“You see that, children? GOD can move mountains! He is a deliverer! Cast away your sins and put all your trust in him and his prophets. I would not lead you astray. Trust me.”
Mr. Brown chuckles, returning to the kitchen. “Better get dinner started before he starts hollering about that too.”
I snort and whisper to Yusef, “What’s up with the creep show?”
“Who? Pop-Pop?”
“No! That Scott Clark dude.”
Yusef focuses on the TV and stiffens. “Oh, him. And his ‘Holy Seeds.’”
“Yeah, what’s his deal?”
He sighs. “Okay. It’s like this: you call Scott Clark’s hotline and put in an order. They send you this envelope that contains a pack of seeds and a letter that specifically tells you how to plant and water them. Even this prayer you gotta say over them. In return, you send the envelope back with your ‘joyful’ donation. The bigger the donation, the larger the blessing. If your seeds don’t grow, you ain’t praying and paying hard enough.”
I chuckle. “Wait, nobody believes this shit, right?”
He shakes his head. “I can’t tell you how many gardens I’ve tilled just so folks could plant their seeds.”
“Whoa, dude is like an evil genius! So what are they? Bean stalks to heaven?”
“Now you asking the right questions, Cali,” he says with a smirk. “Nobody knows. You plant them and they may sprout a little something but then they die off quick. Ain’t surprised, nothing grows around here except weeds. Ground won’t take.”
“Then how’d you get your stuff to grow, Mr. Gardner?”
“Give the land the right TLC, turn up the soil, mix it with some compost and plant food, and you can do anything. But them seeds, not even God himself could get those to grow. Believe me, we’ve tried. We’re not in the three-generation gardening business ’cause we wanted to be.”
Yusef nods at Pop-Pop, rolling his eyes. “Come on. This way.”
As he leads me down a narrow hall, I hear music beating through the walls, enough to shake the framed black-and-white family photos. He opens the first door on the right and the music blows my hair back.
“Damn, conserve energy much?”
“My bad,” he laughs, turning down the volume as I take in the spacious room—the football jerseys pinned to blue walls, the stacks of sneaker boxes, the three-monitor computer setup, giant floor speakers, and the souped-up deejay turntable.
“Whoa! You’re a deejay? Dude, how many jobs do you have?”
“It was my dad’s. He used to be a deejay. I’m . . . practicing, trying to take over another family business.”
First time he’s mentioned his dad. I note his discomfort and move on.
“So. What’s your deejay name?”
“Haven’t figured one out yet. But check out this set I’m working on. Found this cool song in my dad’s collection.” He clicks through a couple of buttons and the track plays. “There was a rap group back in the day called Crucial Conflict, had this track called ‘Hay,’ this beat is fire! Listen!”
He turns up the volume again.
The hay got me goin’ through a stage and I just can’t get enough
Smokin’ every day, I got some hay and you know I’m finna roll it up.
Weed. It’s a song about weed. My mouth waters.
“So, uh, you smoke?”
His face scrunches. “Nah. I don’t touch that shit!”
“Right! Right, yeah, of course,” I say, backpedaling.
He doesn’t ask me, and I take it as a sign he assumes I don’t either. My leg brushes against the frame of an unmade twin bed against the wall, sheets hanging on the floor. A wooden bed, a place for a million bedbugs to fester.
FACT: Although bedbugs do not have wings, they can jump short distances, catching rides to their next host’s house.
I gulp air and step away, skin in flames. It’s cool, keep cool, keep cool. Don’t freak out. You’ll wash your clothes when you . . .
I HAVE TO GET OUT OF HERE NOW!
“Um, so I gotta get home soon—”
“Oh, right! This way!”
The door at the end of the hall leads us back to the garage and a giant wall of tools. Some of the finest I’ve seen.
“All right. Let’s see what we got.” Yusef rummages through the shelves and I drift outside, admiring the rosebushes lining the driveway. Across the street, a woman stands on her porch, staring at me, unflinching. I shrink back inside.
“Hey, when does it start getting cold around here?” I ask.
