Eleven and Holding (8 page)

Dear Mr. Jimenez,

The Fourth Thing About Me: here is something that I don't like: C-H-A-N-G-E! You know that big sign on the interstate, when you first drive into Constant? It reads: “Welcome to Constant. Where the Good Life Never Changes.” That's 100 percent not true. The “good life” changes all the time in Constant! Just this week they cut down that giant magnolia tree in front of the library! The Dairy Queen went out of business a few months ago, and they turned it into a computer store. On a hot summer day, I want a Blizzard, not a surge protector.

Everything in my life that was good has changed. My grandmother died, a dirty rat stole her shop, my dad is going to miss my birthday, and I don't even get to go to the same school as my best friend.

If everything in your life is good right now, Mr. Jimenez, all I can say is you better watch out. “Welcome to Constant. Where the Good Life Gets You Clobbered.” I am thinking of having a T-shirt made with that written on the front of it. If you agree with me, I could order one for you too. My dad wears XL. What size do you wear? Did you start practicing your push-ups yet?

Yours very sincerely,

Macy L. Hollinquest

PS My aunt Liv is a DJ at KCOW radio and isn't married or dating anyone. She tried to find you on Match.com, in case you're single. I'm supposed to find out if you are. And if you like country music.

M
om and Jack were crashed out together on the couch when I got home. Mom's work files were scattered over the coffee table, which was also covered in baby snacks, tiny army tanks, and sticky-finger marks. Jack was lying on top of my mom, like he'd won the last round. She obviously had been trying to work before Jack and his army had invaded. I pulled the glasses off her nose and folded them carefully. I studied her face a moment. I hated how sometimes I loved my mother so much it made my heart just ache, and other times the sight of her alone was enough to make me want to slam every door in the house.

I tried to clean up the table just a bit, so she wouldn't wake to such a mess. I scooped up the soggy pieces of cookie, and a banana half that had been
mutilated. Jack was teething again and was gumming on anything he could get his hands on these days.

I closed her laptop and stacked her files together. I wasn't ever supposed to look at her work papers. It was a major rule in our house. It was in case I knew any of her delinquent kids. I'd asked her the other day if she knew a kid named Switch, and she said she didn't. I'd gotten the feeling it was the real truth and not the I-can't-tell-you-the-truth-for-your-own-good truth. Mostly the kids I knew were so tired from sports and stuff we didn't have time to make any trouble. Well, except for me tomorrow. Lying to just about everyone and taking a trip out of town without permission put me right up there with all of Constant's juvies.

Jack snorted in his sleep, startling me. My hand knocked a plastic cup of grape juice over onto a stack of papers.
Dang!
I looked around for a napkin or something to wipe with, but there wasn't anything. I picked up the papers and ran into the kitchen, trying to balance the pool of juice before it spilled onto the floor. Grabbing a paper towel, I did my best to blot the juice off the top sheet. She was going to kill me! It was something from the Everest County Juvenile Court, and it looked important. It had a bunch of kids' names on it—with “Last Known Address” and “Date Fled Jurisdiction.” I wasn't really reading it; I
was mopping it. But the names were beaming up into my brain, whether I wanted them to or not.

None of them rang a bell with me, anyhow. But I wondered where all these kids had fled to.
Jillian Lee Scoates
. . . Where are you?
Terrance Rose Jacobs
— Geez, what kind of parents names a guy Terrance
Rose
?

“Oh! You're home.” Mom padded in barefoot behind me, scaring my wits right into the next state. She looked over my shoulder. “What are you doing with my files?” she asked, reaching for them.

“Oh, uh, I was just trying to clean up the coffee table for you, and I spilled some juice on them. Sorry!”

She took the towel out of my hand and looked down at the top sheet and then at me. “It's okay, honey, but you didn't—”

“I didn't read it, swear!” I said guiltily.

“I trust that if you did see anything by accident, you'll keep it confidential, right?” She sorted through the soggy stack, assessing the damage.

“Yeah, yeah, I know—”

She covered a yawn. “S'cuse me! Oh, Twee called a while ago. I asked her what time she was coming over to take care of Jack. She said six thirty. I told her that seemed really early and hardly necessary. She asked me if I'd talked to you tonight. What's up?”

I quickly collected the dirty dishes from the counter and turned on the hot water full blast. So it was nice and loud.

