“I will. It’s already been the best ever. Thanks again for my phone, Mom. It’s great.”
“You know,” Cody said with a pouty look on his face, “Mom and Dad are spoiling you rotten. A phone. Camping. Riding ATVs.”
“No kidding!” I said brightly. “It’s about time.”
“This only happens on your sixteenth birthday, you know,” Mom said. “Next year it’s bread and water.” She shook her finger at me. “And no helium balloons or party hats either.”
That made me laugh out loud. “Promise?”
As she smiled, she glanced toward the window. “Dad said to make sure you were awake. He’s out loading the four-wheelers on the trailer.”
“I’m getting there.”
“Nuh-uh,” Cody said. “You’re still in your pajamas. And your hair looks like something a cat spit up.”
As I yelped in protest, Mom chided him. “Be nice, Cody. Even if it’s true, you don’t say things like that out loud.”
“Mom!” I cried.
Cody grinned at me. “If I were you, I’d wear a hat today. A really big hat.”
“Thanks, Code. Just what a girl needs to hear.” But I was smiling. I had already seen myself in the mirror and knew I was in for a lot of work. But that was Cody. He never thought about what he was going to say first, he just let it all come out. I reached up and fluffed my hair a little. “I thought I’d leave it like this for my driver’s license picture.”
Mom laughed too. “You know what they say, Carruthers. If you really look like your driver’s license picture, you’re too sick to drive. I suggest you take a brush to it.”
“Or the hay rake,” Cody said. He jumped clear as I swung at him.
Grinning, he waved. “Bye, Danni.” He thumped down the stairs.
“Breakfast’s on the stove,” Mom said, moving toward the door. “Just heat it up, okay? Dad’s already eaten.”
“No problem. Good luck with the gallery.”
“Thanks.” A frown momentarily creased her forehead. “Carruthers, I want you to be especially careful driving your four-wheeler today. Okay?”
“Sure.”
Her eyes were suddenly grave. “I mean it, Carruthers. You’re going to take the pouch with you, right?”
“Right.”
“Promise?” Her voice was earnest.
“I promise.” I looked at her more closely. “What is it, Mom? What’s the matter?”
Her frown deepened, and for a moment I thought she was going to say more, but then she shook her head and forced a smile. “It’s nothing. I just want you to promise me you’ll be careful. Okay?” She kissed me on the forehead, tipping her head up a little to do so. When she stepped back, she sighed. “It’s probably a little too much—how do you say it?—friggatriskaidekaphobia?”
My mouth dropped open a little. I had never told her about that word, yet she had pronounced it perfectly and without hesitation.
She gave me another quick hug, this one tighter than before. “Love you,” she murmured.
“Love you too,” I said, hugging her back. “You’re the best.”
She laughed. “Not when it comes to camping, but fortunately your dad and grandfather make up for that.” She headed for the door. “See you tomorrow night.”
“Kay. Have fun in Denver.”
As she shut the door behind her, I went to the dressing table and picked up my pen.
Well, that was strange. Mom was . . . I’m not sure what she was.
Memo to self: Ask Grandpère why Mom feels so strongly about the number 13. And who told her about friggatriskaidekaphobia?
I decided to put my hair in a French braid; that seemed like the best way to tame it. Glancing at myself in the mirror, I decided that Cody’s advice had some merit. I did need a hat. I opened the drawer and found my Zions National Park cap I’d bought last summer. Checking myself one last time, I pulled the braid through the hole in the back of the hat. Then I wet my fingers, smoothed down one last strand of hair that had a mind of its own, and pronounced myself acceptable.
Just then I heard Dad’s voice float through my open window. “Danni, ten minutes.”
“Be right there,” I called back before I closed the window. Moving quickly now—I was hungry and wanted to grab breakfast—I turned to my bed, stuffed my journal and a heavy hoodie into my bag, and zipped it up. I looked around the room one last time.
“Uh-oh!” I grunted as my eyes fell on the pouch hanging next to my mirror. “I’d better not leave you behind.” It had been less than ten minutes since I gave Mom my solemn promise, and I’d already forgotten it.
