The Book Charmer

by Karen Hawkins

  Grace saw red a lot. Sometimes the color floated above her, not hot as she’d always thought anger would be, but icy and frozen, a blast of frigid air waiting to drop on her head and freeze her mid-flight. And when it happened, when the red enveloped her and threatened to trap her in place, she fought, swinging hard fists and kicking with all her might. This time, she’d smashed Mark’s fat nose until it bled. He’d sobbed like the stuffed marshmallow he was until his parents had come running and pulled her off him.

  Through the fading, icy haze, she’d heard Mark denying he’d done anything wrong. Grace had a history of lashing out, so she hadn’t offered a word to defend herself, knowing it would be useless. Besides, she couldn’t blame the Hendersons for taking their son’s word over hers. They were only doing what real parents were supposed to. She hadn’t been surprised when they’d called Miss Wanda and demanded that Grace be moved to another home, although they hoped to keep Hannah.

  Everyone wanted to keep sweet, blond-haired, blue-eyed Hannah, and no one wanted wild, brown-haired, brown-eyed Grace. When Miss Wanda had explained that Grace and Hannah were sisters and had to be together, the Hendersons had let them both go. And so, here they were. Homeless again.

  The miles sped by outside the car window, and Grace pressed her fist against her aching stomach. She knew what was ahead. There’d be another home with different rules from the last, rules she and Hannah were somehow already supposed to know. And another school with whispering girls and mocking boys who’d notice their choppy haircuts and hand-me-down clothes and regard them as losers. And teachers who would frown at such late, end-of-the-year transfers and shake their heads when they realized how far behind both girls were. That was the price one paid for moving schools: being either too behind or too ahead. It was always one or the other. And not being accepted was the price one paid for not already belonging. There was no cure for it. It was how it was, and how it would always be.

  Suddenly tired, Grace leaned her head against the window and saw that Miss Wanda was looking in the rearview mirror at Hannah. The caseworker’s face softened until it reminded Grace of fresh-baked bread.

  People always did that when they looked at Hannah. While Grace fought her way through life, her hair tangled and her fists tight, Hannah floated along on a silver cloud, her feet never muddy, her hair as silky smooth as her smile. She never allowed other people and their harsh words to affect her. Grace was proud her little sister was able to keep the muck of their life from splattering onto her smiles.

  For Grace, Hannah was everything. And so long as Hannah loved her, Grace would find the strength to deal with the rest of the stuff they had to put up with. They were a family, the two of them, and no one could change that. When Grace grew up, she’d take care of them both. She’d get a job, one with a desk and folders and Post-it notes, and she and Hannah would have enough food and the best clothes and house that money could buy and they’d live together forever.

  Miss Wanda turned the rusty Honda onto a long, narrow dirt road. The car bumped along the drive, kicking up enough dust to dim the morning sun. When they reached the end of the road and parked, the dust settled around them, coating the car in a reddish haze.

  Grace craned her neck to look out the window. A chipped, white-painted house sat in a yard packed with flowers of every kind and color, captured in place by a crooked white picket fence. Three mutts pressed their noses through the slats, tongues lolling as they panted heavily.

  Miss Wanda opened their door and then waddled to the trunk to get their duffel bags while Grace helped Hannah with her seat belt. They climbed out of the car into the moist, humid air.

  Grace held Hannah’s hand, which was hot and a little sticky from the peppermints Miss Wanda had given them when she’d first picked them up.

  “Good lord!” Miss Wanda huffed as she hauled their bags from her trunk. “Grace, what’s in your bag? It weighs a ton.”

  Grace didn’t answer. Up until a year ago, everything she’d owned hadn’t been enough to fill her bag more than a third of the way full. But now it was stuffed with important things she’d started collecting for when she and Hannah had their own home. The things weren’t new, but Grace would replace them after she got her first paycheck. Right now, inside the duffel bag were two slightly stained mugs rescued from a trash can at school, two forks and spoons taken from a church dinner when no one was watching, and a dented pot she’d found in the weeds behind a parking lot while waiting for Mrs. Henderson to finish a meeting. There were other things, too—a forgotten beach towel she’d found in a moldy box in the Hendersons’ garage, a shiny canister that had once held dog biscuits but had been thrown out when the seal had stretched, and other items, all ready for when she and Hannah were old enough to strike out on their own. Grace wished that time was now.

