The World From Up Here

by Cecilia Galante

  I nodded dumbly, but my head was spinning. It was too much information to take in all at once.

  Dad leaned over and kissed me on top of my head. “Oh!” He dug into his front pocket. “Before I forget. Momma asked me to give you this.” He took out a silver necklace and placed it in my hand. “She wants you to keep it safe for her. Just until she comes back.”

  I held out my hand, watching the slinky chain coil into a pool in the center of my palm. The charm on it was really only half a charm, broken long ago, Momma said, after a bike accident. On the front of the medallion, half of the tiny bird that was left stared out at me, its wing and body already worn smooth from Momma’s fingers. Below it were the letters GR, part of a word or a name, the other letters gone forever.

  Dad squatted down next to me and put a hand on my knee. “She’s worn that necklace since she was a little girl. I don’t know if she’s ever taken it off before.”

  I shook my head, the necklace blurring through my tears.

  “I think it’s Momma’s way of giving you a little piece of herself while she’s gone.” Dad squeezed my knee. “You’ll take good care of it, won’t you?”

  I nodded. I knew Momma was trying to be nice. But I didn’t want her necklace. It scared me. What if this was the last part of her I would ever have? And what if, instead of keeping it safe for her, she really wanted me to have it to remember her by, in case she never came home again?

  The rest of the afternoon rushed by in a blur of science facts, reading comprehension skills, and the history of Wolfgang Mozart. It was impossible to hear anything my teachers said; instead, I spun my pencil so many times across the tops of my knuckles that the skin started to turn pink. It didn’t help. My worry-meter, as Dad calls it, was off the charts.

  What could possibly be wrong with Momma? And why was Dad being so vague about all of it? I could understand him not wanting to tell Russell all the details, but I was twelve now. Next year I’d be an honest-to-goodness teenager! I could handle it. Besides, I deserved to know. It was Momma we were talking about here, not some neighbor or friend of the family. Her well-being was the most important thing in my life.

  Then there was the whole living arrangement. There was no way Dad could have known living with Silver Jones might add the tiniest bit more stress to the situation. She and Aunt Marianne were family, after all. And Grandma certainly wasn’t to blame for going on her around-the-world cruise. But I found myself wishing, as I sat in one of Mr. Pringle’s big red chairs, that one of them would come to their senses and stop all of this madness right in its tracks.

  “Hello again, Wren!” Mr. Pringle strode into the office, swinging his arms along either side of his enormous belly.

  Russell was behind him, walking on his tiptoes, which is the way he always walks, and staring wide-eyed at everything.

  I jumped up and grabbed his hand. “Hey, buddy. You all right?”

  “Momma went to the hospital.” Russell wrenched his hand out of mine, and then kicked the side of the wooden chair where I had been sitting. “She’s sick.”

  Across the room, Mrs. Pool stopped typing. People who don’t know about Russell’s Asperger’s get very nervous around him.

  Mr. Pringle put a hand on Russell’s shoulder. “Let’s go talk about it in here, guy.” He tried to steer Russell into his office, putting a hand on his shoulder and directing him into the room. It wasn’t Mr. Pringle’s fault. He didn’t know Russell doesn’t like to be touched. Especially by people he doesn’t know.

  “Hey, get off!” Russell said, twisting out from under Mr. Pringle’s arm. “Don’t touch!”

  Mrs. Pool, whose fingers were hovering a few inches above the keyboard, rose slightly out of her seat. But Mr. Pringle, who had released Russell’s shoulder, shook his head. “It’s all right, Janet.” He opened his office door. “Wren, would you bring your brother into my office, please?”

  “Come on, Russell.” I took him by the hand and led him inside. “Mr. Pringle just wants to talk to us. It’ll be okay.”

  Russell let me pull him into the office. I pointed to one of the two chairs in front of Mr. Pringle’s desk, and told him to sit down. “Momma’s sick,” he said again, glowering at the floor. “Damn it.”

  I gasped as Russell cursed and then elbowed him in the side. “No blankety-blanks,” I hissed. “Now, come on, Russell.”

  Blankety-blanks was Russell’s term for a bad word. And I was pretty sure he knew by now that he was not allowed to use them. Especially in public. But if he had heard me, he didn’t let on. His eyes were fixed on the floor.

