“Booties,” she says. “The knitted shoes for babies.”
“Whatever!” I bellow.
At first, I think she’s going to shout at me. But instead, she tips her head back and cackles. She laughs and laughs, like she will never stop. But eventually she does.
She wipes her eyes with a tissue. “All right, Annie P. Logan. If you say so.”
I stomp over to the door. As I do, I hear her mutter, “Baking cookies,” which sets her off into peals of giggles. I close the door firmly behind me.
I don’t know why I offered to help. I don’t know why she laughed so hard. I don’t know who the real Gloria is, and I don’t care one bit.
CHAPTER
15
Painting without good light is not really recommended. But the only time Dad is free to paint the band shell is after the store closes. So that’s why Dad, Ray, and I are painting at night.
Actually, I’m not even painting. Lucky Ray is using the roller. He’s happy, whistling as he works. All I get to do is hold the ladder for Dad.
“It’s hot,” I say. “It’s miserable. Can we come back on a different day?”
Ray stops whistling. “At least it’s not raining.”
“We have to finish before the festival,” Dad says. “You know that.”
I shrug, wiping the sweat from my forehead.
“Annie!” Dad barks. “Keep the ladder steady.”
“There should be a better way to do this,” says Ray.
Dad’s lips press together in a line. It’s quiet except for the squicking sound of the paint rollers.
“If we had some scaffolding or something to stand on, we wouldn’t need ladders,” Ray points out.
“This will have to do,” Dad says shortly.
We’re all quiet for a while. I wish Ray and Dad believed in decent conversation. Or at least a radio.
Ray clears his throat. “Dad, have you given any thought to my idea?”
Dad frowns but keeps rolling paint. “About the maker space?”
I’m tired of being left out of all the important discussions. “What are you talking about?”
Ray brightens. “Maker spaces are getting really popular—areas with tools and materials so kids can build things. I was thinking we could start a service at Logan and Son where we design them.”
“I don’t think we’re in a position to expand right now,” Dad says distractedly.
“It would be a great way to bring business to the store,” Ray adds. I roll my eyes. My brother, the future businessman.
“Not now, son. Get back to painting,” Dad says. This time, his tone is gruff.
Ray’s shoulders slump. Dad usually takes Ray seriously, and he never uses that tone. For once, Ray gets a little taste of how it is for me, and he doesn’t like it one bit.
“Coming down,” Dad says.
I hold the ladder until he is standing on the ground again.
He sets down the roller and crosses to Ray. “I promise we can talk about it later. With the festival and everything else, I’m too busy to add another thing to my plate.”
Ray sticks out his chin. “But it would bring in money. You don’t have to do anything. I’ll do it all—”
Dad sighs. “It’s not that simple, son.”
“Speaking of the festival,” I say. “I’ve been thinking a lot about our float—”
Dad’s forehead creases. “Not now, Annie. We need to focus on painting, if you think you can manage holding the ladder steady for me.”
I’ve had about enough. First I had to deal with grumpy Gloria. Now I have to deal with grumpy Dad.
I cross my arms. “I don’t want to hold the ladder. I want to paint.”
Dad takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “We’ll finish faster this way.”
I kick at the ground. “It isn’t fair. I’m really good at painting. Why can’t I help?”
Dad frowns. “This isn’t the same as painting your pictures, Annie. This is important.”
My eyebrows pop up in disbelief. “Dad! My art is super important!”
Dad winces. “You know what I mean.”
“No one in this family understands me!” I’m yelling now. I want him to hear me. I want him to notice. I wave my arms like I’m drawing an enormous exclamation point in the sky. My arm bumps into something, but it isn’t until I see Dad’s face that I realize what I’ve done.
“Annie! No!” he yells.
It happens in slow motion—my arm hits the paint tray in just the right spot, the paint arcing through the air, the roller hitting me in the head. The paint dripping thickly down my forehead. It coats my hair and runs into my eyes.
“I can’t see,” I say.
Dad picks up a clean rag and hands it to me. I wipe my face.
“Did you get it in your eyes?” Dad asks.
My eyes are watering. I’m not sure if it’s the paint or because I messed up again.
“I couldn’t help it,” I say.
Dad sighs, rubbing his temples like he has a headache coming on. He looks at the spilled paint, and it’s like I can see him calculating the extra work it will take to clean up my mess. I always manage to ruin everything.
“You look like you had a fistfight with a vanilla milkshake,” Ray says.
I stomp my foot. “You be quiet, Ray.”
He snickers and goes back to painting.
Dad looks at me carefully. “Go on home and flush your eyes out with water. Ray and I will finish up.”
Ray turns around, bug-eyed. “Really? It’s just a little paint and she gets—”
Dad sends him a pointed look. Ray turns back around.
