Mac doesn’t say a word until it’s nearly dark out, which surprises me, because I figure she’s here to press for details. She didn’t even bring food.
“I’ll come back tomorrow, at lunch. Some parts I gotta get.”
“Wait. Parts for what?”
“To make it work.”
“It can work?”
“What do you think I’ve been doing all day?”
I don’t know. I don’t even know what I’ve been doing—but the hours have passed, and the sun has risen and set, and I’m still doing it.
“Eventually, you’re gonna want it to work, right?”
I didn’t know that was an option.
She hands me Cal’s jacket and some red paper folded in the shape of a bird. “A hello from Cal,” she says, and gestures toward his window as she grabs her tools and starts away. I look up—he’s there, in the middle of the Rubik’s Cube, pretending not to be looking down. “He’s not gonna quit till he knows you’re all right,” she says.
I tuck the jacket between my knees and tear open his card. There’s nothing written inside, only drawn. “What’s his obsession with wings, anyway?” I say, mostly to myself.
Mac sighs, turning back. “Duh. All the best superheroes fly.”
JULY 24
Cal
“Remind me what I’m supposed to say to her?” Mom says. She’s standing inside our front door, holding a bucket of chicken away from her body like the drumsticks might leap over the edge and avenge their deaths.
“Tell her: School starts in twenty-seven days, and Cal says: ‘The book club is still seeking members.’”
“‘The book club is still seeking members.’ Right. Right.” She presses her ear, sealing the message in. “Are you sure we can’t just give her an artichoke quiche instead of this? I could ask Mac to make it extra cheesy.” She peeks inside the bucket and makes a face like she regrets doing it. “Poor hens.”
“Mom.” I try to sound firm.
“And what if she rejects it?”
“Just bring it back. We’ll give it to someone else.” This is the approach I’ve settled on. I’m not going to stop helping. I don’t think she actually wants me to stop. I think she just wants to control it. So I’m going to follow her lead. If she says no to this, then I’ll just try something else, and something else, until she says yes. I’ll let her decide what and how much, but I’m not going to just give up, because I don’t want her to just give up.
Mom’s halfway down the driveway when I remember the key. “Wait!” I run back to the junk drawer in the kitchen, then race to catch up.
Mom and I discussed the key-offering a lot yesterday. I said Jeanne Ann was unlikely to go for it, but we set up the spare room and stocked the fridge anyway.
Mom balances the bucket on one hand and accepts the key with the other. She stuffs it into her pocket, then smooths over my eyebrows, and pulls down my shirt to get rid of the wrinkles.
“Go,” I say. But Mom just stands there, staring at me.
“I will do as ordered . . . if you give up the beige.” She scans me up and down.
“What?” I try to spin her around. “The beige is fine. It’s a form of expression.”
“It’s a form of blah.”
“I give all color to my art.”
“Uh-huh. Well, thank you for explaining.”
“Do you think Jeanne Ann finds the beige blah?”
“Oh, yeah, definitely.” Mom whips around to face the street.
“Maybe I should’ve kept the leather jacket,” I say to her back.
“Mmm. I don’t know. It looked kinda clownish. Not my best idea. Maybe try something else. Something you pick out.”
“Mom.”
She shrugs and raises a hand in apology as she walks back down the driveway.
“Hey, can I quit the job at Greenery?” I call after her.
She nods, turns sideways, yells: “Mac says you’re the worst employee we’ve ever had. She’s very proud of you.”
I sit on the front steps and watch her go.
“And my paint and pens?” I yell before she’s reached the bottom.
“Cal. Let me deliver the chicken.”
I’m pretty sure that means yes.
JULY 25
Jeanne Ann
Something is wrong. There’s an engine idling close to my head. I hop to the back window in my sleeping bag, knocking over an empty chicken bucket, and push back the shade. Sandy’s headlights are on, and he’s standing in front of his van, folding up his table. He’s never folded up his table before.
I step outside and hug my elbows. The sun has barely risen, and the fog lies low and thick. I expected to find Mom beside me when I woke, but she’s wasn’t. She’s already left for work—of course. I do the math: To get in eighteen hours, she has to leave before sunrise. That’s six hours a day more than she worked at O’Hara’s House of Fine Eats.
Sandy folds a chair.
He stacks the chair on top of the folded table, then he makes trips from his “living room” to his sliding side door, carrying furniture as he goes.
He stops to acknowledge me, looks down at his T-shirt as if he’s lost something that might be found there. It reads: DIM SUM AND THEN SOME.
“I need to take a drive, clear my head.” He runs his hand through his beard. “Ends up that great kiss was not the solution to all my problems.”
I rub the sleep out of my eyes but keep my head mostly down. “See ya.” I kick his tire. It’s the first I’ve spoken to him in nine days.
He’s looking across the street when I pick my head up again. I follow his gaze to the house next to Cal’s. His house.
“That’s it?” he says. “‘See ya’?”
I kick his tire again.
