The cow takes the apple from my hand and crunches, spraying juice and apple bits all over my arm. “Do you have any brothers and sisters?” Jay asks.
I shake my head.
“Lucky. I’ve got two sisters.”
Envy tugs at me. “I wish I had a sister.” Like Jenna. Then again, if Jenna were my sister, I’d be pretty worried about feeding her, so maybe it’s best that I’m an only child.
Jay rolls his eyes. “Well. The little one’s all right, mostly. But my older one—she’s like the Final Boss in a game—practically undefeatable and knows everything.”
I laugh. “Is she also a giant monster or something?”
“Pretty much.” Jay produces another apple, feeding it to the cow. “Did you know Julian is the only place in San Diego County where apples grow?” he says. “Apples need more than three hundred hours of temperatures below forty-five degrees.”
“That’s not true, actually. Granny Smith apples don’t need so many days.” I can’t keep the smug note out of my voice. I know things too, even if I don’t know much about snakes. “Many species of apples don’t require that much low-chill.” We learned it in science this year.
Jay blinks slowly. “But they grow better with colder days. Did you know Julian’s the apple pie capital of San Diego County?” He sounds as if he’s personally responsible for the title. “And Shell’s Pie is the best.”
My mouth waters, remembering the pie. “I’ve only ever had her pie, but I believe it.”
“Well.” Jay gets up. “We’ll definitely have to go on a pie-tasting tour of Julian so you know it.”
“That sounds fantastic.” It does. I wouldn’t mind going on a pie-tasting tour right this second. We continue across the fields. “So how long has your mom worked for Aunt Shell?”
“Basically forever.” He stops moving suddenly and I run into him. He’s so solid I bounce right off his back.
“Sorry,” I say awkwardly. He might be the first boy my age I’ve ever met who’s taller than me.
Jay smiles. “You know what?”
I shake my head.
“I’ve never met anyone from outside who knows about apples. You’re pretty cool, Cady Bennett.”
I have to turn my face away so he won’t see the beginnings of a smile. Maybe he’s like me—not really in any group. Maybe he and I can be friends. “Well, everyone at my school knows about apples because of science class, so you’d have to be friends with all of them, too.” My voice sounds super gruff, so gruff he might change his mind and run home.
Jay laughs, though. “I doubt it.”
I meet his eyes this time and his gaze is steady. By now, I know when people are telling me the truth. I can tell Jay’s not lying like Anna-Tyler. I swallow. But maybe this time it’s okay, a voice inside me says. It’s safer to say no, I tell it.
The sky’s beginning to turn a soft shade of pink. Time to go back to Shell’s. I start running and so do Jacques and Julia, who leap up at me as if I’m playing. “I’ve got to get back.”
“You coming to the pie shop tomorrow morning?” Jay calls after me.
I raise my hands up, not turning, secretly happy. But I don’t want him to think I’m too enthusiastic, in case he really doesn’t like me that much. “Maybe. Maybe not.” I’ll be there even if I have to hitchhike.
Chapter 7
We eat a delicious meal Suzanne calls pasta alla Shell (mini pasta shells with a creamy sauce, bacon bits, and asparagus). Suzanne asks me some of those “getting to know you” questions that grown-ups ask. “How do you like school? What’s your favorite subject?”
Suzanne is way too eager. She reminds me of a morning TV person, and also of a social worker, and I haven’t had a good experience with those. I want to believe Suzanne’s being sincere. I really do. But I can’t. I don’t want to trust her and Shell because if I get disappointed again, I don’t think I can handle it. None of this matters, though, because in the end, I’ll be back with Dad. And everything will be like how it was.
I say as little as possible. “School’s okay. I don’t know.”
“What do you like to do?” Suzanne opens her eyes big like she’s super-duper interested in my answer. Nobody’s that interested in what anyone likes to do.
“I don’t know.” I’ve eaten all the pasta on my plate. I wonder if I can get seconds.
“Do you know any other phrases besides I don’t know?” Shell points at the salad bowl. “Eat some greens and then you can get more pasta.”