“End of September.”
“That’s . . . really soon,” I mumble, doing some quick math in my head. Last article I read said the vegetative stage for cannabis seeds can take three to four weeks, before the flowering stage, which can take another five. And with the tools I’m working with, I might not be able to harvest anything until November.
“Well, with all the global warming stuff, sometimes it’s longer. Last year, didn’t get under seventy until the third week in October. Frost not until Thanksgiving. So take it easy, Cali, you won’t freeze to death just yet. But you better buy a good coat ASAP.”
The nickname is growing on me. Only because it reminds me of home. I look out into his lush front yard. The woman still staring, now on her phone.
“Thought you said nothing grew around here except weeds?” I ask, hinting to the rosebushes.
Yusef smirks. “Like I said, you gotta give the land some extra nurturing if you want anything to grow.”
He pats a bag marked “Plant Fertilizer” next to him. I lick my lips.
“You got any more?”
Six
THE ROOM IS pitch-black when my eyes peel open. I’m awake . . . but not fully. Everything is a fuzzy blur. My skin feels prickly, nerves tapping against bones. I blink and realize it’s all I can do. Arms, legs, hands . . . nothing is moving the way it should. I’m stuck. Stuck. Stuck?
What’s happening?
The door creaks open slowly, its eerie hinges singing. I try to roll over but remain frozen. It physically hurts to move as I struggle to talk. Who’s there?
Someone. There’s the faint outline of their body in the shadows. A tall body. Mom? Alec? Who is that?
My body throbs like a hit funny bone, invisible hands pressing me deeper into the mattress. Buddy sits up with a whimper, staring at the door. Then he lowers his head and lets out a low growl.
My mouth is dry from trying to force out words, fists clenched tight, gripping my sheets.
The shadow shifts. I can’t see it anymore. Where is it going?
Don’t go, help me. Please. I can’t move.
Drool pools in the back of my throat. I’m choking, I’m drowning, I’m dying.
Things are crawling on me, bedbugs, get them off! Get them off!
With everything in me, I strain, pushing from the inside out. My spine cracks in my ear, neck muscles bulging as I let out a staggering exhale.
Buddy cranes his head around as I launch up, gasping for air.
What the fuck was that?
Panting, I look out into the hall, eyes now adjusted. The shadow is gone. But I know I saw something. Or someone.
Buddy sniffs around in the dark as I let the fridge light illuminate the kitchen. My skin still feels achy, hands tingling as I pour myself a glass of water.
Three nineteen again. The silence is deafening. Deathly.
Except it’s not totally silent. Pipes still ping, wood breathes . . . but somewhere in the distance, I hear a growl, a rumbling.
Is that coming from outside?
Our street is a ghost town, quiet, desolate. We practically live on our own island. So when I peer out the front door window, I almost think I’m still dreaming. Because there’s a truck sitting across the street, its lights off, engine purring, a shadow behind the wheel.
“What the fuck?” I mumble. Who the hell is that?
I ruffle the curtain as I grab the doorknob. The driver must have seen, because the truck
quickly backs up, makes a U-turn, and skirts off.
“What! No way!”
Tamara’s rejection is an awkward surprise. I reposition my computer.
“What do you mean? This was your idea!”
“I meant for you to find seeds there, in Cedarville. Dude, do you know, like, how much trouble I’d get into? Can’t you buy them online or something?”
“My parents are watching my credit card and every dollar I spend. I would never be able to explain it.”
Tamara rolls her eyes. “Oh, and I could?”
It’s rare that we fight—at best we just avoid confrontation, letting steam blow over. Okay, so maybe asking her to commit a federal crime is a bit too much, but . . . her annoyance is unwarranted.
“But it’s not even a big deal!”
“It is! And what’s the rush?”
Oh, nothing, just crazy-ass dreams and night stalkers outside our house keeping me up at night. No biggie.
The door clicks, creaking open. I’ve grown accustomed to the creepiness . . . until it slams shut.
“Shit! What was that?” Tamara gasps, straining to see behind me.
