by Lacey Dailey
Copyright © 2019 by Lacey Dailey
First Edition
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.
This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Published by: Lacey Dailey
Editing: Bookfully Yours
Proofreading: All Encompassing Books
For Tristan––
Because every time I look at you, I feel the butterfly kisses and hear the tiny violins.
You’re my Ace.
Contents
1. Kleptomaniac
2. The Underwoods
3. A Train Called Mo
4. Stranger Danger
5. An Uneven Ratio
6. The Best Of Everything
7. Butterfly Kisses
8. Madness, Lies, & Tiny Violins
9. A Bench Behind Doggy Style
10. Somewhere Out There
11. Family Meeting
12. Hello?
13. Tampons, Trash & Time
14. Are You My Mother?
15. If You Were A Star
16. I Don’t Even Go Here
17. A Cracked Coaster
18. Keeping Up With The Copelands
19. Plot Twist
20. A Crease & A Kiss
21. Curveball
22. Crisis Of Love
23. Just A Name
24. Stay
25. Your Silence Gave Me Hope
26. Allison
27. Bye Bye Butterfly
28. This Is Real
29. On One Condition
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
1
Kleptomaniac
Alma
My brother says I’m a kleptomaniac. I’m not. I don’t steal things. I take things.
A lot of the stuff I attain is lame everyday junk that will never make it to my interesting items list. These are the dull things like various electronic chargers, packs of gum, or half empty tubes of chapstick.
On a lucky day, I find something that’s actually worth taking. My collection consists of— but is not limited to— one left shoe, pink post-it notes, a keychain from the Detroit airport, three screwdrivers of various sizes, a novelty concert tee, a handful of pixie sticks, toenail clippers, a three-hole punch, and a bright pink scrunchie. This afternoon, I’m adding a Polaroid camera with no photo paper.
Plopping my new camera on top of a pile of dirty towels, I grip my maid cart with two hands and slowly push it out of room six. The heavy door latches behind me with a click. I have to stop and give the left front wheel a good swift kick before I’m able to continue down the sidewalk. The thing is broken and doesn’t manually turn as the other three do.
Pushing a pair of sunglasses up my nose, I start down the sidewalk. My muscles pulse with the hefty shove I give my cart. Jumping on the edge of my new rocket, I struggle to steer and pretend my job title isn’t just maid. My rocket launching skills aren't as good as they used to be. Take me back to the days when I was a kid racing Walmart shopping carts with my brothers and sisters.
But this hunk of plastic will have to do. Last week, I created a pamphlet in an attempt to persuade my dad to get me some turbo blasters. Turns out, they don’t exist.
Lame.
Mumbling under my breath, I curse my sudden boob sweat. No matter how much I love my worn-out overalls, they are not appropriate for a regular workday in the dead of August.
Checking the weather every morning in Michigan is like shaking a magic eight ball. You’re never sure what you’ll get and half the time you’ll wish you never shook the thing in the first place. Today, the sun is hot and beating on my neck harshly, no doubt turning me into a lobster. Despite the sweat in my denim, I plaster a smile on my face anyway. Scorching sun is a hell of a lot better than an ice storm.
Mother Nature is kind of a moody bitch.
I push into the motel’s main office and don’t bother stopping myself from doing a little happy dance when I feel the cool air. The air conditioner here is as unreliable as a local cable company. But today, bless its little motor, it’s working and cranked up on high. Flipping my sunglasses on the top of my head, I ditch my cart and walk right up to the unit. A little hum of happiness leaves my lips while I stand only inches away, letting stray pieces of my bangs flap with the blast.
Standing this close to the air conditioner reminds me of the days my sister and I used to sit in front of a fan and sing ‘Grand Funk Railroad’. Locomotion never sounded better.
Ding!
My blast from the past is interrupted when the call bell sounds and echoes off the old walls. Rolling my head, I find Reginald behind the front desk, his shaky hand hovering over the silver desk bell. He’s got a smirk creeping up his wrinkly face and a glint in his eye.
“Young lady, when you stand in front of the air conditioner like that, it prevents the air from getting into the rest of the building.”
He makes a fair point, so I step back, but only a small fraction. It isn’t like there is anyone else in the building. It’s just Reginald and me.
Typical for a Tuesday.
“What’d you find today?”
I reach for my newest treasure. “Polaroid camera. No film.”
“I would suggest buying some film and putting it to good use, but that would be a waste of the breaths I’ve got left.”
I never use any of the items I find. I take my lost treasures and keep them just as they are.
“You’re right,” I say, lifting my gaze to Reginald. “You wouldn’t want to waste your breath. Who knows how many you have left.”
“Was that an old man joke? You can do better than that.”
“Of course I can, but I don’t want to hurt your feelings. We’re besties.”