I stare at the salad. This doesn’t look like any kind of lettuce I’ve ever eaten. There are leaves that look jagged, leaves that are kind of ruffled, and red-purple leaves that I think are red cabbage. At school, you get the whitish kind that comes on burgers. “Why is it all those different colors?”
“It’s called spring mix. It’s arugula, baby spinach, baby romaine, baby kale, frisée.” Suzanne says it like free-ZAY and picks up the ruffled one. “And this one is radicchio.” Ra-dee-kee-oh. She points at the red-purple piece that looks like cabbage.
“What’s the kind that’s almost white, then?” I regret asking as soon as I say it because Suzanne smiles and straightens up like she’s ready to give me a lecture in Lettuce 101.
“You’re probably talking about iceberg. That has almost no nutritional value, so we usually don’t eat it. It’s almost all water.” Suzanne spoons some greens onto my plate. “These are superfoods chock-full of the good stuff. Go ahead. I’ll let you drown it in dressing. What kind would you like? We have ranch, Thousand Island, Russian, honey Dijon . . .” Suzanne leaps up to the refrigerator. “I didn’t know what you like, so I got everything.”
“None.” I like ranch, but I want her to leave me alone.
Suzanne sits, disappointed.
I pick up the radicchio and chew. It’s really bitter. I swallow that and go on to the next leaf. Everything but the spinach tastes pretty awful. Now I wish I’d taken the dressing, but I’ve already turned that down, so I’m sticking to what I said. I take a big gulp of milk.
“You’ll get used to the taste.” Shell squints at my salad. “Sure you don’t want dressing?”
“No thanks.”
“It’s okay to change your mind.”
“I’m fine.”
“Cady. Just get the salad dressing.” Shell leans over her plate. “That kind of stubbornness is only going to hurt yourself. Not us.”
I shovel the rest of the greens into my mouth. “I’m good.” I’ll show her.
Suzanne snorts, then starts giggling.
“What?” Shell says.
“You’re lecturing about stubbornness.” Suzanne works herself into a peal of laughter. “Oh my goodness. That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all year.”
Shell’s lips twitch. “Hey. Do as I say, not as I do.”
Suzanne laughing makes me want to giggle, but I control myself into a stone mask. I point to my empty plate. Shell nods. I dump the rest of the pasta onto my plate and take my huge mound of food back to the table, to Suzanne’s open mouth and Shell’s raised brows. And I eat every bit.
After dinner, I help clear the table and Suzanne shows me how to load the dishwasher, and then I go upstairs to take a hot shower.
For the first time in forever, my nerves stop jangling. I liked looking around Shell’s land and hanging out with Jay. Maybe—this tiny bit of hope springs up—maybe he can be a friend. Maybe the pie shop will be the greatest place ever. Maybe I’ll be the best pie maker ever born.
I’ll try not to expect too much, though. That way I can never be disappointed. Anyway, this is all temporary, I remind myself.
I put on a fluffy white robe that somebody left in the bathroom, digging around my drawers for some cleanish clothes. Which I don’t have. I think again about Mom growing up here. Wouldn’t Dad like to see this room? He misses her so much.
This all started three days ago, during lunch. I had to sit next to Anna-Tyler, who was texting somebody about being stuck next to stinky Cady
Bennett. Whatever. I decided to ignore Anna-Tyler as hard as she was ignoring me.
I waved to Jenna at the next table over. She’s in second grade and I’m in fifth, but I call her my Sister from Another Mother.
Other kids think it’s weird that Jenna’s my best friend since I’m so much older. But no matter how many lectures Ms. Walker gives about “being kind to everyone,” most kids either act like Anna-Tyler or ignore me. At recess, when other kids are playing games, I always say I want to read or help Ms. Walker. It’s because even if kids let me into their kickball games, nobody says a word.
Two years ago, when Jenna got assigned to me, I thought she’d ask for a different reading buddy. I sat on the floor scowling as she bounced up to me with the Found book in her hand. But Jenna only said, “Yay, I got Cady!” And then I couldn’t help but be happy around her.
Jenna waved back. “Reading buddy party after lunch!” she yelled. The other second graders dwarfed her like redwood trees next to a sapling.
