“Aren’t you going to say good-bye?” Nikki asked her.
“No.”
Nikki spoke to her mother, then hung up the phone. “I think you hurt Mommy’s feelings,” Nikki said to her sister.
“Well, she hurt mine! She’s not coming home for dinner.”
“But when Mommy took this job, she told us that sometimes she would have to work on nights or weekends or even on holidays. It’s a very big job. That’s why she gets paid so well. Remember when she had two jobs and she hardly earned any money? This job is very important. She’s in charge of the whole dining room at Three Oaks, where Flora’s friend Mrs. Willet lives.”
“I know,” muttered Mae.
“I have an idea,” said Nikki. “How about if we eat our dinner in front of the TV tonight instead of in the kitchen?”
“Okay. And can we have ice cream for dessert?” asked Mae piteously.
Tobias called that evening, and Mae grinned when she heard his voice on the other end of the line. “Nikki!” she cried. “It’s Tobias! Get on the phone!”
Tobias told his sisters about his classes and that he had been to a football game the day before. At last he said, “Mae, do me a favor and go make me a drawing. Right now, okay? You can mail it to me tomorrow.” When Mae hung up the extension, Tobias said, “So, Nikki — no word from Dad?”
“Nope. Nothing.”
“Really?”
“Really. You know, Tobias, he doesn’t know you got into college. He doesn’t know you’re not here.”
“Mom might have told him.”
Nikki hesitated. “I guess.”
“So you have to stay on your toes. You have to be careful. Especially when you’re there alone, but even when Mom is home.”
“Okay.”
Later, after Nikki had put Mae to bed, she sat in the kitchen, waiting to see headlights as her mother’s car pulled into their lane. On the table before her was her history book, open to the beginning of Chapter Two. Nikki found herself reading and rereading the first paragraph without understanding a word of it. She heard Paw-Paw’s nails clicking across the floor and jumped, upsetting a teacup. She jumped again when she heard a thump outside the front door. When she dared to peek through the window, she saw a startled raccoon blinking at her.
Nikki returned to the table. What if headlights swooped up the lane and her father’s car appeared instead of her mother’s? This might happen some evening. Her father could come back at any moment. After the previous Christmas, after a horrible scene that had taken place when her father had returned unexpectedly, Nikki had been convinced she would never see him again. Never. But nearly nine months had gone by since then — nine months in which her father might have changed his mind, nine months in which her mother might have written him, and in which Nikki herself had written him. She hadn’t expected an answer to her letter (although she had wanted an explanation for a number of things), but who knew how Mr. Sherman’s mind worked?
Nikki shivered and felt unreasonably relieved when at last her mother, looking tired but satisfied, stepped from her car and crossed the Shermans’ yard.
Olivia liked all of her classes at Central. She liked her teachers. She even liked her homework. If she could simply go to school, learn, and come home, life would be wonderful. But school was so much more than learning. There were all the other students, for one thing, including, at Central, students who were as old as eighteen. Olivia had seen kids driving their own cars to school. She had seen kids who were a foot and a half taller than she was. She had seen girls who looked like ads for perfume commercials — endlessly more sophisticated than Olivia. Then there were the many extraneous aspects of school such as gym class and lunchtime and the trauma of lockers. Olivia imagined a cosmic vacuum sucking out of Central all the things that worried and annoyed her, leaving behind only the good things — learning and classes and teachers.
“Have you figured out your locker yet?” Flora asked as the girls passed the Fongs’ art studio on their way to school Monday morning.
“Technically, no,” replied Olivia.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I can use my locker, but the combination still doesn’t work.”
“How are you using your locker, then?” asked Flora.
Olivia glanced around as if someone on Main Street might be lurking, hoping to gain information about her locker. “I just pretend to use the lock,” she whispered. “I take my stuff in and out, but the locker isn’t actually locked. A locker that doesn’t lock — is that an oxymoron?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Olivia, aren’t you afraid someone will break into your unlocked locker?”
