I stop listening. I want to stick my fingers in my ears and run away. What else is he not telling me, and why is everyone in this family so secretive? Where did Uli hide that seed collection? How am I going to find it? It was bad enough when I didn’t have a time limit, but now I know I only have a few weeks to save my grandfather’s life’s work.
I take a deep breath, but it doesn’t help. Nothing does.
“Película is being turned into a Mongolian Hot Pot,” Sofia says. “The owner’s son is in my class.”
I groan. “Another restaurant? But that place is one of the best parts of the neighborhood!”
“The neighborhood is changing, Chloë. You’ll hardly recognize it when you come home.”
“I bet,” I say. “It’ll be weird going back.”
“You’re going to miss Victoria, aren’t you?” Sofia’s voice is soft.
“Yeah,” I say. “I can really see why Uli moved here now, and why Dad wanted to move back. I wish I could be in two places at once.”
“Done.” Dad locks Uli’s door and pats the frame. For three solid weeks, he’s been sorting, selling and saving things, stuffing keepsakes into our storage locker. I’ve looked everywhere for the seeds. You’d think that a man who labeled everything from toilet rolls to elastic bands would have made a special effort with this particular item. But I’ve combed every last inch of that property. Nothing.
“Goodbye, old house,” Dad says. “Goodbye, garden.” He turns to look at me. He asked me to collect all the gardening tools and the plastic bottles Uli used for watering a while ago. I never did. So he just left them. Maybe he figures the landlord won’t care.
“I’m not saying goodbye to the garden yet,” I say. “I’m going to ask the landlord if I can look after it until they get new tenants. If they’re doing renos, we might even get a full summer’s harvest, and we could save the seeds from the crops. Uli explained how.” I tell Dad that Nikko’s agreed to look after things when we leave for Montreal and is also looking for other people who like growing weird vegetables. “You know what Nikko’s like with research. I’m sure we’ll—”
“No.”
“What? Why not?” I ask. “Why would the landlord care if—”
Dad shakes his head. “I know this is hard on you, Chloë. Everything’s shifting, and now I’m asking you to give up yet another place you care about. But you have to trust me on this one. You’ve got to let this go. The longer you hold on, the worse it’ll be.”
“You don’t get it,” I say. If Dad had been around when Uli was telling stories about every last plant—who he’d got the seeds from, and where they came from before that—this wouldn’t be a place only I care about. “If I can harvest the seeds and give them to someone who wants them, then Uli’s work won’t go to waste.”
“Chloë,” he says firmly, “it’s over. I hate to say it, but it’s over. Your grandfather is gone. Nothing we can do will bring him back.”
“But it’s not just about him! It’s about what he believed in—what he lived for! That’s all we have left of him, and you won’t even let me have that?” I take off down the sidewalk.
Dad calls me back, but I keep going.
“Do you know who the landlord is?” Nikko asks when I tell him the whole story. It’s late evening, and we’re pedaling home from my longest bike ride yet. He’s been checking out free piles—stuff that people have piled by the sidewalk—so tonight we’re riding home with three extra bike tires, two cookbooks, a bagful of yarn and a mug with a smiling carrot on it.
“My dad probably knows the landlord,” I say, “but I doubt he’ll give me details. He says I need to let go. Maybe I can check with City Hall? They must keep a record of who owns what.”
“What about talking to William?” Nikko suggests. “He knew your grandfather. He might remember the landlord’s name. Heck, he might even have the seed collection.”
I let out a whoop. “Why didn’t I think of that?” Uli probably gave it to William for safekeeping. It makes perfect sense.
“Maybe we can visit him tomorrow,” Nikko says. “He’s always asking me to run errands for him, and he always invites me in for tea afterward. He’d love having an extra visitor, I’m sure.”
On the sidewalk, someone whistles. “Well, if it isn’t the Fashion Disaster and the Bedbug Queen! A white-trash romance!”
I glance at Nikko. “Someone let the neighborhood chimp out of his cage.”
