by Beth Vrabel
“For reenactments.” I marched toward my house. How dare she imply that I played with dolls.
“Why do you make them dance or hold them out like this”—she held her arms straight out like she was holding an imaginary doll between them—“while you dance?”
I stomped. “That never happened! And you better stop staring into my room!” Unfortunately, Min’s bedroom window faces my bedroom window.
Min just smiled. When she smiled like that, I could see the heart dotting the i in her name. I stomped all the way home.
“I’m home!” I called up the stairs. “Breaking news! Something is going down at the park!”
I paused on the second step next to a cracked-open box
of kitchen supplies. Mom’s style of unpacking seemed to be mostly find-what-you-need-and-leave-the-rest. The whole house
was sprinkled with half-empty boxes.
I stood there, waiting. If Mom was having a bad writing day, she’d answer within five seconds. And her answer would actually apply to what she had just heard. If she was having a good writing day, it’d take about a minute for the words I’d said to push past the ones she was lacing together for her story. But even then, she wouldn’t totally have heard what I said, her mind clouded by what she was imagining, so the reply would be something totally unrelated.
She hadn’t always been like that. She used to talk out her stories with me, telling me all about why she had decided to put some information up higher and other details toward the bottom of the article she was working on. But that was when she had been writing news stories, not a whole novel.
It also had been when Dad was still around. A lot had changed since he left. Sometimes I felt like everything had changed. The only time things felt right was when I was on those swings. I kicked one of the boxes in the hall; maybe Mom had accidentally packed up her usual self inside one.
I watched my phone. A minute passed. Thirty more
seconds. Then, “Hi, Nellie! Yes, soup for dinner tonight!”
I sighed. It had been a good writing day. That hadn’t happened in a while, so I couldn’t be too upset. But I really wanted to hash out what could be going on at the park with a seasoned reporter like her. I thumbed through my contacts, my finger hovering over Dad’s info. I pushed the phone back
in my pocket.
Sometimes you’ve got to scout out your sources through the back door. That was another of Dad’s sayings. He didn’t mean actually showing up at people’s back door, though. Fact: That could get a person arrested. No, he meant that if you couldn’t speak directly to a source, you should be clever about it. Find a different way to get to the information you needed.
What I needed was to know more about Bear Creek Park. The best way would be to talk to a town expert—a reporter in Bear Creek. Mom had started a local newspaper subscription the day we moved to town, but I hadn’t been impressed with the coverage. Mostly it seemed to focus on spaghetti suppers at the Episcopalian church. I also hadn’t figured out where the newsroom was located. Most likely downtown.
Music drifted from the house across the street and in our open living room window. I squatted on the stairs so I could see through the curtains to the road. A boy my age named Thom lived there; I had seen him walking from the big brown barn in his backyard to his rambling blue house. Strings of yellow lights lit the path between the two. The barn looked as rundown as my house, but the house was robin-egg cheery. There were patchwork-like flowers blooming in all different colors in window boxes under every window. When we first pulled into our driveway in the moving truck, I had hopped out of the car and jumped up and down. “I love it!” I had said, thinking Thom’s house was ours. Mrs. Kim-Franklin (of course she had been waiting for us in the driveway) had crossed her arms when my face crumpled as I realized my mistake. She calls Thom’s home an “unorthodox Colonial.” But the jutting-out sections and the windows of all different sizes are what I loved most about it—it reminded me of when Dad would call out to a reporter that he had a few more inches to fill on the page, meaning the reporter could go into more detail. Almost always the reporter would do a little wiggle or fist pump, excited to tack on to the story.
I stared at the house again. Okay, so I liked Thom’s house. But actually going over there and talking to Thom? And his moms? I filled up my lungs.
Another of Dad’s sayings trickled through my mind along with the country music from across the street. This one wasn’t about being a reporter. It was about being a friend. You’ve got to put yourself out there, Nellie.
