by Jake Burt
Seconds pass, but I don’t hear any movement, so I inch my way back down for another peek.
He’s still staring at the door, though he’s giving me a bit more of a profile to work with. He looks exhausted, paler than the moonlight that dapples his pajamas. His eyes are red, cheeks swollen, and he’s wearing a grimace that seems locked somewhere between fury and despair. I exhale softly, a chill gliding its way along my arms, telling me to get myself back up in bed, mummify myself with my blankets, and make peace with my little symphony of sounds. Before I do, though, Jackson sighs heavily. His eyes flit from his parents’ door to the floor and back. Finally, he just drops his stuff and sinks down, curling there amid his comforter and pillows.
I tiptoe my way back to my hexagon. It takes me another hour to drift off, and when I finally do, I sleep fitfully, my dreams full of Nazgûls, broken phones, and creaky porch steps.
* * *
SHOPPING LIST
* Low bookshelves for underneath the windows
* A good winter jacket
* Tennis balls
* Comfy socks
* At least ten shirts to mix ’n’ match
* Five skirts
* Two nice dresses
* A better toothbrush
* Floss
* New phone for Jackson
* ChapStick
* More underwear
* Three pairs of jeans
* Hair ties
* Sweatshirts with big pockets (NO GLOVES!)
* Backpack for school
* Rug for room
* New earrings
* Crystals (arts and crafts store?)
* Shorts
* A funky belt
* Pajamas (silk?)
* Pillow
* Sheets
* Notebooks
* A binder
* Pencils, pens
* The Chronicles of Narnia
* Can I afford a Kindle?
* Sunglasses
* SHOES
* More wishes
* Decent shampoo
* Slippers
* Hairbrush
* Other stuff?
* * *
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Oh, Who Are the People in Your Neighborhood?
I wake in the morning earlier than I should, the noises of the house drowned out by the rumbling in my stomach. Despite my hunger, I stay in bed for a while longer, trying to suss out whether anyone else is awake. Unfortunately, all I can hear is my burbly belly, so I decide to risk it. I have no idea what will be waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. Will it be Jackson? Will I have to sneak around his sleeping form like he’s a bear in a cave? Or will it be Harriet, angrily shouting at Janice over the phone, blaming her for saddling her family with a no-good, ring-stealing pickpocket? One thing’s for sure: When I leave the safe haven of my room, I’ll be clocking in for my first full day as Charlotte Trevor. I only hope it’s less nerve-racking than last night.
It starts out smoothly enough; Jackson apparently migrated from the hallway back to his bedroom, and Harriet and Jonathan’s door is still closed when I reach the first floor. From there, I have a straight shot into the kitchen, and I know exactly what my target’s going to be.
As soon as I’ve made sure the coast is clear, I grab the bowl of fruit from the fridge. I don’t know where the knives are, so I pick a mango and go at it with my fingers, tearing off the skin like I’m a primal huntress. I’m making a ridiculous mess, cold juice running slippery along my knuckles as I bring flaps of mango up to my mouth and piranha the flesh away. It’s just as I’m getting ready to tackle the seed that I look up. There at our back door, peeking in at me, is a woman.
I almost swallow the whole seed, which would have been both miraculous and deadly if I had pulled it off. Instead, I fire it down into the sink, where it ricochets around noisily before clogging the drain. Running my arm along my lips and chin, I slide away from the island at the center of the kitchen. Briefly, I consider going to get Harriet and Jonathan, or maybe running upstairs to find Fancypaws. However, a voice—Janice’s—stops me, saying, “Normal, Charlotte. Be normal.”
The woman smiles and waves. She’s got a broad pouf of curly brown hair, heavy eye makeup, and those tattoo eyebrows. She’s wearing a dark blue nurse’s uniform, and she’s got an ID tag clipped to the breast pocket. In a moment of inspiration, she remembers she has it and presses her entire body against the mesh of the screen door as if to show it to me. I still can’t see it, but she seems to think it’s helping. Then she steps aside, and behind her is a kid—a girl about my age.