“A little, I guess. But I don’t keep much in it, and I always make sure to twist the dial around so it looks like the lock works.”
“Huh,” said Flora.
Olivia had a pleasant surprise when she entered Central that morning. Without thinking about it, and without consulting Nikki and Flora, she automatically made a left-hand turn, walked past the office, and began climbing the stairs to the second floor. She realized, as she led the way up the stairs and made another left, that she now knew her way to the junior high wing and could get there without thinking about what she was doing. On Friday morning, this route had seemed as unfamiliar to her as a road through a foreign country. Now she navigated it with assurance.
For this reason, when Ms. Garcia, her Spanish teacher, asked her that morning if she would take an envelope downstairs to the office, Olivia rose confidently to her feet, opened the door to her class, and strode into the hallway. She liked the halls of Central when they were nearly empty and she could saunter through them unimpeded. Central smelled exactly like Camden Falls Elementary, and if she closed her eyes, she could imagine that she was back in her old school on an errand for Mr. Donaldson. Olivia did close her eyes briefly but opened them when she heard footsteps. A student, definitely a high school student, was approaching her. She could be one of the perfume-ad girls, Olivia thought, and wondered what she was doing in the junior high wing.
The girl offered Olivia a puzzled smile. “Can I help you?” she asked.
“Um, no. No, thanks,” said Olivia.
“You’re not lost?”
“I’m just going to the office. I know the way.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” Olivia saw the flush that colored the girl’s cheeks. “I didn’t realize you were a student. I thought you were, well, never mind. Anyway, sorry.”
It was Olivia’s turn to flush. She knew exactly what the girl had thought — that Olivia belonged in elementary school, that she was too small to be even a seventh-grader at Central.
Olivia hurried on, head down, watching her feet.
She returned to her Spanish class just as Ms. Garcia handed back Thursday night’s homework assignment. Ms. Garcia grinned as she dropped Olivia’s paper on her desk. The grin helped to lift Olivia’s sagging spirits. She looked at her paper. One hundred percent. Her spirits rose a bit further. She glanced across the aisle at Melody, whose paper had been dropped unceremoniously on her desk, and saw Melody scowl. Olivia tried to see the grade at the top of the paper, but Melody covered it quickly with a bejeweled hand. She glared at Olivia, and Olivia looked away.
Olivia survived another lunch at Melody’s table, mainly because she was separated from Melody by four students. She talked to Nikki and Flora — and to Jacob, who managed to sit next to her by pulling a chair up to the table even though there was barely any space.
It was a day of highs and lows, one after the other. Olivia imagined them as the peaks and valleys on a graph. If she could have taken hold of each end and pulled, the peaks and valleys would become one straight line, and that was her day — all the highs diminished by the lows. Or were the lows diminished by the highs?
Math class delivered one more high and low, and then another incident that Olivia had a bit of trouble classifying. High or low? She wasn’t sure, but since she didn’t want to end her day on a low, she d
ecided to call it a high.
“All right, ladies and gentlemen,” said Mr. Krauss. “Settle down, please. I have Friday’s quizzes for you.”
Olivia heard a loud and annoyed sigh and realized it had come from Melody, one row in front and two seats to the right of her. Olivia glanced at Mr. Krauss, but he didn’t appear to have heard the sigh. He concentrated on walking up and down the aisles, dropping papers on desks. Olivia gazed with pleasure at the fat red 100% topping her quiz. The moment was spoiled, though, when she felt eyes on her and once again glanced up to discover that Melody was looking at her. Melody turned away quickly, though, poking the girl on her left (Olivia couldn’t remember her name) and giggling.
“Ahem,” said Mr. Krauss as he handed Melody her quiz. Melody faced forward, but Olivia could see that she was still smiling.
When all the papers had been returned, Mr. Krauss stood before his class, looking grave. “The results of the quizzes,” he said, “have informed me that you could stand some review before we continue with the first chapter in our book.” He tapped his head. “Your brain cells are still on vacation. We need to wake them up. And so …” He reached for a stack of papers on his desk, and Melody let forth a groan. Mr. Krauss turned to her. “Miss Becker?” he said. “Do you have some sort of issue?”