Not that making friends was scary. It was just not something I enjoyed. Being around someone my age usually ended with me trying over and over again to come up with something to say next before finally asking where the kid’s parents were and hanging out with them until my parents could come get me.
I liked the idea of friends, of course, but when I was around a lot of people my age, I found that I’d rather be by myself—most of the time. My heart squished a little. The truth was, maybe I did want to have a friend, a real friend, one that I made myself. I turned back to the stairs, knocking the boxes.
Being brave doesn’t mean you aren’t scared, Nellie. It means you can be scared and do what you need to do anyway.
“Mom!” I called up the stairs. “I’m going over to Thom’s house.”
It wasn’t like I was going to go over there just to make a friend. Or hang out in a cozy house. I had a story to scout.
Mom’s voice floated down the stairs. “M’kay.”
I EASED OPEN THE back door and gently pulled it shut behind me. Then I flattened myself against the side of the house until I was on the far side, away from Min’s house. At the front of the house, pressed once again to its side, I checked to see if I could spot any movement from the Kim-Franklin house, being sure to check the third-floor window that overlooked the yard. She was always looking, that Min.
Satisfied, I darted across the street.
I stood by a huge oak tree in Thom’s side yard. The barn was in front of me, and I could smell the hay his moms kept there for the goat. I could also smell the goat. A black cat threaded between my legs while I stood there. I figured Thom was in the barn because I had spotted him walking in that direction while I was inside my house, but I didn’t know whether to go straight there. It’d be like admitting I was going all Min-like and spying on him, when really, I had just been staring out my window and happened to notice him.
Plus, the music coming from his house wasn’t awful. And the longer I stood there, the more I heard—like one of his moms telling a story and the other laughing. I also smelled a roast beef dinner. I hadn’t had a roast beef dinner in a long time. I licked my lips, considering what to do.
“Which way you gonna go?” The voice drifted down
from above.
“God?” I gasped.
Just then something dropped down from the tree. Thom.
He was eleven years old, just like me, but much taller. Skinnier, too. His honey-colored hair flew up as he fell and then flopped back over his forehead to where his dark eyelashes mixed with his bangs. He was wearing jeans that looked like he had cut them into shorts while wearing them. His T-shirt was covered in old paint splotches. I realized he was watching me as closely as I was him. I glanced down to see what he was seeing—my gray shorts, black T-shirt, gray sneakers. I liked the monotone look.
As Thom continued to stare at me, I realized he was waiting for an answer to his question. “Oh, I just have a couple questions, you know.”
“I don’t know,” Thom said.
“What were you doing up there?” I asked and pointed at the tree. It was dusk, and under the tree canopy, it was already shadowy.
“That’s what you came over to ask?” Thom replied.
“I thought you were in your barn,” I said.
This time, Thom was the one who took too long to respond. “I’m not,” he finally said.
“Yeah, I know,” I said.
“Did you co
me over to see if I was in my barn?” Thom’s eyebrow popped up under his shaggy hair.
“No.”
He stared at me.
“I’m, um, here to find out some information.”
“Thom!” called a voice from the house. “Time for dinner.”
“Coming!” he answered.
“I’ll stop by another time,” I said, then dragged in a big roast beef breath.
“Why don’t you come for dinner?” Thom turned back to the house. “Ma! Can a friend come for dinner?” he shouted before I could answer. Maybe he knew it would take me a while. Wait. Was I a friend? I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from asking out loud.
“Of course!” his mom shouted. The back door, painted magenta, flew open. “Come on, guys! Thom, I need you to whip the potatoes.”
“Are you coming?” Thom asked. By the time he turned back to me, I already was texting Mom that she could have all the soup; I was going to have roast beef at Thom’s house.
When Mom, Dad, and I had dinner together, it had always been pretty quiet. Mom would tell us about whatever story she was working on. Dad would complain about whoever kept forgetting to refill the coffeepot. I’d tell them about school.
