“Do you think you might be sick?” asked Claire.
I looked up, forced a smile, and shook my head. Why was she asking that? Maybe I had toothpaste on my mouth. I wiped it and checked my hand. No, it was clean.
“There was a girl in my school who was sick, and she had to wear sweaters and scarves all the time,” said Claire. “We had to be nice to her. It was a rule.”
Mom leaned toward me. “Are you feeling okay?”
Now everyone was staring at me; suddenly I felt hot. Why was I wearing this outfit? It was the middle of summer.
“I’m fine.” I waved my hand in front of my face and pulled off my sweater. “I forgot it was summer.”
Mom still looked worried, but Claire seemed relieved. She smiled at me. “Oh, good, because when you have an illness, you mostly have to do quiet things, and I like moving around better.”
Mom frowned, looked down, and shook her head, like she was trying to jiggle the pieces around to make them fit. We all stood there uncomfortably for a few seconds.
“Ash, that’s Mr. Bardwell, and this is Claire.” She smiled and patted Claire’s shoulder.
Claire held out her hand and repeated her name. I nodded, and we shook hands. I looked over at her dad; he didn’t move from where he was standing, but he gave me a half wave. Suddenly Claire turned, ran back to her dad, and gave him a quick hug. A minute later she was standing next to me, her big panda bag by her side. Mom motioned for me to pick up the bag and take Claire inside. She closed the door behind us so she could talk to Claire’s dad in private.
“I couldn’t wait to get here,” said Claire. “I made a whole list of stuff we can do.” She pulled off her backpack. “Do you want to hear it?”
I shook my head. “Uh, maybe later.” I was still sleepy, and not a big fan of other people’s lists. Plus, this whole thing was too sudden. I wasn’t ready to be babysitting.
“Why did you come a day early?” I asked. “Was there some kind of emergency?”
Claire fiddled with her backpack. “Daddy has to work. He’s pretty busy.” She looked up and smiled, but I didn’t know her yet, so I couldn’t tell if it was a real smile or not.
Mom opened the door and came back in. I thought Claire’s dad might come in too, but she closed it behind her. I guess he was gone.
Mom tapped Claire on the arm. “How about some breakfast. Are you hungry?” She was using her superfriendly voice. The one she uses for pets.
“What are we having?” asked Claire. “I hope it’s pancakes.”
Mom smiled. “Perfect—let’s have pancakes!” I followed them to the kitchen.
I was thinking three things: I forgot that Mom had that voice, pancakes did sound good, and Claire dresses kind of stylish for a seven-year-old. I couldn’t remember the last time Mom made pancakes. We used to have them all the time, but now we didn’t. I don’t know why. I still liked them. It’s funny, endings are different from beginnings—beginnings are easier to remember.
“Do you want to help me crack the eggs?” asked Mom. For a second I thought she was talking to me, but she wasn’t; she was looking at Claire.
“I love cracking eggs,” said Claire. “My mom taught me.” She leaned over the sink to wash her hands. Mom helped her reach the soap. For half a second I could almost imagine it was me and Mom standing there. We used to do the exact same thing. Suddenly I had the feeling that Claire’s visit was going to be a big trip down memory lane. I watched Claire with the eggs—she could crack them with one hand. How did she do that? I was almost envious, but I caught myself.
“Wow, Claire, you’re good at that.” I stepped closer to see if there was any shell in the bowl. There wasn’t. “How did you learn that? Is your mom a chef or something?”
Mom gave me a look, but I couldn’t read it. I ignored her.
Claire threw the shells into the garbage. “My mom was good at making breakfasts,” she said.
“Do you always have big breakfasts?” I asked. I was happy with how things were going. It’s not always easy to talk to a seven-year-old, and I wanted her to like me. Especially since we were stuck together for three weeks. Claire cracked another egg.
“We used to have special breakfasts all the time, but now that my mom’s gone, we don’t anymore. Sometimes Daddy takes me out for an egg sandwich, but I like pancakes and other stuff better.”
