I get a pencil out of the jar by the register and use the sharpener on the wall to grind it into a perfect point. I’m ready to take notes. I wonder if we’ll make it one big rosy maple moth that sparkles and shines in the sunlight. Or maybe we’ll make dozens crawling on a giant hammer.
After he finishes at the key machine, Dad heads over to the checkout area. He squeezes my shoulder. “Albert called. Said you offered to check on Gloria every day while she’s recovering.”
My eyebrows pop up. “Every day?” I thought this was a onetime thing.
“Don’t worry,” Dad says. “I told him that Sundays we have church and you wouldn’t be by until the afternoons.”
“That’s not what I …,” I start to say. But I break off when I see Dad’s face. He’s grinning wide—the grin he usually saves for Ray. My words trail away.
His eyes twinkle. “Real proud of you, Annie. Thought you wasted today drawing and daydreaming, but you went out of your way to be helpful and kind. I had no idea.”
“Neither did I,” I say.
He looks at me funny.
I clear my throat, thinking fast. “I mean, I didn’t know if she would need me to come by twice in a day or just once.”
Dad taps his chin thoughtfully. “I think he said that once would be fine, but maybe we should offer—”
“No!” I say, more sharply than I intend. “I mean, I wouldn’t want to bother her.”
I find my fake smile and paste it on again.
Dad nods as if it’s settled. I guess it is.
“Let’s talk about our plans for the float,” Dad says. “Ray, why don’t you pull out that sketch you made?”
Ray rummages under the register and emerges with a notebook. He spreads the pages on the counter. This is beyond a simple sketch. He must have spent a lot of time on it. He has all the measurements drawn out for the base, Dad’s old trailer. He’s drawn careful lettering that spells out Logan & Son.
My eyebrows squeeze into a straight line.
Ray glances at me.
“Just an idea to get us started,” he says.
I look at his paper. “But this is so plain and boring.” I don’t mean it to be rude, just honest.
Ray hesitates.
I lean forward. “What about tying into the moth theme? Maybe we could add tissue paper or glitter or something eye-catching to get our message across?”
Ray stiffens. “This does get our message across.”
Dad pulls a page closer to him. He’s got to see my point. After all, this isn’t a float—it’s a sign on wheels.
“Not sure about that,” Dad says. “The important thing is to get our name out there and demonstrate our old-fashioned, high-quality workmanship. Maybe we could create dovetail joints here on the side.”
“Dovetail joints? No one is going to care about dovetail joints during a parade,” I say. “I was thinking we could experiment with glow-in-the-dark paint. Or maybe I could hook up some lights.”
Dad shakes his head. “We don’t want showy. That’s why people go to places like HomeMade.”
I scowl. “It’s not showy. It’s creative.”
Ray taps his pencil. “Besides, the parade is during the day. There’s no point in using special lights or glow paint during the day.”
My face gets hot. This is reminding me of my disaster of a group project for Ms. Palumbo.
“Part of the event happens at night. Using lights would be unexpected—something that would draw people in—”
Dad rubs his chin. “Finishing touches. Little details. Right now we need the basics. Something solid and strong. We don’t need anything newfangled.”
Ray nods so fast, it reminds me of a yo-yo on a string. “That reminds me—I made a materials list.”
He pulls out a list. I read the words “wallboard,” “lumber,” and “chicken wire” before my eyes glaze over and I almost die from boredom.
Dad, though, is excited. Within seconds, he and Ray are deep in conversation about bolts. Bolts! Who cares about bolts? They might as well be making a parade float of a giant bowl of oatmeal.
This project was supposed to make the three of us come together. But instead it’s like our lopsided family triangle just got stretched out even further. This is a Logan & Son float. It’s very clear that there’s no room for & Daughter. They don’t need me because they have it all figured out.
I knew I was right about group projects.
CHAPTER
12
Mornings, especially Sunday mornings, should not start with a pounding resembling a jackhammer. But that’s exactly what’s happening in the hall outside my bedroom door.