His blink is as slow as his walk. “I don't know what that word is.”
“It means best friends. We’ve been over that one before.”
“Ah. Forgive me for forgetting. You’ve crammed hundreds of nonsense words into my head.”
“Lingo, Reginald. It’s considered lingo.”
“It’s an excuse to talk like hooligans is what it is.”
“Time is changing." Leaning against my cart, I fiddle with the strap on my new camera. "You need to keep up.”
“I have no plans to keep up with anything. Certainly not if it means language goes from full sentences to acronyms and made up words.”
“Bestie is not a made up word. It’s in the dictionary now.”
“For Pete’s sake.”
I can’t help my smirk. The way his hand flexes against the top of the counter and his wrinkles become more pronounced, I know he’s getting agitated. Not that it takes much. At first glance, Reginald is a snippy old fart with a no-nonsense attitude and a better work ethic than people half his age. Underneath his breath-filled mumbles, usually telling me I’m full of piss and vinegar, lies the kindest soul to ever house a human body.
But please don't tell him I said so.
“Are you finished for the afternoon?”
I salute him. “Yes, Sir.”
“Then put away that cart. Good gravy, how do you think that looks to any guest that walks in? You’ve got dirty towels in a heap on top of rolls of toilet paper.”
My gaze is flat. “I think we both know nobody is going to come in.”
&n
bsp; Guests are few and far between at Great Lakes Motel. Probably because we aren’t located anywhere near an actual bay of water. Guests look us up online believing their room is going to come with a view of one of the five Great Lakes when they really get a live action play by play of everything that’s happening in Flat Rock’s freight yard.
“Now that you’ve said that, somebody will come in. I’m not going to be pleased if they have to stare at that eyesore.”
Though it sounds like it, Reginald isn’t my boss. His only job is to head the front desk. Great Lakes Motel is actually owned and operated by an overzealous middle-aged couple. Together, they decided building a motel ten miles from downtown directly next to a freight yard was a good business decision. Their hearts were in the right place. Truly. They wanted a quaint and quiet place couples and families could use to escape the hustle and bustle of city life. It was shortly after marriage they decided to take the plunge and become small business owners.
The brave couple is Harrison and Clare Underwood. My parents.
I’ve heard the story of how Great Lakes Motel went from an idea on a hot dog napkin to a fully functional operation two thousand and forty-two times. My siblings and I have a tally going on the back of the twin’s closet door. The love and thought my parents put into each nook and cranny of this motel is only one of the reasons I love it so much. It’s decades old but cherished beyond belief. Take care of the things you love and they will last forever. This motel and its employee are a true testament to that.
Reginald is Great Lakes Motel’s only employee. He was hired years ago after my parents put out a Senior Internship ad in the newspaper. Reggie was the only one who applied. Not exactly the type of senior they were looking for, but he does one hell of a job for a seventy-five-year-old.
So we kept him.
When he clears his throat, gesturing at my cart with a crooked finger, I abandon ship. After a kick to the faulty wheel, I set my camera aside and drag the oversized cart into the laundry room. I place the sheets and towels in the washer. The loud clunk followed by an obnoxious hum tells me the machine is running. After restocking my cart with toilet paper, clean towels, and fancy bars of soap, I hop up on the washing machine to get a closer look at my new toy.
With my body rocking like I’m stuck inside a storm simulator at the mall, I run my finger across the small crack marring the edge of the camera. After holding it up to my eye as if I’m about to take a photo of the dull laundry room, I find the crack doesn’t hinder the quality of the photo at all.
So why was it left behind?
It’s a question I ask every time I find an item, and an answer I create all on my own. For each item I take, there’s a story in my journal on how it got there. I call it: A Book of Unwanted Treasures by Alma Underwood.
That book is proof I’m not a kleptomaniac, despite how often Shepherd expresses his concern. Everything I take was left behind.
Ditched.
Dumped.
Forgotten about.
I’m the one who saves them. If anything, I should get a handshake and a peace medal, not a push towards therapy from my siblings. Out of the five Underwood children, I’m the only one who works at the motel. Of course, we’ve all been stuck working here at some point but I’m the only kid who works on a regular basis.
And you can bet the last slice in the pizza box this blue polaroid camera is one of the reasons why.
Everything has to come from somewhere. My favorite thing in the world is creating somewheres. Especially for the things that look a little broken.
Those are always the most remarkable.
2
The Underwoods
Alma
Sometimes people like to ask me what my favorite treasure is. Which is a completely unfair, absurd question. That’s like asking a parent who their favorite child is. The answer is an impossible one.
When my mom gets asked to give the proverbial favorite child trophy to one of her five children, she declares one of two things:
1. She doesn’t like any of us because we trash her house and are seemingly incapable of putting dishes in the dishwasher even though it’s only two feet from the sink.