I walked over to where the pouch hung from its nail. I leaned close and blew softly on it. I felt the old familiar stab of guilt as dust rose from it in a small cloud. “Poor Nanny,” I murmured. “Always so patient, even when I neglect you.”
I’d had the pouch for three years now. As I ran my fingers over the four embroidered fleurs-de-lis, my mind slipped back across those years and across the fifty miles that separated me and Horseshoe Canyon. That day, not far from the Grand Gallery, came back to me in quick snatches of vivid memories—me standing in front of Grandpère, busting my buttons when he told me I was no longer a child but a young woman now, feeling a thrill of excitement when he solemnly said, “You are now the keeper of the pouch.”
And now three years later, it hung on my wall, often forgotten, typically neglected, usually not even noticed. I didn’t really feel like I’d broken my promise to Grandpère. I took my responsibility seriously and I never left the pouch out where it might get lost or stolen. And if no one was going to be home, I would always take it with me. But lately I’d been leaving it hanging on my wall next to the Four Remembers more often.
I remembered how I used to think the pouch might have been enchanted or magical somehow. But I knew better now. It was just an old, worn-out pouch. I knew it was part of my heritage and a tie between me and my past ancestors, and there had even been days when I was not ashamed of it. Those were the days I took it to high school with me—to Mom’s shock.
I never took it out of my backpack or showed it to anyone, of course, because by then, I already knew none of my friends would understand.
The day after I had that long talk with Grandpère about nannies and tutors and guardians, I told Rick about what he’d said. We were with some friends having burgers at Blondie’s, but I guess someone at the next table overheard our conversation, because after that, anytime anyone from school saw me, they’d say “Hey, Danni, how’s your nanny?” or “Hi, Danni. Hi, Nanny.” Then they’d laugh as if that was most hilarious thing they’d ever heard. But, as Grandpère pointed out, juvenile minds think just about anything is hilarious.
Some of the boys even made up a song about it. I tried to explain to them that the pouch actually had a name—Le Gardien, or the Guardian, in English—but that was a mistake. They just made it part of the song.
Danni and Nanny and the Guardian Pouch,
Sitting together on a big leather couch.
Danni needs Nanny, but Nanny’s a pouch.
No wonder Danni is a big fat grouch.
Even after two years, just thinking about the song made me wince. Only someone with the maturity level of SpongeBob SquarePants would find that funny. All it did was make me resent the pouch more.
Since then, I started thinking of it as “The Nanny Pouch.” But after a while, it wasn’t like an insult anymore. For me it was more like a pet name you’d give to something you’re fond of, like a cat or a horse or something. Le Gardien felt too stiff and ponderous; not a good name for the nanny, which I had also started to think of as a him.
Just then my cell phone exploded with noise. I gave a little squeal, whirling around before I remembered I’d chosen “Zombie Rock” as my new ringtone. Heart pounding, I took it out of my pocket and swiped the slide bar with my thumb.
Seeing who it was on the caller ID, I let it ring three more times. Then covering my mouth and faking
a gruff voice, I punched the button. “Carruthers McAllister’s Answering Service. At the beep, please leave your name, number, and many wonderful compliments.” Pause. “Beep!”
“Hi, Danni.”
Even though he only said two words, I instantly knew something was wrong. “Mornin’, Rick.” I held my breath, afraid I already knew what was coming.
“Happy sixteenth birthday.”
“Thanks. What’s up?”
“Uh . . . is your dad there? I tried his cell phone, but he didn’t answer.”
“It’s probably down on the kitchen table.” I paused, but he didn’t respond. “He’s out by the barn loading up. I can go get him if you need me to.” I drew in a quick breath. “Is something wrong, Rick?”
Another long silence, then a soft sigh.
“You can’t go today, can you?”
An even longer pause, then, “Nope.”
“But your dad promised.”
“Danni, I—”
“Did you tell him that we’re not just playing, that Dad and Grandpère are doing some work for a client, and that you’ll be helping them?”
