When Becca slides her hot lunch tray onto the table, she hunches her shoulders. “Here they come,” she says.
Amanda’s eyes flit up, then she studies her milk carton as if there’ll be a test on chocolate milk later.
“I want to be a stewardess,” Megan mimics as I unwrap my peanut butter sandwich. Oh, no—she obviously saw me on the news last night. She and Drew stop at the table Amanda, Becca, and I sit at.
“Peanuts? Pretzels?” Megan pretends to ask airline passengers as she paces behind me. “They’re not called stewardesses anymore; they’re flight attendants.”
“Yeah,” Drew sneers at me.
I look across the table at Amanda, but she puts her head down. Searching for just the right comeback, my mind stumbles through huge blank spaces. At this point in the situation, Megan usually fires her kill shot, but here’s where winning the lottery comes in handy—my new fans come to the rescue, pushing Megan and Drew away, literally squeezing past them to join me on the bench.
“What’s it like being rich?” “Are you moving to a mansion?” “Are you buying a jet?” I laugh at the thought of piloting an airplane to school. For one thing, where would I land it?
“Not a jet,” I say, thinking. “But probably a limo.”
One boy asks why Mom is still delivering the newspaper. When Dad asked her the same thing last week, she said, I just … wanted to wait until I knew it was real.
It’s real, Dad had said and cracked a lopsided smile. You’d better believe it.
Now curious faces want to know why a millionaire gets up at four in the morning to hurl newspapers into their driveways. I say, “She wanted to give her two weeks’ notice.”
The boy snorts. “I would’ve quit!”
I frown.
Another girl says her dog had diarrhea on the good rug, and her mom is going to call my dad to come take care of the stain. Everyone groans and a couple of the boys make retching sounds. I feel each of the seven layers of my skin turn red.
Amanda goes, “She can’t help it if her dad cleans carpet.”
“Amanda!” Oh, my gosh—she’s making it worse.
I wriggle from the bench like a worm. I am pink and gross, with everybody stepping on me. The worst part, the part I can’t take, is that they are right. Mom should have quit her stupid newspaper job. Dad cleaning dog poop? What’s wrong with my parents? We’re rich now—other people should be doing this stuff for us.
Amanda follows me to my locker. Some kids try to stop me in the hall, but I don’t talk. Talking will just make this feeling grow bigger. Later, when the dismissal bell rings, I’m the first one out the door, the first one in the pen, and the only one riding a three-dollar bike.
I yank my stupid bike off the kickstand and rasp away. Red bike and green shirt—look at me, I’m the biggest dork in the universe. I pound the pedals all the way home. I’m going so fast that when I hit our driveway, the wheels roll right through the brakes as I try to stop, the seat bucks me off, and I scurry away before it falls on top of me. Dusting off my shorts, I kick the bike. It makes a screechy sound as it slides across the garage floor. “Stupid bike!”
I grab it by the horns, wrestle it up, and knock it into its resting place. “I’m getting a new one,” I tell it.
A lizard skitters through a hole between the cinder blocks. “New garage!” I yell.
As I walk out, a bougainvillea branch sticks me with a pricker. “New plants!” I yell at the vine, which sways in the wind as if readying for another attack.
* * *
Oak trees shimmer with tender leaves the second week of March. The parched grass sucks up the spring rain and colors each blade with green. Orange blossoms decorate their trees like ornaments, filling the air with a scent so pretty, you could actually believe in fairies. Even the lovebugs are starting up.
Everything in nature has been renewed.
Nothing in the Richardson house has been renewed. My cheery red maple is not so cheery anymore, dropping its leaves as if it no longer has the energy for them. A shock of red puddles around the tree, but as days go by, time drains the color and makes the leaves crispy and brown.
One night at supper, I ask Dad why he bothers going to work.
“We still need an income,” he says, grabbing the mashed potatoes.
“We won the lottery,” I say in a Dad-did-you-forget voice.
“Yes, but we’re not rich.” Dad keeps a straight face as he says this.
I try to stare him down, but I lose and start laughing first. “Yeah, right! Good one.”