  “Your mother’s going to be fine, Russell!” Mr. Pringle boomed, using another voice that adults use when they’re trying to convince kids to believe something they know isn’t true.

  Russell’s head shot up. “How do you know? Did you talk to her?”

  Mr. Pringle picked a piece of lint off the front of his blue jacket and watched it flutter to the floor. “No, but I talked to your father for a good while this afternoon and he told me that there was nothing to worry about. He said your mother needs a little time to rest and get the right medicine, but that she is going to be absolutely fine.”

  “That’s not what he told me.” Russell’s eyebrows narrowed.

  I turned in my seat. “What’d he tell you?”

  “He told me Momma was sick,” Russell answered. “And that means she’s gonna die.”

  Before I could stop him, he drew his leg back and kicked the side of the chair so hard that it scuttled across Mr. Pringle’s pale brown carpet and almost toppled over.

  “Russell! Don’t!” I pulled on his arm as he drew his leg back again.

  “I want Momma!” he yelled, kicking the chair again. This time, it went sailing into the wall, and plunked over on its side. “I want Dad!”

  I pulled harder at Russell’s arm, trying to move him away from the chair. Instead, he turned, slapping at me, trying to loosen my hold on him. When that didn’t work, he kicked me in the shins, and then hauled off and socked me in the stomach.

  “Oof!” I folded over, holding my belly. Tears sprang to my eyes, and for a moment, I thought I might vomit. Russell has a serious right hook.

  Mr. Pringle darted out from behind his desk, knocking over a picture in a silver frame. “Hey, hey, hey!” He grabbed Russell from behind, holding him by the tops of his arms so that Russell could not swing his fists. “Let’s take it easy now, guy! It’s going to be okay! Just take it easy!”

  Russell’s arms may have been pinned back, but his legs were still free. And before Mr. Pringle knew what was happening, Russell had back-kicked him right in the groin.

  “Ohhhhhhhhhhh …” Mr. Pringle gasped, letting go of Russell and sliding down toward the floor. A sound like air being squeezed out of a balloon came out of him. “Ohhhhhhhhhh …”

  I was horrified, but there was no time to worry about my principal right now. Russell had dropped to his knees, and was banging his fists off the floor. I’d seen him get violent like this before. Pretty soon, he would start flinging other things in the room, even pulling at his own hair. It was like some dark thing inside him took over, as if he had no control over what he was doing. There was only one way to calm him down.

  I grabbed both of his wrists and leaned in under him. Russell’s face was bright pink. Beads of sweat dotted his upper lip as he tried to wrench himself from my grasp. “Russell!” I said. “Listen to me! Jackson’s coming with us! He’s gonna stay with us the whole time!”

  Russell stopped. The features of his face, which had been squeezed up into a knot, relaxed, inch by inch. He straightened up a little and stared at me. “Jackson?”

  “Yeah!” I didn’t know yet if Jackson could come with us, but right now, it was all I had. Aunt Marianne had to let us bring our dog. She just had to. “You can hang out and play with him all weekend. He’s probably already at Aunt Marianne’s house, waiting for you.”

  Mr. Pringle pressed one hand on top of his desk, struggling to get bac
k up on his feet. “Who’s Jackson?” he groaned.

  “My dog,” Russell said importantly. “After me, he’s the smartest animal in the entire universe.”

  “Oh yeah?” Mr. Pringle sank back down into his chair and ran his hands down the sides of his face. His skin had an odd grayish tinge to it. “And what makes him so smart?”

  “He can read my mind,” Russell answered.

  I held my breath as I watched Mr. Pringle. I didn’t know if Dad had told him about Russell’s Asperger’s, but I hoped by now he at least understood that Russell was a little different than most eight-year-olds.

  Mr. Pringle took out a handkerchief from inside his pants pocket. “Well,” he said, blotting his face. “That must be some dog.”

  I exhaled.

  There was a tap at the door. It was Mrs. Pool. “Everything all right in here?” She craned her neck around the doorjamb, staring at me, then at Russell, and finally over at Mr. Pringle, who was still panting in his chair.