Jenna’s small and frail because she has celiac disease. What this means is she can’t have wheat. She can’t even eat from a pan that cooked wheat once before. It’ll make her sick, scrape up her insides like a piece of rough sandpaper on smooth wood. She might barf, or worse. She tells me she can only eat things made in a gluten-free kitchen, where everything’s kept separate from the regular ingredients and utensils.
I scooped my dessert, half-frozen blueberries, into a baggie the girl next to me had discarded and pocketed it for later. Time for recess. I raised my hand to be excused.
I stood. The boy next to Jenna was standing up, too—that was weird. He was holding something by her head. I thought they were playing. I hoped they were playing.
Then I heard Jenna’s voice. I can always hear Jenna in a crowd, because a) she’s my best friend, and b) her voice is like a flute in an orchestra of off-key trombones. “Stop it!”
The boy shoved a wadded-up piece of bread against Jenna’s mouth, holding her head with the other hand. It was this kid who’d said Jenna made up her disease. She shoved at him, but Jenna weighs about as much as a cat, so he didn’t move.
Before I could think it through, I lunged over and grabbed the boy by his shirt, lifting him clean off the bench. I was the second-biggest kid at this school, not only because I actually should be in sixth grade, not fifth. He dropped the bread, Jenna cried, and the next thing I knew I was in the principal’s office.
The principal was only slightly surprised to see me. I’ve gotten into plenty of fights at school over the years. Most of the time other people start them by saying mean stuff or trying to hurt me, but a few times, I admit, I could’ve walked away.
Jenna told her what happened, so I didn’t get into trouble. But they wanted me to go home for the rest of the day and called my dad.
While I sat in the office waiting, a great creaking and clacking and clattering sounded outside. The principal and Jenna’s mom and the office ladies all looked out the window. “Is that the trash truck?” Jenna’s mom asked.
I almost crawled under the chair. Of course it wasn’t the trash truck. I knew exactly who it was. Dad, in the legendary van.
See, it was not an ordinary van, though it used to be. Once upon a time, it was a regular big white delivery van, until Dad got hold of it. Now it’s completely painted, covered in red and black words. JESUS SAVES. PRAISE THE LORD. Quotes from the Bible and things like REPENT, SINNERS. Some words are big, some are so tiny you have to stand right next to the vehicle to read it all.
And though it had all those quotes on it, we never went to church. The churches we tried were never strict enough for him. We prayed and read from the Bible as Dad told me his theories on what the stories meant, his mind scrambling like eggs in a too-hot pan. It never made sense, and it scared me.
I can’t tell you how many times people have vandalized the van. The dirty looks we get when we drive around. The kids laughing at me or shaking their heads, saying, I’m glad I’m not Cady.
Dad carefully locked it up, as if anyone would want to steal it, and ambled up the walkway to the office. His thick glasses hid his watery eyes, and his skin shone red brown from all the time he spends in the sun. I flinched at how skinny he’d become this year, but his thin hair was combed, and he’d tucked his stained denim shirt neatly. That, at least, was good. I relaxed.
He slammed the door open, then smacked the counter with both palms. “What’s this going on around here?” He was having trouble moving and talking. I could smell the sour scent of him.
Dad leaned over and put his head on the counter. “Mr. Bennett?” the secretary said. But he was asleep standing up, drool coming out of the corner of his mouth. The secretaries gave each other alarmed looks.
I knew I’d picked the worst possible time to get into trouble. Whatever happened next was not going to be good.
And it was all my fault.
Somebody knocks on the door. “Wait!” I stand up and retighten the belt on my robe before I open the door. Suzanne, holding a hair dryer and flowered cotton pajamas. I stand aside so she can come in.
“I think these will fit. Do you need anything else?” Suzanne puts the pajamas on the bed and plugs in the dryer. “You can keep this up here.” She turns it on and off. “This hot setting works best.”
“I like to let my hair air-dry.” Most motels have hair dryers that don’t work well. I’m not sure how to use one.
Suzanne tsks. “I don’t want you catching a cold.”
