“That’s understandable.” She picks up her cereal bowl and the cup of coffee right next to it. “There’s Total here or bread for toast.” Her forehead wrinkles. “I didn’t know what you ate for breakfast, so I thought we’d go to the store later.”
“That’s okay. Toast is fine.”
“Oh!” Her whole face perks up. “There are leftover muffins from yesterday. They’re in the pantry.” She aims her head at the large cabinets to my right.
“Okay, thanks,” I respond. She heads out to the table, and I find some bread and make toast. After I pour myself a cup of coffee and load it with the French vanilla creamer I find in the refrigerator, I join her with my breakfast.
Grandma offers me the sections of the newspaper she’s not reading. An image flashes in my mind of my dad at our kitchen table with his head buried in the sports section of our local paper. I never once sat with him and read the paper. I should have.
I spot the sports section of Grandma’s paper and put it in front of me. I take a sip of my coffee and read the headline. I don’t get past the opening sentence—“In a thriller last night...”—before my eyes burn with tears. I push the paper away.
“I’ll be right back,” I say hurriedly and race back to my room. I stop and take a deep breath. I locate my laptop and bring it out to the table. Grandma seems engrossed in something in the local section. I open the computer and take a bite of toast. I need to focus on my plan.
I started last night by texting Aunt Kellie about my inheritance to see how much money I’d have for a trip to Greece. In the blur of the past few months, I forget what they told me. Turns out, I get my college money at age eighteen, but the rest of whatever money is left to me is in a trust until I’m twenty-five. I grin again just like I did last night. Touché, Dad. He always said, “There’s no substitute for hard work.” I’m sure when he set this up, he wanted to be sure Connor and I would get jobs after college.
I pondered all my options last night. I could probably use some of the college money, but I picture my mom and dad hemorrhaging at that thought. I know Uncle Jim or Aunt Jules would pay for the whole trip if I asked. That’s tempting, but I decided it wouldn’t be Dad’s dream if I did that. He worked hard and saved for our trip, so I have to do the same.
Around two in the morning, I settled on the idea of finding a job involving animals somehow. Maybe a pet store or a shelter. My dad loved animals. Growing up in New London, he had all sorts of pets: a dog, chickens, a giant turtle, a couple rabbits, a pig, and even a horse. His face glowed every time he told us a story of his horse, Champ. Especially the time Champ won first place in—
“What is it, sweetheart?” Grandma’s voice interrupts my train of thought.
“Huh?” I peer across the table. She’s lowered the newspaper and grins at me.
“You’re wearing about the widest grin I’ve ever seen.”
My hand shoots up to cover my mouth.
“No, it’s lovely,” she says. “I wanted in on the secret.” She winks and takes a sip of her coffee.
“Oh, it’s nothing.” I don’t want to mention Dad and Champ and set off the flow of tears.
“Okay.” She rests the newspaper on the table. “So today... I count the weekend collection money at church this morning, but I thought we could drive around town later and go to the grocery store.”
“That sounds good,” I say and finish my toast.
“If there’s anything you need this morning, Susan will be here.”
I swallow some coffee. “Could I use the car? I thought I’d look for a job.”
“A job?” Grandma’s eyes bulge.
“Yeah. I’m going to find some pet stores or animal shelters and try there.”
Grandma travels somewhere far away for a moment. “Your father loved animals,” she finally says in a nostalgic tone.
“He did,” I say softly.
A key in the door and a click of the lock save us from a tearful moment.
“Good morning,” Susan’s cheery voice sings to us as she marches past the table toward the back rooms.
I lean forward and whisper, “I can’t figure her out. Is she nice or scary?”
“A little of both.” We laugh.
Grandma refocuses on our discussion. “Emma, if it’s money you’re worried about, please don’t. I’m happy to get you anything you need.”
“Thanks. But that’s not it. I just want to have something to do.”