  “All good.” Mr. Pringle raised his hand, as if to ward Mrs. Pool off. “We’re all good, Janet. Thank you.”

  “Marianne Jones is here for the children.” Mrs. Pool looked relieved. “Should I send her in now, or do you need a few more minutes?”

  “Yes!” Mr. Pringle stood up, pushing his chair behind him. “Yes, send her in now, please.”

  Aunt Marianne stepped into the office. I’d forgotten how small she was, not much taller than me, actually, with blonde hair that was soft and curly on top and fastened into two small pigtails in the back. She hugged me tightly, and touched Russell’s arm. “Hi, guys!” Her teeth were white and crooked on the bottom, and when she stretched her arm over the desk to shake Mr. Pringle’s hand, a silver bracelet tinkled around her wrist. “Thank you for helping us out with this, Mr. Pringle.”

  “My pleasure,” he said.

  I studied Aunt Marianne carefully out of the corner of my eye. She was dressed in dark denim jeans, a pale yellow shirt with long sleeves, and brown sandals that crisscrossed over her toes. Her toenails had been painted a brick-red color, and she had tiny silver hoops in her ears. Except for a few lines around her eyes and forehead, she looked like a carbon copy of Silver.

  She turned toward me all at once, smoothing her hand over the top of my head. “How are you, Wren?”

  “I’m okay.” I looked at the floor.

  “I know we still don’t know each other very well, but I’m hoping we can change that. I’m really glad you’re going to be staying with us.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And Russell, too,” she said.

  I poked Russell in the side of the arm.

  He poked me back.

  “Russell’s a little uncomfortable right now,” I said, trying to smile. “You know, with everything going on.”

  “That’s perfectly understandable,” said Aunt Marianne, watching him over the top of my head. “I would be a little uncomfortable myself, if I were in his shoes.”

  “You’re not allowed to touch my shoes!” Russell growled.

  Aunt Marianne laughed and then caught herself, covering her mouth with one hand. “Of course not, Russell,” she said. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “Is Jackson at your house yet?” Russell’s voice was too loud.

  “Jackson?” Aunt Marianne inquired. “Who’s Jackson?”

  Something tightened in the pit of my stomach.

  Russell’s eyes narrowed. “My dog.”

  “Oh, the dog!” Aunt Marianne’s whole face brightened. “Of course, of course! Your father dropped him off just a little while ago! He’s at the house, Russell, waiting for you.”

  I exhaled again. Thank goodness Dad had remembered.

  “Well.” Mr. Pringle placed his palms flat on the desk. “I just wanted to make sure that everything was squared away. Wren and Russell, Mrs. Jones will be picking you up from school now every day until your father gets back. Are both of you all right with that?”

  Russell stared at the floor. I hesitated for a split second. Of course we weren’t all right with it. This was the strangest, most mixed-up situation we’d ever been in. But what choice did we have? We were just kids. They were the adults. This was the way it had to be—at least for now. And so I nodded for both of us.

  Aunt Marianne put her arm around me. She smelled citrusy, like flowers and oranges mixed together. “Do either of you need to get anything before we go?”

  I shook my head, and rubbed my fingers, which had started to itch, for some reason.

  She squeezed my shoulders. “Well, let’s get going then. My car’s out front.”

  Aunt Marianne’s rusty blue truck was parked next to a black Lexus. I remembered the surprise I’d first felt when I saw her pull into our driveway a few months ago with the old vehicle. For some reason, I hadn’t thought that anyone related to Momma, who was relatively prim and proper for the most part, would drive a truck. Momma herself still drove the same blue Toyota she’d had since I was a baby. Still, seeing the truck again filled me with a vague sense of comfort.

  “You okay riding up front?” Aunt Marianne opened the passenger door and waited while I peeked in. Thick pieces of duct tape had been patched over a rip in the driver’s seat. In between the duct tape, chunks of light brown foam stuck out, like mounds of dried oatmeal. The clutch rose up from the floor, bare and black as a weather vane, and five different colored air fresheners—all in the shape of pine trees—swung from the rearview mirror.

  “You drove this all the way up from Florida?”

  “Sure did.” She grinned and patted the windowsill. “Old Betsy’s my other right-hand girl, after Silver. Hop in. There’s plenty of room.”

