by Emily Asad
“Sure. How complicated can it be? It’s just a glorified shed.” He drizzles honey on his French toast while George starts to frown. “I figure she won’t need insulation since the house shall never leave the perimeter. I’m not really sure how to align the anchor points of a frame with the cross points of the trailer, but since we shall probably never haul it anywhere, there’s no danger. We’ll figure that out as we go along.”
George shoves a forkful of food into his mouth and chews awfully fast.
David leans back in his chair. “She probably won’t need to vent the roof, either, since there won’t be any weather changes.”
“That does it.” George slams his fork down on the table. “Where’s your pride, son? We don’t take shortcuts. We’re Whitmans. We build the best product, every time, no matter the circumstance.” He stands up so fast, his chair nearly falls over. “Young lady, don’t let these shameful boys of mine near that house of yours. I’ll start you out properly.”
Guess I’m done eating breakfast – he tugs me out of my chair, wraps my arm around his, and then leads me out of the dining room so fast I barely catch Eleanor covering her laughter with her napkin. David, too, tries to smother his victory as he follows us out to the stable.
“Told you I’d force his hand,” he whispers when he catches up, bending close to my ear when George kneels to inspect my new trailer. “I never break a promise.”
I turn to tell him I won’t break my promise, either, but his mouth is so close to my ear, I end up grazing his lips with mine.
His clove scent tastes even better than it smells.
It’s not a kiss, not quite, but we both jump away from each other.
“None of that.” His whisper is harsh and angry. “This is a business partnership. Nothing more.”
“You said you wanted to spend time with me. Did I misunderstand you?”
He won’t look at me.
“Good enough,” George says, kicking the metal frame. “Not perfect, but we can’t be choosy. How are the two-by-fours?”
“Nothing molded. See for yourself,” David calls.
George stalks over to the stalls to inspect the wood we’ll be using.
“Surely you can guess how I feel about you, David,” I whisper. “Could you ever…?”
“Never,” he vows. “I’ll never feel that way about you. You want your house? We’re business partners, nothing more. Not even friends.”
It couldn’t hurt more if a horse had kicked me in the chest. “I understand.”
“I’m sorry for hurting you. Really. But it’s better like this. For your own protection.”
“Okay.” But it’s not. Never will be.
George saunters back to us. “Wood’s solid. No twisting or decay.” He looks back and forth from David to me. “You kids good?”
“Can we start today?” I beg. “Right this minute?”
He beams at me. “That’s the spirit! Let’s fetch some crowbars. Ever used one?”
I don’t look at David as I reply. “Tons of times.”
The middle stall has a door that connects straight to his workshop. David stays rooted to the stable floor. “You coming, partner?” I call, heavy on the sarcasm.
He winces. Maybe it’s his leg – he’s been walking a lot today. He doesn’t reply as he follows us into the workshop.
My biggest dream, the tiny house, is coming true. Why do I feel like crying?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE:
DESPERATION
The end of the month arrives – payday. I can barely wait for English class to finish so I can go pick up my check.
Mrs. Halverson passes back my test, taking special delight to toss it on my desk. Angry red letters scream “F.”
I stare at it in disbelief. I know better than to ask about it during the review, so I follow along while she reads the questions and explains the correct answers. There must be a mistake. I only missed one question – that’s a 98%, not an F. I raise my hand at the end of the review, but she ignores me.
Fine. I keep it there until my shoulder starts to ache and my fingertips start to tingle from lack of blood. Finally, Mrs. Halverson deigns to acknowledge me.
“The machine must have calculated wrong,” I say, holding up my test. “I got these all right.”
“That score reflects your unexcused absences,” she says, her voice icy.
“You took points off because I was gone?”
“For unexcused absences, yes. Do you have a note from home?”
“No, but…”
“So you’re lucky I haven’t assigned you detention or reported you to the police for skipping school. We’ll talk about this later.”