“Won’t you have your cheerleading? And I promised your aunt and uncle we’d find you a new therapy group. With school, that’s an awful lot already.” She finishes her coffee and folds the paper.
“I’m not going to do cheerleading here.”
She frowns. “Why not? You love that.”
Do I? I thought I did, but lately it has seemed like something I did just because my friends did. “I think I need a break from it. And from therapy, at least for a while. A job sounds better to me.”
She leans forward and rubs my arm and doesn’t push the matter. In fact, for the next thirty minutes, she helps me with distances and locations as I Google places to apply to.
Finally, Rose appears at the door to take Grandma to church. “Keys are by the door,” Grandma says on her way out. “Good luck.”
“Thanks.” I stare at my short list of five places. I’m going to need some luck.
My quest stalls quickly as it takes all of ten seconds to find out each pet store is not hiring. At least the kind, gray-haired owner of The Pet Palace allows me to fill out an application, saying something might become available in December. December. That’s too far away. I leave and keep my fingers crossed I’ll find my pot of gold at one of the two shelters I’m headed to next.
I don’t even make it to the entrance of the first shelter. It’s located at the end of an alleyway full of potholes. There’s no parking lot, so I have to walk a bit to get there. Next to it is an auto shop where a gaggle of old men leer as I pass by. The shelter is riddled with graffiti and enclosed with a rusted chain-link fence. When I hear a tangle of snarling dogs followed by three yelps, my body whips around, and I speed walk to my car. Once inside, I contemplate giving it another try because I only have once chance left, and maybe it’s the overcast sky making this whole street appear so ominous. But when I try to imagine coming here every week, my shoulders and jaw tighten. I’ll roll the dice, and I start the engine and drive off.
I have to circle the block three times before I finally turn into the parking lot of my last chance: Seaside Humane Society. I missed it the first time, and the second time I was too scared the car attached to my rear bumper would hit me if I slowed down. My uncle wasn’t kidding about the fast and crazy drivers out here. Everyone is in such a hurry.
A first stroke of luck hits when a huge black SUV reverses out of one of the few parking spots as I’m pulling in. I take the spot and walk to the entrance. No worries here because the building resembles a mission and is lined with beautiful red and orange flowers. There is a peaceful feel to this place.
Chaos reigns inside, though. Workers crisscross each other, flying from the reception area to the hallway and back. Several couples and a family huddle near the counter, and chairs by the door are lined with more men and women. The phone rings and rings.
I stand awkwardly right inside the door, moving left and right to get out of the way until eventually one of the receptionists asks if she can help me.
My second stroke of luck hits when she tells me they’re just about to post an opening for some general help: cleaning cages, feeding animals, walking dogs, and basic office assistance. I snatch the clipboard from her outstretched hand and speed write all my information on the application. When I return it, she tells me I might be able to interview today. We are a match in desperation.
I wait, nearly rubbing a hole in my jeans. About ten minutes later, a tall curly-haired woman walks toward me.
“Emma?”
“Yes!” I pop up like a jack-in-the-box and extend my
hand.
She shakes it and says, “Nice to meet you. I’m Carole. Follow me.”
I trail after her and into a dark, cluttered office in the center of a grid of walkways lined with gated animal enclosures. She sweeps a sea of papers to one side of the giant desk that fills nearly the entire room and places my application in front of her.
In less than a minute, I’ve had to admit that I have no work experience at all, other than a summer job filing at my dad’s office, and that I have no formal experience with animals. She sighs and pushes my application away from her. I can sense she’s about to stand and end the interview.
I panic and blurt out, “Please, I need this job. I just lost my whole family.”
My words halt her movement, at least temporarily. So I continue, “They were killed in a terror attack a few months ago. The one in Louisville?” I raise my eyebrows, hoping she’s heard about it. Her nod tells me she has, and she leans back in her chair. I hate to do this—use my family and my trauma to manipulate the situation—but I need this job and my personal Shakespearean tragedy seems to be softening her.