“I'm going out with the Green Angels in the morning. Real, real early. I need to be at the Elks Club parking lot by seven,” I said. Fortunately, I'd had a Green Angel in my history class last year who blathered constantly about their comings and goings.

Mom crossed her arms and leaned up against the sink. About seven different expressions crossed her face. I watched her out of the corner of my eye as she opened and closed her mouth a couple times. She was clearly trying to decide if I had recently gone insane. She pretty much knew that the only thing that would get me up before eight on a summer morning would be a house fire. And like Twee said, recycling is not high on my list of things I'm famous for.

“Well, I think that's great! You know how I feel about recycling.” She reached over and rubbed the small of my back. “If you're going to be so nice as to do the dishes
and
clean up the environment, at least let me pack you a lunch.” She pulled open the fridge and studied its interior. “Turkey and Cheddar, okay? We're out of Swiss.”

“Whatever,” I mumbled, shutting off the water.

“Did you and Aunt Liv have a good time?” she asked.

“Guess so. We dropped Miss Doodle off at the vet, and then we went to Galaxy Burger.” I paused, and then added, “And we talked about Dad.”

Mom got very busy inspecting the lettuce. She did this to me all the time now. The minute the subject of Dad came up, she'd go mute. Lately, I kept throwing out his name just to prove my point to myself.

“Mom, how come you won't let Dad come home anymore?”

She whirled around, her cheeks bright. “‘How come I won't let Dad come home anymore?'”

Major mother stalling technique #3: repeat child's question.

“How come you won't let Dad come home anymore?” I said louder, much louder.

She closed the fridge door very carefully, as if she didn't want to wake its contents. “Did Aunt Liv tell you that?”

“No!”
I said. “It's what I think! Dad used to come home every month, and now he doesn't anymore. I know he still loves me and he still loves Jack, so it must have to do with you. Why do you always have to be so mad at him?”

Mom put her hands on my shoulders and gently
steered me to the breakfast nook. It was an old booth we'd taken out of Nana's that Dad had set up in the kitchen. It was where we had most all our family meetings. “Okay, Macy, let's talk,” she said, trying to be calm, but I could hear the hurt and anger riding the edge of her voice.

She drew a deep breath. “When you're a little older—”

“When I'm a little older?” I interrupted, my voice sharp. “I still won't understand why you don't love him anymore!”

“This has nothing to do with anyone's love for another.”

“Well, what does it have to do with, then?” I felt breathless, like I was hiking where the air was too thin.

She gave me a long look. And then looked down and studied her hands a moment.

I hated that I was hurting her, but I couldn't seem to stop myself. “Are you going to di
vorce
him?”

She reached for my hands across the table, but I yanked them away and tucked them under my legs.

“Well, are you?” I pressed.

“Your dad,” she explained in a slow, quiet voice, like she was talking to someone who had an IQ of minus ten, “is working on a special project that is extremely
important, and whether you choose to believe it or not, he is not able to come home right now.”

“I am sick to death of hearing you say that!” I said, slapping a hand on the table, making the salt and pepper shakers jump. “Dad would not miss spending my birthday with me unless there was something else going on. The only thing that has ever kept him away before was the
war
!”

Mom took my hand and covered it with soft hands. Her face, usually smooth, looked rumpled, like a T-shirt left sitting in the dryer too long.

“Macy—” she started.

I pulled my hand back. “I know there's something else going on; why won't you admit it?”

She made a teepee with her fingers and then covered her mouth a moment. “The ‘something else' is that he can't leave this project, honey. I'm afraid this is more important than anything right now.”

What felt like a swarm of angry bees flew around inside my head. “I don't believe you! You just don't want him home, and he knows it!”

She shook her head as her eyes filled up with tears. “That's not true.”

“It IS true,” I yelled. “Ever since Dad got out of the service, you've been acting funny. You're always
mad at him, and don't try to tell me you're not! I'm not stupid. I can smell it all over the place.”

She tried to press the tremble out of her lips with her fingers. She nodded. “You're right. I have been mad at him a lot. But that doesn't mean I'm mad at you, and it doesn't mean I don't care about your father.”

She pulled a napkin out of the dispenser on the table and wiped her eyes. I looked away from her face, noticing all of a sudden what she was wearing. She had on a Caffeine Nana's T-shirt.

“Why are you wearing
his
shirt?” I asked, my voice sharp as a shard of glass.

She looked down, startled. “Oh! This isn't Dad's shirt; it's mine. Chuck gave it to me a while back.”

