Miriam vigorously threw open the gate to the garden and stomped through, Weldon trailing behind her. The entire garden was surrounded by a large fence, sturdy wooden posts strung with chicken wire. Shiny pie plates hung from the posts, which Weldon assumed were there to scare off birds looking for a free meal. He paused to touch the leaf of a tomato plant, remembering how his mom had loved visiting the local farmers’ market in Burbank, close to where they’d lived when they’d moved from San Diego to LA.
“Here,” Miriam snapped, shoving the basket into Weldon’s arms. He stood, holding it out, as she furiously pulled tomatoes from the vine, tossing them into the basket. She moved quickly from plant to plant, inspecting, selecting, and rejecting certain tomatoes. Soon there was a small pile of slightly misshapen bright red tomatoes in the basket.
“Okay, good,” Miriam said, and stormed past him, through the gate, impatiently holding it for him as he followed her. She swung the gate shut, locked it with a small piece of twine, then trotted toward the house. Weldon followed, impressed.
Stella beamed when Weldon came through the door, the basket of tomatoes held in front of him like a gift. Miriam swept through the kitchen, pointedly ignoring her mother.
“Weldon, welcome to our home!” Stella said. Weldon smiled at her, suddenly feeling too tall and out of place in Stella’s kitchen, with its yellow-and-orange walls and a dining room table propped up by a phone book under one leg.
Stella reached out and took the basket of tomatoes from Weldon, placing it beside the sink.
“We’re not ready to eat yet. Hope you aren’t super hungry right this minute.”
“Oh, no,” Weldon said. “I’m good, I can hold out for a while longer.”
“Fantastic,” Stella said, pulling the tomatoes out of the basket and starting to rinse them in the sink. “Usually I put to work anyone foolish enough to set foot in the kitchen at dinner time, but since you’re a guest, I won’t coerce you into helping. MIRIAM!”
Weldon jumped.
“WHAT!” Miriam screamed back from somewhere in the bowels of the house.
“YOUR FATHER’S NOT HOME FROM WORK YET SO YOU GET TO SHOW WELDON AROUND THE HOUSE. COME OUT AND DO THAT PLEASE.”
There was a long silence. Stella continued washing the tomatoes as though everything was perfectly normal. Weldon wished he’d worn a sweater over his T-shirt. He had the feeling he’d started sweating copiously and was worried about pit stains.
There was a clatter from the depths of the house, and Miriam reappeared in the kitchen.
“Thank you, Miriam,” said Stella, not looking up from the sink. “You can show Weldon my studio, if you want. He said he wouldn’t mind seeing more of my art.”
Miriam looked over at Weldon and nodded grimly, a soldier given an unpleasant task. She squared her shoulders and waved a hand at him.
“Follow me.”
Weldon trotted after Miriam, through the ramshackle house and out the back door, toward an outbuilding standing behind the house. After some shoving and muttering of curse words, Miriam coaxed the door to the outbuilding open, and they went inside.
The building was a repurposed garage, one side taken up by a car door that had been taped to prevent winter cold from getting in. A small window on another wall filtered in outside light, and tall shelving units took up the entire back section. Paint, canvas, sketchbooks, a drawing desk, and an easel filled the rest of the space. Everywhere Weldon looked, he saw the painted forms of the TomorrowMen. Skybound flew across a long horizontal canvas, his arms stretched out before him. Skylark floated in space, her hands sifting through a nearby galaxy. The Mage of Ages, the hood of his cloak thrown back, knelt beside a river, staring at his reflection. There was a handful of non-TomorrowMen artwork, mostly watercolors of landscapes, but overwhelmingly the thing Stella Kendrick liked to paint best was her father’s superhero creations.
“Wow,” Weldon whispered, stunned. “Your mom’s work is incredible.”
“Yeah,” said Miriam, and Weldon caught the note of pride in her voice. “She’s amazing. Everything she paints is amazing.”
There was a painting of Tristan Terrific on the easel, lightning-bolt hair swept back from his forehead, eyes lit with mischief. Weldon walked toward the easel, bending to squint at the painting. Up close, Tristan Terrific’s face dematerialized into a thousand smeary brushstrokes.