Luckily, we almost never had dinner at home except on weekends. Dad would work all evening to make sure the stories were edited and laid out for the morning paper, so usually Mom and I would walk the two blocks from our apartment to the newsroom and have dinner with Dad there. Once Mom even brought a hot plate so my dad could make scrambled eggs and pancakes, and we could have Mom’s favorite—Breakfast for
Dinner. Everyone, from the night janitor to the lifestyle reporter to the police beat, dunked pancakes in syrup and shouted over each other about what they were working on for deadline.
The best was when they jockeyed for more space, each of them arguing why they deserved more room for features or investigative pieces. No, that’s not right. The best was when they’d talk about people calling in with “tips,” such as this one lady who called in every day to report that her neighbor’s yard horse was infringing on existing livestock laws. (When the intern went to dig into the story, she discovered that the yard horse was actually made of cement and when the old man who owned it heard about the complaints, he started decorating it for the holidays. He sent a Christmas card in to the paper the next year—the yard horse was wearing an elf hat and had a red sparkly nose.)
Mom would smile and laugh with everyone as Dad flipped pancakes onto paper plates, and everyone would listen when I asked questions. “Hey, hey!” The police beat would call out if they didn’t. “Little Cub here needs to be heard.”
After we ate, I’d sit beside Dad at the news desk and do my homework while Mom made calls for whatever story she was working on. The half dozen televisions in the newsroom would all be tuned to different stations. The police scanner was next to me on Dad’s desk. The air smelled like old pizza, stale coffee, and newsprint. Sometimes other reporters’ or editors’ kids would hang out in the newsroom, too, but usually I was the only cub.
On really special days—such as election night—Mom and I would be at the newsroom all night, right up until the paper went to press at midnight.
I realized how much I missed the newsroom’s buzzing and movement and laughter as I stood in an orange halo of light outside Thom’s back door. Beside me, Thom pointed to his mother dancing to the music in front of the stove, where she was whisking gravy. Her long silver hair hung in a heavy braid down the middle of her back. When she turned to the side, I saw she was wearing bold red lipstick and dark black eyeliner. “That’s Ma,” he said. “You can call her Sheila. That’s what Gerald did.”
“Who’s Gerald?” I asked.
Thom stared at his feet a second before answering. “He was my best friend.” Thom rubbed at his chest. “He lived in your house. He’s gone now.”
I felt my eyes bugging. “I thought the house could be haunted! I mean, look at it!” I yelped, thumbing to my house behind me.
Thom’s eyes scrunched. “Why would it be haunted?”
“You said he’s gone now. Like, Gerald is no longer…”
Thom’s laughter puffed out of his nose. It took about five puffs before I even realized he was laughing. “Gerald isn’t dead. He moved to Atlanta.”
“Oh,” I said.
“I don’t think your house is haunted. I think it’s just waiting,” he said.
“Waiting?” I repeated.
He nodded. “For you and your mom. To make it something really cool.”
I had only talked with Thom a couple times. Every time he said things that made my thoughts wrinkle. I concentrated on the vibrant color streaming from his kitchen as I tried to smooth them out. “Your house looks warm.” Then my cheeks felt warm at saying something so dorky.
The music switched from country to an eighties band. A different woman sashayed into the kitchen. She carried a tray of salad dressings in one hand. In the other, she held up her phone. “How about this one? Look, he’s so small!” She said the word like smol.
“We don’t need another goat. They stink,” Sheila said. “Let’s get some chickens.”
“Like chickens don’t stink!” The woman laughed.
Thom’s chin jerked in her direction. “That’s my mom. Gerald called her by her first name—Melanie. You can do that, too.”
Would they like me as much as they liked Gerald? Thom smiled at me. “My moms like everyone,” he said, totally reading my mind.
“Hi there!” Melanie dropped the tray and her phone on the table and clapped her hands. She was wearing an apron with softball-sized bundles of brightly colored yarn tucked inside. Crochet needles were stashed in her pulled-back dark hair. “New friends! Hurray!”
