words who looks too much like his father. Me in a pillbox hat, coming and going. A woman’s hands rolling out dough for an apple pie. And an old book that is more like a friend, somehow new each time I open its pages.
I feel exhausted, so I close the notebook. I know I won’t forget to tell Atticus later that Mrs. Dupree found her old copy of The Gray Ghost, a story he read to Scout. We are going to read it together. It is silly to think it, but he would like that.
Dad pushes my door open a tiny bit and steps inside my room. “So, I hope you’re happy about the move,” he says.
“Yes.”
He walks over and sits down on the edge of the bed.
“Good.”
“Did you know that Grandma actually ironed your underwear?” I ask.
He nods and smiles.
“That is so messed up,” I say. “You have to do something about it.”
He pulls up the covers and tucks them under my chin.
“Well, what can I say, kiddo. We all have to survive our parents’ imperfections, ironed underwear and all.”
“But what if PBroom was to see that? How would you survive the embarrassment?”
He holds out each of his hands. “There’s the parent you want and the parent you have. If you’re lucky, sometimes they are the same person.”
Well, I thought we had nothing in common. But it’s easy to forget your parent is also someone’s kid.
&n
bsp; “Tell me more ways she embarrassed you?”
“That would take all night,” he says. “Tomorrow.”
He kisses my head and turns out the light. When we wake up in the morning, I know he will talk to me.
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Acknowledgments
Every writer should have a supporting cast of inspirational, smart, and encouraging people behind her. I am lucky enough to have such a cast. I’m deeply thankful to the following people. My agent, Julia Kenny, for her wisdom, advice, and advocacy—and for making dreams come true. My brilliant editor, Bethany Strout, for her talent, grace, and cheerfulness. Special thanks to Alvina Ling and everyone at Little, Brown. I think this is the best team in publishing.
To my supportive and wonderful friends Kathryn Casey; Mylene Clark; Dave Diotalevi; Robin Gage; Cheryl Haase; Cathy Heape; Anne Hunter; Julie, Mark, and Katie Neinast; Jenny Wingfield; Sandra and Eldon Youngblood; and most especially, Amy Hazell. I am truly blessed by each of you.
To Kathy Patrick and all the beautiful Pulpwood Queens. Thank you for being a book’s best friend.
To the memory of my sixth-grade English teacher, author G. Clifton Wisler. Sometimes just being in the presence of a passionate teacher can inspire you for the rest of your life.
Finally, thanks to my family for giving me the love and wide-open space to be creative. Foremost to Matt, who always believed, always encouraged. I love you. To Dad and Kathy, for loving me and bringing me brownies. And to Chloe and Molly, who put a smile in my heart.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Welcome
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Acknowledgments
Copyright
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by Karen Harrington
Cover art by gray318
Cover © 2013 Hachette Book Group, Inc.
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
All definitions from http://dictionary.reference.com/
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First ebook edition: August 2013
ISBN 978-0-316-21057-7
Sure Signs of Crazy Page 18