Buddy jumps up and growls, his fur fluffed up. My eyes flicker from him to the door and back.
“I . . . I don’t know,” I mutter. “One sec.”
It’s quiet in the hall, as it should be at two a.m. All the bedroom doors are closed and I didn’t feel a draft. I test the knob, inspecting the latch. Opening on its own is one thing, but slamming shut . . . makes no sense.
Buddy sniffs, trotting around in a circle, following his nose into the bathroom. The smell is back, the one from the kitchen, but not as strong. Is it drifting up?
Ugh! I don’t have time for this!
I have more important priorities, weed being one of them.
“Everything okay?” Tamara asks.
“Um, yeah,” I say, closing the door. “Anyways, so what do you think?”
“I don’t know, Mari. I can get into a lot of trouble.”
“I’m not asking you to send me a pack of blunts. Just some seeds! Pretend they’re sunflowers or tulips if it makes you feel any better.” I head straight to the punch. “Tamara, I need this. It’s better than any other alternatives. Do you really want me to backslide? After everything that’s happened?”
Tamara takes a deep breath.
Okay, I know it’s hella shitty for me to guilt my best friend like this, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
“Fine. Where should I send it?”
I give her the address to the library.
“Happy anniversary, babe!”
Alec enters Mom’s office with a huge bouquet of yellow roses.
“Aw, thank you,” she says, kissing him. “My favorite! They’re beautiful.”
He ropes his arms around her. “Not as beautiful as you.”
I want to gag on my guacamole, but honestly, it’s nice to see Mom swept off her feet after two years of being single. As much as I love him, Dad definitely wasn’t husband of the year. Gone months at a time, some would say he loved his job a touch more than being shackled down with a wife and kids. The divorce wasn’t nasty; they were friends before and worked better that way, so his absence didn’t faze me much. At that point, I was used to FaceTiming him on the road. Plus, there were Percs to keep me company. It didn’t occur to me until much later that the only person who really felt they lost something . . . was Sammy.
Piper walks into the kitchen carrying her My Little Pony lunch box. She glares at Mom and Alec in the office, hesitates, then, surprisingly, resists the urge to break up their lovefest. Instead, she stomps over, laying her box open on the counter.
“Running away?” I joke.
She narrows her eyes at me before opening the fridge.
“Ready to go? Reservation is in twenty minutes,” Alec says to Mom.
Piper proceeds to put cookies, chips, cucumber slices, juice boxes, and Lunchables in her box, packing them neat and orderly. She then takes two teacups and saucers out of the cabinet.
Mom laughs. “I told you, you didn’t have to come home. I would’ve met you there.”
“Nope. Definitely picking up my girl and taking her on a proper date!”
“I was homeless, smoking the crack. Was strung out for ten years. I prayed for a miracle. That’s when I called Reverend Clark and ordered his FREE Holy Seeds. I planted them seeds in front of a home I wanted and it’s like they grew overnight, they grew so tall. Two weeks later, the deed to that house was in my hands and I never touched the devil’s candy again! Praise be to God.”
I whip around. “Dude, turn that off!”
Sammy, sitting on the sofa, stares transfixed at the TV. “You missed it—a man just got up from his wheelchair and started break-dancing. The seeds cured him!”
Mom gushes as they step out of the office. Her hair is done up in a high bun, and she has on her favorite red dress with heels.
“Thanks, Mari, for watching the kids tonight. There’ll be a little extra in your allowance this week.”
“Oh goodie,” I quip. “I can buy myself a cookie at school.”
“Smart ass,” she says, biting back a grin, then notices Piper’s precision packing. “Piper, whatcha doing, sweetie? Where are you off to with my good teacups?”
She stops to face them and, in all seriousness, says, “I’m having a tea party with Ms. Suga.”
“Ohhh,” Mom says with a nod, winking at Alec. “Of course. Well, would you like more snacks for your party? I made some hummus earlier.”
“No,” she seethes. “Ms. Suga doesn’t like bird food.”