“I moved here to live with my grandmother. And I had been going to therapy, but I want to do something, be productive.”
Carole leans forward, wanting to hear more. I’ve hooked her.
“My dad loved animals, and it’s just, well, I sort of relate to these abandoned, homeless little guys. It’s like we’re kindred spirits. I think I can do some good here, and it’ll be good for me.” I end my plea with my own sad head tilt.
Carole bites her lip, mulling it over. Her silence lasts an eternity. My leg starts bouncing, and my hand reaches up and twirls a finger around one of my tight curls. Her eyes follow my hand, and she pokes her pencil at one of her own short, tight curls. A grin widens on her face, and she says, “Okay. We’ll give it a shot.”
My whole body unclenches, and I finally breathe.
“We curly-haired girls need to stick together,” she says and gives me a wink.
“Thank you so much,” I gush. “You won’t regret it, I promise.”
We stand, and she shakes my hand again, this time clasping her other hand on top. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Emma.”
For the first time in the entire interview, I feel an emotional surge.
“Thank you,” I whisper. I quickly reclaim my hand and lead us back to the entrance.
“We’ll start you Saturday at nine. Does that work?” Carole asks at the door.
I squeak out a chipper “yes.”
“Okay. And if you could stop by sometime between now and then, we can get all your paperwork filled out.”
“Sounds good. Thank you,” I say again and race to my car.
My jumpy hands fumble with the phone as I rush to text Callie.
Me: Got job at animal shelter!!!
I don’t even take the time to add an animal emoji before hitting “Send.” My foot taps as I wait for the three dots. It seems to take forever, but eventually they appear.
Callie: Cool! How much pay?
My whole body freezes. Oops. I was so excited to get the job, I forgot to ask how much it pays.
Me: IDK I’ll find out. So excited!!!!
Callie: Didnt even know u were looking for a job. What about cheer?
Me: No cheer for me.
Pause.
Callie: Bummer
Maybe. But somehow I don’t think so.
Grandma is home when I get back, so I share my employment journey. She has the same question as Callie plus even more, and I now feel doubly stupid. I didn’t even ask how many hours I’d be working.
She’s excited to show me around town, so I eat a quick peanut butter and jelly sandwich and we’re off. Grandma insists on having Susan drive us so she can point out all the important landmarks: the mall, gas stations, a great coffee shop, her favorite breakfast place, and the In-N-Out. I don’t have the heart to tell her I discovered some of these places when I went exploring yesterday. She’s so happy and, well, normal.
After we return and unload a trunk full of groceries that could probably last the entire school year, I announce that I’m going for a run. Time to work on Part B of my plan. I still haven’t told Grandma what I’m doing, and I don’t want to make her sad. She doesn’t know that I normally don’t run, so this doesn’t seem odd to her. She tells me to have fun and settles into her armchair with a book.
When I’m in my room, paralyzed in front of my open dresser drawers, it hits me that I have no exercise clothes. I have no running shorts and no appropriate shoes. I have leggings I could wear, I guess, but I’ve only worn them for watching TV or taking a nap. I could’ve worn my cheer practice shorts, but I left those behind in the “I don’t know what to do with this” storage pile.
I shrug and dig out a pair of black leggings, a short-sleeved silly cartoon T-shirt my friends gave me for my birthday last year, and my Converse. I pull my hair back into a ponytail, adding a headband and several bobby pins. It’s like taking a grizzly bear out for a walk; you need all sorts of restraints to make sure it doesn’t get loose. It’s not something anyone wants to see—either a grizzly bear or my hair on the loose during exercise.
I step outside and sit on the front porch, tying my shoes and forming a plan. I don’t know the neighborhood well yet, but I know I definitely don’t want to run to the right up the hill. If I go left, I think I can keep making left turns and eventually end up back here. I have no idea how far that is, but I could always run the loop two or three times.