“Annie,” Dad calls, rapping on the door. “Time to wake up!”
That’s a lie—I’m sure of it. There’s no way I could have possibly slept a whole night yet. My eyes are bleary and my tongue feels like it’s covered in moss.
“Impossible,” I mumble. “I need a do-over.”
“Time for church,” he says, in a singsong voice. He pushes the door open a crack.
I squint at my alarm clock. Seven thirty AM. Sunlight streams through my curtains. Early birds cheep loudly, like they’ve been awake and eating early worms for hours.
It feels like a dirty trick.
“In a minute,” I say.
“Not in a minute. Now,” Dad says. The sweet voice is gone. “We’ve got to get to church to set up the doughnuts and coffee for fellowship.”
I sigh, giving my fluffy comforter a final squeeze. It is only the promise of powdered-sugar doughnuts that motivates me to launch myself out of bed.
Of course, when I do, I land right on the spiral edge of my sketchbook.
“Ouch!” I yell, rubbing my foot.
Dad’s expression darkens. “No more dawdling.”
“I’m not dawdling,” I grumble. “My foot was practically impaled.”
“Hurry,” he says before closing my door.
I sigh, looking at my closet. I always hope some new clothes will magically appear in it, but they never do. I get dressed in church clothes and hobble downstairs.
Ray grins when he sees me. “Good morning.”
Sometimes I simply cannot abide the fact that I’m related to people who are so aggressively cheerful in the morning. I glower at Ray to indicate that he has exceeded my tolerance for morning cheer.
I open the cupboard, even though I know I am out of Rainbow Puffs.
“There’s fruit,” Dad says. “And of course, there’s oatmeal in the pot.”
“I can’t deal with oatmeal on a Sunday,” I say. Scowling, I prod at the fruit bowl. I like bananas only when they’re just barely yellow, and these are somewhere between brown and black. At the bottom of the heap, I locate a dusty-looking apple, which has no flavor when I bite into it. I hate it when an apple lets me down like that.
Riding to the church means a big conversation between Dad and Ray about the parade float. I stare out the window. They don’t ask for my opinion and, for once, I do not offer it.
Dad pulls into the dirt parking lot of our church. The building is small and flat-roofed but friendly looking. Most of the families and young people go to a big church in Mountain Ring called Peak. They have an actual rock band and giant windows made of stained glass. They also have pastors who are much more dynamic than gentle, quiet Pastor Boone.
Today’s sermon is about loving your neighbor. I choose to believe that this is a coincidence, not God trying to make me feel even guiltier. But the entire time, I think of Gloria and the sound of her scared voice asking for help. It’s so different from how crabby she was once I saw her face-to-face. I wonder which is the real Gloria.
After church, we head over to JoJo & The Earl’s for pancakes. JoJo grins when she sees me.
My stomach is already rumbling, this morning’s apple and doughnuts a distant memory. “What’s the special pancake today, JoJo?”
She winks. “Rhubarb pecan. Sound good?”
“Sounds like heaven on a plate,�
�� I say, handing her my menu.
“Buttermilk, please,” says Ray. I shake my head. He always gets the same thing.
“I’ll have my regular oatmeal, thank you,” says Dad.
I wrinkle my nose. Oatmeal, when he could be eating JoJo’s pancakes. In a million years, I’ll never understand it.
“JoJo,” Dad says, beaming. “Did you hear what happened with Gloria Crumb?”
My stomach tightens. “Dad. Don’t.”
“Annie saved the day,” he announces.
JoJo’s eyes widen. “Is that right?”
I feel sick. I don’t want him telling the whole town. I’m the reason Gloria got hurt, and that’s nothing to be proud of.
“Not exactly. What happened was—”
But Dad interrupts, waving away my words. “Let me brag on you a bit.”
Then he tells the whole story—the whole story as he knows it, that is. That I was nearby and heard Gloria crying out for help. That she didn’t want an ambulance, so I had the presence of mind to call Dad instead. With every word, his chest puffs out more. And with every puff of his chest, my stomach spins.