“I did, but—”
“It’s your job, Rick. Doesn’t he understand that?”
He broke in sharply. “Danni, Dad got me a full-time job at the mine.”
“The coal mine? No!”
“I start the day after tomorrow.”
I felt like a fist had slammed me square in the stomach. I hunched over, closing my eyes. “No, Rick. You can’t.”
Several people in Hanksville worked in the coal mine up in the hills. Dad had done some consulting work for the mine about three years ago, and one day he took me down inside the mine with him. Once we got off the lift and walked into the tunnel, I nearly went bonkers. I kept having this awful sensation that the ceiling was pressing down on me, and that the walls were closing in from both sides. I was so sure I was going to be crushed that Dad had to take me back out again. Even now, the thought of being down there in total darkness with thousands of feet of rock and dirt over my head made me nauseated.
Rick laughed, but it was forced. “You’re such a squirrel, Danni. I’ll tell Dad that you said I can’t do it. I’m sure he’ll change his mind.”
“I didn’t mean that, Rick. I just—Why? Why now?”
“We learned yesterday that Mom’s lawyer got the court to double the alimony Dad owes her every month.”
“What? No! That’s not fair.”
“Come on, Danni, you know the score. That’s how life is sometimes.”
I sank down slowly in one of the chairs and closed my eyes. “I know,” I whispered. “I’m sorry.”
“One more thing, Danni. I won’t be going back to school this fall either.”
Chapter 13
“Please, Dad.”
I was fighting hard not to cry. I’ve never been a weeper, so whenever I do cry, Dad knows it’s important. And the way it was going right now, I could see I might need tears as a last resort. And they wouldn’t be fake if they did come. “I have to go with you.”
“I’m sorry, Danni. Talking to Mr. Ramirez about this is going to be hard enough without having someone else there. Especially you.”
“I have to go with you,” I said, barely able to get the words out. “I promise I won’t say a word. Please, Daddy. Please!”
It wasn’t planned, but suddenly my eyes were burning, and I knew they would be glistening in the morning sunlight.
He finally nodded. “All right.” Suddenly his finger was just an inch from my nose. “But not a word, Danni. You have to give me your word on this.”
“Anything, Dad. I promise.”
“And you’re not to get out of the truck.”
“But, Dad! I have to—” I clamped my mouth shut when his head came around slowly and I saw his look. “All right. I promise.”
“Even if I end up going in the house to talk, you’re not to get out of the truck for any reason.”
“What if you have a heart attack right in the middle of everything? Could I come help you then?”
He shook his head without even a trace of a smile. “I’ll make one exception.”
“Wonderful. What is it?”
“If Charlie invites you to join us, then it’s okay.”
“Dad! There’s more of a chance of a meteor striking Hanksville than of Mr. Ramirez asking me to listen in.”
“I know. Deal or no deal?”
“Deal,” I finally said. “You have my word.” I said it with great solemnity. In our family, giving your word was like writing out a contract and having it notarized in blood.
“All right.” For a moment, he didn’t move, then he frowned. “What about your driver’s license?”
I’d forgotten all about it. “This is more important. I’ll get it when we get back.”
“Good,” he said. “I agree. Go tell Grandpère where we’re going. Tell him it’ll be after noon before we’re back.”
Noon? It wasn’t even seven yet, and Rick’s house was just a couple miles down the road. I’d never heard Rick’s father utter more than half a dozen words at any one time, so if Dad was thinking this was going to take hours to work out, he was in for a surprise. But I said nothing and went into the house to find Grandpère.
When we blew past the turnoff to Rick’s house, I thought Dad had missed it. He hadn’t said a word since leaving home.
“Uh . . . Dad? We just passed Rick’s.”
He didn’t even turn to look at me. “We’re going to Bicknell first.”
“Bicknell?” I cried. That was fifty-eight miles away. “But—”
Once again he shot me a look that cut off any further conversation. I vowed I would not speak again until spoken to.
