The 12th Candle

by Kim Tomsic

  We wait and watch Bailee walk to her porch, and a single gold leaf floats down from a sugar maple tree. It flutters through the window, landing on Momma’s lap. The leaf is huge and perfect, and it’s more than just gold, it has shades of tiger orange and fire yellow, too. Momma picks it up by the stem. “Will you look at this.” Her voice fills with wonder. “The first leaf I’ve seen fall this year.”

  “Odd, right?” I say.

  Bailee waves before going inside. I wave back.

  “Nobody has ever heard of autumn leaves in Colorado in the middle of December,” Momma says. “More proof that Goldview’s weather is magical.”

  Her mention of magic makes me look at her more closely—suntanned cheeks, heart-shaped face, and those bright hazel eyes. Mine are dark brown like Daddy’s, but I realize the almond shape of her eyes is like mine. The skin on my neck tingles. I sense a new spark between Momma and me, a sign that maybe we can do more than sing and laugh and watch TV. Maybe I can find words to talk to her about what’s been on my mind. Since breakfast, the idea of talking has been spinning in my stomach. Only problem is, I don’t know how to start.

  I look at the leaf and clear my throat. “It’s pretty.”

  “We’ll save it and press it into a book.” Momma sets it down between us, like a bridge from her to me. She grinds the car into gear, and it rattles as we back out of the driveway.

  The street is edged with green spruces and trees full of leafy branches with shades of golden brown, vermilion red, and honey yellow. A soft breeze blows pine through our windows, and the rustling leaves sound like a whisper. The solstice is coming. My arm hairs spike. What did Minerva want me to do by sunset on the solstice?

  A few more leaves trickle down as we zoom past.

  “How was the movie?”

  “Awesome!” I mimic Darth Vader. “No, I am your father.”

  Momma laughs. “Your daddy can do the Darth Vader voice, too. You’re just like him.”

  “No, I’m not!” flies out of my mouth before I can stop it.

  Momma whips a look at me before taking a breath. “What’s wrong?” Her voice is soft. “You used to like it when I’d say that.”

  “I didn’t mean to sound ugly, but . . . maybe I’m more like you than him?”

  “Okay?” she says, her face screwing up like she’s confused.

  I want to tell her that my anger at Daddy confuses me, too, but the words stay trapped in my mouth.

  I clear my throat for the second time, struggling to catch the enchanted vibe between us before it slips away. I have questions about Daddy. About the trial. About us. About the things we never talk about. I want to say I never tell her stuff because she overreacts. I’m ready to talk and now feels like a better moment than ever, so I start with, “I know the jury got it wrong.” I wait for a reaction. Neither one of us has ever said those words out loud before.

  Momma stays quiet. Maybe she’s waiting for me to finish, so as gentle as possible I add, “It’s just that . . . even though he didn’t do it, Daddy is technically a convicted thief and because of that, everyone in town thinks we’re thieves, too.”

  I pick at the purple nail polish on my thumb and wait. Here’s Momma’s chance to holler, “People are dumb, the jury was dumb, and they got it wrong!” And then I’ll hug her and say, “Let’s take it to the Supreme Court!” or something like what they say on TV, and we’ll get fired up together and figure out what to do next.

  Or if Momma doesn’t say that, she might say something helpful the way Daddy would if he were here, like ideas on how to deal with the snide looks at school and Godzilla’s comments, or she’ll tell me that I’m going to win the Noodler contest and become so famous that nobody will ever be a jerk to me again.

  But Momma doesn’t do any of these things. All she adds is, “People don’t think we’re thieves.” She doesn’t sound sure or even surprised.

  I’m determined to keep trying to talk, and so I uncork another bit of news. “Gigi stopped being my friend because of Daddy’s arrest.”

  “Is that why she’s not coming around?” Momma takes a quick glance at me, making the car swerve.

  “She hasn’t exactly said that out loud, but I know that’s why she stopped hanging out with me.”

  “I’ll call her mother just as soon as we get home.”

  “No!” My ears turn hot. This is exactly why I never tell her stuff. “I don’t want you fixing this, that would be humiliating.”

  Momma huffs.

  “Momma! I’m just telling you about how things are. Promise me you won’t call.”