  I slid inside the car, scratching my leg on the duct-tape-foam mess as I went, and beckoned for Russell to follow. He scrambled in next to me and fastened his seat belt. I looked around, but there was no sign of Silver. Was she coming?

  “Silver has cheerleading practice,” Aunt Marianne said, as if reading my mind. “So she won’t be home until later. Are you okay with that?”

  “Sure.” I shrugged, my heart plummeting a little as I realized yet another ridiculous difference between Silver and me. I would sooner try out for cheerleading then I would walk up Creeper Mountain at night by myself. Which pretty much meant never.

  Aunt Marianne hopped into the driver’s side of the truck, rolled down her window, and turned the key. The engine rumbled awake. She smiled when she saw the look on my face. “I know she sounds and looks a little beat-up, but Old Betsy’s a trooper. She’s been around a long, long time. Never lets me down.” She patted the dashboard. “Do you, old girl?”

  As if in response, the truck made a low growling sound. Aunt Marianne threw back her head and laughed.

  I winced and looked out the window.

  I couldn’t remember the last time I’d heard Momma laugh about anything.

  Aunt Marianne drove through downtown Sudbury at an alarming speed, veering in and out of traffic with the ease of an experienced—or crazy—driver. I flattened myself as far back against the seat cushion as I could, and prayed that we would not get into an accident. We passed the library, with its bright orange READING IS FREE! banner strung up across the front, and the Wendy’s restaurant, where Dad sometimes took Russell and me for double cheeseburgers and Frosty shakes. I slid down farther in the seat as she gunned past the Mobil station on the corner, where a bunch of high school kids always stood around after school and smoked cigarettes. And I gasped out loud when she went through a yellow light at the main intersection. It would be a miracle if we got to wherever we were going in one piece.

  “Wow!” Russell yelled. “You go really fast!”

  Aunt Marianne laughed and tugged at one of her little pigtails. “I can’t help it sometimes. Old Betsy here’s got a transmission that used to belong to a racecar. She’s built for speed.”

  Russell nodded appreciatively. “Captain Commando is super speedy, too.”

  “Captain Commando?” Aunt
Marianne repeated.

  Russell nodded. “He’s the fastest superhero in the universe. He’s even faster than Superman!”

  “Wow,” Aunt Marianne said. “That is fast.”

  I tried to hide my annoyance as they continued to talk about Captain Commando. Neither of them seemed to notice that I was halfway on the floor, hanging on to the edge of my seat for dear life. I wondered if anyone could hear the way my heart was banging around in my chest, or the faint gasps that darted out from my mouth whenever Aunt Marianne screeched around a corner.

  Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Aunt Marianne pulled the truck onto a long, narrow dirt road. “Hold on,” she said, easing up a little on the gas. “This part’s a little bumpy.” The road was not a little bumpy, I realized a few seconds later. It was a lot bumpy. Russell and I clutched one another as the truck dipped and bounced, sliding us up and down and across the front seat like two flopping fish. A few times, the truck lurched so hard against a rut that our heads bumped the ceiling. I was horrified. We were going to have to take this road every day for the next two weeks? Our heads would be permanently bruised!

  Russell, of course, thought it was hysterical. He screamed with laughter every time the car dipped, and clapped his hands. “This is awesome!” he yelled at one point. “It’s like being on a bucking bronco!”

  It occurred to me that I had never asked where exactly Aunt Marianne and Silver lived. I tried to look out the window in an attempt to decipher where we were headed, but I had never seen this part of Sudbury before. Except for the occasional house, which appeared through the trees like a mirage, there was no sign of life anywhere. Cassie had told me a rumor once that the Joneses lived on the rich side of town. Nora said that her mother had told her they owned a gigantic house with a three-car garage and an indoor swimming pool. She was also pretty sure they had a maid. But the houses out here were just medium-sized, and the only swimming pool I saw was a wading pool covered with pink baby dinosaurs in someone’s front yard.

  I held my breath as we continued on, staring at the pack of air fresheners as they swung beneath the rearview mirror. After another ten minutes, Aunt Marianne turned Old Betsy onto another, much smoother dirt road, and pointed out the windshield. “Look over there,” she said. “Home sweet home.”