I hold up my finger, and then I frantically hose off my face with the spray attachment from the sink. One deep breath later, and I’m swinging the door open. The screen’s still there and hook-locked closed in case they try something, but we can talk …
… which the lady starts doing immediately.
“Hey there! You must be our new neighbors! I’m Nancie Guthrie, from next door—blue house, green shutters, the big brass knocker on the front door—can’t miss us. This is my daughter, Brit. It’s Britney, like the singer.… Britney Spears? You know her. Kids your age love her. What’s your name, honey?”
I cast a glance at Brit, and she shakes her head, mouthing a silent “Sorry.” I offer her a little smile in return. She’s got her mom’s brown hair, but it’s perfectly straight, long bangs down to just above her completely real eyebrows and rimless glasses. She’s wearing a pretty white peasant blouse with flower embroidery along the neckline and a gorgeous Navajo-patterned crinkle skirt. I’ll have to ask her where she shops for clothes. They’re great, in a sort of boho-chic way.
Turning my attention back to Nancie, I say, “I’m Charlotte.”
“Oh, like the city?” she asks, beaming.
“Like the spider,” I reply, and her look turns to one of puzzlement. After a moment, she scratches a pockmarked cheek and smiles again, shrugging.
“Well, that’s nice. Say, Charlotte, your parents wouldn’t happen to be home, would they? I saw the car and the truck out front, and—full disclosure—Brit and I were watching y’all as you moved in yesterday. Not busybody-like, but just curious. Always nice to see someone movin’ in. It’s a great neighborhood; you’ll love it. This used to be the Werners’ house. Nice old couple, but they had to head off to the retirement community when Mr. Werner’s hip went. You know how it goes. Speaking of Mr. Werner, you should check out the garden box along the side of the house. He raised heirloom tomatoes. That’s also where they buried their old German shepherd, Trudy. That old dog … come to think of it, she passed on the floor near the sink, right where you were standing. I tell you—”
“Mom,” Brit interrupts. “You asked her a question. Maybe let her answer?”
I’d been told repeatedly at Glynco that southern folks speak more slowly than us northerners, but I’m betting none of my trainers had met Nancie Guthrie.
“Yes, but they’re still asleep,” I say, glancing over my shoulder. “I’m … eating mangoes.”
“Goodness gracious! Well, we can certainly see that, can’t we, Brit?” Nancie says loudly, guffawing and pointing at the place on my shirt where I dried my hands. Brit offers me another silent “Sorry,” but I just shrug and try to change the subject.
“Where do you go to school, Brit?” I ask.
“Oh, she goes to Loblolly Middle School,” Nancie trumpets before Brit can even part her lips. “It’s the best school in the district. You should see their test scores! My pretty Britty takes the bus every morning, picks up just down the street. I wonder if—”
“That’s where I’m going, too,” I say, though I’m still looking at Brit, rather than her mother. “Seventh grade.”
Brit’s whole face lights up, just for an instant, before she resumes hiding behind her bangs. She starts shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. Either she has to go to the bathroom really badly, or she’s desperate to get her mom away from me. I know if it were me, I’d have been g
one the moment the words pretty Britty twanged into existence.
Nancie is beaming now. “What luck! Brit’s in seventh, too! She and I were just talking about how she has trouble making friends—all those computer games she plays, never gets out. You’d think she’d start talking about boys, go to the mall every so often. She’s a thirteen-year-old girl, for heaven’s sake!”
I want to blush on Brit’s behalf, but she’s flaring up just fine on her own. I’ve got to do something here.…
“Hey, I’m going shopping for school later today, and I could really use some advice on what to get. Maybe Brit could come with me? I know you, like, just met me, but I’m kind of desperate, and that’s a fabulous skirt.…”
Nancie claps. “I think that’s a great idea! See, Brit? I told you it’d be great coming over here. We talk to this nice girl for just a few minutes, and already you’re getting invited out to socialize. You’re not saying no to this one. And speaking of not saying no, would you do me a great big old favor, Charlotte?”
Other than being your daughter’s best friend? Um …
“Sure.”
