Setting her old slippers down on my bed, I took a long look around my room. I’d never lived anywhere else, and I knew every crack in the ceiling and worn spot in the carpet. As much as I couldn’t wait to get out of here, I was going to miss it. This was where Mom taught me to sew and where once upon a time we all lived together as a family. I reminded myself that this was also where I lived without a door to my room or hot water for years. I ran my hand over the quilt on my bed and looked at the lunchbox that held my tickets. If I started to think about all the things I wanted to save, I’d never get it done. I had to get started.
I changed into Phil’s old AC/DC concert shirt and gray sweatpants as fast as I could because it was so freezing in here. Grabbing the stinky slippers off the bed, I stood in the doorway and took one last look around. Everything else had to stay. Teddy B. was in a heap on the floor with my jacket, and I felt a pang in my chest. I hadn’t seen him for years, but I felt like he was one link to the past that I wasn’t ready to give up. I grabbed him and stuck him in the waistband of my sweats. I’d stash him someplace safe until it was all over and he could be with me again.
I took a deep breath and turned toward the door. Time to start my after.
chapter 20
5:25 a.m.
Starting the fire was harder than I thought it would be. When Johnny Depp and his sisters burned their house down in What’s Eating Gilbert Grape, they took what they wanted out of the house and then poured gasoline over everything else. Gasoline wasn’t part of my plan—I had to use the natural layout of the house to make this place burn beyond recognition while making it look like an accident. And I couldn’t take anything with me.
I plugged the space heater into the extension cord by Mom’s chair, and to my surprise, it started whirring without even needing a smack to get it started. As soon as the coil inside was glowing orange, I placed the heater next to a stack of newspapers and kicked it over just enough so that it was pressed against the flammable pile. I stood back and waited for the flames to burst from the heater and blaze up the wall.
Nothing happened.
I’d always thought that the smallest thing would burn this place down to the ground. We were always worried that a spark from an electrical short or a stove malfunction would send the place up in flames in seconds. Apparently it took a little more effort. I pushed the heater deeper into the stack and stood back, watching for the smallest wisp of smoke to signal success.
I smelled it before I saw it—that faint campfire smell when something starts to burn. Just as the smell registered in my brain, there was a brief burst of smoke before the edge of one of the papers caught fire.
It didn’t roar and it didn’t jump to life—the fire unfolded purposefully before my eyes as if it were an animal that was slowly coming out of hiding, creeping forward and waiting to see if I was going to chase it back into its cave.
I’d been concentrating so hard on starting the fire that once it caught I wasn’t sure exactly what to do. It had to be going really strong before I went for help, so I just watched the flames creep up the stack of newspapers as if they were the yule log we always watched on TV on Christmas mornings. I could see it, I could smell it, and eventually, I could feel the heat from it, but it was like it didn’t really have anything to do with me.
The smoke was starting to gather and swirl at the ceiling as I stepped back into the dining room. It invaded my nostrils and I tried to take short shallow breaths so that it wouldn’t go deeper. I crouched down a little where the air was clearer and hoped that I could still get out easily.
In a fairly short time, the fire knew it was beyond any decision I could make and was quickly spreading in this part of the house. A little zing of panic raced through me as I realized I’d actually done it—the house was really on fire and nothing I could do now would stop it.
The front door was totally blocked by the flames that had streaked across the living room, up the curtains, and were now curling around themselves where the walls met the ceiling. Squinting against the heat and smoke, I stood in the dining room at the edge of the flames, like I was at a bonfire on the beach. I ran my hand over the bottoms of Mom’s old slippers, worn smooth by years of trudging through the pathways of our house. Once they were new and full of promise, but after Mom got through with them, they were beyond repair. One by one I tossed them into the fire like an offering.
The smoke was rolling across the ceiling toward the open dining room window, so I followed it, climbing onto the ledge and landing in the pile of garbage bags below with barely a sound. I crawled out of the pile, my leg momentarily sinking between some of the bags until I pulled it free, the plastic cold and damp against my skin.
I stood outside under the tall, bare trees, watching through the open window as the fire coursed through the living room and raced down the hall. Fingers of flames started to lick the walls of the dining room, and I felt a pang of regret as they reached my neat, four-high stack of green bins. Soon they’d reach Grandma’s trunk and devour all of the evidence that Mom was once something special. Petey’s cage would be next, followed by TJ’s set of encyclopedias.
When the heat grew too intense and I could hear windows popping in the back of the house, I knew it was over. I backed away from the flames, through the line of trees, and then ran across the wide expanse of dewy, well-tended grass to the Rajs’ front porch. I could see the orange glow at the back of our house near Mom’s bedroom and knew that the fire’s appetite was total.
I remember banging on the front door and the panic around me as the fire department was called, frantic shouts, and nodding numbly when they asked if Mom was still inside, the fire now spewing from every available orifice in the house, preventing even the bravest attempt at rescue.
A blanket appeared over my shoulders, and as I pulled it around me, my fingers felt the lump of Teddy B. where he was still curled up safe and warm inside the waistband of my pants. I’d meant to hide him somewhere, but I’d forgotten. The edge of the blanket was scratchy, and I vaguely wondered why people were always wrapped in blankets at the scene of a tragedy. Whether it was loved ones waiting on shore for news of someone lost at sea or surveying a house that had been demolished in a hurricane, every photo always had the survivors wrapped in a blanket, even if it wasn’t particularly cold outside. There was something in the gesture of having a blanket wrapped around you that signaled that you were safe and that someone cared enough to make sure you were wrapped up and warm.
