K.T. stumps down the hall, my paper fluttering like a captive in her hand, my heart pumping like it’s working out in the gym by itself. I can’t stand that she’s going to read what I had trouble letting Mr. Smith read. She’s my editor. I stare at K.T.’s smudged writing. And I’m hers. “Do this, Carlie. Do that, Carlie.”
Jamal passes by and twirls his finger next to his head and looks at me like I’m nuts..
Buzz off, Jamal. I pull my French book from the locker and slam the door. I’ve got a whole scene to learn by Friday, Keith’s assignments to collect from his classes, my own homework, and now K.T.’s story to edit. What else? Oh, right. “I have to make two hundred dollars like that.” I say to myself and snap my fingers. Jamal shakes his head at me.
“Talkin’ to yourself is bad, Des. Like, whacked, you know?”
That afternoon when Mom picks me up at school she tells me that Keith was sentenced to two weeks of county service in a new juvenile correctional program for boys under sixteen. Now I realize just how much special treatment K.T. gets at that school. My brother gets two whole weeks for a little paint while she gets one weekend of detention and only three days suspension for attacking a girl and ripping off her clothes.
The good news for Keith is that, while he has to pick up roadside debris, he doesn’t have to spend any time in detention.
“He has two Saturdays to report to the Cal Works office for roadside duty,” Mom says. “He’s to be there by eight in the morning, work until two, and have his report form signed.”
She parks the Tercel and takes the small bag of groceries from the back seat. “The school sent the judge an estimate for seven hundred fifty dollars in damages.”
“Seven hundred and fifty dollars?” What I really mean is “That’s more than two red strapless dresses.” I trudge through the gate and up the steps behind Mom. No way can I ask for help with my Spring Fling dress now.
“I can pay it off at fifty dollars a month." She sighs. "It means no cell phones yet, but I found a sale on two new tires, so I’m getting two new ones. That’ll make me less nervous when you’re out at night.”
I follow her inside the kitchen, plop in a chair at the table and push aside a real estate book to make room for my backpack.
“It could have been a lot worse,” Mom says. “The damages aren’t as high as I thought.” She sets the grocery bag on the counter. “We’ll—” The phone rings and she picks up the handset. “Edmund’s residence.”
Mom leans against the counter and cups her hand around the receiver. “Oh, hello, Jeb.” The pinched look around her eyes and her mouth relaxes.
What does he want now? We’re fresh out of cats.
I signal to her, then mouth, “Ask if he’s seen Quicken.”
When Mom clicks the phone off, she hums as she puts canned beans into the cupboard. “Quicken’s safe. She’s staked out Jeb’s barn that’s filled with fat, juicy mice.”
“So is he bringing her back or do I have to go get her?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Just freakin’ wonderful.”
“Thank you, sweet daughter of mine. You sound like your brother on a bad day.” Mom takes a plastic bag of lettuce from the refrigerator. “Now please wash lettuce for salad and stop being such a pain.” She holds the lettuce out for me, then goes on. “I was very happy when I came into this room. Do you know why?”
“No, Mom. I’m not a mind reader.”
“Because I passed the real estate principles section of the practice test.”
I sigh. “That’s good. How many more tests?”
“Too many, but thanks for at least asking.” As she clears the table she says, “Jeb invited us to dinner Friday night.”
“What?”
“I’d love a nice dinner for a change, wouldn’t you?”
“Sure, if you made it.”
“Let’s drop it, okay. I’m too tired to argue.” Mom takes the plates from the cupboard and sets the table. “All I ask is that you be pleasant at dinner.”
“I’m not going.”
“You don’t have rehearsal Friday nights, so you’ll be coming. End of discussion.”
“Then I get my cat back, right?”
“Oh, Carlie.” She tries to pull me close, but I push away and she drops her arms at her sides. “Of course, we’ll bring her back.”
Chapter 31
I expect to walk into a musty farm house when Jeb opens the door for us, but the air smells clean and the walls are creamy under soft lights. In the living room, a fire brightens the warm room. He already has the dining room table set and wine and water are poured. Three candles flicker in the center and reflect in the polished wood.
