by Susan Shreve
“I know,” I say, and I'm thinking I'll tell her about Tommy, just Tommy, not the diamond necklace, when she makes a kind of screech.
“There's something sharp in your bed.” She's on my bed, on her hands and knees, running her hand over the sheets where she's been sitting, and of course, she finds the necklace where I've hidden it from Milo.
“What's this thing, El?” she asks, still feeling it under the sheets.
“The thing is a necklace,” I say.
So I have to tell her how I met Tommy yesterday for the first time and I told him it was my birthday and that I couldn't have a party because of stupid Rosie and I wanted this sparkly necklace at Wake Up Little Suzie, which my parents would have thought was an impractical present, so he bought me this necklace.
“I mean he's not my boyfriend, P.J. He's just a friend.”
She's sitting back where she was, leaning against the poster of my bed, holding the necklace up to the light.
“It's pretty,” she says, turning it over in her hand, looking at it by my overhead light. “But it's not diamonds, Ellie.”
“How do you know it's not?”
“They're too big. Nobody in Toledo has enough money for diamonds this big.” She puts the necklace down beside her. “But it's really beautiful, El.”
“I'm not telling anyone but you,” I say. “Not even my parents. They'd kill me.”
“How come? It was a nice thing for him to do, especially since you were having a bad day.”
“My parents don't like him,” I say, “because he's got a reputation.”
This interests P.J. It's one of the ways we're alike.
“What kind?” she asks.
“Bad,” I say happily.
“Cool,” she says, and we laugh and I paint her toenails with Flamingo Forever nail polish and then I hear her mother at the front door.
“So I'll write you at camp,” P.J. says as she gives me one of her bear hugs, lifting me off the ground since I'm quite a bit smaller than she is. “And see you in August.”
I start to tell P.J about canceling camp, but she has to leave before I can mention my job plans, because her mother is calling from downstairs in her ice-cold voice that it's time to go.
“So you better not have made a boyfriend of that Tommy guy when I come back from being with nothing but girls all summer,” P.J. says. “I'd be heartbroken.”
“Don't worry,” I say. “He's not going to be a boyfriend, for sure.”
It's nine o'clock, too early to go to bed and I'm restless. Downstairs my parents are watching The Branhovers on cable and Milo is spending the night at his friend Billy's house. They asked me if I wanted to watch with them but I don't want to see anything on television and I don't want to talk.
I turn off the lights, take the necklace out from under the covers, and hang it on my knee as if my knee were my neck.
Maybe it's not diamonds, I think, even though Tommy says it is. P.J. should know about diamonds even though I don't. Her family is a little rich because her father is a lawyer. And maybe Tommy made it up about the diamonds. I hope he did. I don't exactly want to go around with a diamond necklace stuck under my shirt, but I like that Tommy told me it was made of real diamonds. He wants me to believe that, whether it's true or not.
I've never felt pretty before—sort of ordinary with brown hair and freckles. But my father says I have auburn hair and my mother says I'll be a pretty woman and even I feel a little different about myself tonight, as if something is happening to me, some change is taking place that no one can see yet because it's happening underneath my skin.
I kiss the hard, bright teardrop diamonds one at a time. For years my life has gone on and on, day after day very much the same as the day before. And now it's suddenly becoming another kind of life.
7. Roundup
I don't know how it happened that I fell asleep with the light on and my diamond necklace hanging on my knee but I did. When Milo comes into my bedroom, it's about seven in the morning and I'm under the covers, the necklace sleeping beside me.
“What are you doing home?” I ask Milo. “I thought you were at Billy's.”
“I threw up,” Milo says, climbing into bed next to me.
“I don't want you to get in bed with me if you're sick.”
“I'm not sick,” Milo says. “I was sick and Mommy came over to get me and I got home about eleven o'clock last night.”
“So you should be sleeping,” I say, getting out of bed, making the bed quickly with the necklace under the covers so Milo won't see it.