Mom blinks as Piper slams her box shut, balances the cups, and walks off.
We turn to Alec, waiting for an explanation.
“Uh, sorry,” he says with a laugh. “She’s very particular about her tea party menu.”
If our house is 214 Maple Street, and the house on the corner is 218 Maple, that means the house next door is 216 Maple Street and the house across the street must be 217. So the one on the opposite corner must be 219.
219 Maple Street is the only vacant house on our block that seems to have a decent roof that won’t cave when you throw a rock at it, a secluded backyard shrouded by tall trees, and most of its windows still intact. The corner gives several access points, easy to sneak in and out without being seen.
Carrying my new tools, I weave through the thick bushes, climbing over the broken fence to the back door, cracked open. I step inside a trashed kitchen and listen.
“Hello?” I call out, learning my lesson from that day with Sammy. “Helllooooo!”
Silence. The room is riddled with chips of plaster and dry caked mud. The cabinet doors are ripped off their rusted hinges, an iron sink on the floor, the walls kelly green, stained with mildew. It’s warm, humid, the air stale. Sunlight hitting the glass creates a greenhouse effect.
Just what I need.
Without time to spare, I drag my supplies inside.
Every online article I read on how to grow cannabis advised to use containers, for a more controlled environment. I created ones out of old two-liter soda bottles, stuffed them into the 5 x 5 flower bed I built after my morning runs, using old boards and rusted nails. Almost broke my back sneaking across the street with the two bags of plant food Yusef gave me, blending it in with the rest of the trash until I was ready to use it. Germinating the seeds under my bed was risky, considering how nosy Buddy can be.
But it’ll all be worth it.
As I give the seedlings, now planted in their new home, a healthy drink of water, I take a look around the place. A woman definitely lived here, maybe even alone, judging by the once-pink sofa, flowery frames, and array of broken porcelain dolls. A cracked ornate mirror sits above the fireplace, and despite the chipping white paint and thick dust, I recognize the same intricate mantel, like the one in our house with the strange family crest.
The same person must have built all these houses. Shame they’ve all gone to
waste.
I step back to admire my handiwork. “And I shall call you the secret garden.”
Mom pokes holes through the blisters on my palms and I suck air through my teeth to keep from whimpering.
“I’ve never seen anything like this before,” Mom mutters, shaking her head. “You sure you were wearing gloves?”
“Maybe it’s just . . . been a while. Different earth here and all.”
Despite my work gloves, the intense labor at the secret garden wreaked havoc on my hands. Looks like I’ve been clawing at sharp volcanic rocks.
“Probably should take it easy for the next few days,” Mom says. “Maybe let Yusef do more of the hefty lifting in garden club. Seems like you’ve made a nice . . . friend.”
The accusations are like a bullhorn. “It’s not what you think.”
“I didn’t say anything,” she says in that annoying parental tone that says she’s saying something. “I think you’re smart enough to not fall for a boy’s alleged offer to help. Again.”
Parents have this unique way of reminding you of the ways you’ve disappointed them without spelling it out.
“Okay.” Mom sighs. “Upstairs, under the bathroom sink, grab the salve ointment. I’ll cut up some wraps.”
I take my time on the stairs. Yes, my hands are ravaged, but that’s just my outer injuries. Feels like I lost a wrestling match with Mother Nature herself. My lower back, feet, and arms ache. Without track keeping me fit, I have the body of a ninety-five-year-old woman.
But it’ll be worth it, I keep telling myself just as I reach the top of the stairs, catching a snip of Piper’s low whisper.
“Really? You’d do that? But what if they find out?”
Her pink lava lamp illuminates the dark hall. She’s talking to someone much taller than her, but the wall by her half-open door is blocking the person from view. It’s not Alec; he’s downstairs watching TV with Sammy.
Stepping closer, I try to keep my feet light, but the creaking floor gives me away and her head snaps in my direction.
“Who are you talking to?” I ask.
She lunges toward me, blocking the entrance with her arms. “Huh? No one.”
“You were just talking to someone.”
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