As we follow him into the kitchen, the smell of roasting meat reminds me of the house in Channing. I hate Jeb for having what I used to have—a place that feels safe, that smells like home instead of a secondhand store.
“Hope you’re hungry,” he says. “Everything’s ready,” Jeb hands each of us a dish to put on the table, then he picks up a platter of carved roast. “Sit where you like.”
Mom pulls out a chair across from me and Keith goes to the opposite end of the table from Jeb.
Jeb serves each of us a slice of roast. “There’s potatoes and peas in those covered dishes. Salad anyone?”
I’d like to push my plate away and hate his cooking, but my stomach and mouth have other ideas. I chew the roast and potatoes slowly, watching the candlelight dance, thinking that Dad should be sitting on my right. We should be playing the “take turns to talk about our day” game. And thinking that I should’ve never have let K.T. have my paper. I—
Mom brings up the topic of Quicken. “She’s never wandered off like this before. We’ve had her since she was a kitten.”
“Three gophers have met their maker since her arrival. So the long and short of it is you can’t have your cat back.” Jeb holds his glass up and drains his wine, as if to seal a bargain. His features are softened by the candle glow, and it’s hard to remember how it felt to be afraid of him that first time in the orchard. Tonight he doesn't remind me of a hawk in the least, but more of an annoying, bossy cowboy.
“But, she’s my cat,” I say, “not yours.”
Mom holds up her hand, in a signal to stop. “Maybe we should give Quicken a little time here, honey. She doesn’t like the apartment and if she keeps running away I’m worried she’ll get hit by a car.”
“Did you use butter on her paws like I told you?”
Why can’t Jeb butt out? “I used margarine, I say.”
“Like I said, you should have used butter.”
I cut the meat on my plate so the knife scrapes against the china. We can’t afford butter for bread let alone for Quicken’s paws.
“She never did anything but sleep and wait by her food bowl when she was with us,” Keith says.
Did my brother just say something at the dinner table?
“Your fault, not the cat’s. Those little round cans are the curse of the feline family. Takes all their instincts away, and they forget how to be self-sufficient. Just like people. Without a can or a frozen food section, most of them would starve.”
He’s got an opinion on just about everything.
“Jeb, your dinner is fabulous. I . . . we really appreciate having good food like this. I’ve been so consumed by this move and the real estate class that I’ve let all my culinary skills go into retirement.”
“Understandable.” He pushes away from the table, his hand resting by his plate. “It took me three years after my wife died to take up cooking, and that was mostly because Chinese take-out was beginning to rile my stomach.”
“Well, you’ve certainly mastered the art.” Mom waits and I know she wants one of her well-brought-up children to add a compliment.
But Jeb doesn’t seem to notice the family dynamics. “Paula studied at Le Cordon Bleu, so I’d been very spoiled. There are still some things I can’t or won’t try.”
“Like?” Mom
asks.
“Crepes. I love apple crepes.”
“Mom makes some wicked apple crepes.” Keith should really stop talking.
“Well, then, I’ll have something to look forward to the next time we dine together.” Jeb looks at Mom. “Deal?”
“Absoutely.”
Jeb gets to his feet. “Keith, you can give me a hand clearing the dishes. Carlie, I’m assigning you pie-cutting duty. Sarah, you get to be waited on tonight.”
Who is this guy telling us what to do? Keith’s already jumped up and started taking away the plates. And how can Mom look like that? She’s nodding, doing whatever Jeb says.
Jeb’s pie is apple. No surprise in that, but I’m surprised in how it tastes. The fresh apples and his homemade crust explode with flavor in my mouth. When Jeb offers seconds even I accept. Tomorrow I’ll skip lunch. This guy is scoring points. I’ll eat his pie, but no way am I falling for his line like the rest of my family.
At the end of the table Mom forks Jeb’s pie between her lips, yumming and smiling with each bite. Mona Lisa has returned to planet Earth, smack in the middle of Jeb Christopher’s house.