“What does she do with all her art?” Weldon asked.
Mir shrugged.
“Most of it she gives away. To kids who like the characters, elementary schools, children’s hospitals, the odd collector. It used to be that she’d take requests online and give them to the people who asked for them, but some people got really pushy, so she quit doing that.”
“Pushy?”
“Yeah,” Mir said. “I guess there’s a market for this stuff. My grandfather is kind of famous in some circles. An original TomorrowMen drawing by him could sell for thousands of dollars to the right person. So if his daughter starts giving away original TomorrowMen artwork…”
“People get pushy,” Weldon finished.
Mir nodded.
“A couple of years ago, Mom painted a picture of Skylark for a guy who requested it. He turned around and tried to sell it at auction. It sucks for her, because she just wants to paint and share her work. But people are jerks sometimes.”
Mir glanced at Weldon, her brown eyes sliding disapprovingly under her eyelashes.
“If she’s worried about people reselling her work, why does she sell it at that … uh, that store downtown, where I bought my painting?”
“No one knows she sells paintings at the Emporium of Wonders,” Mir said. “Berg, the guy who owns the place, he knows but he’d never tell.”
Weldon remembered how there was a layer of grime on the large window at the front of the store. The merchandise had been new and neatly displayed, but there was an air of impending doom about the place. All the shiny vinyl toys and TomorrowMen figures couldn’t hide the store’s worn carpet and peeling exterior paint. He wondered how many more months Stella’s paintings would sell there, the Emporium of Wonders hanging on by a fingernail as Starbucks loomed closer.
Weldon realized Mir was still talking, and pulled his attention back to her.
“… she doesn’t even sign them. She sells those paintings because paint costs money and she wants to be able to buy a new tube of burnt umber every now and then.”
“I’m glad I was able to contribute to the burnt umber fund,” said Weldon, smiling. Miriam snorted and walked toward the metal shelving at the back of the garage, rooting through a tin of half-finished paint tubes.
“She’s getting low on all of these,” Mir said, turning a flattened tube over in her hands. Weldon stared at her out of the corner of his eye. He could only see a sliver of her face, the soft curve of her cheek jutting out from behind a mess of curls. Her face suddenly seemed very familiar to him, like he’d known her longer than their two previous brief encounters. He felt content standing near her, surrounded by the painted forms of the TomorrowMen.
Mir tossed the paint tube back in the tin on the shelves with a loud clatter. Weldon stuck his hands in his pockets, thought better of it, put his hands on his hips, decided that looked even more awkward, and finally settled on clasping his hands behind his back. Miriam turned away from the shelves and looked at him curiously. Weldon ducked from her gaze and squinted hard at the Tristan Terrific painting on the easel in front of him, trying to appear as though he’d been examining it studiously during the last few minutes and not thinking how standing near Miriam Kendrick was something he liked doing and might want to do more of in the future.
“Did you know who I was back at your store?” he asked.
“Who you were?”
“You know.” Weldon looked up from the Tristan Terrific painting. “Weldon Warrick.”
“Oh…” Mir said.
“I was wondering why you didn’t seem to care when I told you I’d stolen that car, but when
I told the cops my name, you kinda…” Weldon shrugged. “Well, it makes sense why you didn’t want anything to do with me after that.”
“My grandfather sold the rights for the TomorrowMen to Warrick Comics for nine hundred dollars when he was in his twenties,” Miriam said. It came out flatly, a repetition of facts. “And next year Warrick Studios has a two-hundred-million-dollar TomorrowMen movie coming out.”
“Yeah,” said Weldon. “It’s kind of weird, right? Your mom inviting me over for dinner? I’d think she wouldn’t want anything to do with anyone named Warrick.”
“That’s my mom,” Mir said. “She wants to be friends with everyone, even the people who stole her inheritance.”
She looked up at Weldon, daring him to say something. He waited, letting the silence stretch between them.
“Any particular reason why you steal cars?” Mir said.
Weldon shrugged.
“Trying to get my parents’ attention, I guess,” he said, curious to see her reaction. It was something he’d never admitted to anyone besides himself.