It took a few seconds for me to understand what she was saying. That can happen when someone surprises you. I looked over at Mom for help. But she didn’t give me any—she was shaking her head. What did she mean? Slowly my brain put the pieces together.
Her mom gone + Mom shaking her head at me = OH, NO! Something happened to Claire’s mom. Did her mom die?
Suddenly I felt sick. I shot Mom an angry look. Why hadn’t she told me?! What was I supposed to say? I wasn’t ready for this. Mom leaned over and gave Claire’s shoulder a squeeze.
“We’re so excited that you’re here having pancakes with us,” she said. “It’s an extra-special treat, right, Ash?”
Mom was patting Claire’s shoulder but looking at me. I had to say something.
“I CAN’T WAIT FOR PANCAKES! PANCAKES ARE GREAT! I LOVE PANCAKES!”
It was too much enthusiasm, but I couldn’t help it. I was relieved. And then I was sweating—burning up—crazy hot. Who wears sweat pants on a summer day?
“I’ll be right back.” I pointed to my legs. “I need to put on some shorts.”
Mom mumbled something, but she had her head in the cupboard looking for syrup, so I couldn’t hear it. I gave Claire a wave and ran upstairs to change.
The second I stepped into my room, I gulped for air. I hadn’t noticed it, but I’d been holding my breath all the way up the stairs. I flopped onto my bed and stared up at the ceiling. I just wanted to lie there quietly, resting, thinking of nothing, but that didn’t happen. Within seconds, thoughts were spinning in my brain:
Claire must be so sad.
Could I help her?
How did her mom die?
How would I feel if Mom died?
Suddenly there were too many thoughts. It was uncomfortable and confusing. I forced myself off the bed and got changed.
There is a song I know with the words “You came into my heart with candy-coated sweetness.” I don’t like the song that much, but for some reason it was stuck in my head. Maybe that’s why it happened—why I made the promise. I stopped in the middle of the stairs on my way down to the kitchen. I put my hand on my heart, and in a whisper I said, “I promise to be sweet to Claire, for as long as she is here.” I’d never made a promise like that before—hand on heart, out loud for the universe to hear; it felt important.
There’s a difference between the promises you say in your head and the promises you say out loud. The out-loud ones are harder to break.
chapter nine
Pancakes and Old People
I love pancakes, but I’m not so sure about old people. I guess they’re okay. Claire loves both. When I got back downstairs, Mom and Claire were sitting at the table. Claire looked up.
“We’re waiting for you.” She pointed to a plate of pancakes at the visitor’s chair. It was Lucy’s spot, where she used to sit when she came over.
Claire was in my seat; it wasn’t a big deal, but it was different, and somehow that made me uneasy. I sat down and stole a look at Mom. She’s a terrible actress, so if she was mad, I was going to know right away. She glanced at me for a second, half smiled, and picked up her fork.
“Let’s eat,” she said. “I’m hungry.”
Claire stuffed a forkful of pancake into her mouth. Suddenly I was hungry too. It’s hard to stay worried while eating pancakes. After a couple of bites I felt much better. Maybe everything was going to be okay. As soon as we finished eating, Claire got her backpack and took out the list she’d been talking about.
She waved it in the air. “It’s called ‘Summer List of Things to Do.’”
I tried to read it, but she was moving it aroun
d too much. It looked pretty long.
I reached out my hand. “Can I see it?”
Claire flattened it tight against her chest.
“No looking!” She shook her head. “I’m only going to tell you one thing a day. That way every day can be a surprise.” She looked at me and waited to see if I was going to be as excited as she was. I nodded and forced a smile. Here we were only an hour into her visit, and I was already working to keep my promise. I didn’t say anything, but I hate surprises. It’s probably because of my face blindness. When your days are filled with uncertainty, added surprises aren’t really a bonus.
Claire took my smile as a yes and let out a squeal.
The list and I were not going to be friends. I could tell that already.
Claire peeked at the list again, swung her hand in the air, and shouted, “Number one thing for today! Do crafts with old people!”