“I know it's not Dad's shirt! I meant why are you wearing Chuck's shirt?”

Mom rubbed her forehead. “Why are we talking about Chuck? This isn't about him.”

“Of course it's about him! Ever since he stole Nana's coffee shop, our family has been falling to pieces. Why won't you admit that?”

Mom sat back in the booth, as if the force of what I said took her by the shoulders and pushed her back. “Honey, Chuck did not steal Nana's from us, and he
has nothing to do with our family. I know you've got this grudge against him, but if you'd give him half a chance—”

“If I gave him half a chance, he'd probably try to move in
here
, too. Gee, he could just take Dad's place. Then he'd have it all!” My voice cracked at the end, all crazy-like.

Mom got up to come over to my side, but I shot out from the end of the booth. She tried to reach for me, but I backed away from her. “I don't want to talk to you anymore,” I said.

I whooshed my way out the kitchen door and into the living room. I nearly mowed right over Jack, who was staggering into the kitchen, dragging his blankie. I leaned over and scooped him up. He was limp and warm, like a little bear cub. I buried myself in his baby sweetness while I tried to calm myself. I whispered into his tiny ear as I carried him to his bed. “It's time for me to go get Daddy, Jack. I'm bringing him back where he belongs. That's an official Big Sister Promise. You can take that to the bank!”

T
he left wing of the old jet was cool and damp in the early morning air. I crawled out on all fours to Switch's “mailbox,” trying not to slip and break my neck before the day had barely started. Sure enough, there were some initials scratched into the metal near the flap. Was it an
S
or a
T
? Then an
R
and a
J
. I realized I didn't even know his last name. Everybody always just called him Switch. But under the initials was a pasted skateboard decal. No mistaking this was his post office box.

I unfolded the note I'd scrawled before I left the house. I'd used my left hand to make my writing look bad, like a little kid's. Like Buster's might look. I needed to throw Switch off track a bit. I'd die of guilt if he found the dog while I was in Los Robles. Twee
would never forgive me. Well, she would, but I could never forgive myself.

I read the note over one more time.

Deer Switch, I remembird something else. The van that took that dog was a pizza deelivary van. I think it wus frum pizza world. You shuld check them out. They took the dog I bet. Sum cute girls were asking me queshtons but I didun say nothing.

Your frend Buster

I folded the note back into tiny squares and shoved it into the opening. Then I swung myself over the side of the wing and dropped into the grass below. Hopefully, he'd spend the day chasing down dead-end pizza vans and end up with nothing more than pepperoni breath. I hitched my backpack up over my shoulders, grinning at the thought.

I took a gamble that Ginger was one of those old people who got up early every day—the kind who have their lawn edged and their car washed before eight a.m. I had to talk to her, alone, without Twee. And this was my only chance.

Last night I dragged one of Mom's psychology books into bed with me and looked under the section
called “Gerontology,” which I knew was about old people. I did a report on it last year in school. About how we forget to appreciate our elders and how important grandparents are to kids.

I had an idea that Ginger might be one tomato short of a BLT, and I wanted to find out if there was a way you could tell for sure. The book listed some questions you could ask to find out if someone had dementia, but I didn't have a clue how I could work the questions into an ordinary conversation. Like, you could ask them what year it was, or see if they could name the last five presidents, going backwards. Bad personal hygiene could be a symptom, and so could loss of strength and flexibility. But those could be from other medical problems you get when you're old.

Old age sure was complicated. I read a bunch of “case studies,” too, but I didn't read about anybody who had a kitchen full of dog food and no dog.

I checked my watch. I still had forty-five minutes to spare before I had to be at the bus station. I wheeled my bike up to her door quietly. The kitchen window was open, and I could smell coffee. That was a very good sign.

The door pulled open wide just as I raised my fist to knock, surprising us both.

“Oh! Lacy!” she said with a start.

“It's Macy,” I said. “Hi—um, sorry to disturb you!”

Ginger was obviously fresh out of the shower, with her hair still wet and neatly braided down the back. Five points for personal hygiene.

“I was just going to fill the bird feeders,” she said, shifting a sack of birdseed on her hip. “Want to help me?”

“Sure!” I said, trying to take the bag from her.

“Oh, no, honey, I've got it,” she said, smiling. “Gotta keep my muscles in shape.”