Melody shook her head.
“May I continue, then?”
“Yes, go ahead.”
Several students laughed but were silenced by the expression that crossed Mr. Krauss’s face. “Miss Becker, please don’t respond to what I’m about to say. I just want to inform you that you are treading on very thin ice.” He reached again for the stack of papers. “These work sheets are a review of sixth-grade material,” he said. “Not everyone in the class needs it, but it can’t hurt anyone. The work sheets are to be completed right now, in class. And since this is a review, you may work with a partner if you like.”
Mr. Krauss, with a number of severe glances in Melody’s direction, passed out the papers. Several students switched seats so they could work in teams. Olivia put her head down and tackled the first problem.
She had finished four problems when she was aware that the boy beside her had left his desk and that someone else had slid into his seat. She felt a tap on her arm.
Melody was smiling sweetly at Olivia. “How come you’re working alone? Mr. Krauss said we could work with partners. I pick you.”
Olivia swallowed. “Me? I mean, you do? I mean, how come?”
“It’s more fun this way.” Melody swooped her hair over her shoulders with a great flourish. “You know, we’re in a lot of the same classes, and I see you in the cafeteria. I even came to your party. But I feel like I don’t know you. Here’s my chance.”
“Okay,” said Olivia.
Melody considered the first problem on the sheet. “Huh,” she said.
“What?” asked Olivia.
“Well …” Melody peered at Olivia’s paper. “How did you solve this one?”
Olivia explained. And then she explained the second problem to Melody, and all the problems after that.
“Wow, thanks,” said Melody when their sheets were completed. And she returned to her seat.
High or low?
High, Olivia decided.
So far, the September weather had been golden and clear, cool in the mornings and warmer by the afternoon. It made Flora think of pumpkins on the vine and frosty fields and piles of russet and red and dappled yellow leaves — even though it was too early for any of those things. But on Tuesday, the weather turned. Gone were the expanse of blue sky and the vibrant sunshine, and in their place were mist and fog and an unpleasantly wet breeze. Flora and Olivia walked down Main Street that gray morning, holding unopened umbrellas, the damp air curling Flora’s hair into tendrils around her face and forcing Olivia’s hair out of every one of its barrettes.
By the afternoon, Camden Falls’s wet weather had settled in like an unwelcome guest.
“It’s not supposed to break for at least a week,” announced Min when Flora entered Needle and Thread after school.
“Oh, well,” said Flora. “I kind of like it. It’s cozy.”
“What time is Mr. Willet going to pick you up?” asked Min.
Flora glanced at her watch. “In about ten minutes.” She set her things behind the counter and looked around the store. No matter how often she entered Needle and Thread — even if she entered it ten times in a single day — she felt a rush of happiness at the sight of the bolts of fabric and racks of buttons, the projects and patterns and trims. Flora breathed in deeply, breathed in Needle and Thread’s own particular smell, and called hello to Gigi and to old Mary Woolsey at work at her table near the back of the store.
“Min,” she said, “I should take something to Mrs. Willet. Something I can talk about when I visit her this afternoon. What should I bring?”
“That’s a tough one, honey. You know Mrs. Willet can’t actually hold a conversation anymore, don’t you?”
“Yes. But if I show her things, she looks at them. And I think she listens when I talk.”
Min smiled at her granddaughter. “Why don’t you take one of the sewing magazines with you? Mary Lou used to enjoy sewing. Maybe you could read to her.”
Flora had just selected the newest issue of Creative Stitches when she heard a car horn and saw Mr. Willet draw up to the curb outside the store.
“Bye!” Flora called to Min. “I’ll see you later.”
“Flora,” said Mr. Willet, offering her a smile as she climbed into his car. “What a treat to have you along this afternoon. I really appreciate it. And so will Mary Lou. She loves having visitors.”
Flora held up Creative Stitches. “I brought this so we can look at it together.”
