by Antony John
“Why do you hide it under your sock?”
“Don’t want it to get damaged either.”
“Oh. That makes sense, I guess.”
“Glad to hear it.”
A few minutes later, he hangs a right onto Nick’s street. The house seems even closer to the dumpsters than it did earlier. Ned’s truck doesn’t exactly fit in with the fancy cars parked in the driveways, so I point to a space behind the dumpsters and the fence. He parks the truck.
“You sure someone left that?” he asks, peering through the windshield at the bike trainer. “Looks brand new.”
“I know.”
“There must be something wrong with it.”
“There isn’t.”
He puckers up his mouth. “Oh, yeah? And how would you know?”
“Because I checked it out.” He throws me another suspicious look, so I add, “Hey, just ’cause I’m a girl, doesn’t mean I don’t know how a trainer works, thank you very much!”
“Good. Then when we get home, you can learn how to unblock a drain.” He’s laughing as he opens his door.
I check the side mirror to see if Nick and Kat are around. I don’t know why I do it, because it’s not like we’re stealing. I don’t want them to feel weird about it, I guess.
“A little help, Lola?” Ned mutters.
“Coming!” I wrestle the door lever and almost get it open when I catch a glimpse of someone in the mirror.
It’s Nick. He’s dragging a Christmas tree, of all things. And he’s heading right for us.
I feel caught. As Ned watches curiously through the windshield, I press a finger to my lips like I want him to keep quiet. Then I sink down and hide in the footwell.
“Decided to skip Christmas this year, did you?” Ned calls out.
“No, sir,” Nick replies. “It’s just a spare.”
“Is the bike trainer yours too?”
“My mom’s. But she doesn’t want it.”
“Well, I know someone who does,” says Ned cheerfully. “My neighbor has been talking my ear off about getting one of these. Reckon she’ll be thrilled.”
“Does she live close?” Nick asks.
“Near the library.”
“Oh. I’ve got a friend who lives over there. Lola Harmon. Do you know her?”
Ned clears his throat. “We’ve crossed paths, yeah.”
“She’s in my class. We ride the bus together too. She always reads stories to this little girl named Tiffany and then makes me look at the gross pictures because she knows I hate it.”
“I’ll be sure to ask her about that.”
“Oh, no. Please don’t. It’s kind of our thing now.”
“Fair enough,” says Ned. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
I feel a little shiver run through me. It’s nice to hear Nick talking about me, especially when he doesn’t know I’m listening.
“I should probably warn you, though,” Ned continues. “She’s a tooter.”
What?
“A . . . tooter?” repeats Nick.
“Uh-huh. Farts like a machine, that one.”
Unbelievable! He’s going to pay for that later.
“I’ve seen roaches scatter from perfectly good food just to escape the smell,” Ned says.
“That’s serious tooting,” agrees Nick.
“World-class, is what it is.” Ned chortles. He’s really enjoying this.
“Can I help you put the trainer in the truck?” Nick asks.
“That’d be mighty kind of you,” says Ned.
Shoot shoot shoot! Nick’s going to pass right by my window. I crush myself into the footwell and try to think invisible thoughts.
Ned opens the rear gate. They grunt as they lift the trainer into the truck bed. It lands with a thud.
“You want the Christmas tree too?” Nick asks.
“Sure!” Ned heaves it into the back and slams the gate shut.
“We, uh, actually have a bunch of other stuff we’re putting out as well,” Nick says. “If you want, you could bring your truck around.”
Please don’t say yes, Ned! Please!
“That’s a very generous offer. I’d love to.”
Nooooooo!
A couple seconds later, Ned opens his door and climbs in. I glare at him. “You might as well stay down there,” he says. “We’re about to load up.”
“Why did you say yes?” I growl.
“Be rude not to. He seems like a nice kid.” Ned starts the engine and reverses. “He’s sweet for you too, and no mistake.”
“Is not!”
Ned busts out laughing. “I told him you’re a tooter, and he looked at me like he didn’t care. If that’s not true love, I don’t know what is.”