By the end of his explanation, he has a real audience—every single customer in the restaurant is listening, too. When he finally wraps up with the part about my helping Gloria, he’s grinning like he might burst. JoJo pulls a lace handkerchief from her pocket and dabs at her eye.
“That’s so brave, sugar,” she says to me. “I’m real proud of you.”
I nod miserably. First Dad and now JoJo. There’s no way I can let them down.
She pats my arm. “Come see me before you leave.”
She moves along to help another table, and Ray and Dad return to their float-building discussion. I don’t say much for the rest of breakfast. I push the rhubarb around on my plate and nibble at the edges of the toasted pecans. Nothing tastes right.
Before I leave, JoJo packs two big bags of food, fitting the containers inside with ruthless efficiency.
“I’m not sure she’ll be able to manage all this,” I say.
JoJo waves aside my protests. “She’ll eat what she can. At least she’ll have some options.”
“Right,” I say. “Options.”
It must be nice to have them. I have no choice but to go along to Gloria’s.
It’s a warm afternoon and the air feels heavier than usual. Most of the time, my mountains give me comfort. But today, they make me feel like I can’t escape.
The closer I get to Gloria’s, the slower I walk. My legs feel like they’re loaded full of rocks. I step onto the porch, shifting my body to adjust the heavy bags.
“Hello?” I say.
I’m answered by a loud bark two inches from me. I gasp and jump sideways—clunk. Somehow, I’ve managed to land one foot in an old clay pot. I kick at it wildly, and it splits into two with a crack.
The commotion makes Otto go bonkers—just my luck. I thought his bark was loud before, but now he sounds like he’s being hunted by a rabid bear. Or, more realistically, like he is the one doing the hunting.
Between the pot, the noise, and the overstuffed bags in my arms, I struggle to keep my balance. I’m twirling like a deranged pinwheel and almost fall smack on my face. Finally, I pitch backward, elbows first, and crash into the window shutter, which comes loose in a groan. By some miracle, I do not drop JoJo’s bags.
“What in tarnation,” Gloria says. “What’s all that racket?”
I kick the flowerpot pieces into the bushes. “Nothing!”
“Sure sounds like something,” Gloria says back, her voice sharp and cutting.
I’ll have to fix the shutter later.
“It’s me, Annie Logan,” I say over the barking. “I’m here to check on you.”
There’s a long pause. Otto quiets down.
“Go away,” she finally says. “I don’t need anyone fussing over me.”
It’s tempting. But when I think of Dad’s face—how proud he was—I know I can’t give up all that easily. Plus, what would I do with all this food?
“Albert asked me to check on you,” I say. “To help take care of Otto.”
Gloria mutters something that sounds like “pish.” I wait for what seems like ages, but she doesn’t say anything more. Otto switches from barks to high-pitched whining, like someone flipped the switch from terrifying to annoying.
A thought occurs to me.
“I have food,” I say.
There’s a long pause. Almost like he can understand me, Otto stops whining. He plops himself down at the screen door, panting.
Gloria clears her throat in a high-pitched, dainty way. “What kind?”
“Two big bags from JoJo and The Earl’s,” I say. “I’ve got barbecue—Eastern and Lexington.”
“Eastern!” She sniffs. “I don’t like that vinegar stuff.”
She’s deeply and irretrievably wrong about her taste in barbecue, but I choose not to comment.
“They also sent two types of slaw, collard greens, macaroni and cheese, and hush puppies,” I say. “And an entire strawberry pie.”
Gloria hesitates. “That’s an awful lot to carry. Maybe you should bring it inside.”
I ease myself through the screen door, praying that Otto won’t choose this moment to switch into attack mode. He eyes me warily but stays silent. Like before, the house smells like soup and powdery breath mints.
Inside, the clutter is extreme. I didn’t expect it to get better since I was here last, but I didn’t think it would look worse. Albert should have tried to make a better path through the boxes. Gloria sits in a floral-patterned chair. The other chair, which matches, is piled high with newspapers. There’s no couch or anywhere for people to sit. I guess she doesn’t get many visitors.