“That’s a wonderful idea.”
Mr. Willet drove carefully through the misty countryside. When Three Oaks came into view, he wound his way around the complex (Flora noted that the posted speed limit was 17 miles per hour) until he reached the visitors’ parking lot. Moments later, he and Flora walked through the double doors and into the lobby.
“All right,” said Mr. Willet. “We’ll go downstairs and get Mary Lou. You can take her anywhere you like. She’s especially fond of sitting here in the lobby and people watching. She also likes to sit over there” (Mr. Willet pointed to a couch facing out onto an expanse of lawn and gardens) “and look for rabbits and deer. My appointments today will take about an hour. So why don’t we meet back here at quarter to five? Before we go home, I’ll show you my apartment. It’s empty, of course, but would you like to see where I’ll be living?”
“Definitely,” said Flora.
Flora enjoyed pushing Mrs. Willet’s wheelchair through the hallways of Three Oaks. Three Oaks was quiet and peaceful, and Flora felt quite grown-up to have been entrusted with such a responsibility. She took care to walk slowly and carefully (she had once bumped the wheelchair into a wall as they turned a corner and Mrs. Willet’s hands had flown to her mouth as she cried out) and to set the brakes on the wheelchair anytime they stopped to sit for a while. Sometimes Flora walked in silence, sometimes she narrated the world of Three Oaks for Mrs. Willet. “Look, there’s Woody the parakeet. See his cage over there? And here’s the gift shop. Min likes the gift shop. Oh, handmade baby sweaters. Wait, that’s the window, Mrs. Willet. Don’t knock on the glass.” Flora wheeled the chair away from the shop. “Oh, there’s a dog! Somebody brought her dog to visit! Maybe we can pat it.”
They patted the dog. They watched people go in and out of the coffee shop. They peeked inside the beauty parlor. They sat by the windows and looked at the lawn. Every so often, Flora called out, “There’s a rabbit, Mrs. Willet!” or “Oh, I see three deer. Do you see them?”
Mrs. Willet said, “Bumbumbumbum,” and Flora didn’t know what she saw.
By quarter to five, they had returned to the lobby and Flora was reading aloud from an article entitled “Bringing Heirloom Sewing to the 21st Century” in Creative
Stitches. Mr. Willet, smiling, rounded the corner into the lobby.
“Darling!” Mrs. Willet suddenly exclaimed. “Is it really you?”
“It’s really me,” Mr. Willet replied, and kissed his wife’s hand.
Mrs. Willet turned to Flora and whispered, “What’s his name?”
Flora, embarrassed, said, “It’s Bill.”
“Bumbumbumbum.”
Flora waited in the lobby while Mr. Willet wheeled his wife back to her room. When he returned, he said, “Ready for the grand tour?”
Mr. Willet led Flora through so many hallways and around so many corners that she felt as if she were back at Central on orientation day. She had no idea where she was.
“Here we go,” said Mr. Willet presently. He stopped outside a door marked G-206, found a key in his pocket, opened the door, and stood aside so Flora could enter first.
“It’s … it’s lovely,” she said, astonished at how depressing a completely empty space could look. All the walls were stark white and all the carpets were a pale yellow-brown that reminded Flora of cat litter.
“There are four rooms,” said Mr. Willet proudly. “A bedroom, a guest bedroom, a living room, and a kitchen. And two bathrooms. The living room comes with a working fireplace. But this is the pièce de résistance.” He ushered Flora to a set of glass doors at the end of the living room and slid them open. “A terrace. And I can have a garden here. I can put in anything I want. Maybe you and Ruby will come over next spring and help me plant it.”
Flora swallowed. “Sure.”
Mr. Willet looked very happy. And the expression on Mrs. Willet’s face when her husband had returned had been one of pure joy, even if she couldn’t quite remember who he was. The Willets belonged together; Flora knew that. But she couldn’t imagine, simply couldn’t fathom, leaving the Row Houses and moving into this bleak, blank space.