I think I know why Ned is single.
He turns the truck around and drives slowly toward Nick’s house. For an expensive street, it’s got more potholes than I realized. Or maybe the holes just feel bigger when your head keeps smacking against the glove compartment.
“I’m getting cramps,” I say.
“Then try helping us.”
“I can’t.”
“Suit yourself.”
He stops the truck and gets out. A few moments later, I hear footsteps coming down the driveway.
“That’s one huge box,” says Ned, sounding impressed. “Need a hand?”
“No, thanks,” says Nick. “It’s just decorations. But we’ve got every color in there.”
“You don’t need Christmas decorations anymore?”
“Mom says it’s more efficient to stick with white lights and silver decorations. . . . No clashing,” Nick explains.
“Oh, right. Absolutely,” says Ned, like he’s an expert on mismatched Christmas tree decorations.
I force my head around so I can see out Ned’s window. Nick is right outside. Close enough to spit on. Not that I’d spit on him, because that’s even grosser than tooting, but I can’t believe he doesn’t know I’m here.
“Nick!” I recognize Mr. Merlo’s deep voice. “Everything all right?”
I hear another set of footsteps on the driveway. Mr. Merlo’s, I guess, although I can’t see on account of being squished in a ball in a dark, stinky space.
“Hi, Dad,” says Nick. “This man says he can use our stuff.”
“Does he, now?”
“Ned Coulter,” says Ned, introducing himself. “Your son’s a great kid. Very helpful.”
“Indeed. But that’s all we’re throwing out today.”
“What about the other boxes?” Nick asks.
“They can wait. I think we’re done here.”
There’s a long pause. As I shift position, I can just make out Ned scratching his head. “Well, I sure do appreciate your help, son.”
“Yes, sir,” says Nick.
Luckily, Ned doesn’t open the door super wide as he gets in, so Nick and his dad can’t see me hiding out. Ned snaps on his seat belt and jerks the keys in the ignition.
Something’s wrong.
“Are you okay, Ned?”
He pulls away slowly. “Mmm-hmm.”
I worm back onto my seat as we turn off Nick’s street. We have a bike trainer in the back. We even have a Christmas tree and decorations. But Ned’s jaw muscles are bulging. Plus, he hasn’t said a word, and that’s not like him.
I try again. “Sure you’re okay?”
He squeezes the steering wheel. “I don’t think you should’ve hidden, Lola. There’s nothing to be ashamed of, giving new life to something. You know that, right?”
“Right,” I say, because it is right. It just doesn’t actually feel right.
“And you know something else? A big house doesn’t mean nothing.”
“I know.”
“I know you know. But if a big house doesn’t mean nothing . . . neither does a small house. Take Marybeth. She’s got enough money to buy three of these mansions, if she wants. But what she wants is to be exactly where she is. Who she is. Ain’t nothing more important than what’s
on the inside. On the inside, you hear me?”
I don’t think he’s talking about Ms. Archambault anymore. “I hear you,” I say quietly.
Nodding, he reaches down and scratches his ankle. I don’t know if he realizes he’s doing it, but he keeps wiggling that strange lump under his sock like he wants to tear it off.
A moment ago, he was teasing me for hiding out in the footwell of his truck. But who’s the one hiding things now?
15
Stuck in the Wrong Gear
Yesterday, Momma overslept. Today, she’s hibernating. I make her a pot of coffee at seven, but she’s still not up at eight. She was working late last night, so I don’t want to wake her.
On the bright side, it gives me a chance to write her a note, like Kat said I should.
Reasons I should get to keep Katherine’s swimsuit:
1. My old ones don’t fit anymore.
2. It was free, which is a very good value.
3. It’s bad manners to turn down a gift.
4. Most of the other girls in fifth grade already have a two-piece.
5. I’ll probably outgrow it by next year anyway.
6. I like it.
I add the line I look forward to discussing this at your earliest convenience, which Kat says is a very professional thing to do. Then I fold the paper neatly in two and pop it in one of the white envelopes Momma keeps in the kitchen drawer. I write For Momma in cursive on the front and put it on my nightstand.
