Contents
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Acknowledgment
About the Author
Also Available
Copyright
What was it Dorothy said? There’s no place like home. She clicked her heels three times and repeated that phrase, and suddenly everything was all right again. She was home in Kansas, with Auntie Em and Uncle Henry.
I wish I could click my heels three times and be home. But there’s a problem. And it isn’t just that I don’t have ruby slippers. It’s this: I don’t know where home is anymore. Or what it is.
Is home where your friends are? Well, then, I guess my home is Stoneybrook, Connecticut, this little town where I’ve spent most of my life. If a town can be a home, this one is mine.
Is home your family? That makes it tougher. First of all, my family’s pretty tiny. It’s also spread out. Some here, some in California, some in Iowa.
Or is home the house you live in? Hmmm. If that’s what it is, no wonder I’m confused and feeling more than a little lost. Because if that’s the case, Dorothy’s magic can’t take me anywhere.
I don’t mean I’m homeless. No, I’m lucky enough to be living in a perfectly nice house in a nice neighborhood. And tomorrow (tomorrow!) I’ll be moving into a new house, a house built just for my family and me.
So what’s my problem?
Good question. My problem is that I’m not sure that the new house will feel like home. What I want right now is to feel settled, grounded, sure of who I am and where I belong. And I may be wrong about this, but I’m fairly certain that’s what home is all about.
Whew! Am I sounding too deep here? Maybe I should lighten up and start over again.
My name is Mary Anne Spier. I’m thirteen years old and in the eighth grade at Stoneybrook Middle School, or SMS. I have brown hair and brown eyes and I’m on the short side. I’m shy around new people, but I like to think I’m a good friend to people I know. I’ve been told I’m a good listener. I’m sensitive, and I cry easily. I like kittens (I have a gray tiger-striped one named Tigger), old movies, rainy days, strawberry ice cream, and hot chocolate with marshmallows on snowy winter afternoons.
And I feel very mixed-up and rootless….
It’s hard to get away from that fact. Maybe I should just explain. What happened was, my house burned down. To the ground. We lost just about everything.
Who’s “we”? Well, the people living there at the time were my dad, Richard, my stepmother, Sharon, and me. Sharon’s kids from her first marriage, Dawn and Jeff, were in California at the time. They live there with their dad, though they do visit us on vacations. (In fact, they’re due to arrive here soon, but more about that later.)
I was very attached to that house, even though I didn’t grow up in it. I only moved into it when Dad married Sharon, which wasn’t so long ago, but it had felt like home to me.
It was a lovely old farmhouse, filled with history and with the vibrations (please don’t think I’m weird) of all the people who’d lived there in the past. I don’t mean ghosts, although there was one of those too. I just mean I always had a strong sense that the house had been a home to dozens of people before I arrived.
And, as I said, it was a home to me too. Partly because it was a family place. For most of my life my family consisted of just two people: my dad and me. My mom died soon after I was born. I never knew her. And I didn’t know what it was like to have a mom.
My dad deserves two tons of credit. He did a wonderful job of raising me on his own. Except for a few months right after my mom’s death, when he was just too full of grief to see straight and he sent me off to live with my grandparents (my mothers’ parents, that is) in Iowa. I didn’t even know about that until recently. For a long time my grandmother was not part of my life, but now she is again, which is wonderful. She visited us recently and brought along all kinds of mementos of my mom to replace the things we’d lost in the fire. That meant a lot.
Anyway, there we were, my dad and I, for years and years. Then I met Dawn Schafer, who’d recently moved from California to Stoneybrook with her brother, Jeff, and their divorced mom. Dawn and I became best friends. We soon discovered that her mom and my dad, who had both grown up here in Stoneybrook, had been high school sweethearts. We brought them back together, they fell in love again, and my best friend became my stepsister. Sigh. Isn’t it romantic?
