Glory Alley and the Star Riders (The Glory Alley Series)

by C. Deanna Verhoff

  Patrice spun around, her face wearing a guilty expression. “How long have you been standing there?” she demanded to know.

  “Uh, a second.”

  “Sorry, I can’t talk now,” she said cupping the phone. “Don’t forget to call me later.”

  “Who was that?”

  “None of your business,” Patrice snapped. She hurried to the kitchen, pulling the cookies out of the oven, lecturing Glory about the evils of spying on private telephone conversations the whole time.

  Glory was about to defend herself when the back door swung inward.

  In came Brandon, the oldest Alley sibling. A well-built teenager with light blue eyes and spiky blond hair—his tall physique would soon rival Dad’s. Silver body piercings adorned his ears, eyebrow and tongue. Swirly tattoos of barbed wire, skulls, and mostly naked women decorated his body. At the moment, only a few inky tendrils escaped his jacket. He backed into the kitchen, dragging a five-foot tall pine tree. Oh, no, thought Glory, here we go.

  “Dad’s gonna have a hissy,” she warned, but nobody listened.

  Brandon propped the tree up in a corner. “Ahh,” he said, taking a loud sniff. “Smells just like I remember.”

  Everyone fell quiet a moment. This had been Mom’s favorite time of year. Every room required a sprig of spruce somewhere. Those were happy times, better times.

  “Well, since it’s here,” Glory said. “Might as well decorate it.”

  “It’ll make a nice welcome home for the twins,” Patrice suggested.

  “Right,” Brandon responded, eyes still glued to the tree.

  He pulled himself away to disappear down the basement stairs, emerging a few minutes later with boxes of lights and ornaments. As much as she feared upsetting Dad, Glory began to relax as they filled the tree with glittering lovelies. This is fun, she thought, happily threading popcorn garland. She circled it around the tree and stood back to admire her handiwork.

  “Are you going to plug it in or do I have to do everything?” Patrice complained, making her way to the outlet.

  When the tree began to glow George’s blue eyes shined with astonishment.

  “Ohhhh!” he exclaimed with a clap. “BOOO-tiful!” George pulled off his diaper and danced around in circles, singing indecipherable words.

  “I swear that kid’s retarded,” Brandon said, then ordered Glory around as if she was his keeper. “Shut him up before he wakes Dad.”

  “He's never seen a Father Winter’s tree before; whaddaya expect?"

  Brandon slugged Glory in the bicep.

  “Ow!”

  “What’d ya do that for?”

  “I just felt like it.”

  Brandon slugged her again in the same place.

  “You better knock it off!” Glory said angrily, pushing him away with an elbow and holding her throbbing arm with her hand.

  “And what are you going to do about it?”

  “Maybe I'll tell Dad about the funny cigarettes you've been smoking in the barn.”

  Brandon pushed her against the door, towering over her, pressing a forearm into her neck.

  “If you do that, it'll be the last thing you do.”

  Brandon liked to threaten, and usually meant it when it came to Randy and Danny, but he seldom followed through with his sisters. He probably wouldn’t do anything more than pin her arm behind her back or deliver a painful noogie.

  “Ooh, I'm shaking," she mocked.

  “You will be after I tell Dad that you’re still going up to Queen's Mesa—yeah, that's right, I saw your stash up in the loft, and after I’m through giving you a pounding, Dad will finish you off. So you better think twice.”

  “What the blazes is going on!” A slurred voice came from the doorway.

  The siblings froze at the sight of Mean Dad. Light brown stubble mixed with patches of gray covered his chin, contrasting with the uncombed blond hair. Blood-shot eyes, white parched lips, with a voice like gravel, Glory knew to expect the worst.

  “Brandon!” he snarled, “What have I told you about bullying your sisters. I'm the only one that passes out poundings around here.”

  Glory’s throat tightened as she watched Mean Dad stare down big brother.

  “Try me, tough guy,” Dad said, showing Brandon a closed fist, while he grabbed him by the shirt collar with the other.

  Glory cringed inside, expecting Dad’s right hook against Brandon’s face at any second.