“When your parents do get up, give them this. We printed it this mornin’, but we’ve—that is, me and some of the other neighbors, the Concords around the corner, the Richardsons, the Perezes, the Roysters two doors down—we’ve been planning a welcome party for y’all before we even knew you. When we heard the old folks were movin’ out and a young family was headed in, well, we knew we wanted you to feel right at home. Southern hospitality: can’t beat it!”
She’s still talking as she pulls a card out of her purse and hands it to me. It’s like a greeting card, only there’s no colorful envelope. On the front is a picture of the perfect American house, all dog-in-the-yardy and picket-fency. There’s a row of outsize tulips in the foreground, and the bloom of each one is a letter. Together they spell out Welcome Home!
I pop the card open, and written in a fancy scrawl is an invitation. It reads:
Howdy, neighbors!
Hope you like parties, because we’re throwing one in your honor! Join us on Sunday, November 9, at 3 p.m., for a special down-home, welcome-home, new-home pig-pickin’ party! We’ll bring the food, you bring yourselves and your stories! We can’t wait to meet you and help you feel like stayin’!
Your neighbors and friends,
The Trinity Park Neighborhood Association
Beneath the words is a picture of a cute little piglet prancing around in a patch of wildflowers. I close the card and smile. “Thanks. I’ll pass it along.”
“We forgot the address on there, but it’s over at the Roysters’ place. They have a good backyard. Just built the porch last summer, and the bugs ain’t been bad for weeks now. How many of y’all are there?”
“The four of us. Mom, Dad, and my little brother, Jackson.”
“Ohhh, a darlin’ family! Perfect. Well, we’ll see you then. And when you’re all set to go shoppin’, just swing by and knock on the door. Brit will be happy to help, won’t you, dear?”
Brit has her fingers over her eyes at this point and only drops her hand when she hears her name again. She nods swiftly, but it looks for all the world like she’s going to get sick right there on our back steps. I can’t blame her. So far, Nancie’s display makes Jonathan’s promise to dance during the credits music at a movie seem like a gesture of loving support.
It takes Brit and me five more minutes to finally dislodge Nancie. She’s talking the entire time, but she keeps trying to peek past me. Trying to check out our kitchen, maybe? I know she’s already been inside—she’s said so about four times: The Werners kept their dog food in the pantry near the fridge; she knows because they’d ask her to watch their German shepherd when they went down to Tallahassee every spring; yes, it’s the same one that died next to the sink; the Werners made a mean potato salad; and does my mom cook anything special?
I eventually say I have to go upstairs and take a shower, and I write down Nancie’s phone number, promising that I’ll tell Harriet and Jonathan to call her once they’re up. I watch from the window above the sink as Nancie and Brit mosey their way back to their house, stopping frequently to allow Nancie to crane her neck and squint at every darkened pane they pass along the side of our home. I sigh once they’re out of sight. Southern hospitality, indeed—Nancie doesn’t even know us, and she’s already volunteering her daughter as my personal shopper. Either she’s the most trusting person I’ve ever met, or she’s just that desperate to find friends for Brit. It makes me wonder whether Brit might have a few more if her mom would back off just a tad.
I scratch my arm and realize it’s still coated with sticky mango juice, so I decide to make good on that shower. When I turn around, though, I gasp. Jackson is standing there in the shadow of the doorway leading to the living room.
“Um, mango?” I offer, picking up the last one from the bowl at the center of the granite island.
“Who was that?” he replies gruffly.
“Our neighbors. Nancie and Brit Guthrie. They came to welcome us to the neighborhood.”
“At eight thirty on a Saturday?” he says, and he pointedly holds up his phone, cracked screen and all, to show me the time.
“Well, okay, it’s more like they were snooping, noticed me noticing them, and took advantage. Brit seems nice. Nancie’s a talker, for sure.”
“Don’t care.”
I sigh, but given what I saw last night, I cut him some slack. “Yeah, maybe. You’re probably just exhausted. You’ll feel better after—”
He cuts me off. “What’s that in your hand?”
“Um, a mango?” I say, holding it out for him to see. I keep the invitation behind my back.
“No, stupid. Your other hand.”
My ladylike smile fades. Granted, it was fake, but still, I was trying.
