13 Gifts

by Wendy Mass

“Hey, you like Jake Harrison?” she asks, apparently not noticing my Olympics-worthy leap.

  We both stare down at my poster, me trying not to faint from fear, her grinning. “I like him, too,” she says. “Why don’t you put it on the wall?”

  She reaches down for the poster, but I’m too fast. I quickly shut the lid, just barely missing her fingertips. “I’ll do it while you’re at school. Your book’s not there, sorry.”

  She sighs. “That’s okay. It just means I’ll be Emily B today. When you forget your books, you lose points.”

  “You’ll always just be Emily to me,” I joke, hoping to distract her as I push the suitcase under the bed with my toe. Had she really gone in there to look for her book or did she suspect something? Her expression seems sincere, but I don’t know her well enough to know how good a liar she might be.

  She glances over at the clock, then begins rushing around the room shoving various objects into her book bag. My legs are too wobbly to stand much longer, so I sit on the edge of the bed and watch.

  Aunt Bethany walks in, fully dressed and made up already. “Hi, girls. Tara, did you sleep okay?”

  “Yes, great,” I reply, perhaps a little too quickly. “I mean, the bed’s really comfortable.” I inwardly groan. What a stupid thing to say.

  “Good. I know it’s hard to adjust to a new place. Emily, Dad’s downstairs waiting to take you. I’m just going to talk to Tara for a few minutes.”

  Emily dashes out of the room calling out her good-byes. I place my hands on my lap, telling myself not to worry; Aunt Bethany doesn’t know anything about the comic. How could she? Unless … could there have been security cameras in that room? What if they’d watched the whole thing from their bedside table?

  “This came for you this morning,” Aunt Bethany says, handing me a folded piece of paper. “It’s an e-mail from one of your teachers.”

  I never thought I’d feel so relieved to see a homework assignment. “Thanks.” I don’t open the paper yet because I can see she has more for me.

  “I wanted to give you this, so you can come and go as you please.” She places a silver key in my hand. It’s attached to one of those stretchy bands so I can wear it on my wrist. I push it on there now, right next to the red rope bracelet. I see Aunt Bethany looking at the friendship bracelet with that same puzzled look as when she first saw it. Then she shrugs and gets up. “Well, you have our phone numbers if you need to reach us. You have the run of the house, and if you go out, just leave a note. Do you want me to drive you to the diner to meet Rory and her friends later?”

  I shake my head. “I figured I’d ride Emily’s bike, if that’s okay.”

  “You know the way already?”

  I nod. “With all the new towns I’ve lived in, I’ve had a lot of practice learning my way around new places.”

  Aunt Bethany’s face softens. “Moving all the time must be hard. Molly never used to have this need to always be on the go. I don’t know where it came from. Is it your dad?”

  I shake my head. “It’s always Mom’s decision. Out of nowhere, she’ll decide we have to pack up and move. But I’m pretty sure we’re going to stay where we are for a while now.”

  “Good!” she says, leaning over to pat my arm. “I hope you’re right.” She leaves me in the room, shaking her head as she goes, mumbling about how it’s a shame not to give a child roots. I sit there until I hear her car pull out of the driveway. Then I spring into action. I wash up, get dressed, and grab the little backpack Dad gave me. I take a minute to look at the comic before sliding it inside the backpack. The Fantastic Four. I know a little about that one. I think the lady can turn invisible and the one guy is, like, made out of rocks or something. And one guy stretches? I’m tempted to read it, but I don’t want to risk smudging the pages or anything. The cover states that this is issue #12, and that it was printed in 1961. That sure sounds old enough to be worth $200.

  I head down to the laundry room, where everyone leaves their shoes. As soon as I step into the kitchen, I’m greeted by Ray, in green plaid pajamas, holding up a plate of what looks like ground-up … something. “Ready for brekkie?” he asks.

  I’d totally forgotten about him! I shake my head. “Not hungry.”

  “Go on,” he says, thrusting it out toward me. “Give it a burl. I bet you’ll like it.”