  While Patrice was saddled with the responsibility of running the house, Brandon was in the unfortunate position of being Dad’s personal punching bag, taking the heat off the rest of them. Glory suddenly regretted antagonizing him the way she did.

  Brandon tried to back away, but Dad pulled him uncomfortably close.

  “You picking on little girls again, eh?”

  Brandon silently pleaded with her not to say anything.

  Glory stepped forward, shaking her head from side to side. “No, Sir. We were just playing. Honest.”

  Glory and her brother exchanged dubious glances as temporary allies.

  Dad was about to say something until his gaze fell on the tree. He seemed to forget about the squabble and let go of Brandon, wandering closer to the tree, feeling the soft needles between his fingers. His face softened as he touched the bulbs, then the homemade ornaments. The Alley children braced themselves knowing anything could happen.

  A smile formed on Dad’s lips. Wanting to smile too, the corner of Glory’s mouth twitched, but Dad’s joy passed like the morning dew and quickly evaporated into rage.

  Patrice flinched when he pulled off the tin foil star, wadded it into a ball and bounced it off of Brandon’s head.

  “Who wasted this foil?”

  No one answered.

  He yanked the string of lights out of the wall and fought it like a jungle man wrestling a giant snake. Cursing wildly, with the cord wrapped around him, he yelled some more. “A plug is a gul dang credit-sucker, but you little ingrates don’t give a flying fig!”

  Mean Dad knocked the tree over then stomped the branches into kindling.

  “I said no flippin’ holiday decorations!”

  He marched to the refrigerator, fists clenched at his sides, cussing up a storm. The door made a sticky sound when it opened. Dad tilted his head to the side to survey the contents within. The fridge was unusually full, stocked with the Harvest Day dishes Patrice and Nana had slaved over for the last two days.

  “You like to waste—I'll show ya waste.” He threw the casserole dish at the wall where the bowl shattered. A shower of corn rained down. The children cringed, covering their faces, but did not dare step away.

  “What's this slop?” He took one look at the carefully prepared stuffing. “Bird food.”

  Glory would never believe the bowl slipped from his grasp by accident. When it hit the floor, stuffing slid over George's feet. Little brother knelt down picking up handfuls to shove them into his eager mouth.

  “You think that's good, Little Pig? Well, have some more!” Dad kicked a mound at him.

  The bread stuck to George’s face and hair in wet clumps. He backed away, sucking his thumb, grasping for Glory's hand with the other. “Me no like that.”

  Glory enveloped him in her flannel shirt and pulled him protectively against her waist.

  She didn’t like it either. Though the fact was never spoken aloud, everyone knew that Dad resented George more than all the rest.

  George’s birth didn’t kill Mom, but a staph infection contracted after the delivery did, though Dad sometimes blamed the government instead. As a kid, Glory didn’t understand exactly what a staph infection was, or why the government would want to kill her mother. The only thing she knew for certain was that Dad had brought Mom to the hospital, but came back with only George. He’d been in a bad mood ever since.

  Dad crouched low to yell in George’s face. “Put some clothes on, boy, I’m tired of looking at ya!”

  Little brother buried his head in her leg and whimpered.


  “Shouldn’t the kid be out of diapers by now?” Dad looked to Patrice, who held up her palms, looking scared and helpless.

  Dad returned his attention to the contents of the fridge, leaning his weight on a shelf, hardly noticing when it tipped. Three pies, homemade ones, the kind that took hours of peeling fruit and rolling out crusts, landed upside down on the floor. Glory’s stomach sunk for Patrice, who looked as if she’d just seen a puppy run over by a hay mower.

  Dad found what he was looking for and pressed the bottle of cold vodka to his cheek. After a long swig, he scanned the room like a boxer waiting to be challenged.

  “This kitchen better be clean when I come back or I'll whip the lot of you!”

  She listened to him stumble to the family room. Good. He’d fall asleep soon and the terror would end. At least until he woke up again.

  The television clicked on and the ball game blared. Nobody spoke for a couple of minutes.

  “He'll be passed out in an hour,” Brandon said, sending a disgusted sneer toward the living room. “We can have the Harvest Day feast without him.”

  Glory nodded in agreement, but Patrice started to cry. Not sad tears, but angry ones, the kind that sent fiery red lines down pale cheeks.