“Don’t scare the newbie,” Sheila said. She waved her whisk at me. “Do you like mashed potatoes?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
“Sheila,” she replied. “Call me Sheila. All of Thom’s friends do.”
“You mean my one friend did,” Thom muttered. “He moved, remember?”
Both parents paused for a moment, their smiles suddenly not as bright.
I shrugged. Be brave, I heard my dad say. “Well, now I’m here.”
Melanie squealed and Sheila quickly turned back to the gravy, but I saw her wipe at her eyes.
We were eating dessert—bread pudding with caramel sauce—before I remembered why I had come over to Thom’s house. “Vandals and thieves!” I blurted so loudly that Sheila choked for a second.
“Where?” Melanie yelped. She dropped her crochet needles into her bowl of bread pudding.
“At the park,” I said. “I mean, earlier today.” Quickly, I told them what had happened that morning, with Hank being shoved from behind, the rubber on the wiper blades being yanked out, and maybe even the car keys and sunglasses
being lifted.
“Wiper blade rubber is such a weird thing for a thief to take,” Sheila pointed out. “What could they want with that?”
Melanie shrugged and then reached across the table for more caramel sauce. “Just to be a pain, I guess.”
“I don’t think it makes sense either, but until someone
figures out what’s going on, Mrs. Kim-Franklin’s going to
convince Mom not to let me go to the park. And the park’s the only place in Bear Creek I like!”
Sheila and Melanie exchanged a look.
“The only place?” Thom asked.
I felt my face burn. “Well, I mean, before I came here. Your house is great. I haven’t really seen a lot of the town, I guess. Just the park, really. And my house.”
They exchanged another look. “We haven’t had a chance to meet your mom yet, Nellie,” Sheila said.
“Mom’s up in the attic writing a romance novel.” I scooped another bite of bread pudding into my mouth. Despite the gross name, it’s actually pretty good—a lot like what my grandma used to make and call monkey bread. “My dad’s in Asia, working with a big corp
oration or something there. He’d be all over this story, figuring it out so we could go to the park like we used to.”
“Asia?” Thom echoed. “But I thought—”
Sheila thrust the caramel sauce in his direction. “Have some more of this, Thom.”
He shrugged and poured more sauce on his pudding.
“Oh,” Melanie said. “Well, you’re welcome here anytime. There’s always a place for you at the table.”
Thom stirred beside me, shuffling in his seat a little. “I could, um, I could walk with you to the newspaper tomorrow. If you want, I mean. It’s right downtown.”
“Really?” Suddenly Bear Creek didn’t seem so miserable. I caught myself bouncing and clapping like Min tended to do. I cleared my throat. “That would be great.”
THE NEXT DAY—SATURDAY—I HEADED to Thom’s as soon as I saw the lights come on in the Hunters’ kitchen. As I crossed the street, I paused to make sure that Min wasn’t peering out her window at me.
There was a difference, just so you know, between how I was watching Thom’s house and how Min wouldn’t let up on mine. I was watching Thom’s house the way a reporter must monitor a source. Or, in this case, a source that would get me to the source I really needed—the newspaper. Min just watched my house because her mom told her she had to be my best friend.
I paused under the oak tree. “Hello?” I whispered, just
in case.
I jumped when the voice came from behind me. “Whatcha doing?”
Min Kim-Franklin.
Today, Min was wearing a yellow sundress with, you guessed it, ruffles and a matching bow in her hair. I looked down at my outfit. Gray T-shirt. Darker gray shorts. Black sandals. No hair bow. Ever.
“I’m here to talk with Thom,” I said and crossed my arms. “We have important business to discuss.”
“I love important business!” Min bounced and clapped her hands.
Just then Thom opened the back door, an apple hanging from his mouth. After latching the door behind him, he pulled it from his mouth with a loud snap. “Oh, cool,” he said. “You’re here.”