“WHAT?” I didn’t mean to shout, but I couldn’t help it. I was startled. I wasn’t expecting crafts with old people. I thought she’d say pool, park, or playground—something like that. What did “crafts with old people” even mean?
“Like Grandma and Grandpa?” I asked. “They don’t even live near here.” I looked at Mom for help, but she looked as confused as me.
“No,” said Claire. “It’s a special place. Daddy promised me there was one here too. He said you’d take me.” Claire looked back and forth at us, waiting to be understood. I had no idea what she was talking about.
“Tell us more,” said Mom. “Is it a store?”
“NO!” Claire banged her fists on the table. She was getting frustrated. I thought she might cry, but she didn’t. Her voice was shaky. “It’s a big house where all the old people live. When they have craft day, I go there and make stuff, and help them, and then at the end we have cookies and juice—plus they have a cat.”
“Do your grandparents live there?” asked Mom. “Is that why you and your Daddy go?”
Suddenly Claire was laughing. “Daddy doesn’t go. He drops me off.” Claire held her hands up to her mouth to stop the giggles, but it was no use. Now it was almost impossible to understand what she was saying.
“Daddy can’t . . . do crafts—he’s allergic . . . to them,” spluttered Claire. “And . . . cats too.”
Mom and I looked at each other. It sounded unbelievable.
“I like old people,” said Claire. “They’re supernice and friendly, plus they have good cookies.”
I had no idea what Claire was talking about, but Mom knew. I could tell by the way she was smiling.
She clapped her hands together. “That’s an amazing idea. I’m sure we could find a nursing home where you and Ash could volunteer, but it’s going to take some time. I don’t think I can put something like that together for this afternoon. Could you pick something else from your list? Just for today?”
Claire looked disappointed, but she nodded. As she looked over her list, my brain tried to process what Mom had just said. We were going to visit a bunch of old people and do crafts with them? What kind of crafts was she talking about? Friendship bracelets? Potholders? That sounded weird.
Suddenly Claire waved her arm in the air and shouted, “Number two! Are you ready?”
I wasn’t ready. I was stunned—too stunned to even shake my head, but I should have. Maybe that would have made a difference.
“Okay,” said Mom, smiling. “Let’s hear it.”
“Buy new outfits at the thrift store!” said Claire.
Mom clapped her hands again. “Oooh! I like it.” She looked over at me. “Ash, did you hear that? I don’t think you’ve done that before.”
Of course Mom liked it. She loves junk.
Claire jumped up. “I get lots of clothes from there. Daddy does too.” She pointed to her scarf, her skirt, and her shirt. “All from the thrift store,” she said. She smiled for a second and then twirled.
I looked her over with this new information. She still looked fine, but touching other people’s old clothes? That wasn’t for me.
“It was only three dollars! Plus I got a hat, but I didn’t bring the hat, because it’s for winter.” Now Claire was bouncing up and down.
Mom stood up. “Well, that sounds like a bargain. I think I could find fifteen dollars to donate to an excursion like that. You can go a little later. Ash will take you. I can’t wait to see what you come back with.”
I stood up and walked to the door. “That’s awesome, I can’t wait.” I put my hand in the air like a high five. It was good that Mom couldn’t see my face, because I was being one hundred percent sarcastic.
chapter ten
Thriftiness
An hour later, Claire and I were walking to the St. John’s church basement thrift store. I’d probably passed it a thousand times but never noticed it—why would I? I like new things, things with printed labels.
Claire wasn’t talking much, so for the first time since yesterday, I had a minute to think. Of course, I was thinking about the basement. It must have been a dream. A daydream? A sleeping dream? But why had I fallen asleep so fast? Maybe I had that sleeping sickness thing, where you suddenly fall asleep? What was that called? I couldn’t remember. I’d have to look it up. But why would something like that suddenly happen? Brain tumor? Poison? Gas leak? Gas leak! I bet that was it.
“What’s a gas leak?” asked Claire.
I stopped and stared down at her. What? Now she was a mind reader?
“You just said gas leak. What’s that?” she asked.
“It’s nothing.” I shook my head. I started walking again, relieved. I wasn’t ready for a seven-year-old with a crazy list and supernatural skills. The church was on the next block over. We were almost there.