  She slows at a yield sign and releases a sigh. “Fine. Whatever Gigi thinks doesn’t matter anyhow. Here’s what important for you to remember about your daddy, Sage. He loves you, and I do, too.”

  “Okay.” I say it in surrender, because why bother. Momma doesn’t understand, or she doesn’t want to. My stomach stops spinning even though I finally know the words I wish I could say—that ever since Daddy was accused, arrested, and convicted, I’ve gone from regular Sage to everyone looking at me like I’m Aladdin, the street rat, or Ponyboy, the gutter kid. Things have been lousy—losing our house, losing Gigi, and dealing with kids who worry I might snatch their lunch money. Added to that, Daddy’s conviction gives Godzilla more ammunition than is fair in a family feud.

  I stuff those words underneath my rib cage, putting them in prison, too.

  “You know what? You’re right!” Momma smiles, not noticing or maybe ignoring the unspoken stuff. “You are like me. Like how you couldn’t wait to open your present.”

  I nod, but all I can think of are the ways I’m not like her, because even though Momma doesn’t know how to talk to me, she has an easy heart for Daddy. She reads his letters. She takes his Sunday phone calls. She stays positive and tells him she loves him, and the way her voice sounds, I can tell she means it.

  Problem with me and these phone calls is, I love my daddy. I love him so much I’m afraid questions will jump out of my mouth, and he’ll know what I’m thinking, because even though I say my daddy didn’t do it, sometimes I wonder if he did.

  It’s why those letters buried in my drawer are scary to think about.

  “. . . and maybe you should talk to her about it.”

  “What?” I say.

  “Gigi,” Momma says. “You should talk to her.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about. She’s Team Priscilla, now.”

  “Well—but . . .”

  “Momma, you don’t know how middle school works these days.”

  “I want to understand.” She touches my hand, and for a moment my heart hopes she’ll say more and prove to me she does get it. Daddy was good at hearing the things I didn’t say. But Momma settles on, “I’m sorry, honey.”

  I shrug. “It’s okay.” As soon as I say that, I realize “okay” is possible, because the curse-reverse can fix everything, including my friendship with Gigi. I cross my fingers and slide them under my legs.

  The road winds left and right, and I come up with an idea of what we should do next. “Can we go to the Harnetiaux pet store?”

  Momma’s body stiffens. “You know I don’t like to go to stores around here.”

  I throw my arms up. “You just told me it’s not true that everyone in town thinks we’re thieves, but you don’t want to go anywhere anymore, because you think people are whispering about you, and maybe they are but—”

  “I’m sorry, Sage. It’s hard for me.”

  It’s hard for me, too, I think, but keep my lips zipped, because Momma deals with enough, and her facing townsfolk is probably as hard as me facing school. You never know when someone’s going to slip a pickle on your seat.

  We stop at a four-way intersection, and a coal-black Tesla pulls to the stop sign directly across from us. It’s Priscilla and her mother.

  Momma grips the steering wheel so hard her knuckles turn white. She eases her foot on the gas pedal and, putter, putter, pfloop. A puff of gray rises from our car
and we stop moving.

  Mrs. Petty waves as her car glides silently past, Godzilla laughing in the passenger seat.

  I want to tell Momma that I’d like to fill up Mrs. Petty’s entire car with pickles, but I keep those words buried, too.

  “I should’ve gone for the fancy cars in the curse, huh?” Momma says with a small laugh, trying to restart the engine with no luck.

  “Did you run out of gas?”

  “No, Sage. We’re having engine troubles. I just need to let them get some distance. You know my car acts up whenever I’m near Candice Petty.” Momma waits a moment before turning the key again. The car rattles to life and she pats the dashboard. “See.” She clicks on her blinker. “You know what? We can go.”

  “Huh?” I turn to face her.

  “It’s your birthday weekend. Pet store, here we come.” Her voice lightens. “But we are only going to look. Re-Bay is not going to bring in enough cash to feed another mouth right now.”

  “Really?” As soon as I realize I’m getting my way, I feel bad because I’ve guilted her into it. And now I’m stressed because I know she was worried about one real possibility—in this town, you never know who you’re going to run into.