  I shake my head again.

  He shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

  I hurry into the laundry room and he follows me, stirring his concoction. “Where are you off to so early?”

  I slip into my sneakers and open the door. “Just riding my bike into town. I want to get there when the stores open.”

  He laughs. “You don’t have to rush. Throngs of shoppers won’t be descending on Willow Falls any time soon.”

  I wish I’d just told him I was going out for exercise. Now he’s going to expect me to come back with something. “You’re probably right. See you later.” I close the door behind me.

  He opens it and calls out, “Stuff downtown can be exy. Before you buy anything, tell ’em Ray sent ya. Ask for the mate’s rate.”

  “Sure thing,” I reply, “whatever that means.” I fling open the shed doors. Nope, the bike didn’t get any bigger. I have to pump the tires again and shake a beetle out of the helmet, but soon enough I’m heading into town. It feels strange being the only kid between six and eighteen years old out on a school day. I wonder if people think I’m cutting school. Or maybe they think I stole a little girl’s bike and am making my (slow) getaway!

  I don’t stop peddling until I reach the corner of Main Street and the alley. Ray was right. I certainly won’t have to compete with many other shoppers. I spot some seniors going into the community center, and two moms pushing strollers into the library. Other than that, though, downtown is pretty empty.

  There are no sidewalks in the alley, and I can’t ride on the broken cobblestones. No other choice but to push the bike. The watch-repair store is closed, as are all the others I pass. When I reach the last one on the right, I lean my bike against the wall and peer into the circle David had wiped off. Angelina’s Sweet Repeats and Collectibles is as full of stuff — and devoid of people — as it was yesterday. I check the times on the door. The sign only says OPEN WEEKDAYS, but doesn’t give any specific hours. Well, I have nowhere else to go, so I reach around for my backpack and settle down next to the door to wait.

  I drum my fingers on my legs. I wish I had something to read. Something other than The Fantastic Four, sealed up tight in its protective bag. According to the cover, they meet the Hulk in this one. I guess he didn’t become incredible until later.

  Not much to look at in this alley. None of the colorful awnings of Main Street, no flags waving from flagpoles, no life of any kind really, not even a breeze. And David was right — it does sort of smell like feet.

  Hunger is starting to creep in, and I wonder if I should have accepted Ray’s offer of brekkie. Still, refusing to eat anything I don’t recognize has served me well up to this point. I pull the backpack onto my lap and unzip the outside pocket. Success! One of the granola bars Mom packed me for the train is still mostly intact. I inhale it, then look up and down the alley for a garbage can. Nope, none of those, either. I shove the wrapper back inside my bag, where my hand lands on a piece of folded paper. My homework! I’d forgotten I stashed it there. At least it will be something to read.

  I expect to see a list of questions on some boring topic or another, but instead, Mrs. Schafer, my English teacher, has written me a letter.

  Tara,

  Principal Murphy filled us in on what happened last week (although some of the details are a bit unclear). Obviously you are going through a difficult time right now, and the other teachers and I don’t want anything to derail your progress at the camp. Our experiences are what shape our lives, and as the great philosopher Socrates once said, “An unexamined life is not worth living.” Therefore, we have agreed that if you write an essay at the end of your program, reflecti
ng upon what you have learned from your experiences, we will accept that in place of individual final exams. You will not be graded on your words, only the effort made to complete the assignment. The choice is yours, of course. Please e-mail me back and let me know what you decide.

  All our best to you in your time of struggle,

  Mrs. Schafer

  I grip the paper tight and reread it through twice more. Progress at the camp. My time of struggle. My teachers are picturing me at this camp for troubled teens, probably alone in my bunk, crying because no one understands me. I’m not sure life in Willow Falls is quite that bleak. Okay, so maybe right this very minute, I’m sitting alone in a deserted alley trying to sell a stolen comic book so I’ll have even the slightest chance of fitting in with the kids in this town, but I don’t think that’s really the same thing.