At eight thirty, I quietly open Momma’s door. She’s still totally zonked. I guess she didn’t get a good night’s sleep again.
While I wait for her to wake up, I grab my new book and sit on the porch to read. The clouds are heavy today, but it’s still plenty warm. I prop my feet up on the porch rail and sink into Hortense’s latest adventures.
After a kid goes missing at her school, Hortense asks her father for help. She even visits him at work, because he has access to loads of information there. He says he’s too busy to help. But Hortense doesn’t give up. She secretly follows him to his office vault and begins searching through dusty old filing cabinets. (Maybe she’s not so different from me after all!) She even finds a file on the kid’s family. Turns out, they changed their last name from Weber to Webb, so it wouldn’t sound German. Is that why the kid has disappeared—because he’s German?
I’m flying through the book when Ned pulls into Ms. A’s driveway in his wheezing truck. He hauls himself out of the driver’s seat, grabs his toolbox, and lumbers toward our house.
“Gonna be a thunderstorm today, and no mistake,” he says, peering up at the sky.
I put the book down. “Are you one of those old people who can feel it in your bones when the weather’s changing?” I ask.
He sucks in his cheek. “No, Lola. I’m one of those not-so-old-thank-you-very-much people who checks the weather forecast.”
We walk around the side of the house. That’s where we left the bike trainer yesterday. If it’s going to rain, we should probably get it under cover. But I’m pretty sure Momma won’t want it in the house. So we pick it up and carry it to the porch instead. Then we get Momma’s old bike from the little shed we share with Ms. Archambault.
Ned pulls a can of soda from his toolbox and takes a seat on Momma’s rocker. “You can set it up, right?”
“Uh, sure,” I say.
There are bolts on either side of the trainer to hold the back wheel steady. But I need two hands to lift the bike. I can’t hold the bike and turn the large plastic knobs at the ends of the bolts at the same time.
Ned pops the can open and lets out a satisfied “Ahhhh!” He’s smiling too, like he finds it funny to watch me struggle. I’m determined to wipe that grin off his face.
I stand back and think again. Then it hits me. I need to screw the bolts closer to each other first. When they’re just a few inches apart, I lift the bike into place again. Then I turn one of the plastic knobs with my foot until it anchors the bike axle. Now I can let go and the bike is as steady as a rock.
I climb onto the saddle and start pedaling as the first drops of rain patter gently onto the porch roof. The trainer works great. It’s pretty noisy, though, so I don’t hear the screen door opening.
“What’s that?” Momma asks.
I crane my neck. She’s standing in the doorway, watching me. “It’s your bike,” I say, sliding off it. “On a trainer!”
She tilts her head to one side. “Where did you get it?”
“I found it next to a dumpster over by Nick’s.”
Ned gives me a hard stare. I stare right back, because I’m not lying. I’m just not telling the whole truth. I don’t even feel bad about it. It’s not like Hortense told her father she was rifling through those filing cabinets.
“Ms. A said she’d give us the code to her Netflix account,” I continue. “Now you can cycle and watch TV at the same time, just like at the gym!” I tap the trainer with my sandal. “I even put it together. Tightened the bolts and everything. You want to try it?”
Momma puts her hand against the wall like she’s trying to balance herself.
“Momma?”
“Might want to give your mom time to wake up,” says Ned soothingly.
I don’t think time will be enough. Or even coffee. Momma has this look on her face like spending a moment on that bike is the worst thing she can possibly imagine. My heart sinks.
“I can get it off the porch, if you don’t want it,” I say, kneeling beside the trainer.
“Just leave it,” Momma mumbles.
“You don’t have to use it if—”
“I said, leave it!”
We stare at each other. Momma looks as shocked as I feel. She almost never shouts at me because she never needs to. I’m not difficult, like Kat used to be. At least, I don’t think I am. I really thought she’d like the trainer.