“What did you say?” Slater shouts and darts in front of us. I slam on the brakes. (I should have run him over.) Two guys step onto the street beside him. The short, freckled one is Griffin from my math class, trying to look tough with his arms crossed over his chest. But I see fear in his eyes. The guy in the baseball cap, I’ve never seen before. He grabs my handlebars.
“Let go!” I shout over the pounding of my heart. Okay, maybe I don’t shout it, but I’m sure he heard me. He doesn’t let go though.
“She said, let go,” Nikko says. “Are you deaf?”
And Slater’s on him. Nikko’s bike crashes to the ground, but Baseball Cap pulls Slater off before he can throw a punch. “Jeez, man! Not here!”
Griffin shoots me a panicked do-something look, so I scream, the loudest helpless-girl scream I can muster. Griffin takes off. A second later so do Baseball Cap and Slater.
A front door opens. The woman looks up and down the street. “You okay out there?”
Nikko gets up, dusts himself off and waves at her. “We’re fine, ma’am. Just fell off my bike. Thanks for checking.”
“Okay. You might want to walk your bike with that load. Glad you’re all right.” She waves and closes the door again.
“Friend of yours?” Nikko asks.
I shake my head. “I’ve never seen her before. I—”
“I meant the thug who attacked me.” He smiles the same kind of I’m-hurting-but-please-don’t-worry-about-me smile that I gave him at the memorial. His elbows are bloody and dripping.
Both of our bikes are on the ground. I pick up his and hold it out to him. “Can you ride?”
We pedal slowly home. “Maybe I should take up kickboxing,” he says.
“Thanks for sticking up for me,” I say quietly.
He launches into an extra-sappy version of “That’s What Friends Are For.” I laugh and join in. I’m going to miss Nikko when we’re gone.
TEN
Sofia has texted me a few times today, but I haven’t answered. Some stories shouldn’t be told in a limited number of characters. I can’t text Attacked by thug from math class. I’ll tell her over the phone, when it all feels more yesterday.
Nikko looks fine when I visit him after school. His elbows are bandaged, and he’s careful about bending them, but that’s it.
“What did your parents say?” I ask when we’re safely out in the hallway.
“Dad told me not to haul around so much stuff on my bike.”
I laugh. “Your dad—Mr. Double Bass—told you that?”
“Funny, right? I didn’t argue though. Keeping a low profile, you know. The last thing I need is my parents worrying every time I go out.”
“I worry every time I go out.” Getting to school this morning, I was a nervous wreck.
His eyes open wide. “Did something else happen? Did he—?”
“Nah. I just worry. I can’t believe he attacked you like that. Sorry again.”
“Meh,” he says. “I survived.”
We climb the stairs to William’s place and knock on the door.
“Nikko! Chloë! How are you?” William holds my hand between his. I’ve barely talked to him lately, mostly because I don’t know what to say. Do I tell him I miss my grandfather more than I thought possible, more even than my mom sometimes? I’ve gotten used to being far away from her. I can call her when I want to hear her voice. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to Uli not being across the street.
“I’m fine, thanks,” I say. “How are you?”
“Oh, the usual aches and p
ains,” William says. “Sore knees, sensitive stomach. Don’t ever get old. But enough of the organ recital. Do come in.”
I smile, and we follow him down the narrow hallway to the living room. His apartment smells a little like mothballs, but there’s something else too. Oranges, maybe. “Would you care for some tea? Kettle’s just boiled.” Without waiting for an answer, he disappears into the kitchen.
Nikko and I sit on a big, brown, flowery sofa. I wonder if William picked it out himself many years ago, or if he had a wife who did. Maybe losing a wife was one of the things he and my grandfather had in common.
“I’m ever so glad you came by,” William says, carrying a tray with two mugs and a fancy teacup with a matching saucer. He places the teacup, brimming with milky tea, in front of me. “This cup was your grandfather’s. Your father brought it to me a few days ago. It’s a lovely memento.”