I hate her. If she wanted to be fair, she’d take points off the assignments from my missing days. But to flunk! Other students are staring at me in sympathy. Helpless, I steel my jaw and stare at the scratched wood on my desk.
“…take out a piece of paper,” she’s saying. “Date, period, name. The title of today’s assignment is…”
As I’m scratching the header on my paper, I pause. Something about the date sticks in my brain.
September 30th?
It’s been a month since I started living at the mansion. But more than that… Today’s Mamá’s birthday! I’ve been so busy trying to juggle school and work, I’ve completely forgotten.
My stomach clenches. Breakfast threatens to make another appearance.
I raise my hand.
“Not now, Zenia.”
“Please can I go to the bathroom?”
“Not now, Zenia.”
The pressure on my stomach grows stronger. I would ask again except I’m afraid to open my mouth. I turn around and throw a desperate glance to Diana.
“What’s wrong?” she whispers.
With one hand clamped over my mouth, I lurch from my desk and stumble out the door. I make it to the bathroom just in time, heaving and heaving until my stomach’s empty. When it’s over, I rinse out my mouth at the sink. But I can’t bring myself to go back to class. Not yet, anyway. So I stand there, leaning on the sink and panting.
“Are we done yet?” It’s Principal Lathrop, standing with her arms crossed.
“I didn’t mean to disrupt class.”
She unfolds her arms. She probably expected a rebellious response. Or drugs. “Are you okay?” she asks in a gentler voice.
I just shake my head. Tears spill onto my cheeks. Embarrassed, I wipe them away with my palms. I know she wants a reply, so I choke out the words. “My mother’s birthday. Today.”
“Oh,” says Principal Lathrop. And then again with understanding, “Oh.” She grabs a paper towel from its dispenser and hands it to me. “Would you like to go back to class or wait in the nurse’s office?”
I just want to go home and crawl into bed, I think. Instead I squeak, “Nurse, please.”
But being in the nurse’s office is just as bad as being in class. Worse, maybe, since I’m in a quiet room with nothing to do except think about Mamá. Though I’m awfully weepy nowadays, I’ve been holding most of it in. Now my stoic barrier breaks. I bawl so much the nurse insists I stay there through the next class, too.
“You need to let it out,” she says. “Holding stress in will only make it manifest in other ways. Lord knows you’ve got good reasons to cry.” She offers me a plate of homemade gingerbread cookies.
They smell like cloves.
David smells like cloves.
I burst into fresh tears.
She takes the cookies away. “Is there anyone I should call to come pick you up?”
I shake my head. Who would they call, anyway? Mr. Akakios is out of the country and Amelia would be furious to have her precious schedule interrupted.
Rent is due today. I must get that paycheck! But first I have to get these sniffles and sobs under control. It takes almost twenty minutes before I’m able to say, “I’m ready to get back to class” and look convincing.
As soon as the nurse releases me, I rush to the
bakery.
Although it’s Wednesday, Mrs. Nelson knows why I’m there. She hands me an envelope without saying anything.
My first official paycheck. My joy turns to confusion, though. After taxes, it’s not even $130. “I don’t understand. It’s just minimum wage. My mother makes more than this.”
“You are not your mother.”
“You’re right,” I growl. “Mamá wouldn’t have scrubbed your toilet. I’ve done more, and yet you’re paying me less?”
“Times are hard for everyone. Now get back to school before someone notices you’re gone. That’s right, I know there’s no permission slip for you to skip school. Better go before you get caught.”
I scurry back to class. Mr. Larson’s going to sue over rent for the apartment, for sure!
Inspiration strikes a block away from school. I run back to the bakery.
“How much is a recipe worth? I’ll sell you the recipe for the pastafrola.”
Mrs. Nelson’s eyebrows nearly shoot off her head. “You’ll sell it to me? I thought your mother wanted to open her own bakery some day. I’d be her competition.”
I don’t reply. It’s all I can do to not melt into a pathetic puddle on her floor.