The admission surprised her. He liked the way her thick eyebrows scrambled up her forehead, then shot back down in an attempt at nonchalance.
“So,” she said. “Anything else in here you want to see?”
“No, it’s all very nice.”
“Uh-huh,” Mir said. “Well, I guess we can go back inside. My dad’ll probably be home soon, and then we can eat.”
“Sounds great.”
Miriam narrowed her eyes at Weldon, apparently suspicious of the cheer in his voice.
“Just to warn you, my dad thinks he’s funny. He’ll probably tell some story or terrible joke and my mom will laugh really hard at it. I think maybe—oh god—” Mir froze, her expression horrified. “I think he might tell the bull castration story. Oh god. Ohhhh god.” She dropped her face into her hands, her words muffled by her fingers. “Ohhhh god.”
“The what story?”
Miriam raised her head, her face grim.
“You’ll see. You’re a guest, and guests get my dad at his very best.”
Weldon followed Mir back into the house, suddenly feeling nervous about eating with her family. He hoped they wouldn’t bring up the TomorrowMen legal case. The lawsuit was ancient history, but from the paintings in Stella’s studio, she still felt a connection to the characters. Weldon hoped Mir’s parents hadn’t invited him to their house just so they could yell at him for what his grandfather had done.
In the kitchen, Stella had finished chopping the tomatoes and everything simmered on the stove, ready for eating. Henry was sitting at the table and rose when Weldon came in, extending a hand. Weldon shook it in what he hoped was a respectful manner.
“Nice to see you again, sir.”
“Sir!” Henry yelled, clearly amused. “That’s a new one. Mir, did you put him up to this?”
“No, Dad,” sighed Mir. She went to a nearby cupboard, pulled down half a dozen dishes, and began placing them around the kitchen table.
“Call me Henry, Weldon,” said Henry, his complexion glowing pink with delight. “I must insist. We’re very happy to have you over for dinner, by the way. Thank you so much for coming.”
“No problem at all,” said Weldon, feeling the nervousness in his stomach sliding away. He saw the evening unfold before him: his anxiety over the dinner, wanting so badly for them to like him, to prove to them he wasn’t like the rest of his family. He saw his nervousness reflected in Henry’s high energy. He saw it in Stella’s eager smile, the way she watched him out of the corner of her eye. They were nervous too.
Miriam shoved a fistful of forks into his hands.
“Here, help me,” she said, ignoring her dad. Weldon moved to the table and laid the forks beside the plates. Miriam stood next to him and matched the forks with knives. She’s the only one who’s not nervous, Weldon thought, and wondered why.
At dinner, Henry told the bull castration story. The performance was over fifteen minutes long and included sound effects (a bull bellowing in distress), dramatic gestures (to indicate Henry, his father, and his two brothers chasing a terrified bull around a small pen), and eventually, full-body reenactment, as Henry leaped from the table to mime the final takedown of the bull. The punch line was Henry’s father discovering the bull had already been castrated by a previous owner, rendering the whole ordeal moot. Stella roared with laughter, her hands clasped to her stomach. Nate pummeled the table during the parts he liked best, laughing so hard Weldon worried he might fall off his chair. Even Mir, her chin resting on one hand, expression carefully neutral throughout the story, dissolved into giggles at the dramatic finale.
After Henry’s theatrics, dinner subsided into less acrobatic conversation. Stella talked about painting and the intricacies of color theory, which confused Weldon. He eventually stopped asking her to explain and just nodded while she talked. Nate wanted to know about Los Angeles, and especially if Weldon knew anyone who worked on his favorite cartoon show, Mysterious Quest. Weldon apologetically admitted he didn’t. Nate, undeterred, launched into his idea for a Mysterious Quest episode, most of which revolved around the show’s main characters, a girl named Finley and her talking cat, Muffin, befriending a new character named, coincidentally, Nate.
“I’m writing the script in English class,” Nate said proudly. “I have twelve pages written so far.”
“That’s awesome,” said Weldon. “Can I read it when you’re done?”
Nate thought deliberately a moment, then agreed.