“Well, we’ll have other opportunities to talk,” he says. “I’ll be back. Soon. I just need to feel the road move beneath me for a few days. My wife—Mrs. Paglio—and Cal are here to help while I’m gone.”
He fixes me with a weak smile.
“You have a magnificent scowl,” he says. “I’m sorry you’re still mad, but I understand.”
My fists are balled. “I—thought we were the same.”
He nods.
“No, not the same.” I feel my nose sting and my chin start to shudder. “I thought I was better.”
Sandy stares right back at me, eyes wide like he’s prepared to take all the poison darts I’m blowing his way. “You are, Jeanne Ann. You are. I should’ve told you about me and the missus at the start. It wasn’t right. And I got Cal in trouble in the process.”
I look past him, at his camper. “I bet you have hot water in there too?”
He nods. “With a Jacuzzi setting.”
“Ice is warmer than the water in the public bathroom.”
He looks down. “I thought about sharing.”
“You did not,” I snap.
“I did. Would you have come inside if I’d invited you?” he asks.
I consider this. “No way.”
“That’s what I told myself. I also told myself I’d offer you a room in the big house if anything should happen to that van of yours.”
“Would you, or would you just think about it?”
He holds out a key. It dangles from a chain. It’s the second key I’ve received in the last twenty-four hours. This one’s got a charm to go along with it—a plastic book; I’ve seen charms like it at the gas station, but I get the sense Sandy went out of his way to find this one, to make the match. “I would,” he says. “The room is yours if you want it. I’d have offered it much sooner, but then you and your mom might not have accepted any help at all.”
I squeeze the key. It’s light as a feather and weighs a thousand pounds, just like Cal’s. I tried to give Cal’s back—and the bucket of chicken—but his mom
was adamant that I keep it. I’ll never use it or Sandy’s, but I cannot deny the feeling they give. It’s like seeing two seats at the end of musical chairs instead of none.
“Do you believe me now?” he says.
I watch him pack up the last items. I listen to the slap, slap, slap of his ratty flip-flops and then, as his side door slides shut, his rolling suitcase circling the van one last time.
Sandy comes to stand near me. “Try to be nice to that boy.” We both look across the street. Cal is backlit in his window. It looks like he’s drawing. “Maybe he started in the wrong place. But he’s getting it now. And his only sin is liking you too much . . . and being a soft-bellied goof, like me. We’re not going to let anything happen to you while you’re parked here. If that annoys you, so be it.” That’s pretty much what Cal’s mom said too, the last part. Sandy places a plastic bag in my lap. “Good food.”
I stare at his van’s headlights, swirling with dust and gnats. He walks toward the driver’s-side door.
“I approve of your restoration project, by the way.”
“What?”
“Where others see junk, you see treasure.”
Oh, the cart. “I just see grease.”
“What is grease but the residue of past meals? What are meals but fuel for man’s greatest achievements?”
I roll my eyes, which is, I realize, my forgiving him. Sandy grins, knowing.
“First rule of life: Keep your hands busy.”
He seals himself inside his camper and rolls down the window.
“Hey, Sandy.”
“Yes?”
A seagull lands on his hood and flaps its wings without actually going anywhere. It’s saying what I can’t: Don’t go. I’m here.
“Don’t forget your tea,” I say.
“That-a girl.”
JULY 25
Cal
I stand at the window and watch Sandy pull away, and then, an hour later, watch a puke-green van pull into his spot.
Smoke drifts from cracks in the windows.
Snort, snort, hrrrrr. It grumbles in place. Then, around 7:30 a.m., the engine cuts out and is replaced by a terrible banging, like all the instruments in the world have been played at once, as loud as they’ll go.
Crapinade.
We knew someone would pull into his spot.
But we didn’t plan for this.
JULY 26
Jeanne Ann
I wake up to Mom coughing. It’s 8:30 a.m.
She’s never still here at 8:30 a.m.
“Mom?”
“Kid,” she croaks. “Nice to see you. Build me a roaring fire, would ya?”
She coughs again. A deep, wet rattle.
“You’re sick.”
“Very.”
I kneel beside her. She never gets sick.
“What can I get you?”
“Sleep, hot orange juice, a massage, ten days on the beach in Mexico.”
“I can get you the first three.” I roll down the window for fresh air.
“Careful. We’ll hear the trash music even louder with that open.”
She’s right. I roll the window back up.
“Those are the new neighbors. Sandy needed to take a drive.”
“He told me. Can’t win ’em all.”
Can’t win any of ’em.
I put a hand on her forehead. It’s hot. “You’re working too hard.”
“Yes.”
“We can’t keep this up.”
“No.” She shuts her eyes. “As soon as I’m better, we’re out of here.”
* * *
• • •
I don’t usually look out this window at night—on Mom’s side. It’s too much. All the big houses. All the stuff I’m not supposed to want, but do. Tonight, though, I’m wide awake, and there’s no one to talk to. And maybe I need to see the lights on in the houses across the way.