She must suspect I’m about to lose it because she cuts her jibes short. “I’ll give you $300. Take it or leave it.”
I hesitate, desperate, picturing Mr. Larson tossing my mother’s possessions out on the curb like trash. I’m still seventy dollars short. Maybe he’ll let me work off the rest by scrubbing or painting. “Done.” I write down the recipe on a note card while Mrs. Nelson writes another check.
“You going to sell me another recipe next month?”
My eyes widen at the thought. “I hope not.”
I’ve just betrayed my own mother.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO:
SWITCHING
Dejected, I barely acknowledge Gary when he picks me up after school. I don’t know what I’ll do about the other debts. Clearly, my situation at the mansion has changed. They seem to be letting me work in exchange for room and board instead of a paycheck.
My nausea returns. Come home, Mamá – I’m not ready for any of this!
I ask Gary to take me to the apartment, so I’m surprised when we pull up to the bank. Before I can ask, he passes me an envelope.
“What’s this?”
“Your wages,” he answers. “You don’t think Mr. A would make you work for free, do you? He told me to tell you he’s sorry about the oversight and he’s doing everything he can to get your mother back. He says you’ll be paid promptly every two weeks from now on. Oh – and he added a small bonus as an apology.”
My shaky fingers open the envelope. Unlike Mrs. Nelson’s minimum wage, this figure is for Mamá’s regular salary! It’s not enough to cover the credit cards or the car parts, not even with the bonus, but at least the car and the apartment are safe. For this month, at least.
I try to muffle my sobs of relief, but I know Gary can see my shoulders jerking in the mirror.
“He said he’s really sorry,” Gary says.
“Tell him thank you.”
He waits while I deposit my checks into Mamá’s account, then takes me to the apartment so I can water my herbs again. Mr. Larson only grunts when I drop off our rent. I think he was gearing up for a good lawsuit. I’ve deprived him of battle. Jerk.
By the time we get home, I’m giddy. I tease Michael all the way through dinner prep. When Amelia comes to pick me up, I shake his hand and do one of the fancy twirls Nathaniel’s been teaching me.
“What’s that for?” he asks.
“It’s the weekend! I plan to celebrate.”
“It’s Wednesday, you weirdo. What are you going to do, treat yourself to some extra homework?”
I curtsey like a duchess. “Ah, the adventures one can have in one’s bedroom. Fare thee well, good sir, and have a pleasant evening.”
“Teenagers,” he mutters.
George and Henry are at the stables. Since this morning, they’ve finished laying down insulation in the joisting and planking it over with floorboards. Now they’re erecting the first wall. “You guys were supposed to wait for me!” I cry, rushing to help.
Henry wipes his forehead with his rolled-up sleeve. “Sorry. Father got carried away. Worked right through lunch. I had to get Mother to drag him in for tea.”
“I want to learn to do this for myself,” I scold George.
“Absolutely right. My apologies.” He passes me his hammer.
“Where’s David?” I ask, hoping to sound casual.
Henry holds the wall in place so I can secure it. “He’s even worse than Father. Nearly broke his other leg trying to get today’s supplies organized for you. Nathaniel’s with Mother, in case that was your next question.”
It wasn’t, so I try to be diplomatic by waiting for a few minutes before asking if David will be okay.
“He’s resting,” George says.
I hammer in silent disappointment. Each nail pounds an accusation: stu-pid, stu-pid, stu-pid. Why do I want to see him so badly? He’s never going to love me. From the beginning, he’s been clear. Facts don’t mutate. The logical thing is to just quit being in love. Quit it, I tell myself. Like that’s ever going to happen.
I find myself in David’s room. Hammer in hand, arm raised. Oops. I really need to learn how to control these transporting powers I seem to have developed with the ring.
He’s stretching one hand against the wall while the other clutches a chair. He loses his balance and falls heavily on his side when I surprise him.
“Sorry!” I cry, and rush over to help him up.