After the wedding, Dad and I moved in with Sharon and Dawn. (Jeff never took to Connecticut and moved back to California to live with his dad even before the wedding.) We’d just begun adjusting to our new family constellation when Dawn decided she belonged back in California too. That was a hard idea to adjust to. But I did, though I still miss her a lot. Anyway, now it’s just Dad, Sharon, and me.
I love Sharon. She’s great. She may not be as tidy as Dad and I are, or as organized (unless you consider it organized to keep your car keys in the fridge/potted geranium/whatever spot is handy). Still, she’s a wonderful stepmother. But she’s not my mom. My mom died a long time ago.
So.
Sharon and Dad and I were burned out of the farmhouse and had to figure out what to do next. For a while there was the possibility that we might move away. Dad had a job offer in Philadelphia, and Sharon wanted to go back to school, so it looked as if we might be leaving Stoneybrook.
Happily, that didn’t happen. Instead, we settled for a while into a temporarily available house on the street where I’d grown up, next door to one of my oldest friends, Claudia Kishi. We hired a contractor to create a new house for us out of the barn that had stood next to the farmhouse (it had survived the fire). Then we waited. And waited.
Now our new house is ready. And tomorrow is moving day. I’m packing up the few things I own — some borrowed, some salvaged from the fire — and getting ready to go home.
I hope.
My friends will be there to help: Claudia, Stacey McGill, and Kristy Thomas. Kristy’s my best friend from before either of us could say much besides “more milk!” She and the others have been there for me through a lot: Dawn’s moving away, the fire, and my breakup with Logan.
Logan.
I haven’t mentioned him, have I? Well, Logan Bruno was my boyfriend for a long time. We were a great couple and destined to be together forever. Everybody thought so. Everybody but me. I broke up with him not long ago.
Why did I break up with the sweetest guy at SMS? Well, I’m not sure if I can explain, but it had to do with feeling the need to have my own identity — to be Mary Anne instead of just part of Mary Anne and Logan. Has that happened yet? To be honest, the answer is no. That’s another reason I feel unsettled. I miss Logan. I miss how easy it was to be with him, to be part of a couple.
I sound like a mess, don’t I? It’s not so bad, really. It’s just that I feel up in the air about a lot of things.
Here’s another example. Those friends I mentioned? We all belong to the Baby-sitters Club, or BSC. Actually, we are the club, and that’s a new development. There used to be more members. But the BSC has been through a lot of changes recently. Kristy’s still president; that will never change, since she came up with the idea for the club. But our membership has shrunk to four, and while we still take on plenty of baby-sitting jobs (that’s the club’s purpose), we aren’t actively advertising for business. And we don’t meet as regularly as w
e used to. The BSC was a huge part of my life for a long time; its changes just added to my lost feeling.
The fact is, our new house is awesome. It’s huge and full of light and open spaces. The furniture in it is brand-new, and I got to help pick it out. What do I have to complain about? Not a thing, really. Having a new house — a new home — is going to make me feel grounded, strong, sure of myself.
Right?
Or will I feel like a stranger in my own house?
As I was wondering about that, I heard the phone ring downstairs. “Mary Anne!” Sharon called a few seconds later. “It’s for you.”
“Thanks!” I called back as I stepped into the hall to pick up the extension. “Hello?”
“Hey, it’s Kristy.”
“Hi,” I said. “What’s up?” It felt good to hear her voice. I’d been dwelling on my feelings for too long.
“Just checking in. How’s the packing going?”
I laughed. “It’s done. There wasn’t much to it.”
“I guess not,” Kristy said. “Sorry I wasn’t there to help.”
“That’s okay. How did the Krushers game go?”
It was late June, which meant that Kristy was caught up in softball. She coaches a team called Kristy’s Krushers, made up of little kids in the neighborhood. They have a blast.