I try to picture the delicate teacup in Uli’s big, rough hands. I can’t. “Was it my grandmother’s?”
William shakes his head. “No, I bought it for your grandfather ages ago, as a joke. He always drank tea from old, chipped mugs as if he couldn’t spare a dime, even when he had pots of money. I knew he’d never use a teacup, even if he had one—Uli was Uli, and that was one of the things I loved about him—but he always used the teacup to serve me tea. He said it suited my refined British manners better than his rustic German ones.”
I can totally picture him saying that. But when did Uli ever have “pots of money”? He sure didn’t by the time he died. Dad has met with the lawyer about the will. He says Uli must have been barely scraping by the last few years. What’s left will just cover the cremation and lawyer fees. The house wasn’t Uli’s, and the contents weren’t worth anything. “I didn’t know he once had a lot of money.”
“He did. Your father could tell you.”
William and I look at each other like we both know that’s not going to happen, so I change the subject. “I’ve been looking for Uli’s seed collection. Do you know where it is?”
“Now that is a fine question, young lady,” he says. “I must confess I never did share Uli’s passion for vegetables.”
“But didn’t you help him write down the story of each seed?” I ask.
He nods. “Yes, but my interest went no further. I’ve always preferred a can of beans with toast to vegetables of any kind.”
Oh.
“Chloë has a plan,” Nikko says.
I do? I thought this was it—come here, talk to William, and go home with the seed collection. That was my only realistic plan.
“She wants to ask Uli’s landlord if she can keep gardening long enough to harvest the seeds.” Nikko tells William what Dad said about the landlord wanting to renovate before renting the house out again. Now that I hear my plan coming out of someone else’s mouth, it sounds ridiculous.
William must think so too, because he whistles. “Well, you could ask Victor, I suppose. No harm in asking.”
“Victor? That’s the landlord’s name?”
“Why, yes. Perhaps you haven’t met him yet. He’s not often home. He must be doing well for himself, though, if the fancy car outside his house is any sign.”
I look at Nikko to see if he has any idea who William’s talking about. He shakes his head.
“Must be hard on the boy, his father being away so much. I often see him sitting there on the steps—I think he’s about your age—all alone.”
Uh-oh. “You mean at the house across the street?”
“Yes, the gray one with the brown door. Next to your grandfather’s. Victor moved in with his young wife and son not long before you arrived. It must be about a year ago now.”
That old guy who told Slater to heat up the lasagna is his father? And Uli’s landlord? I squeeze my eyes shut. No way am I going to knock on Slater’s door to ask his family for a favor. Dad was right. It’s a lost cause. Somehow I make it through the rest of our visit. As soon as we’re in the stairwell, Nikko turns to me. “So do you want me to come with you when you talk to Victor?”
“You’re kidding, right?” I ask.
“No.”
“Seriously? Slater attacked you in the street yesterday for no good reason, and now we’re going to show up at his house?”
Nikko shrugs. “I can be on the sidewalk with your cell phone, ready to call 9-1-1, if you’d rather go alone.”
“Har, har.”
He looks at me, apparently still waiting for me to answer his question.
I shake my head. “It’s only a bunch of plants, right? I mean, Uli’s gone. He never told me, or William, or my father, where he stashed the seed collection. It’s not my fault he didn’t make any plans for the future.”
“You’re talking yourself out of saving the garden.” Nikko opens the door to his floor.
“I’m listening to my father.”
“You’re letting Slater win.”
“I’m not letting Slater win. I’m protecting myself!”
Estelle’s door flies open. “Whatever you’re doing out there, could you please be quiet about it? Shouting in the hallways is not permitted.”
I scowl at her and head downstairs, but Nikko follows me right to my apartment door and stands there, waiting.
“What?” I ask.
“You have to go see Victor,” he says. “You’ll never forgive yourself otherwise.”