I set off down the stone path and out to the sidewalk. I turn left and start with a slow jog. I wait for immediate pain, but it doesn’t come. In fact, running isn’t so bad. It’s pretty easy. My arms pump, and my legs accelerate on their own. I picture a finish line and am buoyed by the revelation that I can easily be a runner. This isn’t nearly as difficult as I’d feared. I’ll totally be able to finish Mom’s half-marathon goal.
I make it around the corner and down the next street, reveling in my elation, but reality slowly creeps in as I turn another corner. It’s getting more difficult to breathe, and suddenly I’m huffing and puffing. A tiny ache starts in my knees but travels like a slow-moving pinball to my upper thigh then to an ankle and back to the other thigh. Even in the fog, I’m heating like the apple turnover Grandma served last night.
It’ll pass. I keep going, slowing down slightly to ease the burden. I probably just went out too fast. I make it to the end of this street and feel a momentary reprieve. But once I turn the corner, discomfort sets in again.
My leggings are suffocating my legs, and my heavy cotton T-shirt might as well be a wool sweater. I grab at the neck and try to stretch it out then try to hike my sleeves up to my shoulders. The Converse were clearly not a good choice. They feel like a pair of Swedish wooden clogs. My temperature continues to rise, and my huffing and puffing is reaching rock concert-level noise.
I slow to a walk in an attempt to recover. I scrunch up my leggings as high as they’ll go and catch my breath. After a few more steps, I restart. Even with a slow jog, the pain starts immediately. My legs feel like rooted tree trunks I’m trying to rip out of the ground with each step of my wood-block feet. There must be an anvil lodged in my chest, and my clothes feel more and more like a suit of armor. Somehow I make it around the next two turns and back to Grandma’s.
After I pass her house, I walk again, hoping for a quick recovery and a second lap. But this time when I tell my body to jog, it revolts. I can’t even will myself to run. My legs won’t do it, and my mind says no as well. I stop and lean over in defeat. I puff out a few more heavy breaths then rise and turn back. I made it around the block once. This is not good. I’ll buy some running gear tomorrow, but I know it’s going to take more than a pair of shoes and some shorts to make this dream come true.
This is definitely going to be a challenge.
Chapter 5
It takes almost a week, but I finally wake up to one of these sunny California days I’ve heard
so much about. It’s a perfect beach day, but that will have to wait because today is senior registration day at the high school. I already picked my classes online, but Aunt Jules scheduled a meeting for me with the guidance counselor at ten.
She’s pretty nice, Mrs. Thomas. After she asks me what I’d like to get involved in this year and I tell her I’m interested in running, I find out the school’s cross-country and track teams are open to all students. There are no tryouts and no cuts. This is an unexpected gift. Cross-country was so competitive at my old school. I was just hoping there was a running club or something I could join to keep me from giving up.
When we’re done talking, Mrs. Thomas offers to have a student ambassador show me around campus, but I decline and say I’ll explore on my own.
I wander out of the main office and head right. The first thing that strikes me as odd about Union High School is that the hallways are outside. I guess since there’s no snow here, no one needs to be inside during the winter. I check my schedule for room numbers and meander the corridors until I spot my English and Physics AP classrooms. I finally find a building with an indoor hallway and discover my Calculus room.
After I’ve located all my classes, I walk to the quad. It’s a giant rectangular area peppered with trees and planters. Kids cluster around the black and gold benches scattered throughout and weave their way through the maze of tables set up to advertise the myriad clubs to join. There are even mini food truck kiosks here: In-N-Out and Chick-fil-A, a familiar sight.
But not even the sight of my favorite chicken sandwich eases the loneliness slowly blanketing every inch of me as I take in my surroundings. Even though the kids don’t look that much different—they’re in the same shorts and hoodies as the kids at my old school—they just seem different. They’re not Ohio kids. There are no UC or OSU sweatshirts, and they all look so tan. They have a California way about them. It’s silly, but even hovering off to the side as I am, I feel that people are staring at me and noticing my Ohioness.
The Brilliance of Fireflies Page 4