“It was awesome. Jackie Rodowsky made the most incredible catch to end the game in extra innings. See, the score was tied two-two. The other team was up, with two outs. The count was two and three when Buddy hit one down the left-field line, and — ”
Smiling, I let Kristy ramble on, spouting numbers and baseball terms that meant nothing to me. Some things never change. Kristy will always be Kristy, full of energy, ideas, and enthusiasm. And she’ll always be my friend, even though we couldn’t be more different.
I knew she was psyched about helping me move, and so were Claudia and Stacey. Having them there would definitely help me feel as if I were coming home. And in a few days Dawn would be there to complete the picture.
Maybe I didn’t need those ruby slippers after all.
“Mary Anne!” my dad called.
I put down my pen and shut my journal. “Coming!” I replied. He didn’t have to call me twice. Suddenly, I was starving. It was time for breakfast, time to start the big day. I pulled on a T-shirt and shorts and padded downstairs in my bare feet.
“Morning, honey,” said Sharon. “Sleep well?” She gave me a quick smile as she bustled around the kitchen, packing up a few final items.
I shrugged. “I was up early,” I said.
“We were too.” My dad had just come into the kitchen, carrying a box marked ODDS AND ENDS.
Odds and ends. That was about all we owned anymore. Almost everything in our house had been destroyed by the fire. We’d salvaged a few things, but what can you really do with one half-burned shoe or a waterlogged book?
Friends and family had donated all kinds of things: clothes, kitchenware, even houseplants. You can’t imagine how strange it is to realize your favorite African violet was destroyed by a fire. That’s how it was, though, in the weeks after the fire. Every so often I’d be walking around, not thinking about much, and I’d remember yet another thing — My favorite picture of Cam Geary on the beach! That note from the tooth fairy, congratulating me on my first lost tooth! My green velvet scrunchie! — that had disappeared without a trace.
But it was time to forget about all that. It was time to move on, to face a new life with new things.
“Mary Anne?” my dad asked gently. “Are you okay?”
I smiled at him. “Sure,” I said. “I’m excited about today, aren’t you?”
He nodded. “I sure am. Why don’t you grab something to eat and then we’ll head on over?”
Our plan was for the three of us to drive to the new house early in the morning, to check things out. Furniture had been delivered during the last few days, and we needed to make decisions on its placement. Then we’d return to the rented house and start moving our boxes. That’s where my friends were going to help out.
I fixed myself a bowl of cereal. Sharon offered me a fresh peach to slice over it. (She’s a vegetarian and into that “five servings a day” thing about fruit and veggies.) “One less thing to pack,” she said as she handed it over. I sat down at the table and watched as she finished packing a box labeled SPICES, UTENSILS, CANNED GOODS. Blithely, she slipped in three shoes (a pair of sneakers plus one high-heeled pump), a set of wrenches my dad had been using to work on his bicycle, and a jar of apricot facial scrub that had somehow found its way into the kitchen.
As I may have mentioned, Sharon is organizationally challenged. There were undoubtedly some surprises in store for unpacking time. I pictured myself opening a box labeled BANK STATEMENTS only to find Tigger inside. I suppressed a giggle.
“What’s so funny?” Sharon asked, smiling at me.
“Nothing,” I said, jumping up to rinse out my bowl. “I’m ready. Can we go over there now?”
“Yup,” said my dad, glancing at his watch. “In fact, we should hop to it. People will be arriving here to help in just over an hour.”
We piled into the car, taking a couple of boxes with us (I also brought my pillow; don’t ask why), and headed for our new home.
“One seventy-seven Burnt Hill Road,” I said as we pulled past the mailbox and into the driveway. “Same address, different house.”
Sharon nodded. “Isn’t it strange?” she said, sighing.
We were gazing through the car windows at what used to be the working barn for an old family farmhouse. It still looked a little like a barn. It was a big squared-off building with weathered siding. But now huge windows were everywhere, complete with window boxes brimming with pink and purple petunias. (Sharon was responsible for that homey touch.) And the house that had stood nearby for so long was gone. Vanished without a trace.