He waves me away. “I’m fine,” he grunts. Then, with titanic effort, he pulls himself to a standing position. He’s panting for breath as if he’s been running a marathon.
“What were you doing?” I ask.
Bitter amusement fills his hazel eyes. “Attempting to exercise, Miss Zenia.”
“You were fine this morning. What happened?”
“I tend to ignore limits.”
I duck under his arm. “Lean on me. There. Don’t worry, I’m strong.”
“Yes, you are,” he says, trying to muffle his winces, “and yet this is humiliating. I should be the one carrying you.”
His cheeks are pink. It must really hurt his pride to be so dependent on others. “You boys certainly are tall,” I comment as we shuffle toward the bed, trying to control the flutters that pulse through my body as I wrap my arm around his tight waist.
“Mother’s Norwegian stock, and Father’s German-British descended.” He tries to put as little weight on me as possible. “I think we represent all of Minnesota – or at least, we used to. Looks like there’s new blood in the mix.”
He’s talking about my tan. “Lots more Latinos than there used to be, that’s for sure. You should learn Spanish. It’s the language of the future.”
“What about French or Latin? German? I already read and speak those.”
“Spanish covers a whole continent.”
“Oh. What’s that word you use? Bummer?”
I grin. “You should be resting, not exercising.”
“I’m fine. I just need to stretch the ligaments a bit, if I’m going to help put up siding.” He manages a weak smile as we reach the edge of the bed, where he collapses in obvious relief. “There, you see? A bit more practice, and I’ll be able to join the dancing, too.”
I nod in mute agreement, full of sympathy.
His smile hardens. “Don’t look at me like that. I don’t want your pity. If you can’t visit me for fun, then don’t come.”
“Actually, I came for business purposes. I need music lessons. For school,” I bluff, thinking quickly for an excuse to stay. “Don’t you play guitar?”
It works. While I retrieve his guitar from the corner, he covers his leg with a quilt so it looks like he’s just resting instead of injured.
“I missed you for building today,” I dare to say as I pass hi
m the guitar.
He tightens a string. “Father’s better qualified for the project.”
But you’re the one I want to spend time with, I want to tell him. Who cares if the roof ends up crooked?
“Easiest strumming pattern is a waltz,” he says. “You’ll start with an E-minor.”
Strumming is easy enough, but getting the strings to make clear sounds hurts. My fingers falter against the frets. When he closes his hand over mine to help me press the strings harder, the rough touch of his warm, calloused fingertips sends shivers up to my neck.
“Perfect. This is a D chord. Good. Now switch to E-minor. Back to D. Good.” His deep voice rumbles softly in my ear while clouds of his clove-breath float on his words.
He’s nothing like his brothers when it comes to tutoring. Henry’s respectful but distant and only answers questions when I ask. Nathaniel’s always a bundle of fun, no matter if we’re painting, dancing, or thinking up ways to make Eleanor smile. David, on the other hand, is intense and serious. When I make a mistake, he encourages me. Nathaniel teases. I like David’s way of teaching best.
He releases my hand. I continue pressing and strumming until my fingertips burn.
“You’ve got it, Miss Zenia! You’re doing it.”
He’s so excited for me that I turn to look at him. Is he being sarcastic? I’ve never had a boy cheer for my accomplishments before. But his crooked smile is sincere beneath the scars.
God, he’s handsome. Or he must have been, before his accident.
I return his smile. “You’re a good teacher,” I murmur. I turn my attention back to the chords because I’m afraid I could get lost in his hazel eyes.
He scoots away a few inches. “Now try an A.” His voice is cold and professional.
What did I say wrong?
After ten minutes, the new grooves in my fingertips burn. I shake out the cramp in my wrist. “When will I be able to play songs?” I ask, not wanting my session to end even though David seems to have slid into some sort of turtle shell of silence.
“Don’t overdo it your first day. You want calluses, not blood.”
Nathaniel appears with David’s dinner tray. “Zenia! When did you arrive?” He shoves the tray at his brother.