When we’ve finished our dessert, I volunteer Keith and myself to do the dishes. Hauling him into the kitchen and keeping my voice low I say, “We need to talk.”
“Huh?”
“Are you dense?” I jab my finger toward the living room.
“Mom and Jeb?”
“You are dense.” I toss the dishtowel at him. “Dense people dry.”
I slam the dishes into the sink full of soapy water.
“Are you bent on trashing his china?” he asks me.
“Who cares about his china?” I hiss. “So what are we going to do? I mean, this is screwed up, isn’t it?”
Keith picks up a plate, dries and stacks it in the cupboard. “What are you on about now?”
“We don’t know anything about him. Neither does she. What’s she thinking?”
“She likes apples?”
“You are so dim.”
“It’s genetic; something we share.” Keith tosses the towel across my shoulder. “You finish. I’m joining the happy people.”
“Right, jerk.” I snatch the towel off and dry the last of the silverware, leaving the sink filled with dessert dishes in sudsy water and the cupboard doors open. Mr. Christopher can do the rest himself.
In the living room Mom and Jeb sit on the sofa in front of the fireplace, and Quicken lies curled up next to Jeb. Keith’s in one of the leather chairs on either side of the sofa, his long legs stretched out toward the fire. I lift Quicken and take the chair opposite Keith, putting the cat in my lap. She rubs against my arm and butts her head against me, like she always does when she needs petting. I stoke her fur and expect she'll make a circle on my lap and purr. But no, she jumps down and returns to her spot next to Jeb.
I know hearts can’t break, but I know they shrivel from too much pain. Right now, mine’s down to the size of a raisin. It's all I can do to sit across from that man, Mom on his one side and Quicken on the other. I shove my back against the warm leather of the chair and wish Jeb would go up in a poof of smoke.
“Carlie, Jeb has offered to give Keith a job helping around the orchard while he’s suspended.” Mom smiles at me as if she's modeling the expression she’d like to see on my face.
“And when he returns to school, I could use some help on the weekends,” Jeb says. “There’s even a job in summer.”
“What do you say?” Mom asks Keith.
I’m screaming inside my head. I think the idea sucks! I don’t want more of Jeb Christopher in my life, and if Keith works for him that’s exactly what I’ll have. I give Keith the stare that used to send him scurrying behind Mom when he was four. Say no, Keith!
Keith shrugs. “Sure.”
Aaarg! I need to work on a new stare.
Jeb insists on following us in his truck back to the apartment, and he waits by the pool until Mom waves from the stairs before he drives off. He knows this place isn’t safe; No wonder he keeps his gun with him when he’s in the orchard.
I ignore Mom and Keith’s conversation about the job and keep my eyes on the dark windows to Anthony Mancuso’s apartment, wondering if he’s safely asleep or somewhere in the shadows, watching.
“Carlie,” Mom calls, “come inside and close the door. I can’t afford to heat the entire city of Las Pulgas.”
Mom and Keith are in the hall.
“Consider this a mini-family meeting.” Mom beckons, then reaches her arm around me. “I wasn’t too happy with some of the attitude at Jeb’s tonight. He’s been generous with his offer for Keith, and I expect you both to be polite in his company. Am I clear?”
“Keith sprays graffiti in the gym and gets a job. How fair is that? I do nothing and have one month to scrape up two hundred dollars.”
Mom takes me by both shoulders and spins me around so we’re face to face. “Why two hundred dollars?”
This is a family meeting—the first one in a long time—Mom is almost through with the real estate class, and whether I like it or not, Jeb’s making Mom’s life more . . . interesting. My dress problem shouldn’t sink the boat. “I want a dress for the Spring Fling.”
“That is so lame—” my brother says.
“Stop right there, Keith. There’s nothing lame about Carlie wanting a new dress for a special night,” Mom says. “Why didn’t you say something?”
I shrug. “What good would it do?”
“At least I’d know what’s making you such a grouch.” Mom shakes her head. “I picked up another shift at the market, so by the end of this month I’ll have a little extra to help you. You have no idea how good being able to say that feels. Come here. I need a group hug.”