I cross my arms. He’s right, and we both know it. “But Slater already thinks—”
“You’re going to let the opinions of that idiot stop you from saving your grandfather’s museum?” he asks.
“He’s a big, strong, scary idiot.”
Nikko grins and flexes his biceps. “Don’t worry, you’ve got reinforcements.”
“Wow, that makes me feel way better.” But I can’t help smiling.
“So you’ll do it? You’ll go talk to Victor?”
“I guess I might as well,” I say. “I kind of feel like I’ll never hear the end of it if I don’t.”
Nikko punches a fist in the air. “That’s the spirit! Go get ’em.”
What have I gotten myself into?
ELEVEN
“Sure you don’t want to come out kayaking?” Dad asks for the millionth time. He’s sitting on the couch with that box of cords, practicing knots. Every few minutes, he shows me a new one. “This one’s a fireman’s chair, for rescues. See, they slide the body through these loops, and they can lift a three-hundred-pound man this way, no problem.” Then he undoes the whole thing, tries another knot and asks me about kayaking again. What happened to my homebody Montreal father?
“You go ahead, Dad,” I say. “I’ve got a book report to finish.”
But even when he’s gone, I can’t concentrate. I keep thinking about Uli. This afternoon would have been perfect for gardening—not too cool, not too warm. I call Sofia, but she doesn’t answer. I wander into the kitchen and open the fridge, then close it again. In the end, with my book report only half done and the sun already going down, I put on my shoes and head across the street.
Technically, I’m not trespassing, because Uli’s rent is paid until tomorrow, but I know Dad wouldn’t want me here. I relax once I’m through the garden gate. The hedges are high, blocking even the windows of Slater’s house, and I’ve got enough light left to see the paths between the beds. I wander along them, pulling out a sprig of bitter cress here and a creeping buttercup there. Sure, I can name all the weeds, but I still don’t know if I’ll be able to save the plants Uli cared so much about. Tomorrow I’ll talk to Victor, but I have a feeling it won’t do any good.
“Chloë! Are you in there?” Nikko is pounding on our door.
I open up, breakfast smoothie in my hand. “Where else would I be at this hour?”
“Have you seen the fence?”
“What fence?”
“The one that went up around Uli’s place.”
“What?”
“It must have gone up early this morning.” He tells me about the huge No
Trespassing sign and the big official notice saying that the entire block is up for redevelopment.
“The entire block?”
“Victor owns it all,” Nikko says, “the houses, the grocery store, everything. I checked. City Hall has a whole list online of who wants to develop what. And this street isn’t the only place where he’s got property either. His company—it’s called MacIntyre Holdings—owns land all over the city.”
My head hurts. None of this makes any sense. Victor owns the grocery store. Uli and Dad both hate that store…because of Victor? If they hate him so much, then why did Uli keep renting the house from the guy? Why not move to a different neighborhood altogether?
“I thought you’d want to know,” Nikko says.
I shake my head. “So much for asking Victor about working in the garden. If he’s paranoid enough to put a fence around the whole property, he’s never going to—”
“Not the whole property,” Nikko says. “Just the front. You could still get his permission and then go in through the hole in the hedge. I read up about development permits. It takes months to get one. It looks like no one will be doing anything with the land in the meantime, so why wouldn’t Victor let you look after the plants until they go to seed, right?”
Something tells me it’s not going to be that easy.
I wait until Thursday, when Slater has soccer practice after school. Victor’s silver BMW is parked in front of the house. I take a deep breath and climb the steps.
I knock. Nothing. I knock again, louder. The door flies open so fast that I jump backward. Victor doesn’t look happy to see me. His obviously dyed black hair is greased back like Elvis Presley’s. He squints at me through thick-framed glasses. “Can I help you?”
“I’m Chloë. My grandfather used to live next door.” I’m sure he knows that. We’ve lived across the street from each other for months now, but he doesn’t nod or anything, just stands there waiting for me to explain why I’m on his front steps. “I used to help Uli with the garden. I wanted to ask about the plan for—”
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