“Someone woke me up. I heard a noise on the front porch and so I got up and went down and there was Tommy Bowers and now he's in the kitchen waiting to see you.”
Milo goes out to the sunporch and I follow him, my heart jumping in my chest.
“It's seven in the morning,” I say as if I'm very upset by Tommy's early appearance at my house. Which I'm not.
Milo flops down on one of the cots we keep on the sun-porch.
“I want to have a sleepover on your sunporch. I think I'll ask Mom if I can invite all my friends this Saturday.”
“You might throw up,” I say, hoping my parents didn't hear Tommy come in.
“I only throw up at other people's houses,” Milo says, doing a backward somersault on the cot, following me back into my room.
I'm getting dressed in a hurry without a shower, throwing my clothes on the floor because I don't have time to look through my drawers neatly for exactly what I want to wear, which are my yellow shorts. For some reason my yellow shorts are the only ones I own that don't make me look like a pear, round at the bottom. I dump out the drawer, find the shorts and a purple T-shirt that has glittery high-heeled shoes on the back and “Ellie” in silver on the front, and hand-me-down sandals from my cousin Bin.
“How come those silvery shoes are on the back of your T-shirt?” Milo asks. He's only six but very interested in fashion, especially mine.
“I like them there,” I say as I brush my hair, putting it up in a ponytail.
“You look good,” Milo says, “only I don't like your hair in a ponytail.”
“Maybe I'll cut it off tomorrow in a feather cut like Mom's,” I say, taking my hair out of the ponytail, thinking maybe it does look better down. “So, Milo, remember to tell Mom and Dad when they get up that I'm going over to the Brittles' house about a job.”
“Babysitting those stupid twins?” Milo asks.
“I'd never babysit the stupid twins,” I promise.
Milo doesn't like Alexander and Anthony for good reason. They're mean to him, double mean to him, which is the trouble with twins.
“Maybe you're going to have a job this summer and stay home?” Milo asks, hopping off my bed, following me out of my bedroom.
“Maybe,” I say.
“I hope so,” Milo says. “It's lonely when you go to camp and Mom and Dad want me to tell them about my day at soccer or swimming and I have nothing to say unless I made a goal in soccer.”
“I know,” I say. “That's why I'm trying to stay home. For you.”
Milo smiles. He's a funny boy, a little whiney but easy to please and I like to make him happy.
Tommy is standing in front of the fridge, the door open, looking for something to eat.
“Hi,” I say. “Do you always get up this early?”
He takes out a yogurt, finds a spoon in the drawer, and takes off the top of the carton as if he lives here—and this is only the second time he's been in my house. “Is this okay?”
“Sure,” I say. It's as if he lives here.
“We've got to get started rounding up our kids if we're going to be ready by Saturday.”
He finishes the yogurt, tosses the carton in the trash, rinses the spoon, and we leave by the back door into the garden, through the gate, and into his yard.
“Maybe you'd like to see my room?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Your parents are probably sleeping.”
He shrugs. “They
're not my parents.”
“Well,” I say, not knowing exactly how to respond, “they're parents.”
I walk up the street toward the Watsons' house keeping step with Tommy, our arms touching, which makes me feel a little dizzy and weak.
I've never known anyone like Tommy Bowers and I don't really understand his life of changing mothers or no parents or a bad reputation or trouble with the police. I don't even know if the things he says or the things I hear about him are true.
I think a lot about the truth since I have this tendency to tell lies. I know how complicated the truth can be, how wavering and unpredictable. I suppose I think that Tommy lies, too, that he lies even more boldly than I do since my lies are mostly inventing stories. But somehow I think I understand him even though I've only known him for two days. And I trust him, too, although any normal person would say I'm crazy.
“I had a real mother once,” he says, “and then a fake one, so I thought I was going to like Clarissa Bowers a lot. But maybe I don't.”