I was just a normal girl watching her entire life burn to the ground, hoping that she’d never have to explain the feeling of relief that was rising from the pit of her stomach and threatening to lift her into the air. As I heard the sharp sound of sirens growing louder in the distance, I pulled the blanket tighter around me, safe in my cocoon.
Someone handed me a tissue, and I looked at it blankly until I realized my face was wet and tears were beading on the edge of the blanket I was wrapped in. I stood for a minute, watching the arcs of water from the fire trucks that beat down on the remains of my life. Mom was gone, and there would be no house to fix up and live in happily ever after. The after that I’d pictured was going to be a lot different than I’d thought it would be. But that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.
The crowd of people around me shifted, and I was suddenly enveloped in a warm, wool jacket that smelled of soap and perfume. “Oh my God!” Kaylie’s mom released me long enough to look me over. “I was on my way to work when I saw the fire. Lucy, honey, are you all right?”
I nodded slowly, watching the flames climb higher and higher. Mrs. Raj leaned over and whispered something in her ear, and I watched Kaylie’s mom’s eyes fill with tears. She put her arm around me and sniffed, shaking the sadness off and standing up straighter. “Whatever you need,” she said. “We’re here for you. I’ll stay here with you as long as you like, and then we’re going straight home to find you some warm clothes.”
Leaning into her shoulder, I felt her strength as she pro
pped me up. I turned away from the fire then, not because I couldn’t stand to watch it anymore, but because I was done with it.
In the distance, over the hills, a pink, streaky, hopeful glow was emerging that rivaled the hot angry glow behind me. The skeletal trees pulsed with the red beat of the flashing lights, and neighbors gathered on their driveways, hands to their mouths in disbelief. As I looked at individual faces, I saw concern, not disgust, and wondered how different it would have been just a few hours from now if it were news camera crews instead of fire trucks in front of our house.
Mom had made the mess, and I was the only one left who could clean it up. For sixteen years, I’d gone along with it all, until I finally took control. I kept the secrets safe.
acknowledgments
From first inspiration to the book you hold in your hands, it took a lot of people to make it a reality. It would just be a file on a laptop without my agent, Erin Murphy, who read it, believed in it, and then made it happen. Thanks to my editor, Mary Kate Castellani, whose gentle nudges resulted in big improvements, and to everyone at Walker who supported this concept from the start. Big thanks go to my critique partners who read it and steered me in the right direction: Natalie Lorenzi, Ami-Joan Paquette, Julie Phillips, Kip Wilson, Lindsey Levitt, Maurene Hinds, Shelley Seeley, and Angela Cerrito. I’m grateful to Cassandra Whetstone, who sat up late into the night tossing ideas around and who gave me one of Lucy’s best lines. Writer-mentor Karen English should have laughed at my first feeble writing attempts, but her encouragement kept me going.
This book wouldn’t exist without my personal support system. My boys are the best—Bayo, Jaron, and Taemon dutifully ignored me when my characters carried on conversations out loud and supported me despite my constant distraction. Mom, Joe, Dad, Sue, Jessica, and Wendy collectively gave me the tools I needed to find my voice. Jessica Romero and Barbara Stewart screamed when the news was good and fed me chocolate when the news was bad. The biggest piece always came from Karen Ryan, my blindly supportive friend and very own personal publicist.
Finally, this book is for every child who grew up with a shameful secret. Donna Austin, Elizabeth Nelson, and Tracy Schroeder shared scraps of their lives and weren’t afraid to tell me when I was getting it wrong. If you or someone you know is affected by compulsive hoarding, seek help—this psychological disorder touches millions of people worldwide, and you are not alone. The Web site www.childrenofhoarders.com is a great resource for ideas and a supportive community of people who have shared the experience and truly understand.
Copyright
Copyright © 2010 by C. J. Omololu
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by anymeans, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
First published in the United States of America in February 2010 by
Walker Publishing Company, Inc., a division of Bloomsbury Publishing, Inc.
E-book edition published in August 2010
Visit Walker & Company’s Website at www.bloomsburyteens.com
For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Walker & Company, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10010
Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:
Omololu, Cynthia Jaynes.
Dirty little secrets / by C. J. Omololu.
p. cm.
Summary: When her unstable mother dies unexpectedly, sixteen-year-old Lucy must take control and find a way to keep the long-held secret of her mother’s compulsive hoarding from being revealed to friends, neighbors, and especially the media.
ISBN 978-0-8027-8660-9 (hardcover) • ISBN: 978-0-8027-2233-1 (paperback)
[1. Secrets—Fiction. 2. Compulsive behavior—Fiction. 3. Mothers and daughters—Fiction. 4. Death—Fiction. 5. Self-reliance—Fiction. 6. High schools—Fiction. 7. Schools—Fiction.]
I. Title.
PZ7.O54858Dir 2010 [Fic]—dc22 2009022461
ISBN 978-0-8027-2254-6 (e-book)
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Dirty Little Secrets Page 18