Twice during the meal, Weldon caught Mir looking at him. The first time their eyes met, she looked away nonchalantly, fiddling with the food on her plate. He assumed it meant nothing until he caught her looking at him a second time, as though she was trying to figure something out.
When dinner was finished, Weldon helped clear the table, despite Stella’s protestations. Then he helped wash the dishes, which caused Stella to protest even more. Every dish was washed, table and counters scrubbed, when Henry finally asked if he needed a ride home. Reluctantly, Weldon shook his head.
“Just gotta call my uncle, he’ll pick me up.”
Stella smiled, the expression a little strained.
“Tell Alex and Kay I say hello.”
Before long, Weldon’s phone chirped, informing him his uncle was waiting outside in his car. Stella gestured at Mir.
“Mir, walk Weldon outside, will you? Weldon, it’s been lovely to have you over. We’ll have to do it again sometime, all right?”
“That would be really great,” said Weldon.
He and Mir walked out into the near pitch black outdoors, the light from the interior of Mir’s house radiating out past them. The air was crisp, in contrast to the brightness and warmth of the Kendricks’ kitchen. Weldon felt a tug in the pit of his stomach to turn around and walk back inside. He wanted very much to curl up underneath the kitchen table and stay there forever.
At the top of the driveway, Alex Warrick waited, his SUV’s headlights lighting a path through the darkness. There were no streetlamps this far from Sandford’s downtown, and the town skyline glowed dimly in the distance.
Mir walked down the driveway beside Weldon, staring at his uncle’s truck.
“You don’t have to come with me the whole way,” Weldon said.
“Okay,” said Mir, and stopped. Weldon stopped too, turning to face her.
“Your family is amazing,” he said.
“Yeah, I guess,” she said. “They work really hard at it.”
“You’re so lucky,” Weldon said, awed. He turned away from her and walked toward the truck. There was a feeling of singing in his chest.
CHAPTER TEN
The Saturday morning after Weldon Warrick came for dinner, there were two people in the Emporium of Wonders, and one of them was Mir. The other was Evan. Over the last hour, seven people had wandered into the store, one person buying a TomorrowMen mug for $5.99, the rest browsing, then leaving without purchasing anything.
<
br /> Mir sighed.
“You seem becalmed,” Evan said.
“Yeah,” Mir said. “I’m bored. Thanks for coming by.”
“Berg won’t mind?”
Mir shook her head.
“It’s dead today. Just like yesterday. I guess that’s why Berg cut my hours; not much point in having an employee around if there’s no customers.”
Evan glanced up at Mir, concerned.
“You okay with the cut hours? I could maybe talk to my dad if you wanted to haul sod a couple times a week.”
“It’s okay for now,” Mir said. “It’ll pick up soon, when tourist season gets going.” She didn’t say that Evan’s dad intimidated her, with his booming voice and habit of swearing profusely if things didn’t shape up exactly how he wanted them to. Evan’s dad had always been nice to her, but she felt on edge around him, sure he was going to yell at her for some minor infraction.
“One year of school left after this one,” Evan sighed, leaning against the checkout counter. “I feel old. I look at the grade nine kids and I wonder, was I ever so young?”
“You’re sixteen,” Mir told him. “That’s still kinda young.”
“And they’re thirteen!” Evan said. “We’re three years older than them. It feels like just yesterday I was staring at that high school for the first time, hoping some hulking tenth grader wouldn’t take a liking to me and make me his personal freshman butler.”
“You’re right, you’re ancient. I can hear your hip creaking from over here,” Mir said, pushing lightly on his shoulder. Evan clutched where she’d touched him, let out a dramatic squawk of pretend pain, and fell to the floor. He writhed on the ground, moaning, “Ach, she broke my wee bonny shoulder.”
“Your accent is so authentic,” Mir said, giggling. “Also, maybe get up off the floor. I haven’t vacuumed for a few days.”
“Ugh.” Evan’s disembodied voice floated up from the other side of the counter. “It is definitely gross down here.” He sprang to his feet, brushing casually at a smear of dirt on the sleeve of his jacket.
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