That proved to be another hour. In Bicknell, Dad dropped me off at the local café, gave me some money to buy some breakfast—I hadn’t eaten anything after Rick’s call—then disappeared for an hour. By the time he pulled up again, I’d met up with a couple of kids I knew from school. Dad waved hello to them, but as I got in the truck, all he said to me was, “You all right?”
When I nodded, he looked at his watch. “It’s almost eight thirty. We could make Richfield in another hour.”
“Richfield?” Before I could say anything else, he was already pulling onto the highway headed west. “Why Richfield?” It was another hour west of Bicknell and in the opposite direction from Hanksville.
“There’s a driver’s license office in Richfield.”
I was dumbfounded. I had just assumed I’d have to wait for another day.
“It’s only another hour from here. And Price is two hours from Hanksville. So it’s about sixes either way.”
“What about Mr. Ramirez?”
“Rick told me his father worked the midnight shift at the mine last night. He usually sleeps until about noon, so we can’t see him before then anyway.” He let off the gas. “But if you don’t want to get your license today, we can go back to the house and count cobwebs in the garage.”
“Give me at least one full second to think about that,” I said with a grin. “Can I drive?”
“Why not?”
It was 12:25 when we reached the turnoff to the Ramirez house. Dad spoke for the first time in nearly an hour. “Pull over, Danni. I need to be driving when we go in.”
I did so, and we changed places. As Dad started up again, I rolled down my side window. He shot me a look.
“I think we need some fresh air,” I said quickly.
“All right, but remember our deal.”
“I do, Dad. And I know you’re right. You need to talk to him alone. I just hope you’re close enough so I can hear.” When he nodded, I asked, “What are you going to say, Dad?”
But I wasn’t sure he’d heard me.
To my everlasting joy, when we turned into Rick’s yard, Charlie Ramirez was in front of his garage, working under the hood of his pickup truck.
“Good,” Dad said, looking around quickly at the empty yard. “Ric
k’s not here.”
He parked about ten yards away. I crossed my fingers—on both hands actually—hoping against hope Mr. Ramirez wouldn’t invite Dad into the house. As I watched Dad walk toward him, I wondered what the chances were that Dad could change Charlie’s mind. About one in twenty-two gazillion, I decided.
On the way here, I’d said something to that effect, and Dad gave me a funny look. “Sometimes, we make assumptions about people that aren’t correct,” he said.
I asked him what he meant by that, but didn’t answer me.
Dad waved at Mr. Ramirez. “Hey, Charlie,” he said, extending his hand as he reached him.
Mr. Ramirez took a shop rag out of his pocket and quickly wiped his hands, then shook Dad’s hand. “Hello, Mack.” There was a momentary pause. “Suspect you’re here about my boy.”
“Suspect you’re right,” Dad said easily, “but I’m not here to call you out on it.”
“Ain’t nothing to say,” Charlie said. “Don’t like it myself, but sometimes the boxes you get shoved into don’t come with a whole lot of choices, so I won’t be changing my mind.”
“Trying to change your mind would be saying that I think you’re wrong. Not so. What you’re doing for your family is nothing I wouldn’t do myself under the circumstances.”
I couldn’t help but stare. Dad was agreeing with him? I groaned inwardly.
“Actually,” Dad said after a moment, “I’d like to talk about a possible alternative that maybe throws another option into that box you’re in.”
Mr. Ramirez visibly tensed. “Don’t need no charity, Mack.”
“I’m not here selling charity, Charlie. You’ve got a problem. I’ve got a problem. I think we might be able to solve both of them at the same time.”
Wary, but clearly interested, Charlie finally nodded. “Go on.”
“I don’t need to tell you that Rick’s the best hired help I’ve ever had. He’s a hard worker, thoroughly dependable. I’ll bet he saved me more than his entire wages last month just fixing up equipment and getting that old tractor running again. When it comes to mechanics, he’s got a gift, Charlie. Add in the fact that he can run circles around me on a computer, and I think you can appreciate why I don’t want to lose him as an employee.”