  Face red from exertion, Miss Wanda dropped the duffel bags beside the car and took a deep breath. “There. We’re unloaded.” She proffered another fake smile. “Smell that fresh air? This is much better than being in the city, isn’t it? I think you’ll like living with Mrs. Giano.”

  Grace stared past her to the house, which, despite the cacophony of flowers in the yard, had a tired, baked-in-the-sun air. “That’s not a house. It’s a shack.”

  Miss Wanda flushed. “Grace Wheeler, you shut your mouth! Mrs. Giano may not be as well-off as some of the other foster parents, but she has a sufficient income and is very good with the children she takes.” The caseworker hesitated and then added in a defensive tone, “I’ve known Mrs. Giano since I was a little girl. In fact, I’m the one who talked her into being a foster parent. We grew up in the same town, and while she may be a little different, she’s kind and smart and . . .” As Miss Wanda’s voice trailed off, her gaze moved to the house. After a moment, she added in a murmur, as if talking to herself, “She’s special.”

  Unimpressed, Grace looked at the yard, where the flowers crowded toward the small house as if trying to climb in. One vine had even managed to find a hold on the peeling paint of a clapboard wall and looked like it was tapping on the window. The dogs panted loudly in the quiet, watching them through the cracks in the faded wood fence, their wagging tails stirring the flowers.

  Everything was unfamiliar and awkward and new. Grace was tired of new. She wanted something familiar and comfortable, although right now, she couldn’t think of anything that was either of those. The urge to run shivered through her. “No. We don’t want to stay here.”

  “Want? Lord, child, you’ll be lucky if you’re allowed to stay. Mrs. Giano’s very picky about who she takes.”

  “She gets to pick?”

  Miss Wanda cut Grace a hard look. “They all get to pick. Mrs. Giano only allows certain children to stay with her, and then not many. In fact, it’s been almost a year since she’s had any.” The caseworker eyed the open window before adding in a low voice, “We’re to go to the porch. Mrs. Giano will come and look at you there.”

  Grace’s chest burned. She knew what Mrs. Giano would see, and it wouldn’t be good, at least not for Grace. The red frost hovered overhead. The uncertainty made things worse, freezing her blood while angry, icy strands shot through her body. “I don’t care if she looks at us.” Grace raised her voice. “I’m going to be looking at her, too. And I might not like her, so—”

  “Grace!” the caseworker hissed. “Stop it! If this doesn’t work, then—” Miss Wanda cast a meaningful glance at Hannah.

  The world stuttered to a sudden halt, locked in place like a too-sharp picture. Grace, still holding Hannah’s hand, choked out a ragged “No!”

  Genuine pity flashed across Miss Wanda’s plump face, the tears in her eyes more frightening than anything she’d said. “I’m sorry, Grace, but that’s the way it is. And it’s your own fault. This is the third placement in less than a year. My supervisor has had it. I had to beg her to let us try this. This is your last chance.”

  Hannah looked up at Grace. “What does she mean?”

  We’ll be separate
d. I’ll go to the group home, and you’ll be placed with a family, and we’ll never see each other except for holidays, if even then. And you’ll grow up without me and we’ll no longer feel like sisters, even though we are. That was what Grace should have said. She never lied to Hannah. You didn’t lie to the people you loved. But the horribleness of losing Hannah froze Grace’s tongue and she could no more answer than she could think.

  Her terror must have shown, for Hannah’s expression softened into a faraway look as if she had gone to a better place. Humming softly, Hannah began to turn away, her fingers slipping from Grace’s.

  Loneliness swamped Grace and she gripped her sister’s hand tighter. “It will be fine,” she said desperately.

  Hannah looked back at her, doubt clouding her usually clear blue eyes.

  “I promise, Hannah.” Whatever happened, she would never part from Hannah. Never. I’ll be good. I’ll be good. I’ll be good. A huge pressure settled on her chest, the cold red cloud hanging so low that it fluttered over her, tugging painfully. Ignoring it, she looked Miss Wanda right in the eye. “Hannah and I will make Mrs. Giano like us.”