Well, maybe not quite without a trace. I could still see where the grass was greener, newer, in a large area near the barn. The area where our house had stood. But the landscapers had done an excellent job of cleaning up the yard and making it look as if the barn, and only the barn, belonged there.
“Well, what are we waiting for?” asked Dad. He opened his door and climbed out of the car. Sharon and I got out too.
“Which door?” I asked. The house was still so new to us that we hadn’t figured out which entrance would be the one we used regularly. There was a front door with a knocker and a doormat. There was a back door too, which opened into the herb garden the landscapers had planted. But my favorite door was the one that opened wide. The old barn doors had been huge, big enough to let a horse and carriage through. Now those doors could slide open to show off our beautiful new kitchen. We’d soon be able to eat around the table with those doors wide open, looking out at the old apple tree I’d always loved.
The tree I’d stood under as I watched our house burn down.
I sighed. My memories of the past seemed all mixed up with my excitement about the future. I wanted to love my new house, but it wasn’t easy to forget the old one.
“Let’s use the front door,” said Dad. “I want to check the new key I had made.”
I followed Sharon and Dad up the new flagstone walkway, noticing the creeping thyme that bloomed purple between the stones. The landscapers had told me it was fine to step on it in order to enjoy the spicy smell it released. “It’s a tough herb,” I remembered hearing. “It can take it.” Still, I felt funny tromping on the stuff. I walked carefully, carrying my pillow clutched to my stomach.
Dad’s key worked, and the door swung open. “Well, here we are,” he said. We walked inside, looking around. None of us had been there since the carpenters had cleaned up. We’d seen the place take shape over the last few months, but it had always seemed like a construction zone, full of sawhorses and lumber and smelling of paint.
“Wow,” said Sharon.
“It’s beautiful,” I said.
It was. The sun shone t
hrough huge windows. The smell of freshly cut wood filled the air. The floors and woodwork gleamed, and the white paint was spotless.
“Look at the curtains in the breeze,” Sharon said softly.
The curtains we’d picked out billowed lightly away from the dining room windows, catching the sunlight. They were beautiful gossamer curtains with a special touch: small pockets sewn in rows, translucent pockets that could hold a leaf, a dried flower, a cluster of berries. Sharon and I had spent lots of time over the last weeks collecting the prettiest things we could find to fill those pockets, and now I could see just how wonderful they looked, silhouetted by the sun. It would be fun finding new things to add to the pockets each season.
“Lovely,” murmured my dad. “You two did a great job in here.”
“You helped too,” Sharon reminded him. “You picked out the couch, remember?”
She gestured toward the living room. We could see it without moving from where we stood, since the first floor of the barn is one huge open space. Dining room near the kitchen, living room at the other end. (Oh, okay, the bathroom has walls. But that’s it.) Amazingly, the living room felt cozy even with the open plan and the high ceilings. An off-white couch, huge and comfy, sat welcomingly across from a small cobalt-blue woodstove we would use for extra heat in the winter. A matching armchair, big enough to seat two people, sat near it at an angle. A rag rug in deep shades of purple and scarlet made the area seem warm and inviting. I could just imagine curling up on that chair to watch an old movie. A side table stood at one end of the couch, where I could keep my box of Kleenex. (I always bawl when I watch old movies. That’s part of the fun.)
“I’m going up to my room,” I announced. Carrying my pillow, I headed up the staircase, noticing again the polished maple wood of the stairs and banisters.
Upstairs were four bedrooms. Two of them were big: one for Sharon and my dad and one for me. And two of them were smaller, for Dawn and Jeff. Since neither of them would be living here full-time, that seemed fair. Sharon and Dad had their own bathroom adjoining their room, and there was another in the hall near the other three rooms. That would be all mine (yahoo!), except for when Dawn and Jeff were here.
Welcome Home, Mary Anne Page 1