  Chapter 13

  We pull into the parking lot where a man on a ladder works on the Harnetiaux Pets sign.

  Momma parks at the end spot and turns off the engine.

  “Ready?” I open my door.

  Instead of opening her door, too, she scans the store windows, doing her usual search to see if any of the town gossips are inside. Sure enough, she spots someone. “I’m going to wait in the car.”

  “Momma,” I say in a plea, trying to see who she sees, “you could visit the guinea pigs.”

  She considers this for a moment. When Daddy was home, we’d come to Harnetiaux Pets at least once a month because Daddy and I liked volunteering with the rescue dogs. While we walked the rescues and played with them, Momma spent her time with the guinea pigs, holding them, naming them, even rearranging their cages. Daddy always wanted to buy one for her, but she refused. Daddy explained it was because the first guinea pig Momma ever owned had been a gift from Mrs. Petty—a best-friend gift. So when the snake ate the pup and their friendship ended, it must’ve felt like the worst kind of betrayal. He couldn’t say for sure, though, since Momma’s not the best at sharing her feelings.

  She turns her attention back to the store window. “No.” She shakes her head like she’s underlining her “no.” “Mrs. Snyder from the bank is in there, and I can’t deal with her.”

  “But—”

  “Mr. Harnetiaux is a sweetheart, but I’m not up for that Snyder woman. Sorry.”

  “Momma,” I whine.

  “Go on. Take your time,” she says sweetly. “Play with the puppies, pet the cats. It’s gorgeous outside. I’m going to sit here with the windows down and read my book.” She takes a novel from the seat pocket behind her and opens it up.

  I sigh. But I understand, since Mrs. Snyder is one of Momma’s very own Godzillas.

  Thinking of Godzilla’s smirky little face laughing at me and Momma makes my blood boil. Godzilla, the bully. Godzilla, the fraidy-cat of crickets. Godzilla, who I owe for the pickle incident. Godzilla, who deserves my revenge. I pause. I have an idea. The perfect idea! A prank that will teach Priscilla once and for all not to mess with me.

  I grab the Sprouts bag from the back seat and loop the straps over my shoulder. I’m ready with an excuse about why I’m bringing it with me, but Momma doesn’t even notice, so I close the car door and head to the entrance.

  The worker from the sign company is off the ladder. He has unhitched some of the letters and is now placing the r, t, and i in the back of his green pickup truck.

  “Hello,” I say. “What’s going on?”

  “New owners,” he says. “Harnetiaux Pets is now Happy Pets. I’m updating the sign.”

  “Oh.” I take one last look at Momma as I head inside, hoping she might have changed her mind. This is why I miss noticing that someone is kneeling low and polishing a stack of glass fish tanks.

  Step-trip-clunk! I barely catch myself on the edge of a shelf.

  “Whoa,” the boy and I say at the same time. “Sorry.”

  He stands and brushes my shoeprint from his jeans.

  “Are you okay?” I say. “I hope I didn’t leave any permanent marks.”

  “It was my fault.” He flicks black bangs from his eyes. “I’m good. You okay?”

  “Uh-huh.” We’re face-to-face now, and I realize he is good, as in, really good to look at—kind, flirty eyes, and a perfect uneven smile. My cheeks warm.

  “Sorry. I don’t usually trip customers as they walk in the door.” He sets a bottle of blue Windex on the counter. “Welcome to Happy Pets, or you can call us Li Pets, because I think we should copy Mr. Harne—”

  “It’s Happy Pets,” a woman’s voice calls from another aisle.

  “Okay, Mom,” he calls back, but then whispers to me, “Li Pets.”

  I smile and wonder why I’ve never seen him before. He looks like he’s my age—I’m good at guessing these things—plus, we’re practically the same height.

  “As you heard,” he jabs a thumb to the aisle behind us, “the boss likes Happy Pets better.”

  “Both have a nice ring,” I say.

  “Yeah,” he says brightly. “I’m Justin. As in, Justin Li of Li Pets. By the way, that’s L-i, the Chinese spelling, not L-e-e. That would be the Korean spelling.”

  “Okay,” I say. “I’ll be sure to pronounce it with an i.”