We're walking up the street past the Brittles' house where we can see the Brittle twins in the window of the second floor. One of them is hitting the other and the other is screaming—I can't tell which but we can certainly hear “M-m-moooooom” sailing out the bedroom window over the neighborhood.
“I've already asked them to be part of the Lollipop Garden,” Tommy says.
“They're my least favorite boys in the world,” I say, following him up the Watsons' driveway.
“That's okay,” Tommy says. “They might get better with us.”
“Unlikely,” I say.
I notice one of the Miss Watsons sitting in the window as we walk past and wave at her.
“That's one of them,” I say. “Do you think she saw us?”
“Not a chance,” Tommy says. “She's too old to see.”
My mother tells me that both of the Watsons are very old and deaf and ought to have a full-time nurse taking care of them so they don't fall down the steps or burn up the house. My mom has these opinions about other people just like Puss.
Nevertheless, I doubt that the Miss Watson in the window will ever know we're running an entire camp of serious magic under her porch.
“We were robbed yesterday,” Tommy is saying as we duck under the porch.
“Is that why the police were there?” I ask.
“More or less.”
“What got taken?”
“Just some stuff, nothing valuable, but Clarissa was hysterical and had to take pills to calm down.” He sets up the chairs for us and I sit down across from him. “Which is why I'm having my doubts about Clarissa.”
He reaches over and hands me a cigarette, which I put between my index and middle finger as I've seen done in old movies, and we sit for a while without talking, the sun rising over the lattice, light dimpling our faces, a light wind rustling the trees. I'm not as uncomfortable with this silence as I might be with anyone else I can think of except my parents. Even P.J. We're both just sitting here thinking and Tommy pulls my chair closer to his so he can rest his legs in my lap.
“What are your thoughts for the lollipop garden?” he asks.
I tell him about camp, about asking my parents if I can get a job and forget sleepaway camp this summer.
“Camp would be a bummer,” Tommy says. “And besides, you can't go now when I've just moved in.”
“This is my idea,” I say, not knowing exactly what to do with Tommy's legs, which are stretched across my lap like Milo sometimes does with me except that Milo's legs are small and Tommy's are heavy. “We invite the kids to meet us under the porch just like you said. Give them seeds, buy the lollipops, that sort of stuff. And then we have some games and tell them stories.”
“So it's a day camp.”
“Exactly. And I'll tell my parents that's my job. I'll say I run a little day camp on Saturday mornings for the kids in the neighborhood.”
“What about me?”
“What do you mean?”
“You have a job and I don't exist. Is that the deal?”
I don't know what to say. “Well, your parents aren't making you go to camp.”
“So this is just the story we tell your parents.”
“I tell my parents.”
“And you don't have the guts to say you're doing this camp with me?” Tommy asks, an unlit cigarette between his fingers now, his hand resting casually on the beach chair. In the filtered light, a long charcoal shadow falling across his face, he looks like someone I've seen on television, someone famous. “Your parents are worried about the trouble I've been in. That's what Clarissa tells me.”
I don't respond. The truth is I don't plan to let my mother know I'm doing anything with Tommy because she'll pack my suitcase, fill the ice chest with sandwiches and juices, enough to last twelve hours without stopping, and drive me to Camp Farwell immediately.
“By the time my parents find out what's really going on, it will be too late for me to go to Vermont,” I say.
“And by then, we'll be famous magicians.”
I am beginning to feel that if I stay around Tommy long enough, I'll believe everything he says is possible.
There's a commotion outside, a lot of noise coming up the driveway, which I think I recognize as Brittle sounds. And then Alexander Brittle screaming “Help!” flies past the opening to the cave under the porch and after him Anthony Brittle.
Tommy jumps up from the beach chair.
“Guys,” he calls. “Look here. I have something to tell you.”
The Brittle twins come to a complete stop, turn around, and walk toward where we're standing.
“You're on private property,” Tommy says.