Okay, she's still strong, and she's agile,
I thought. No big deal that she'd called me Lacy. I couldn't ever remember the name of her missing dog. I followed her around the outside of the house to the side gate leading to the back, and sucked in my breath. Ginger had grown the Garden of Eden in her backyard. It was even more spectacular than the front yard. It smelled ripe with fresh fertilizer, and nearly every inch was covered with thick green grasses and enough flowers to cover the entire Rose Parade. I almost had to shade my eyes from so many bright colors. All along her fence were rosebushes with flowers the size of softballs.

“This is amazing,” I said.

“Thanks, Macy,” she said, setting down the bag of birdseed. “I used to do this all myself. Now, I have to have some help with it.”

“The White House has lovely gardens too,” I said. “Have you ever been there?”

“A couple of times,” she said as she pulled down the tray from a bird feeder.

“Really!” I said, my voice way too enthused. “How interesting! Who were the presidents in office when you were there—both times?”

Truly lame,
I thought.

She stopped what she was doing and gazed off into the distance a moment. “Let's see . . . Abe Lincoln the first time, and then— Oh, what was his name? Oh, yes! James Madison, the second trip.” She looked at me with a big smile.

My heart sank a little. I didn't want her to be crazy. I really liked her.

“I'm kidding, honey!” she said. “I was there during the Carter and Reagan administrations. Just pulling your leg a bit.”

“Ohhhh!” I said, full of relief.

She finished filling the bird feeder and then sat down next to a bed of hot-pink flowers. She patted the ground next to her. “Come sit with me while I do a bit of weeding. What's on your mind? I'm very happy to see you this morning, but I get the feeling you're here to ask me some more questions. I don't want to keep you from that with my silliness.”

“Right,” I said. “The more information I have, the better I can help find your dog.”

And then, of course, I couldn't remember one single question I'd wanted to ask her. She waited in respectful silence for a while, pulling weeds and clipping back blossoms that had gotten brown and crispy.

“So how do you know Chuck?” I finally blurted.

She looked up at me, quizzical. Then took a deep breath. “He's good man, Macy. He's been a very good friend to me. I know you're not overly fond of him, though.”

“He stole and ruined my nana's coffee shop.”

She nodded. “I know it seems ruined to you, but—” She broke off and then shook her head.

“But what?” I asked when it seemed she wasn't going to continue.

“Well,” she said, carefully picking off a small snail from a young bud. “I wonder if the ‘ruined' part is just the plain fact that your grandmother isn't there anymore.”

I swallowed.

She studied the snail up close. “Losing someone you love changes everything. It is really quite impossible to absorb. Sometimes you need to stay really mad about it for a while. Just so you can survive
the shock of it all.” She set the baby snail down on the brick border away from her flowers. She drew a deep breath and looked off in the distance again. Started to speak, but then just cleared her throat hard instead.

Unfolding her legs she stood up, and brushed her pants off. She reached a hand out for me, pulled me up next to her. “But if you stay mad, you stay alone. And when you've lost someone, that's the loneliest place in the world to be.” She gave my hand a slow squeeze and then let it go.

I felt that prickling between my shoulder blades that I felt the first time I met her. “Do you feel alone?” I asked, my voice small.

She put an arm across my shoulders and waved out at her garden with her hand shovel. She lifted her shoulders and then dropped them. “I'm trying to fill it up best I know how, Macy.”

I looked out at the row after row of flowers in her yard and thought of the rows of dog food in her kitchen. I could see how she was trying to fill up every square inch of empty space in her life. So far, I kept all my empty spaces full of mad. That's what I grew in my garden.

“Come inside with me a minute, will you? I have something for you.”

I brushed the knees of my pants as I followed her
into the house. She opened the door to her darkroom and motioned me in. It was very cool inside, and the light was eerie. But I liked it.

“Do you remember the story the local paper did on your grandmother when she celebrated the thirty-fifth anniversary of her café?”

“Sort of,” I said. “Mom has it somewhere. Why?”

“I remembered last night that I took the pictures for that, and wondered if I still had the negatives.” She placed what looked like a blank sheet of paper into a metal tray full of liquid. With tongs, she carefully dunked the paper, so it stayed below the liquid.

“Now, keep your eyes on it,” she said.

I leaned over the tray and watched as the paper slowly began to change. Shadows started to appear, some lighter and some darker, and then little by little, the outline of a face. The eyes came first and held me, and then the mouth and familiar crow's-feet around the eyes. Nana emerged like a ghost from the past, but not a ghost at all. The hundred details of her began to fill in then. A whole life lived on that face. I could hardly breathe. She looked alive.