With her good hand, Gloria readjusts the light blanket covering her lap. Today her hair is even wilder, like an electrified dandelion gone to seed.
She narrows her bright-blue eyes at me. “Kitchen’s that way.”
I walk in the direction she indicates, weaving through the piles of boxes and newspapers. The kitchen counters are stacked with dishes, open boxes of crackers, and cans of soup. A half-full bag of dog kibble leans against the toaster.
“Do you want me to make you a plate?” I ask Gloria, calling from the kitchen.
“Just a taste of everything,” she says. “Except none of that vinegar barbecue!”
“Have it your way,” I mutter under my breath.
“What was that?” she asks.
“Nothing,” I call back to her. Gloria may be old, but her ears seem to work just fine.
I take out a plate from the cabinet, but it has crumbs and dried food stuck to it. All the plates in the cabinet are the same. I rinse one quickly and dry it with an ancient towel.
I make up a plate of samples of everything but the vinegar barbecue and then bring it to Gloria. Otto is lying on her feet. I carefully reach over him and try to hand her the plate, but she stops me.
“I can’t hold it with my broken arm,” she says crossly. “Put it on the tray.”
I pull the ancient folding tray toward her chair and set it up. She tries everything, eating all of one item before moving to the next. She holds her fork in the air and peers at me.
“You’re wearing a dress,” she says.
I look down at myself, wishing I’d thought to grab my favorite green sweatshirt. I’m not much of a fan of dresses. Maybe I’d feel differently about them if they came with pockets and didn’t always hike up in the back. This one is especially bad because it’s scratchy and the exact color of cantaloupes.
“Church,” I tell her—a one-word sentence that explains it all.
She shovels in another bite of slaw, then wipes her mouth daintily.
“That color is simply terrible on you,” she says.
I wish again for my green sweatshirt. “Gee, thanks.”
Even though I load my voice with as much sarcasm as I can muster, she doesn’t seem to notice.
“With your co
loring, you should try lavenders and blues,” she continues.
I make a noise that sounds like mmm but really means, Back off, Gloria Crumb.
She’s quiet, but it’s not that she suddenly found her manners. It’s more to do with the pile of delicious food she’s managing to eat one-handed.
I squirm, itching my arm where the lace sleeve rubs.
Finally, she sets down her fork and wipes her mouth with a napkin. “Well, I am full as a tick.”
If I were going to draw Gloria, I would need an extremely sharp pencil to do so. She doesn’t have any soft lines about her. Her face is sharp and pinched like a pair of needle-nose pliers.
She squints at me. “Of course, now I’m thirsty.”
“Oh,” I say. “Do you want a glass of water?”
Gloria shakes her head. “A proper barbecue lunch calls for sweet tea. Tea bags are on the counter.”
I believe it—it seems that every known object in the universe is on that counter.
“Yes, ma’am,” I answer.
“I told you not to call me that,” she says. “It’s Gloria or nothing.”
“Fine,” I say.
“Pish,” she says.
I’ve never met such a crabby person in my life. She’s crabbing at me even as she’s telling me to make her tea. I thought old ladies liked to make cookies and show pictures of their grandchildren.
I return to the kitchen. Finding something in this mess is going to be impossible. So much of the food is expired or moldy. I toss a half-empty container of pickles into the garbage.
“I hope you aren’t throwing anything away!” Gloria shouts from the other room.
“Just organizing a little,” I call back to her.
I eye a jar of grape jelly. I’m pretty sure it’s older than I am. This time, I lower it gently into the trash can.
Eventually, I locate a box of tea. I return to the living room to show Gloria. Otto peers at me with one eye open, tongue hanging out the side of his mouth.
“I found the tea,” I say.
Gloria adjusts the blanket around her. “Don’t make it too sweet. I don’t like it that way.”
“No sugar,” I say. That’s great. It’s one less thing I have to find in that mess.
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