I let Mom draw me close and Keith stays in the circle a second before pulling away and slouching into his room.
Mom holds me close a moment longer. “Dump the grumpy-girl attitude, okay? It doesn’t suit you.” She waits, but when I don’t say anything, she sighs and lets go. “I’m turning in early for a change. Goodnight.”
When I go into the kitchen for a glass of water, I check the phone for messages, and it’s Sean’s voice that I hear.
“Hey. Give me a call at my aunt’s. Dad and I are here for dinner.”
I play the message again to hear his voice and give my heart time to rein itself in. Still my hand shakes as I dial the familiar babysitting connection. I didn’t know how much I missed him until now.
Mrs. Franklin answers. “I’m so glad you called. I desperately need a sitter for next Sunday afternoon. Any chance you’re available?”
You’ll never guess how available I am, Aunt Corky. “Sure.”
“Excellent. I’ll let you know the time when our plans are firm with the other couples. Here’s Sean.”
“So how’s my favorite ex-Channing girl? Are you still coming over tomorrow? Or I can head your way—”
“No, I’m coming, but I, uh, can’t until after five-thirty. Is that okay?”
“Absolutely. I’ll be at Aunt Corky’s. Dad’s going out of town on business. Oh, and I’ll wait dinner until you come.”
The words are ordinary, but how he says them makes me feel very special, even on the phone. And he’s . . . fun. Why is that the first word that comes to mind when I think about him? But he is fun. Kind of like when Lena and I used to hang out.
Lena must pick up my vibes because I’m on my way out of the kitchen when she calls. It’s so good to talk about things that have nothing to do with my trouble in Las Pulgas. There are no burning issues with Lena. Actually, there are no issues at all. All we talk about is Channing’s Spring Fling, where Eric and Nicolas are taking us to dinner, again her dress, and when am I coming to see it?
I can’t put this off any longer. “The only time I have is Saturday morning. I’ve got lots to do later ,and Sunday I’m babysitting.” Seeing Lena that day means I have two trips to Channing, with play rehearsal in between. But that’s just the way
it’ll have to be.
“At last!” she screeches. “This is so going to be fun, like old times.” I imagine her jumping up and down like she did in third grade.
“I’m excited, too.”
“So what are you wearing for the dance? Have you bought it yet?”
“No. I’m still busy unpacking and stuff. Maybe next week.”
“Are you going with your mom?” The way she asks I know she wants me to invite her along, but I can’t. I might be shopping at the Happy Hollow Discount Shoppe.
I sprawl across my bed. “I’m not sure when I can go.” Again I’ve dodged asking her, but I haven’t really lied. “I’ll call you, okay? Oh, I almost forgot. Can you ask your mom if I can sleep over the night of the dance?”
She does a loud squeal and we end our conversation with Lena being really happy. Me, too.
After I hang up I go to my desk and check my savings account online. Fifty-five dollars and ten cents. In just five weeks I have to come up with at least two hundred dollars or it’s definitely the discount shop.
Talking to Sean then Lena, reminds me I’m running out of excuses to keep Channing away from Las Pulgas. I pick up Quicken’s empty cushion and crush it to my chest, missing how she purred comfort into my room.
“I hate Jeb Christopher!”
Chapter 32
Saturday morning, I drop mom at work, then drive Keith to the Cal Works office. The car’s mine for the day.
“What time do I have to pick you up?” I say to my brother, trying not to sound put out. But today my schedule is tight, and picking up Keith adds to my time crunch.
“They said after two.” He makes a sour face.
“Be thankful it’s only a couple of Saturdays, bro.”
“‘Bro.’ Very funny.” He slams the door and joins a group of people standing around a man who’s handing out high visibility yellow vests.
I don’t envy him a day picking up garbage along roadsides, just like I don’t relish having to spend the day oohing and ahhhing over Lena’s new dress. At least now I have more hope of buying something decent since I’ll earn some babysitting cash on Sunday. For the first time I pray the Franklins will stay out late. Mom might be able to help me with some of the dress money, and if I’m lucky, there’ll be a sale somewhere on an awesome red strapless dress.
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