Middle School: Get Me Out of Here! (12 page)

I guess I’d been going to Cathedral long enough now, because I actually understood what Mrs. Ling was talking about. I liked the idea of giving something a whole new life. Kind of what I was trying to do with me these days.

As usual, I was sitting in the back with Matty. He was already sketching ideas like crazy, but then he scribbled something on the corner of his page, tore it off, and passed it over to me.

After class, he told me there were a bunch of places he knew where people threw away good junk all the time.

“And we can just take it?” I said. “Are you sure?”

“Relax. We’re looking for garbage, not robbing a bank,” he said. “You worry too much, you know that?”

I thought that was kind of funny, since most people think I don’t worry enough.

Still, he let me use his phone to call Mom. I told her I was going to be working on an art assignment after school, and she was all over it. She just asked if I wanted her to come pick me up later.

“I’ll take the bus,” I said.

Technically, there weren’t any lies in there. I just left out the part about where I was going to be, partly because I didn’t think Mom would like it, and partly because I didn’t know.

I wasn’t even sure what Dumpster diving was, exactly, but it sounded like fun. It also sounded like just the kind of thing Leo thought I needed more of for my list.

And it was.

W
hen I got home that night, the first thing I thought was—

HOLY CROW, WE’VE BEEN ROBBED!

The closet in the front hall was hanging open, there was stuff all over the floor, and Grandma’s place looked like a wreck.

Well…
even more
of a wreck than usual.

“Rafe? Is that you?” Mom yelled. “We’re back here!”

I followed the trail of stuff like Hansel and Gretel on those bread crumbs and found everyone in the kitchen. Mom was shoving piles of newspaper into a garbage bag, Georgia was clomping around in a big pair of high-heeled shoes, and Grandma was at the table, looking through a bunch of old pictures in a shoe box.

“What’s going on?” I said.

“Spring cleaning!” Grandma said, even though it was only November. “It’s time we emptied some of these closets and made a little room for you three around here.”

I guess that was supposed to be good news. I’d been using my suitcase as a dresser, and most of our stuff was still in that storage locker in Hills Village.

But actually, it wasn’t good news at all. Ever since we moved to the city, Mom had been talking about finding a job first, and then a bigger place for all four of us to live. But so far—no job. And now it seemed that we weren’t going anywhere soon. I could tell Mom was thinking the same thing, just by looking at her.

“Hey, kiddos, have I ever shown you my old photos?” Grandma said. “Come over here and take a walk down memory lane. See what a cute baby your mom was?”

Georgia went over to see, but I was still watching Mom. The way she kept stuffing more paper into that bag, I thought it was going to break right open.

“Here’s another good one,” Grandma said. “Jules,
take a look. It’s you and Ralph in front of Hairy’s Place.”

That got my attention. I thought Grandma meant me when she said “Ralph”—but then I saw the picture.

“Who is that?” Georgia said.

“It’s Dad,” I told her. I guess she wouldn’t even remember what he looked like. “Except I thought his name was Luca.”

“It is,” Mom said. She was still cleaning and never looked at the picture even once. “Ralph’s his middle name.”

“Oh,” I said. “I didn’t know that.”

But it did explain a few things—like why Grandma kept calling me that. So maybe she was only sort of crazy and not completely mashed potatoes.

In the picture, my father had his arm around Mom, and it looked like they were still in high school. I’d never seen this one before. Actually, I’d never seen many pictures of my father, period. I think Mom threw them all away when he left.

We hardly ever talked about him anymore. It was kind of a touchy subject, and whenever I used
to ask, Mom always said the same thing: “That’s a short story.” After a while I got the hint and stopped asking.

Basically, the story went like this: My father left when I was four and Georgia was two. That was about a year after Leo died. Once he was gone, we never heard from him again. End of story.

Until now, anyway.

“Did you know Hairy is still in business?” Grandma said to Mom. “All the way over there on Calumet Avenue.”

At first, Mom looked like she was going to say
something. But then she set down the garbage bag, took a deep breath, and walked out of the kitchen. A few seconds later, I heard the bathroom door close upstairs.

“What just happened?” Georgia asked. “Is she mad about something?”

Grandma pulled Georgia up onto her lap. “I think your mom’s having a bad day,” she said. “That’s all.”

But that wasn’t all. Not for me, anyway. I was pretty sure I’d just figured out what my next big thing was going to be.

And Hairy’s seemed like a pretty good place to start.

M
aybe this sounds weird, but I didn’t really spend much time thinking about my father before all this. Most of my life, he didn’t really exist. I mean, not for us, anyway. I was used to not having him around.

But now, after seeing that picture, I couldn’t
stop
thinking about him. What did he look like?

Did he live in the city? Was he rich? Poor? Did he think about us much?