Tears are building behind my eyes. I don’t want Ned to see me cry, so I hurry past Momma and into the house. Once I’m in my bedroom, I close the door and flop face-first onto the bed. There aren’t any locks on our doors, so a minute later, Momma comes right on in.
“I’m sorry, Lola,” she says softly. “It’s not that I don’t want the trainer.”
I glare at her. “Don’t tell me. You just need a little more sleep.”
Momma flinches. “I’m tired, yes. But I also think you should’ve asked me before you took it.”
“I didn’t take it. It was next to a dumpster.”
“Lola.” She sighs. “You shouldn’t be accepting gifts. Especially not something like this.”
“It wasn’t a gift,” I snap. “I found it!”
The rain is falling harder now. It drums against the roof and spills down my window like a hundred tiny waterfalls. Momma turns to watch it . . . and sees the swimsuit hanging from either end of the curtain rod.
“What’s . . . ?” She shakes her head. She knows what it is.
She pulls the swimsuit down. Pinches both parts between her thumb and finger like she’s holding a stinking dead rodent.
I figure she’s going to chew me out. I almost wish she would, so that I could hand her the envelope on my nightstand. But she doesn’t fight. Instead, she has the same expression as when we nail planks of plywood across our windows before a hurricane hits: serious but also a little scared. If it’s going to be a small storm, she calls it “taking precautions.” If they’re forecasting a big one, and she’s really frightened, she calls it “protecting what’s left.”
As she turns and leaves the room, I get the feeling that’s what she’s doing right now. She’s taking precautions. And protecting what’s left.
I want to stand up for myself. I want us to argue, if that’s what it takes. I want to be like Hortense. But she has a mom and a dad. Brothers and a sister. Momma and I have friends, sure, but we’re a family of two. And two is such a small number. So fragile.
I watch Momma go. And I never say a word.
For the next several minutes, I sit cr
oss-legged on my bed and stare at the cream-colored curtains, and the pink walls we painted together when I was six, and the purple polka-dot lampshade. It’s like the room is caught in time, a memory of another me.
Someone knocks on the front door. It only takes me a moment to recognize Ms. Archambault’s voice. I guess Ned told her what happened and she’s here to play peacemaker.
Momma and I never needed a peacemaker before.
As Ms. A and Momma slip outside to talk, I let myself into Momma’s bedroom. Last time I snooped around in here, I felt weird about it. Not anymore. If Hortense can open her father’s filing cabinets, I can open Momma’s laptop and type in the password.
I open the folder marked “For Lola” and study all the photographs of my momma and daddy, taken almost a year before I was born. I keep thinking that if I look close enough, I’ll see something that will give me another clue about him. But the photos look the same as I remember.
Hortense wouldn’t give in. She’d look for more: A letter. A message. A movie. But I don’t have row after row of filing cabinets to search. So I try to think like Kiana instead. How would she find out more about that period of Momma’s life?
Of course! I need to search the computer files by date.
There’s only one other folder from the same time in Momma’s life. It’s marked “Wyndcrest.” I click on it, but it won’t open without a password. I try “pa$$word,” but it doesn’t work. Neither does “Lola” or “Veronica” or “Harmon.”
I want to know what’s in that folder. But I don’t want Momma to walk in on me. So I put the laptop back where I found it and leave the room.
I’m in the hallway when I hear Ms. Archambault say, “You’re going to have to tell her, Veronica. She’s an inquisitive girl. You can’t keep this secret.”
My heartbeat quickens. What “secret” is she talking about? I stay completely still so I can catch Momma’s reply, but their conversation seems to be over.
Does Momma already suspect that I’m looking for my daddy? I’ve tried to be careful.
But so what if she does know? Ms. A is right. I am inquisitive, and I deserve to know everything about my daddy. Maybe even meet him.
And if Momma doesn’t approve, well . . . tough. This is one project I’ll do without her.