2. She loves us all equally and could never choose between her five greatest blessings.
The second one sounds like it was a bit rehearsed, but it’s the answer I’ve chosen to give when my friends ask me to choose an item as my favorite.
I love them all equally.
It’s a cheesy, cliche answer. But it’s my answer, and I’m sticking to it.
“Hey.” Lenox cocks her hip, leaning against my old wooden doorframe, her nose to the ceiling. “Mom said dinner is ready.”
My doorframe is bright green and from where I'm perched on my bed, it should really be the most questionable thing in sight. But it's my sister and the deli meat she has on her face. “Why is there a piece of bologna on your face?”
“It’s not bologna. It’s a face mask.” Her fingertips flutter across her meat mask, smoothing out any wrinkles. “It’s supposed to be rejuvenating.”
Rotating my upper body, I let my journal fall to my lap. “What exactly is being rejuvenated?”
“I literally have no idea. It was in the dollar bin at Target and it had a llama on it.”
“You bought a bologna mask because it had a llama on it?”
“Yep.” She takes the few steps that are needed to make it to the edge of my bed and flops backward, slapping her palm against her forehead to prevent her mask from slipping off. Turning her head, her round eyes peer at me out of little slits cut into her creepy mask. “I have an extra one if you want to try.”
“What? A bologna mask? No, thanks.” I stand up, tucking my journal beneath my pillow where it will be safe, and kick her in the foot. “Come on. We need food before the twins take it up to their rooms and experiment on it.”
With a quick bounce, she’s off my bed and leading me out of my room in the attic. “The twins are weird.”
“Says the girl with bologna on her face.”
“Touché, little sister.”
I roll my eyes and push past her, barreling down the narrow flight of stairs. Lenox is only ten and a half months older than me. Irish twins is what we’re called. Despite not sharing a fetus and being actual twins, people mistake us for what we aren’t all the time. Rightfully so considering Lenox and I share a face. Beneath the bologna mask lies a face the shape of a perfect oval, sprinkled with a dainty nose, saucer-sized green eyes, and a slight flush on her pale cheeks. Each and every characteristic an exact copy of mine.
After watching 'It Takes Two', we took a nod from the Olsen Twins and tried to switch places in the fourth grade. Blake Miller wouldn’t stop bullying me and Lenox thought it’d be a brilliant idea to be me for a day so she could kick him in the nuts.
It worked until she, well I, got recess detention for a week. I refused to be punished for what she did, so I made a colossal mistake and told the truth. My parents were so pissed we didn’t have the balls to switch ever again.
The greatest thing to come out of our Olsen Twin moment was Blake quit acting like human vermin after my sister busted his chops.
By the time we stopped being afraid of our parents, puberty had hit and we missed our chance. Lenox is now a foot taller than me with boobs the size of my butt cheeks.
The small kitchen is in its typical state of natural disaster mode when Lenox and I make an appearance. My mother is standing at the stove, stirring something with a wooden spoon while simultaneously punching numbers into the microwave above her head. Jackson, one of the twins––actual twins, not Irish––is standing directly behind Mom, his chest to her back while he peers over her shoulder.
“Jackson, sit down before I burn you with something. Oh, Alma! Can you grab some plates? Lenox, honey, what is on your face?”
“Looks like bologna,” Jackson murmurs.
I give him a fist pound on the way to the silverware drawer.
“It’s a rejuv
enating face mask,” she says, taking two fingers and pinching the mask at her nose. Slowly, disgustingly so, she pulls the bologna away from her face. The liquid drips off the slimy mask and onto the tile.
She holds it up proudly. “How do I look?”
Mom barely spares her glance. “Rejuvenated, honey. Now, would you throw that away and help your sister set the table?”
Lenox tosses her wet bologna into the trashcan at the edge of the cracked counter and glides across the floor to grab some plates.
“I’ll get them.” Jackson hip checks her out of the way. “I don’t want to eat off a plate you touched.”
Her nose wrinkles with offense. “What’s wrong with my hands?”
“Bologna hands,” I blurt, snagging a stack of napkins from the holder beside the sink.
“Leave your sister’s deli hands alone.” Flipping off the burner, my mom lifts the pot from the stovetop and spins around. “Everybody move before you get Chicken Alfredo dumped down your front.”
Holland, the other half of Jackson’s twindom and the only person sitting at the table, lets out a loud battle cry and barrels from her chair as if Mom is wielding a torch rather than boxed pasta.
Mom drops it in the center of the table with a huff. Brushing an errant lock of hair behind her ear, she steadies the table as it sways. “Why are all my children so strange?”
Holland chokes on a laugh. “Mom, for real?”
“What?” She feigns confusion, looking around the kitchen while wiping her hands on an apron covered in dancing hot dogs.