  If I tell Mrs. Schafer the truth — that my mom made up the whole camp thing so she could leave earlier on her trip — well, Mom would look really bad. So basically, I’d be a much better daughter by taking the offer.

  “How long have you been sitting there?” a woman’s voice booms from behind me.

  I jump to my feet. My backpack goes flying from my lap, and the letter drifts to the ground beside it. A short, old woman with white hair fills the open doorway. Her raised eyes and pressed lips manage to convey both annoyance and amusement at the same time.

  “Um, a while I guess.”

  “Did you think to knock?” she asks. “Or try the doorknob?”

  I shake my head. “The store looked closed.” I swoop down to grab my backpack, and stuff the letter in my pocket.

  She sighs and mutters something about needing to get better lighting. “So what are you looking for? Some vintage blue jeans? I have a mood ring from the eighties that turns green when you’re happy and black when you’re mad. All the teenage girls love ’em.”

  I shake my head and am about to tell her about the comic, when I’m momentarily distracted by a large brown birthmark on her cheek. It looks like a chicken. Or no, more like a duck. And it kind of wiggles when she talks.

  “No? Well, come on in, then,” she says, propping the door open. “Take your time and look around; I’ve got plenty of everything.”

  I glance at my bike on the sidewalk. I guess it should be okay to leave it. No one has walked by in all the time I’ve been here. I follow the woman inside. The store reminds me of Uncle Roger’s room, except a lot less organized. But where his room has a layer of dust on everything, I can’t see even a speck in here. I barely have time to think about how odd that is because the shelves are so full of hats, toys, dishes, old clothes, costumes and scout uniforms, books, art, everything, that it’s hard to maneuver through the aisles without bumping into things.

  “You break it, you bought it,” the woman warns as she walks up to the front counter.

  I steady a foot-tall ceramic figurine of a ballet dancer that I definitely don’t want to have to buy, and clear my throat. “Actually, I’m hoping you’d buy something from me.”

  She gestures to the shelves. “Sorry, but I’m focusing on more selling these days, less buying. Gotta clear out some inventory.”

  My shoulders sag. “Oh.”

  She pulls a large calculator out from under the counter and starts going through a stack of receipts. Is that it? Am I supposed to leave? If she doesn’t buy it, I can’t imagine anyplace else in town that would.

  After a minute of standing there awkwardly, I pull out the comic book and rest it on the glass counter. “Um, do you know where else I can go? I really need to sell this.”

  With an exasperated sigh, she turns away from the calculator and picks up the comic. “Fantastic Four #12, eh?” Her eyes flicker to my face. “Let me take a closer look.” She grabs a pair of rubber gloves from a box next to the register and puts them on. I figure this is a good sign. Then she carefully pulls the comic out of the clear cover and holds it up to her face, tilting it slightly to catch the overhead light.

  “No sign of rust on the staples, corners not blunted, ink is bright, good reflectivity.” She ticks these qualities off matter-of-factly, then lays the book back on the counter and lifts up the front cover. She gently rubs her fingers across a few of the pages, nodding with satisfaction. “Supple paper, no brittle edges, minor signs of wear at the spine.”

  She closes the book and pats the cover. “Near mint condition,” she declares as she slides it back into the covering.

  I lean forward eagerly.

  “But I can’t buy it from you.”

  My face falls. “Why not?”

  “Because I’d have to sell everything in the store to come up with enough money.”

  I frown. “All I really need is two hundred dollars. Will you take it for that?”

  She scoffs. “First of all, I can’t give you two hundred dollars for a comic that’s worth fifty times that. I have my reputation to uphold as proprietor of this fine establishment.”

  Ugh. If it weren’t for Emily’s bladder, I would have had time to choose more wisely.

  “And second,” she says, crossing her arms in front of her ample chest, “I’m fairly certain Roger St. Claire isn’t ready to sell it.”

  My mouth suddenly goes dry. “How … how do you know it’s his?”

  The duck wiggles as she says, “Simple. I sold it to him.”