Jackson smirks. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Got nothing smart to say now, do you, Charlotte?”
I still don’t lash out, but if I were a rattlesnake, my tail would be going off right now.
“You know, Jackson, rule five doesn’t apply in the confines of our own kitchen, I’m fairly sure. The ‘world hates me and I’m gonna take it out on Charlotte’ routine is getting real old, real fast. So the way I see it, either you cut it out, or I go all mango on you.”
He actually backs up a step. I wait for the comeback, but he doesn’t seem to have one—and for good reason. Just as he’s about to slink off, Harriet comes around the corner, stretching and rubbing her eyes.
“Heya, kids. What’s all the commotion?”
I mean to jump in first, but the sight of Harriet sends a guilty shiver down my spine. As a result, Jackson pounces.
“She was threatening me, Mom!”
Harriet looks at me incredulously, blinking. It’s pretty clear she’s not quite awake yet.
“I can’t deal with this without coffee,” she mutters, moving to a cabinet and opening it. It’s empty, of course—the caffeine fairies didn’t have a chance to visit last night.
“I did it,” I admit. “He called me stupid, so I told him if he wasn’t a little more respectful I’d chuck a mango at him.”
“Can we not do this right now? Jackson, apologize to your sister, and for God’s sake start treating her better. And Charlotte…” She covers her brow with her hand. “Just … stop brandishing breakfast at your brother.”
“Fine. Sorry,” Jackson says, though he doesn’t look at me.
“I’m sorry, too,” I reply, making sure to hit just the right note of sincerity. Poor Jackson—he’s never had a sibling before. By comparison, he’s my ninth brother, with three different sets of parents. This ain’t my first rodeo, not by a long shot.
“Thank you both. Now, give me that mango,” Harriet says flatly. “I’ll see what I can do with it, and as soon as Jonathan’s out of the shower, I’ll send him out for coffee. And a better breakfast.”
“I’ve already eaten, so Jackson can have it,” I say demurely. “Oh, and I
met our next-door neighbors! There’s a girl my age, and the mom seemed … invested? She gave us this. It’s an invitation to a pig-pickin’ party, whatever that is.”
“A pig-pickin’? Sounds like some weird farm thing,” Jackson murmurs.
“Maybe it’s a bit of southern hospitality,” I offer. “What if they give you a pig to welcome you to the community? You get to pick one for your backyard? Hey—people keep potbellied pigs as pets. They’re so cute!”
Harriet shakes her head. “We’re not bringing a pig into this house, free or not.”
I get the sense that it’s not just the lack of coffee talking there.
“Then maybe we get to adopt a cute little piggy at a farm. You know—pay for its food, visit it, get a picture of it. Or maybe they have pigs, and we just get to name one. I’d name mine Wilbur, or Snortensia if she was a girl.”
Jackson rolls his eyes.
“Eh,” I say, “probably just a pig-shaped piñata or something. Pin-the-tail-on-the-piggy. Hmmm … maybe a football thing, like pigskin? Tomorrow’s Sunday. Do they like football down here?”
“Carolina Panthers,” Jackson mumbles.
“Huh?”
“Carolina Panthers. It’s the NFL team down here. Don’t you know anything?”
Again, I smile. “Yep! I know the NFL team in North Carolina is the Carolina Panthers. Why do you ask?”
“Because I just told you!”
“Told me what?”
“That the Panthers are Carolina’s team!”
“No, you just asked me, and I told you,” I say sweetly, resting my chin upon my latticed fingers and leaning over the counter.
“Ugh!” Harriet shouts. Or at least I think it’s a shout. It’s the loudest I’ve heard her, but I’ve had teachers whose normal speaking voices delivered more decibels. I glance over at her, and she throws her hands up and stomps out of the room. As she’s leaving, Jonathan comes in, the collar of his gray T-shirt still wet. He’s rubbing at his head with a little hand towel.
“Everything okay, darling?” he asks.
“You deal with this. And get coffee,” she mutters.
He watches her go, then turns around, shrugging. “Couldn’t find the bath towels. How are you this morning, Charlotte?”