  “I hate him!” she screamed. “And as soon as I’m eighteen, I’m going to move away and never come back!”

  “Don’t say that!” Glory pleaded. “Please, Patrice, you don’t even have a job, and nobody’s gonna hire you without a diploma.”

  “Last night Nana spent hours—arthritic hands and all—helping me make all of this—and now look at it! And Grandpa used his pension check to pay for everything. Dad had no right. No right!”

  Brandon looked toward the family room, his face a sneer. “Don't worry about Ditzy Nana and Grandpa Pee, they obviously aren't worried about us—going to Aunt Martha’s where we aren't invited, leaving us with dear ole Pappy. Since there’s no feast here, I think I'll follow their example and split.”

  “Not 'til you help clean this up!” Rage coursed through Glory’s body. “And who are you to call Nana and Grandpa names? You…” She couldn’t think of a good comeback, so went straight for the jugular. “You stupid flunk out!”

  Brandon lunged.

  Glory yelped and ran around the table, sliding in her socks. He circled around to get her, but Glory dove under the table. Brandon knelt to reach for her. Glory scooted out the other side then hopped onto the tabletop.

  Brandon stood to grab her ankle. Glory shook him off and dropped to the floor on the opposite side, using a kitchen chair as barrier between them.

  “You’re fast for a fatso, but not worth the trouble.”

  He muttered something as he flung open the back door, slamming it behind him.

  Her chest heaved as she tried to calm herself. Why couldn’t the Alleys get along for just one day? What would mom think if she could see them right now? A lump of shame formed in her throat.

  Patrice handed her a mop.

  The two of them cleaned Dad's mess in silence, lost in their own thoughts. George plopped down on the floor next to her, taking samples of pumpkin pie from the floor and eating merrily.

  “Me help.”

  She couldn’t help but laugh. Wanting Patrice to stop crying, she tried to make her focus on George’s cuteness. “What a helpful little man you are.” She gushed over George, who smiled and giggled through a face full of pumpkin mush. Patty didn’t even crack a smile. No use.

  Glory’s mind drifted to the mesa, hoping against reason that somehow its legendary riches might pull them out of the rut they fell into after mom died.

  Chapter 2

  Early the next morning, when the world was still dark, Glory woke to the sound of her father’s slurred voice.

  “Those government liars!” He ranted. She recognized the Daily News program playing downstairs. “They should all be shot.” Metal clanged. He was looking for his gun. He liked to swing it around, but he’d never use it, she was sure. Lots of swearing followed.

  Patrice slept in the twin bed across the aisle, but didn’t stir. Seeing her there was unusual these days. She had a babysitting gig down the road, where she spent the night with the Miller kids because their parents both worked the night shift. Basically, she got paid to sleep there just in case the little kids got sick, scared or hurt. Easy money.

  “Somebody drank all the guldarn orange juice!” Dad yelled from the kitchen.

  Vacation was off to a rocky start. Yesterday—no Harvest Day feast. Today—Mean Dad angry at the world.

  I gotta get out of here, she decided.

  Glory tiptoed in the dark around her second-story bedroom, trading puppy dog pajamas for a pair of jeans and a light gray windbreaker with a hood. She wasn’t sure where she would go, what she would do until thirteen-hundred-hours sharp, but anything was better than staying around the house.

  She couldn’t leave fast enough—first stopping at the barn for spelunking gear—then running across the stubbly field to the woods.

  Once in the safety of the trees she took a rusty miner’s hat out of the bag, placed it on her head, letting the strap dangle. The light on top of her head lit the way.

  Readjusting the pack across her back, she kept walking until the trees gave way to a desolate dirt road. The more space she put between herself and her home, the better she felt.

  Golden sunlight spread across ruby red and golden treetops. Beautiful, she thought, switching off the headlamp, feeling a little more optimistic as her breaths turned to frosty clouds.

  The pack of spelunking gear slung over her shoulder got heavier by the minute, but she didn’t mind. Halting a moment, she squinted at the solitary flat-topped mountain in the distance, Queen’s Mesa. It towered over the surrounding forest, looking regal and cold, while Tullah’s second moon hovered above like a cosmic scoop of vanilla ice cream. Delicious, thought Glory, but she had one more thing to do before the climb.