  Justin laughs, and it’s such a nice laugh, it makes me laugh back all loud and goofy.

  “Exactly!” he says. “Because Li Pets—”

  “Happy Pets,” the woman’s voice calls.

  He rolls his eyes but grins, too. “Want a tour? We’ve rearranged a few things.”

  “Okay, thanks.” His smile forms a small dimple in his left cheek. I wish I could think of something to make him laugh again. “I’m Sage.” I leave out my last name because no use blowing a new friendship in case he’s already heard of the Sassafras name.

  We walk down the pet food aisle, and Justin talks about the organic brands and how dog food has different meat varieties and grain-free options. He points out the giant blue-and-silver bags and then the medium and smaller bags. He talks about the treats—Greenies for fresh breath, chicken chews for healthy joints, and every size bone you can imagine. His voice is smooth, and I can’t make the cheeseball grin leave my face, which must look crazy, because who gets this happy about dog food? We stop near the end of the aisle by the collar-and-leash section.

  “What kind of dog do you have?” Justin asks.

  “I don’t.”

  He laughs. “Why’d you let me go on and on about our dog foods?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t want to interrupt.” I don’t tell him that I like hearing him talk. I pick up a blue collar with sparkly stones around it. “When I get a dog, remind me to buy this one.”

  “Will do.” Our eyes lock for a moment.

  I fumble to return the collar to the shelf. “Um . . . where do you go to school?”

  “We lived in Colorado Springs until my family bought this store. I’ve been homeschooled by my dad, and now I—”

  “Excuse me,” a bearded man in orange flip-flops says. “Where can I find the cat litter?”

  “Just one aisle over on the right,” Justin says. “Would you like me to walk you to it, sir?”

  Please say no.

  “No thanks. I’m good.” The man heads off.

  Phew.

  Justin waves an arm to the left side of the store, where I can hear puppy barks and squeaky toys. “This way to the highlight of the store.”

  My smile grows. We walk to an open area, and Justin says, “This is where we’ve built out the puppy zone and rescue dog area.”

  “Holy magenta!”

  “Yep,” Justin says, smiling as he and I look at the new
construction. The shelves that were here when it was Mr. Harnetiaux’s store have been removed, and in their place is a waist-high plexiglass fence enclosure. Six full-grown dogs run around inside a large play area.

  Justin takes a ball from his pocket and rolls it to a small pit bull the color of cinnamon and coral. “Here you go, Peaches.” He checks the clock hanging on the store wall and says, “Right now, the rescue dogs get their playtime. Later, it will be puppy playtime. I’m still figuring out how to work the schedules.”

  “Whoa, you’re in charge of that?”

  “That’s right.” Justin stands a little taller and his sweet, uneven smile makes me stare a second too long. I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, and suddenly, I’m wondering how my hair looks and wishing I were wearing my white jeans—minus the pickle stains—instead of a pair of old blue corduroys.

  Five dogs run around one end of the enclosure, tossing balls and playing tug-of-war with a small purple rope. A white dog hangs out in the corner. Justin leans against the fence. “Watch this.” He points to a cider-brown dog bouncing its way to the white dog. The cider dog grabs the white dog’s tail and tugs on it until the white dog barks and starts a game of chase. Justin laughs. “They do this all the time. Aren’t they cute?”

  “Mm-hmm.” And so are you. I clear my throat. “People can just go in and pet them?”

  “Yep. The dogs that aren’t socialized yet stay in their cages and we work with them one-on-one. I like to make sure each dog is ready to live with a family.”

  “I love dogs, too,” I say awkwardly. “I mean, I know you didn’t just say that, but it’s kind of obvious.”

  “We have two rescues at home,” he says. “I want to make Peaches my third.”

  “I can’t wait to have a rescue of my own.” Maybe when the curse reverses that’ll happen right away—a dog for Daddy and me and a guinea pig for Momma. “One day.”

  “And it’ll wear that blue collar.”

  “Exactly!” I keep smiling and I’m not really sure what to do with my hands, and now I’m worrying he thinks I’m a complete weirdo to come to a pet store and talk about dogs when I don’t even have one. “Um, I like looking around. You can’t be too prepared.”