“That’s not how you get colds.” I cross my arms. Another thing we learned in science. Colds come from viruses, not from actually getting a chill. “A common misconception,” Ms. Walker had said. Seems like lots of people have common misconceptions about lots of things.
“But your immunity can get lowered that way, so let’s play it safe.” Suzanne turns on the dryer again and pats the quilt. “Let me help you.”
I reluctantly sit on the bed with my back to her. It feels weird to have someone else touching my head, and I keep flinching. But Suzanne has a soft touch, and pretty soon I relax as the warm air blasts my scalp. Tom purrs away on the bed, not at all afraid of the noise.
Suzanne turns it off and produces a brush. “Has this happened before, sweetie?” She works the bristles through my hair—she’s untangled most of it with her fingers so it doesn’t pull. She’s good at working with long hair for someone with such short hair.
“Yes, I have brushed before.” I know she’s talking about Dad, but I don’t really want to get into it. I concentrate on moving my finger in front of the cat, who pats at it with a soft paw.
Suzanne chuckles. “It’s okay if you’re not ready to discuss it.” Tom gets up and rubs his head against my hand, demanding petting. I tickle under his chin. “Just know I’m here for you.”
I swallow what feels like a small pebble. “No, it’s not the first time.” My voice is so quiet I can barely hear it. When I was six, and we still had an apartment, Dad didn’t come home one evening. I was alone until the next afternoon, waiting for him, until a social worker came instead and took me to a foster home. That was the most scared I’ve ever been.
“Did he leave you alone a lot?” Suzanne keeps brushing in the same rhythm as my Tom petting.
“Yeah.” There was another time, too, at my old school, when Dad never came to pick me up. I sat on the curb until it was dark and some parent going to a PTA meeting asked if I needed help, and the next thing I knew, I was at a foster home.
I move away from Suzanne. At least I know I can take care of myself no matter what. “But it’s fine.” I don’t want her to start crying over me or something. And hey, I’m alive, aren’t I? So how bad could it have been?
Suzanne goes to the door, pausing to give me a searching look. “Come downstairs and watch TV with us after you put on your PJs.”
I nod, shaking myself out of the memories. I put on the soft, clean-smelling pajamas and wrap the fuzzy robe around me again. Wearing the robe’s practically like
cuddling one of the dogs.
I might as well go watch TV. It’s too early for bed, and the shower made me hungry. I rush down the stairs. “Am I allowed to have a snack?”
Suzanne squints at me like I’m speaking Russian. “Of course! Take whatever you want. Always.”
I go into the kitchen, Suzanne ahead of me. She opens the pantry. “I went to Costco when I found out you were coming.” Inside are huge boxes of granola bars, Pop-Tarts, a big bag of popped popcorn, three kinds of chips, and Oreos. “Plus there’s fresh fruit and veggies.” She flits around pointing to each item as if she’s a fairy godmother pointing with her wand. And that’s what she feels like to me.
I’m so overwhelmed that for a few moments, I just stand there.
“Isn’t this any good?” Suzanne asks. “Do you see something you like?”
“It’s okay.” I want to eat everything right now.
“Well, grab whatever you like.” Suzanne pats me on the shoulder. “It’s all for you.” She goes back into the living room.
I look to make sure nobody’s watching. Then I get three apples, a handful of granola bars, and two cans of black beans and take them upstairs. I put the food in the dresser drawer, covering it with clothes, my heart pounding the whole time.
I’m doing this just in case. Just in case Dad magically shows up. Just in case something happens and I have to leave. I definitely don’t want to explain myself to Suzanne or Shell. I know they’d tell me I don’t need to hide food. Or maybe they’d even tell me I was stealing.
But it makes me feel safer. And relieved, like I got a good grade on a test I thought I’d fail. I’ll only hide a little bit at a time, until I have enough to last for a month or two.
I run back down and grab a bag of premade sour-cream-and-onion popcorn and a tall glass of water. Nobody says anything. Phew.
After I settle down into a Shell-shaped divot on the overstuffed couch, Jacques and Julia lie at my feet, and Tom sits beside me.
Summer of a Thousand Pies Page 4