  A wrought iron fence came into view. She walked its perimeter, clinking a stick along the rails as she went, stopping at a set of curly black gates secured by a chain and padlock, which stopped cars from entering but not kids. The extra weight around her middle made for a tight squeeze between the metal slats, but a moment later, Glory stood in Cloverdale Acres, Resting Place of the Dearly Departed.

  Rows of tombstones stretched as far as the eye could see. She walked among them until reaching the back of the cemetery, where the poor folks were laid to rest and tombstones were scarce. It tormented Glory that her mother’s remains rested here with nothing more than a bare patch of dirt to mark her passing.

  Mom had been gone almost four years, but the day of the funeral seemed like yesterday. Glory had stood in front of the casket, and when nobody was looking, she climbed over the side to kiss her dead mother. Prepared for the soft warmth of skin, she was shocked to touch cold hard flesh instead. The anguish of reliving that moment she had tried so hard to forget stuck in her throat. At the time, she thought that her mother had turned into stone. She couldn’t sleep at night wondering if someday she’d suffer the same fate. But over time, the more Glory had pondered how death transformed a person into a rock, the less she fretted about it. After all, she loved rocks. They didn't care what anybody thought, nor did they feel pain or fear. And unlike mothers, rocks lasted forever.

  As Glory approached the resting place, her face pinched when she saw that the monument of loose stones she’d built over the plot was gone.

  “Stupid, rotten, groundskeeper,” she muttered. “Why can’t he just leave it be?”

  She took off the miner’s hat, letting loose a thick brown ponytail, and then sat down cross-legged atop the grave.

  “Mom,” she whispered into the breeze. “Can you hear me?” Her mother never answered, but Glory held out against reason that someday she might. “Maybe you already know, but things are worse at home. Brandon’s grades are so bad he might not graduate. Ever since Patrice turned sixteen, all she does is cry and I don’t kn
ow why. Randy and Danny, as far as I know nothing’s changed with them— they’re still idiots. And little George, he seems fine to me, but Nana says he’s behind for his age, needs to see a specialist, which as usual we can’t afford. As for Dad, well, the roof is sagging, taxes are overdue, the crops did lousy this year, and he’s drinking again.”

  Glory plucked a few blades of grass, weaving them together, and then tossed it aside.

  “But don’t you worry, Mom.” Glory’s confidant tone belied the doubt gnawing at her stomach. “I have a plan, I’m going to strike it rich in Queen’s Mesa, and when I do, everything will be better for the whole family.”

  She looked to the mountain—just gazing upon it, so ancient and unchanging, usually gave her a peaceful feeling, but not today. Somehow, someway, she had to turn things around for herself, for all of them, especially George. At least the people from Child Protective Services hadn’t come around since Nana and Grandpa moved in—that was good—right?

  Her face suddenly brightened.

  “Guess what, Mom.” She slid off her backpack and heaved it onto the ground in front of her. “A couple weeks ago Clash and I found a new cavern with a pool and everything. I picked up some great stuff. Nothing worth a hill of credits, but still very nice, so even though your birthday’s a few days away, I’m going to give you part of your present now.”

  She took a coil of rope from the bag, her water bottle and other spelunking gear, and then emptied a pile of rocks onto the ground. She arranged the stones over the gravesite into the shape of a heart and then paused to look out over the horizon at the mesa.

  Grandpa said the place was enchanted and vicious creatures full of magic guarded her winding tunnels. In the deepest recesses of the mountain, a virgin cavern hid a gem beyond compare, but nobody could get at it because a red-eyed devil devoured anyone who came near. Now that Glory was older, and had explored the mountain many times over without meeting anything scarier than a bat, she laughed at Grandpa’s silly tales. Devils didn’t exist, Glory knew, but jewels were another matter.

  “When I find my fortune, Mom,” she promised. “You’ll have the best marker in the whole graveyard.” Until then, she’d build one the best she knew how. Glory returned to the project at hand, spelling Rose Alley with stones inside the heart. She studied the crooked letters and frowned, rearranging them until perfect.