  Chapter Ten

  Horrified, I reach out for the comic book. But Angelina is faster. She snatches it off the counter and takes a step back. Holding it over her head, she asks, “So what are we going to do about this?”

  I take a few seconds to size up the situation. She’s not much taller than a kid. My arms are long, and the distance between me and the other side of the counter is short. I could easily lean over the counter and grab the comic and run out of the store. But besides not having the nerve to do that in a million years, where would it get me? She obviously knows my uncle.

  I sigh in defeat. “Are you going to tell on me?”

  She narrows her eyes. “The theft of such a valuable item is a serious crime. If I had bought it from you, I would have been an accessory to that crime. Don’t you think there should be consequences to all this? As an adult of, shall we say, advanced years, isn’t it my duty to teach you a valuable life lesson?”

  Perhaps I should have thought this whole thing through a little more. Why hadn’t it occurred to me that as such a big collector, Uncle Roger would obviously have a relationship with the woman who ran the town’s only collectibles shop? I haven’t been very successful at talking my way out of things in recent days, but I have to try. I take a deep breath and try to look as repentant as possible. “I already know stealing is wrong, and I promise I’ll never do it again. Please, don’t tell my uncle. He’s been so nice to me, welcoming me into his home when my parents are gone and everything. I’d feel really bad if he found out.”

  She lowers the comic until it’s hanging by her side. “Your parents are gone? Where are they?”

  “My parents …” I pause, taking note of the concern in her voice. Maybe she’s starting to feel sorry for me. “They left me on my own for the summer while they’re on the other side of the world.”

  Her face softens. Encouraged by this, I keep going. “And I don’t have any money, and I didn’t want Uncle Roger to have to pay for everything for me, and I have to get this boy, David, a bar mitzvah gift, and honestly, there are two or three copies of each comic and I didn’t think he’d miss this one.” Everything I said this time was true, although not the whole story.

  “What did you say your name was?” she asks, placing the comic on the counter between us. I still don’t dare take it.

  “Tara Brennan.”

  She tilts her head at me, in that same way Rory and Amanda did yesterday, like she’s trying to figure me out. I do my best to keep eye contact, to show that she can trust me. I notice that while she is clearly very old, there’s something different about her eyes. Like they belong in someone else’s face. Which, of
course, is a totally crazy thing to think about someone’s eyes, but right now they’re looking straight into me and it’s making me even more nervous.

  Finally she gives a quick nod and says, “Well, Tara. Let’s make a deal, shall we? You’re asking me not to tell your uncle you were about to sell off one of the most valuable comic books in his collection, correct?”

  I nod, a bit worried about where this is heading.

  “In exchange for my silence, are you willing to work for me?”

  “Work — like here in the store?” I look around. It wouldn’t be so terrible to come in here for an afternoon or two. Maybe organize the merchandise a little better. Or take inventory or something.

  But she shakes her head. “Not in the store. I’ve had my eye on a few items around town. Nothing valuable, some trinkets. Bric-a-brac really. It would be your job to obtain these items for me.”

  “You want me to get you bricks? Like, from the side of a building?”

  “Not bricks. Bric-a-brac. The kind of things you see here in the store. A little of this, a little of that. I’ll give you the list.”

  “Okay.” That’s not so bad. So I’ll do a few errands for her. It will give me a chance to get to know the layout of the town better.

  “And to prove I’m not the world’s meanest boss, I’m going to give you the two hundred dollars you were looking for, in exchange for doing this job for me.”

  My eyes open wide in surprise. I’m going to get the money after all, just for picking up some stuff! And I can return the comic to the Collectibles Room, without anyone in the family even knowing it was gone. I’m so relieved I could squeal. Although, like Emily, I’m not a fan of squealing girls.

  “I wouldn’t spend that money too quickly if I were you,” Angelina warns. “Not everyone is going to hand over their belongings just because you ask. You might need to pay for them.”

  I knew it was too good to be true. “You mean the stuff hasn’t been paid for yet?”

  She shakes her head.