Mom’s asleep—exhausted—and I don’t want to wake her, not if the music hasn’t. She’s slept away the whole day, through sirens and the new neighbors playing their guitars and drums, full blast. I’ve nicknamed their band the Headache. They’re between sets, and the quiet feels kinda panicky, because I know the noise will start again, but when? I wonder if Cal’s been hearing it and what he thinks. His lights are off, but maybe he’s up there, sitting in the dark, or maybe he’s moved on.
We’re finally moving on.
I’m not the only one awake. Sandy’s wife is up. She’s on her second floor, pacing. She’s got a lamp on. This morning, she brought me cleanser, rubber gloves, steel wool—for cleaning the cart—and purple flowers. “Morning glories,” she said, holding out the flower pot. “For affection.” I don’t understand how she can be kind and want me gone at the same time. I don’t think she knows Sandy gave me a key to the house. When she was here, she said, “You’re getting the best of my husband.” She seemed sad about it but maybe a little bit proud too. I’m not sure what to make of her.
I reach into the top pocket of my overalls and remove the keys—one from Sandy, one from Cal’s mom—dangling them from my finger. I will never get to use them now—but I can feel the relief in my shoulders, behind my eyes, just knowing I could have. It’s like a stone has melted. I don’t have to be here, in this van. I could be there, across the street. They are not going to let anything happen to me. No matter what. No matter how far down we go. As long as we’re here. I know I said I didn’t want their help, but I— Maybe, if we stayed a little while longer, I could convince Mom to let us use a key. She could sleep inside on a bed . . .
I roll down my window a teensy bit, then Mom’s. I know this is risky. The bay sounds nice uninterrupted—the little heaves of tide that jiggle the boats that creak and bump and set the wind chimes singing. The Headache will drown it out again in a moment.
Mrs. Paglio—Sandy’s wife—stops her pacing.
I shine my flashlight on my hand and raise it.
Across the street, a flashlight snaps on in a dark room in the Rubik’s Cube, like it was waiting, waiting, waiting for just this moment to signal back. We could almost be regular neighbors, passing messages through the night.
Tomorrow I’ll return the keys.
JULY 27
Cal
I haven’t slept one minute when she rings the doorbell at seven a.m. I watched her walk over, like a snail with second thoughts.
“You wasted a lot of paper on these birds!” she barks as I throw the door open. She’s holding up one of my winged origami notes. She’s wearing the jacket.
These are the first words spoken by Jeanne Ann to me in approximately 216 hours. Not: “You made it all worse!” or “Get a window shade and leave me alone!”
Maybe that’s still to come. But the jacket . . .
She strides past me, into the house, looking around like she’s seeing it for the first time. She removes her shoes and heads upstairs, slowing down. At my room she stops and rolls her bare toes through the carpet. “You guys could sell tickets to stand on this rug,” she says. She’s got streaks of grease on her hands and under her nails, and her hair is so matted, it looks like it wouldn’t move in a brisk wind. Her eyes are red, but they’re bright.
“Are you okay?”
She shrugs, curls her toes tighter. “Mom’s sick. She can’t work.”
“I wondered.”
She nods and kinda shuffles in place. “At least I can leave the van now.” She half laughs, shoving her hands in her pockets, though we both know this isn’t actually funny.
I stay in the doorway and she sits on the corner of my bed, bouncing a few times.
“And, we’re leaving. So—so I thought I should return the—this.” She pulls our key from her top pocket and holds it out between us.
Sandy said that leaving might be the best thing for them, but I di
dn’t think it would actually happen. It feels terrible.
“But—when, where are you going?”
“I dunno. Mom’s too sick to plan. But she knows she wants to leave as soon as she’s better.”
“Do you want to leave?”
She shrugs. “I never wanted to come here in the first place.”
“Yeah, but—” I can see her leaning away from me, so I drop it, change course. But I’m not taking that key back. “You got all my messages?”
She nods, pulls another paper bird out of her overalls pocket. It’s a little flat but mostly intact.
“You believe what I wrote on them?” I say. “That I’m sorry and—”
She’s not quite smiling, but she’s not doing the opposite either. “If you’re going to apologize like a dope, I’m going back to the van.” She’s still holding out the hand with the key, but I can tell that her arm is getting tired. “I can’t take any more sorries. You screwed up. I get it. You were trying to help.”
“I really was.” She looks mildly amused. “So—”
“Yes, I’m over it,” she groans. “Too tall. Too brown.”
“Beige.”
“Too nosy. Too charitable. Yes. Over it. I missed you.”
“You did?”
She steps toward me and swats at my elbow. “Sandy said I should be nice to you.”
“He did?” That’s embarrassing, and not really what I was hoping for.
“And the chef lady—Mac. And your mom.”
“And that’s the reason you’re here?”
“Nah, I told you, I had to return the key.”
“You could’ve put it in the mailbox. You must’ve wanted to see me.”
She says something in the direction of the ceiling and takes a step toward the door like she’s going to blow past me, but I can tell it’s a fake-out. “You know, you’re really infuriating.”
“I know.”
“And intrusive.”
“Yeah.”
“And you don’t know when to stop.”
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