“Hailee,” Mom says. “Remember we told you how it works? We’re taking the money as installments—that means we get a little money each year, enough that I can quit the newspaper and not take on any Christmas jobs.”
What?
Mom’s mouth keeps moving, but all I hear is this: Blah blah blah college fund. Blah blah investments blah future blahaha mwahaha mwahahaha! Mwahahaha!
I snap out of it. “College? That’s years away! What about the stuff we could use right now? I thought winning the lottery would change our lives, but I still don’t have a good bike or new clothes or anything! Where’s my cell phone? Where’s my computer? I need a new backpack.” My words flash like a sharp sword. I home in on Mom before delivering the final blow. “You don’t even know what it takes to get good grades.”
The hurt in her eyes tells me I’ve struck a vital chord.
“That’s enough,” Dad says in a husky voice. “Don’t ever disrespect your mother like that.” He covers her hand with his.
I lower my head. I guess I did cross the line there. “Sorry,” I say.
Dad clears his throat. “Your mother and I have been talking—more than talking. We’re enrolling you in the Magnolia Academy for Girls.”
“What?” My voice scrapes the ceiling.
Silence.
“I said I was sorry!”
Dad shakes his head. “It doesn’t have anything to do with that. The curriculum there is supposed to be excellent. Magnolia was listed in the paper as one of the top private schools in the area. Mom visited last Friday and she was very impressed.”
“No! I said I was sorry!” Desperate, my eyes seek forgiveness from my mom. “I don’t need a phone or a computer or any of that stuff. You don’t have to buy me anything.” I’ll eat bread and butter the rest of my days. I’ll use newspapers as blankets. “Just please don’t make me switch schools.”
“Hailee,” Mom says, stretching her hand out to me. I don’t take it. “We were lucky—their principal said the quarter just ended and it’s the perfect time to start.” Her voice becomes reverent. “This is the opportunity of a lifetime.”
Stumbling up from my chair, I wipe the tears away. “It’s the punishment of a lifetime! You hate me.”
Mom’s mouth drops.
Dad starts to say something, but I wave away his words. “You both hate me!” I yell, and before they can say anything else, I run upstairs, slam the door, and lock it.
Imprisoned in my own room. Without even the phone so I can call Amanda.
I am truly alone.
Chapter seventeen is where I’m at in Because of Winn-Dixie. Opal has met a girl named Amanda and they don’t like each other but you can tell they’re going to be friends. Since I read a lot of books, I know stuff like that. Anyway, there is nothing but sadness in this chapter. Opal eats a piece of candy and it reminds her how lonely she is, and the first thing she says about loneliness is how she misses all her friends from where she used to live. I know exactly how she feels. Moving to a new school will be just like moving to a new town—I won’t know anyone and no one will know me.
I am just like Opal. I even have a friend named Amanda and I live in Florida. If they make a sequel to the movie, I should probably play Opal’s part. I wonder if I should write to the author and tell her.
The next chapter is even sadder. If you want to know why, I can’t tell you. You have to read it for yourself, but don’t skip right to that p
art just because you want to know what I’m talking about.
I close the book and let it rest on my stomach. Then tears leak from my eyes, sliding into my hair and making wet spots on my bedspread. We won the lottery. Winning isn’t supposed to make you lose things.
Chapter 6
I cried all night and Amanda had tears this morning when I spilled the news.
“But why?” she asked between blubbery sobs. “We’re an A school!”
That’s true—I saw it on the school sign by the road.
Amanda folded into her chair. The bell hadn’t rung yet, so I sank into the desk behind her. “But we have homeroom and lunch together. We’re going to be in Compass Club next year.”
Her watery eyes look into mine.
Lisa, the girl whose desk I’m sitting at, sees our tears. She lowers her backpack. “What’s wrong?”
“She’s moving to a different school.” Amanda’s voice cracks.
Lisa bends down to Amanda with a look of pure sympathy. “That’s terrible.” Everyone knows we are best friends. Then she asks me, “Where’re you going?”