Guilt pangs in my heart, but I ignore it. I want to go home and wash off this mess. I want my roof. I want my sketchbook. I want to be alone.
PART THREE
A Life in Boxes
From the Collected Drawings of Annie P. Logan
Dimensions: 8" × 11"
CHAPTER
16
The next day, after taking care of Otto, I get started on Gloria’s boxes.
The first box is full of paper—mostly ancient receipts and bank statements. I plan to ask Dad if they need to be shredded or if they’re too old to matter.
The second box is a tangle of Christmas lights. I plug in the strands, but most of them don’t work. One flickers to life, but I swear I smell something burning. I throw them away.
The third box is empty except for crumpled tissue paper. Maybe someone meant to throw it away and never got around to it.
The room is already looking better with less stuff in it, and it has to be safer for Gloria. I’ll open another—the large one that sticks out into one of the aisles. Even though it’s big, it’s loosely packed. As I slide it toward me, the contents shift and I hear a metallic clang.
When I open the box, I gasp. Inside are pictures—some loose and some framed. Programs and ticket stubs. She’ll want to keep these; I know it.
There’s a rubber-banded stack of school pictures starting in kindergarten and going all the way up. “This is Albert, right?”
“That’s him. Started babysitting him when he was small. Now he thinks he’s my babysitter, with the way he checks on me all the time,” she grumbles.
Gloria as a babysitter? I guess I assumed Albert was her nephew or something. I can’t imagine someone paying Gloria actual money to take care of her kid. I wonder if she was friendlier back then.
I find an old photograph. Six kids standing on a sidewalk in front of some trees. The oldest, a girl, holds a baby on her hip. The boys are in a line next to her, from tallest to shortest. I can’t tell how old the baby is. Older than Fabian, I think, but not by much.
I hold up the picture. “What about these kids?”
Gloria glances at it and then looks away. “That’s me.”
I feel my eyes bug out. “This is you?”
“Oldest of seven,” she says grimly. “Daddy was a mean drunk, and Mother wore herself to the bone trying to make ends meet. I raised
that crew the best I could.”
I study the picture. The boys’ clothes are patched and faded, but shirts are tucked in and hair is neatly combed.
“And the baby?” I ask.
Her eyes twinkle. “Julia. Fat and happy, like a baby should be. Doctors said she wasn’t quite right, which was both unkind and inaccurate. To me, she was perfect. A friend to everyone—the best of the bunch.”
“Where is she now?”
Gloria’s smile fades. “She died in childhood. Her heart.”
“Bad luck,” I say quietly.
Gloria’s frown deepens, but she doesn’t answer.
“What about your own kids?” I know I’m being nosy, but I can’t help it.
“Pish,” Gloria says, shaking her head. “Never married.”
Oh. Maybe that’s why she’s so lonely now.
“Wipe that look off your face,” she says, scowling. “I had plenty of offers! But I never had much use for a man, or for children after raising all those wild boys.”
I must look doubtful. She clicks her tongue when she sees my expression.
“There’s more than one way to make a life,” she says.
I hold up a framed photo showing a woman and a boy on a Ferris wheel, wearing matching T-shirts that say Gingerbread Island. Their grins are wide.
She peers at the photograph, smiling when she realizes what it is. “We were at the old fun park. Albert used to love the coasty rollers.”
“Coasty rollers?” I ask. “Do you mean roller coasters?”
“That’s what I said!” she says angrily, turning back to the television. “I told you I don’t need to see these!”
My cheeks burn. I place the picture back in the box, packing it carefully so it doesn’t fall over. It doesn’t seem right to throw these things away.
Otto is lying at Gloria’s feet and is shaking a little. I can’t tell if he’s scared or just old, like Gloria. But when he looks at me with sad eyes, I feel bad for him, like I feel bad for Gloria. Us bad-luck people have to stick together.
“I thought I was supposed to be taking Otto out for exercise,” I say. “Does he ever need to go out on a walk?”
Gloria frowns. “He doesn’t like to go out front. Won’t leave that porch. I let him out in the back when he needs it.”
“I’ll take him out back,” I say. “Maybe he would want to run around a little bit.”
“Suit yourself,” Gloria says, turning back to the television.
“Come on, Otto. Want to go out? It’s nice outside. Do you want some fresh air?” I try to ask him in all kinds of ways, but he ignores me like I’m smaller than a flea.
Gloria glowers at me. “You’re too timid. You have to tell him what you’re doing. Tell him with confidence.”
I look at his teeth and hesitate. He doesn’t exactly scare me anymore, but I don’t feel all that confident.
“Otto!” Gloria says. “Outside!”
Otto springs to his feet and bounds for the door. Now that he’s been convinced to go out in the world, he’s like a different dog. I follow behind to see what he’ll do. But the second my foot lands in the yard, it skids. I’ve stepped right in a pile of dog poop.