“This is the Watsons'.” Alexander leans on Anthony's shoulder. “We're allowed anytime we want.”
“It's the Watsons' house,” Tommy says. “But this room under the house is ours.”
“Who're you?” Alexander asks.
“Thomas Bowers,” he says, shaking his hair off his forehead, his hands in his pockets. “I just moved in next door to Eleanor Tremont.”
“Ellie,” Anthony says. “We know. Our mom told us.”
“So can we come in?” Alexander asks.
“For just a minute, but you can't fight in here,” Tommy says.
The Brittle twins are fireplugs with bright red, sticky-out hair, little round faces sprinkled with freckles, short legs, and long, plump bodies. Milo says they're bullies and he's probably right, but they're scared now as they slip through the opening under the porch.
“What is this place?” Alexander asks.
“This place is secret. It's unknown to grown-ups and kids, so you have to promise us, cross your heart and hope to die, that you will tell no one, especially grownups, now or ever, so help you, God.”
“I don't understand,” Anthony says.
“You have to understand,” Tommy says quietly, leaning down to Alexander's size. “This is a secret.”
“We won't tell anyone,” Alexander says. “Not even our mother.”
“Why won't we?” Anthony asks.
“Because I said so.”
Anthony bops Alexander on the head.
“Do you want to know the secret?” Tommy asks.
“Yeah,” Alexander says.
“Not me,” Anthony says.
“Yes, you do, stupid,” Alexander says.
“Yes, I do,” Anthony says.
“You can grow lollipops here,” Tommy says, his eyes dancing. I can hardly keep from giggling. “It's amazing. I did it myself this week.”
“What did you do?” Alexander asks.
“I took fourteen seeds, planted them in the ground right here, and the next week, which was yesterday, there were fourteen lollipops.”
“What color?” Anthony asks.
“Don't be stupid.” Alexander turns toward his brother and gives his upper arm a push, not enough to hurt him but enough to make him lose his balance.
“I very much hate you, Alexande
r,” he says, sulking off in the other direction.
“Ditto,” Alexander says, pleased with himself.
But we can tell the Brittle twins are hooked.
Tommy sits down in the beach chair and Alexander follows him, leans against the column that goes from the porch above us into the ground, his head tilted.
“So this is a garden where you grow the candy, right?” Alexander asks.
“That's right,” Tommy says. “We tested the soil and found out it has certain properties that make it possible for seeds to flourish and turn into lollipops. So that's what we're planning to do.”
“And you're getting more furniture for under here?” Anthony asks.
“Furniture, yes. We're getting some furniture.”
In a way I wished Tommy were telling the truth. He could tell them some of the truth and then there wouldn't be so much made-up stuff to remember. But I've already decided I'll follow Tommy to the ends of the earth or El Dorado, the City of Eternal Dreams, or to Disneyland. That's what my father says to my mother even now. “Oh, Meg,” he'll say, especially when they've just had a fight, “I'll follow you to the ends of the earth or El Dorado, the City of Eternal Dreams, or even to Disneyland.” And we all laugh, even my mother.
“So this is kind of a clubhouse,” Alexander says.
“That's exactly what it is,” Tommy says. “A clubhouse for the kids in the neighborhood.”
“I'll join,” Alexander says. “I'll be here next Saturday just when you said.”
“At ten o'clock,” Anthony says.
“And bring your friends,” Tommy says.
“Which friends?” Alexander asks.
“The ones you like and trust.”
“You mean my best friends?”
“All the kids in the neighborhood. Bring them all,” Tommy says.
Tommy stands at the door watching the Brittle twins racewalk down the driveway making little jumps of pleasure in the air, and he turns to me, lifting his fist in victory.
“We did it,” he says. “We're on our way.”
8. The Sunporch
It's Monday afternoon and Milo has started swim lessons and I think my parents have left to clean up their classrooms for summer, packing away the books and student papers and costumes in the theater closet at my mother's school.