I pour as much glum as I can into my answer. I want her to pat my shoulder and make me feel better, too. “Magnolia.”
“Magnolia!” Instead of consoling me, she congratulates me. She wants to know all about it. Then the bell rings and I go off to my own seat.
The whole day I notice things I’ve taken for granted: the plastic red-shouldered hawk that looks out of the library window; the way the cafeteria lady says, “Enjoy your lunch”; the loud, happy voices in the hallway between classes. Magnolia won’t be like this. It’s a private school—that’s practically like going to a military academy.
After school, when Amanda and I part ways on our bikes, she hugs me as if I’m moving overseas.
That does it. They haven’t signed me away yet. I’m not going to Magnolia. I will inform Mom as soon as I get home. I ride my red boy bike home, slam it into the garage, and march into the house.
“¿Cómo te llamas? Buenos días. Buenos días. Buenosbuenosbuenos días”
What the heck? The tangy scent of lemon bread greets me at the door. The smell is so powerful, especially when you know how the sugary lemony glaze tingles on your tongue, and your face can’t decide if it wants to screw up for the tartness or relax for the sweetness. The only way to decide is to take another bite. My mouth is already watering, but first, I must detect who the Spanish-speaking lady is.
I slide my backpack to the floor, creep near the kitchen, and peek around the doorway to see who’s over. Using expert spy maneuvers, I angle my head and use my left eye as a periscope. Mom’s pouring hot lemon syrup from the frying pan over two yellow loaves of lemon bread. This is one of the rare cases in which you definitely want the heel because that’s where all the syrup ends up. Looking past her to the table, I see no one.
“Hola.”
With precision swiftness, my laser eyes fall upon Libby. She’s examining a red, blue, yellow, and white toy with all kinds of whizbangs and buttons. It looks like fun.
“Hi, Mom,” I say, coming out from my hiding place. My eyes slide over that lemon bread.
“Nope!” She knows my plan. “Wait till it cools.”
“Hola,” the toy says.
“Aa-ee! Aa-ee!” Libby’s smile makes her chubby cheeks even chubbier. She toddles toward me, waving her arms in excitement. Little pink shorts bloom over her diaper.
“Libby!” I scoop her up and kiss her tummy. “Libby! Libby-Libby-Lou!” It tickles so much, she can hardly stand it. She shrieks with laughter and struggles at the same time.
I set her down by the toy and mash a button. “Me llamo say your name.” The lady sounds very patient. I press the button again and wait for the cue. “Me llamo” “Hailee,” I fill in, then I push the playback button.
“Me llamo Hailee.”
I like it.
Libby pesters me over the next few minutes as I record and play back the names of our family and neighbors. She keeps reaching her stubby fists over and, finally, she mashes the record button, erasing my voice.
“Stop it!” Using my arm as a guard, I keep her away while I list my classmates.
But arm guard or not, the levers and purple smiley face with workable features aren’t enough for her; she’s got to do what I’m doing. She pulls and tugs at my shirt, not even looking at the toy now—she’s all about getting me.
“Stop it!” I snarl. It’s just a gentle push I give her, hardly a push at all—more like a tap, or a touch—but it’s enough to make her fall onto her puffy behind and wail. Happily, I search my mental databanks for another name to record.
“Hailee, why is she crying? Can you change her diaper?”
“Me llamo” “Diaper.” Ha! I crack myself up.
Libby leans over and sinks her sharp little teeth into my arm.
“YEOW!” I jerk my arm away, a move that knocks her on her butt, complete with full-scale wailing and tears.
Mom gives me the eyebrow.
“She bit me!”
The eyebrow, amazingly, arches higher. Mom tamps the syrup-covered spoon against the loaf pans and holds it up. Why, yes—I would like to lick it. I’m up and across the room in a flash, but Mom’s faster. She holds the spoon just out of my reach.
“Go tell her you’re sorry.”
“She won’t even know what I’m saying.”
The spoon moves farther away.
My shoulders droop, and I trudge over to Libby to make amends. She’s busy hitting buttons. I pat her back, say I’m sorry, and that’s when I notice the crisp, white price tag on the side of the toy.