  Relief flickered across the caseworker’s doughy face. “Good. That’s exactly what needs to happen. I’ll do what I can, but it’s really up to you.” Her gaze softened. “This is a wonderful home, although you’ll be changing schools again. Still, you can always make new friends, can’t you?”

  It wasn’t a question, so Grace didn’t answer. She didn’t have friends. She had nothing in common with the girls in her classes. Their worlds consisted of things Grace had never known, things like birthday cakes, homes they were never forced to move from, and parents who loved them. They didn’t know or understand her world, what it felt like to go hungry, to be left alone for days at a time only to be placed into a foster system that tossed her about like a ball in a game. And she was fine with that, because she had Hannah, who was both Grace’s sister and her best friend. That was all she needed. Just Hannah.

  “Let’s go, girls!” Miss Wanda smiled her too-sunny smile as she picked up the duffel bags, grimacing once more at the weight. She swung Hannah’s lighter bag over her shoulder and lumbered to the gate, the other bag bumping heavily against her shin. She flipped up the latch and opened the gate. “Go on in.”

  The dogs crowded forward, tails wagging as Grace and Hannah walked past Miss Wanda and into the small yard. The caseworker closed the gate and then led the way up the cracked concrete sidewalk to the porch, chatting breathlessly and exclaiming over Mrs. Giano’s excellent cooking and how much they’d like having so many pets.

  Hannah released Grace’s hand, cooing at the dogs as she bent down to welcome wet kisses. She loved animals. At times, Grace wondered if her sister loved them more than people. Grace wouldn’t blame her if she did.

  They climbed the stairs to the porch. It was a rickety place, the porch, but someone had tried to make it pretty. The wood-slatted floor had been painted an ocean blue, and two white wicker chairs filled with plump, colorful pillows sat beneath a window. A small metal table stood between them and held two books, their pages yellowed with age.

  While Hannah continued to coo at the dogs, Grace wandered toward the books. She didn’t like to read, but as school detention often consisted of writing lines over and over while seated at a cubicle in the school library, she’d seen the title of this one before. It was James and the Giant Peach. The second book was fatter, intimidatingly so, the words Little Women scrawled over the cover in sweeping gold letters. Grace wondered how little the women were. Were they just short, or were they fairy-size? She hoped they were fairy-size.

  Miss Wanda dropped the duffel bags onto the wood porch and fanned her red face with a limp hand. “Good God, Grace, your bag feels like you’ve got rocks in there. I—” She sniffed the air and instantly brightened. “Bacon! Mrs. Giano must be fixing breakfast.”

  Grace’s stomach growled, but she ignored it and picked up the fat book. She opened it and was surprised to find that it smelled like cake. She wished she could sit in one of these cushioned chairs and read about little, tiny wo—

  The screen door banged open and Mrs. Giano stepped outside, a fat orange cat following her.

  Mrs. Giano was small and not so young, although her movements were quick like a wren’s. She wore a dress printed with so many flowers that if she’d fallen in her own yard, Grace didn’t think they would be able to find her.

  “Good morning!” Miss Wanda pulled the book from Grace’s hand and put it back on the table, then collected Hannah. The caseworker pushed the girls in front of her, her hands as heavy as sandbags on their shoulders. “These are the girls I told you about. Girls, this is Mrs. Giano.”

  The woman walked toward them, the smell of bacon and pancakes wafting with her. She was short, with black hair so vivid it couldn’t be real, and dark, piercing eyes that seemed to see everything at once. Her cat walked with her, ignoring the dogs that were now falling over themselves trying not to make eye contact, as if the fat house cat was a lion in disguise.

  “Good morning.” Mrs. Giano’s voice was as colorful as her clothing, syrup-slow and rich. She stopped in front of them, hands folded, one brow lifted, no smile on her pointed face. “And what are your names?”

  “This is Grace. She just turned ten. And this”—Miss Wanda thrust Hannah slightly forward—“is Hannah, who is seven years old.”

  Mrs. Giano eyed Hannah for a long moment, and Grace waited for the inevitable gushing.

  But instead, Mrs. Giano crossed her arms over her narrow chest and said nothing.