And there was something else. There in the shadows of the shop, barely visible over Nana's shoulder, a man in a white T-shirt.

My father.

“I'd wanted to use this picture for the piece in the newspaper, but she didn't care for it. Said her hair was a mess, and she wanted to just use the photo of the front of the café.” Ginger laughed, remembering. “She told me that it had weathered the years better than she had.”

“You—you knew her?” I said in a small voice when I could finally trust myself to speak.

“I wouldn't say I ‘knew' her, but I had the pleasure of meeting her. I liked her. She was a straight shooter.”

“I think this is the best picture anyone ever took of her,” I said, full of awe. “It's how she actually looked, you know? Can I really have it?”

“Of course. I made it just for you.”

As she looked at me, I fought an urge to hug her as we stood in that dark private space. But we weren't alone. We were sharing it with Nana and—only I knew—with my dad.

Feeling shy, I stuck out my hand. “Well, thanks a lot. I really love it.”

Ginger took my hand and squeezed it. “You are so welcome. But you need to leave it with me to dry, okay?” She paused a moment and then added, “Twee tells me it is your birthday in a few days. Would you allow me to photograph you two as a birthday gift? The two of you are quite special together.”

“I'm
not
—” I started, and then softened my voice. “I'm not celebrating my birthday. At least not yet. You don't need to give me a present.”

She regarded me a moment but didn't ask me any questions or interrogate me. She just left it alone. I loved that about her.

“Well, take it from an old dame. When you're older, you'll appreciate having a picture of the two of you to remember this summer. You'll be all grown up before you know it. Perhaps you'll allow me to take photos to simply celebrate two best friends.”

With a gulp, I wondered if it would be our last summer together. I prayed Twee would even be speaking to me next week. If I was so lucky, this would be the last double cross I would ever do of her.
That
, I swore on my nana.

My resolve melted like an Eskimo Pie on a hot spit at the sight of the express bus to Los Robles. I bit down hard on my lip and checked my watch. Just in time. I handed my ticket to the bleary-eyed clerk in the window, who ripped it down the middle and handed me half. She pointed to the bus.

I had made myself stay up real late last night baking cookies, hoping I'd be so tired I'd fall right to sleep on the bus. Yeah, right.

I tiptoed on to the hulking metal thing, like there might be a land mine under any one of the steps. Then I stood tall in the aisle, breathing deeply.

Took two steps. Stopped.
Inhale.

Four steps. Wiped the sweat off my upper lip.
Exhale.

Six steps. Pictured how glad my dad would be to see me.
Inhale
.

Eight steps. A wave of dizzy made my knees buckle, and I caught myself on a seat.
Steady, steady.

Ten steps and then no stopping until the end. I moved quickly with stiff, short strides, my eyes on the black rubber aisle runner.

And then on two big long feet in holey socks.

I caught my breath at the sight of Switch camped out on the long backseat—sound asleep, curled up like a little mouse. A crumpled paper bag was halfway shoved under the seat along with his skateboard, a carton of chocolate milk, and some old curly French fries.

His watch beeped and his eyes flew open. He rubbed his head and then caught sight of me staring at him like he was some kind of alien.

“Hey!” he said, reaching for his chocolate milk. He took a deep swig, his eyes never leaving me. “What are you doing here? Need a place to hurl again?” He
wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

“No!” I said, waving my ticket in his face. “I'm going to Los Robles—to see my dad.” I bit down on my lip, hard. My big secret just leaped right out of my mouth like it wasn't mine to keep.

“Cool.” Switch started packing up and putting everything into his bag. At least he was tidy. Some boys would have left all their food junk on the floor.

“Are
you
going to Los Robles?” I asked, trying hard not to sound too interested.

“Naw, I was just hanging out, catching some
Z
s.”

I pointed my head over in the direction of the station. “What if you got caught?”

He shook his head. “Not too worried about that. I know the graveyard guy inside. He's cool. He's a skater too,” he said, his foot finding his wheels below him. “Sometimes I help him clean out the bus or inside the terminal for a couple bucks.” Switch studied me a minute. “So, what's your story? You get on the bus the other day, lose a load, and leave. Now, you're back. I'm no shrink, but you got some problem about going to see your dad or something?”