“Did you buy this at the store?”
Mom smiles. “Isn’t it neat? I just went for some teething stuff and …” She shrugs her shoulders.
“It’s okay.”
“Oh”—she points with the spoon—“and I got that stuffed rocking horse in the corner. Libby loves it!”
I charge up the stairs. My new stuff is probably on my bed, where Libby can’t swipe it or put it in her mouth. But my bed is just as I left it. My closet hasn’t been touched. I pull open my drawers, slam them shut, then clobber down the stairs so fast I nearly crash into the island. “What did you get for me?” I say between breaths.
The syrup-laden spoon sits in a lemony puddle on a saucer. My question doesn’t stop Mom from rinsing the baking dishes. “What?” she asks over the noise of the faucet.
I raise my voice. “Where’s my stuff? What did you buy for me?”
Mom turns off the water, shakes the silverware, and puts it into the dishwasher. “I was at the baby store, honey; they don’t have things for girls your age.” She says it like I should know that.
“But you could’ve gone somewhere else.” Easy enough to swing by and get something for your other daughter, who was thoughtful enough to make up a list of things she needs.
Mom goes to stroke my hair, but I duck from her hand. She says, “Don’t be mad. I ran errands all day today, and my last stop was the baby store. I was so tired by then, I put Libby in their play area and sat in one of those gliders for a while watching her. She had so much fun.”
Well. What a good day for Libby.
“One of my errands was dropping off the forms to Magnolia.”
“I don’t want to go there.”
Mom doesn’t say anything. Instead, she tries to reel me in with the oldest trick in the book. “Are you going to lick that spoon or am I going to wash it?”
Silently, I raise the spoon to my mouth, but then I see a smile of satisfaction flicker across my mom’s face. Licking this spoon means I have to go to Magnolia. Though I would love to slurp off every last lemony drop and wash the spoon clean with my tongue, I steel myself against its power. It takes all my strength to set the spoon down.
“What’s wrong?” Mom asks.
I throw out my words without caring where they land. “Too bitter,” I say. And before I shoot out the door, I add, “I’m not going to Magnolia.
”
Then I’m gone.
Chapter 7
Rrish, rrish, riiish.
I pedal down Crape Myrtle Road.
Rrish, rrish, riiish.
Orange blossoms spangle in the trees. I slow way down; in fact, I stop. I walk my bike through the gravel edge of the road and up to the barbed-wire fence that holds in the orange trees. The creamy blossoms breathe softly, wisps of their light orangey fragrance washing the air. If factories could make air fresheners that really smelled like this, nobody would ever be mad or fight or do anything bad—that’s how pretty orange blossoms smell.
Bees murmur through the trees, landing for seconds on the blossoms, then flying off to the next. They sound like gangs of tiny motorcycles. A big black-and-reddish-orange butterfly darts over, and just as the word “monarch” forms in my mind, I realize this “butterfly” has a long needle beak, feathers, and sash of neon red around her neck. Against the green leaves and white flowers, the little bird stands out beautifully. I watch, just staring, thankful for this moment. Some people go their whole lives without once seeing a hummingbird in real wildlife. Counting this one, I have now seen two. I click its picture by blinking and file it in my mental notes.
“Ruby-throated hummingbird.”
I shriek and almost impale myself on the fence. “Emily DeCamp,” I say, snatching my bike up from the scrabbly grass.
She stands there like I shouldn’t be surprised to see her. Her blue Magnolia skirt comes to just above her knees, and tucked into it is her stiff, white button-down top. Her arms hang at her sides, one hand holding her notebook. Springy hair bounces down her neck, under and over her collar, and even covers part of her face. Bees could get lost in it.
“You’re coming to Magnolia.” She says this like it’s a fact, but her voice comes out rushed. The eye that I can see through the hair beams with hope.
“No, I’m not. I go to Palm Middle.” I grab both my bike handles and roll slowly out to the road. Emily DeCamp follows me.
“I saw your mother in the office last week.” She consults her notebook.
A Whole Lot of Lucky Page 5