Claire tugged my arm. “Is it something bad? Is it dangerous?” She wasn’t giving up.
I forgot that little kids were like that, always asking the same question over and over again, until you finally gave them an answer they were happy with. There was a word for that, but I couldn’t remember what that was either. Maybe there was gas in the basement and it had totally scrambled my brain. Claire followed me to the small building across from the church. I stopped at the door. We’d arrived; the sign on the door said THRIFT STORE OPEN TODAY.
“Can it kill you?” asked Claire.
Wow, she was persistent.
Persistent! Ha! That was the word. It felt good to remember it. I smiled, but Claire’s face was screwed up in a frown.
“Sometimes if there’s a gas leak, a building can blow up. But it’s a really rare thing that hardly ever happens, so you don’t need to worry about it. Plus it mostly only happens in basements. Okay?” I gave her my best reassuring grin, opened the door, and walked down the stairs to the basement thrift store. Claire did not follow me.
It took about fifteen minutes to convince Claire that the thrift store wasn’t going to blow up. I didn’t know it, but she already had a thing about basements—she didn’t like them. And now because of me, it was worse. But she loved thrift stores, so for this time only, she agreed to make an exception. Claire was nervous all the way down the stairs, but once she saw the piles of junk in the store, she was back to normal. In two seconds she was gone, lost in the mess.
I was the exact opposite. On the stairs I was fine, but now here on the edge of it all, I felt squirmy. There was junk everywhere; it looked weird and smelled funny, and I didn’t want to touch anything.
I shuffled my feet and said, “I’ll just wait here by the door.” Claire couldn’t hear me, but that didn’t matter; it was a personal declaration. I felt better with a plan. Claire could have the whole fifteen dollars. I didn’t care. I moved to the corner, pushed my back against the wall, and looked around. I caught sight of Claire over to the right. She was trying on some red shoes. I waved, but she didn’t see me. Someone else saw me, though—a boy. He waved back. He thought my wave was for him.
I looked away, but he caught my eye and waved again. I recognized that look; it was the look of someo
ne who knew me, but, like usual, I didn’t know him back. I needed Lucy. I needed her to say, “That’s so-and-so, wave back,” or “We don’t know him; don’t wave.” I couldn’t do this by myself! Next he’d be over here. I waved back to be polite and looked for an escape. There were only two choices: up the stairs and out, or forward and into the store. I wanted the stairs, but I couldn’t leave Claire, so I scooted behind a rack of coats and crouched down.
Who was he? He looked a little familiar, but my brain couldn’t find his face or his name. It was always the same. The world knew me, but I never knew them back. Each time it happened, I hoped it would be different, that my brain would work like it was supposed to, and suddenly I’d recognize the person standing in front of me, but it never did. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t remember faces. The only thing that helped was my ears; I was good with voices.
My hands were busy moving over things on the table in front of me, but I wasn’t paying attention. It was just something to do while my eyes looked for Claire, and the boy. If I knew where he was, maybe I could get Claire out of here without him seeing me again? What kind of boy shops in a thrift store anyway? Maybe he was with his mom. That could be embarrassing. Last year Mom said she saw Ben Rutherford, a boy in my class, following his mom around the bra section at Target. That was definitely embarrassing.
There was an open space in the rack of coats in front of me. I used it as my peephole. It took a few minutes, but finally I found him—two aisles over. He was alone; that was too bad. I was hoping to hear him speak. He was bent over, and all I could see was his head and neck. I pushed a blue polka dot coat to the side to get a better view, but suddenly there was Claire, in my face.
“SURPRISE!” she yelled, and threw her arms into the air.
I screamed and fell back but managed to catch myself before I knocked anything over.
Claire pushed the coats to the side and stepped through the rack toward me. She was wearing a floppy hat and an assortment of clothes that were all too big. But I didn’t have time to worry about her outfit, because she was full of questions and she was loud—too loud. For sure, everyone in the store could hear her.
Dreamer, Wisher, Liar Page 3