  Miss Wanda’s smile faltered, and she said in a hopeful voice, “Hannah is a wonderful child. Everyone says so. She’s never in trouble and has very good manners.”

  Mrs. Giano bent to examine Hannah more closely.

  Hannah returned the look, her distant smile never changing.

  Mrs. Giano straightened. “Lord, but you are trouble, aren’t you?”

  Miss Wanda’s eyes widened.

  But Hannah’s smile just grew. “What’s your cat’s name?”

  “Theo.”

  “I want to pat him.” Hannah reached out her hand.

  The cat arched, hissing.

  Mrs. Giano didn’t look surprised. “Perhaps another time.”

  Hannah shrugged and turned her attention back to the dogs.

  Miss Wanda blinked rapidly. “Mrs. Giano, Hannah is never trouble. It’s Grace who—” The caseworker caught herself. “But she promises to be good this time. And she will, won’t you, Grace?”

  Mrs. Giano’s dark gaze moved to Grace.

  Grace lifted her chin and stared back, desperately wanting to say something smart or funny that would make this woman like her enough to let them stay. But the more Grace wanted it, the angrier she became.

  She hated this.

  Hated the feeling she had to plead for food and a place to live.

  That she had to beg to exist.

  To even breathe.

  The longer she and Mrs. Giano locked gazes, the madder Grace got, and the lower the red frost came.

  “Stop glaring!” Miss Wanda hissed, her hand tighter on Grace’s shoulder.

  But Grace couldn’t. She was locked in battle, and she wouldn’t—couldn’t—give up.

  Something silky wrapped around her ankle. Startled, she looked down.

  Theo blinked up at her as if he understood how worried and furious she was, and how confusing it was to feel both of those things at the same time.

  He butted his head against her ankle and purred loudly.

  “Well, well.” Mrs. Giano smiled. “Theo likes you.”

  Grace didn’t know what to say. She watched the cat twisting around her leg, and she was afraid to pet it for fear it might hiss the way it had at Hannah.

  “Mrs. Giano, please,” Miss Wanda said in a breathless, desperate tone. “Give them a chance. I promise they’re both good girls. Grace just needs a steady home life and she’ll—”

  “Pssh
t. I can see the girl myself.” Mrs. Giano’s gaze moved from Grace to the small table where the books rested. “I saw you with the book. So you like to read, do you?”

  For a moment, Grace—so desperate for acceptance—thought about lying, but somehow Mrs. Giano’s gaze no longer felt so challenging. “I don’t like to read,” Grace admitted. “I’m not very good at it.”

  A sliver of a smile crossed Mrs. Giano’s narrow face. “You’ll get better with practice. I promise.”

  I promise, the woman had said. That meant Grace would be around longer than ten minutes. A tiny sprout of hope bloomed in her heart, but the frosty haze over her head rippled a stern warning. She’d hoped before and it hadn’t helped. She knew from experience that hoping was dangerous and painful.

  Don’t give in, she reminded herself. Her jaw tightened, and she said in a sharp tone, “I might never like to read, even if I do practice.”

  Miss Wanda puffed out a muted, anxious noise.

  Mrs. Giano’s gaze narrowed and then slowly moved from Grace’s face to the red frost that hung over her head. The woman’s expression softened and she tsked. “That’s not good for such a little one, is it?”

  Grace didn’t know what to say. No one had ever acknowledged the cold mist that followed her. And certainly no one had looked worried about it. “It won’t leave.”

  Mrs. Giano nodded slowly. “It will take some work, but we will make it go away.”

  Miss Wanda frowned, obviously confused. “Mrs. Giano, what—”

  “I’ll take them.”

  Grace’s chest eased as air rushed in.

  The cat meowed loudly, as if echoing his owner.

  Miss Wanda said in a cautious tone, “Both of them?”

  Mrs. Giano shot the caseworker a hard, impatient glance. “Of course, both.” She turned to Grace and Hannah. “Call me Mama G. That’s easier than ‘Giano.’ Now, come in and have breakfast. I made scrambled eggs, bacon, and biscuits. All of us should eat, except”—she pointed a finger at one of the dogs—“you. You stole some of my bacon from the counter, so you will eat last.”