I glare at him. “Really, Otto?”
He runs over and grins at me like he’s proud.
“Disgusting,” I tell him. He licks me on the shin.
I reach down to rub his ears. “I know what I’ll be doing this afternoon, Otto. Cleaning up your gigantic mess.”
I find rubber gloves and trash bags under the kitchen sink. Otto and I spend most of the afternoon outside while I clean up his messes.
He sniffs at my ankles for a while, then chooses to lie in a sunny patch in the yard where he can fully supervise what I’m doing. Every so often, he whines a little. Then he gets up, heads back to the sliding glass door, and peeks in for a spell. Eventually, he settles himself among the tall blades of grass, tail wagging.
“You’re a strange dog,” I tell him. He rolls on his back in the grass.
When I finish, I make a trip to the garbage cans outside Gloria’s garage, then wheel the can out to the curb. Back inside, I triple-scrub my hands and let Otto back inside. He trots over to Gloria and sprawls out at her feet.
Gloria looks at him and sniffs the air. “He smells.”
Poor Otto. It’s true that he has a distinct odor—a peculiar mixture of Fritos, dirt, and wet towels—but it isn’t his fault. I can’t imagine that he’s had a bath in recent memory.
“Well, your yard smells a million times better now,” I say. “So at least there’s that.”
She ignores me, pulling the blanket around her. Otto gazes at Gloria, tail thumping. Suddenly, I understand what all those trips to the sliding glass door were about.
“He kept checking on you,” I say, realizing that it’s true. “He wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Is that right?” Faint traces of a smile appear, like a beam of sunlight trying to break through on a cloudy day. Her face is like the girl in the photograph, standing on the street holding the baby. She might be tired and grumpy, but she also looks proud.
Gloria reaches for Otto, but he’s just out of reach. From the way she winces, I can tell it hurts her to stretch.
I go to them. “Come on, Otto. Stand up.” I brush off the blade of grass that’s stuck to the top of his head.
He clambers to his feet and leans against Gloria, tail wagging fast.
Gloria rubs behind his ears. “Don’t you worry. I’ll never, ever leave you behind.”
There’s more than one way to make a life. There’s more than one way to make a family.
Otto looks at me, pink tongue hanging at a jaunty angle. Don’t worry, Otto. I won’t do anything that would take you away from her.
I swear he almost winks.
CHAPTER
17
I never stopped to consider the idea that cleaning up poop might improve a relationship. If I had known, maybe I would have tried it before. But after that day, things are different between Otto and me.
As the week goes on, he doesn’t bark at me once. He seems to look forward to our time in the yard. I find a dog brush in one of Gloria’s cabinets, and he lets me loosen his tangles. By the time I’m done, his coat is shining.
Then he actually chases a squirrel across the grass. I tell him he is very brave, and Otto looks pleased with himself. For one quick second, I think he is almost a little bit cute.
Almost.
When I go up to Gloria’s door, I let myself in like usual. Today she’s on the phone. Her voice sounds pinched and worried. Otto follows me to the kitchen as I refill his water bowl.
“You must be hungry today,” I say. I add the kibble to his bowl and he starts chomping.
“Annie! Fetch me my purse from the hall closet,” Gloria calls.
I open the door and peer inside. It’s crowded with all kinds of stuff but no purse.
I go back to the living room. “It’s not there.”
Gloria clutches the phone in one hand. Even from across the room, I can hear a voice squawking on the other end of the line.
“Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no,” Gloria says. Her eyes shine for a moment; then fat tears roll down her cheeks.
Now I’m completely confused. Why would someone be yelling at Gloria?
She covers the receiver so he can’t hear her talk. “This man is very angry with me,” she whispers. “Can you talk to him?”
I frown but take the phone. “Hello?”
“I need that credit card!” He’s shouting.
I scrunch up my forehead. “A credit card? Why do you need that?”
The voice on the line growls in frustration. “As I’ve already explained, I am with the government and the bank, and if you don’t give me a credit card and social security number right now, we will take your car!”
A knot forms in my stomach. He’s talking so fast, I can barely understand his words. Gloria, next to me, is weeping.
Something abo
ut what he’s saying seems wrong, but I can’t put my finger on it. I try to think through his words. “The government and the bank? Shouldn’t you already have those numbers, then?”
“We will take your car away today,” he shouts.
Gloria hears him shout and almost jumps out of her seat. I can see the fear on her face.
But it makes me suspicious. I can’t say for sure about the government, but I do know the people at Oak Branch Bank would never yell at anyone. This doesn’t seem right.
“Let me get a pencil and I’ll write down your number,” I say, thinking fast. “My dad will call you back.”
There’s a long pause on the line and then a click.
I look at Gloria. “He hung up.”
“He said he was going to take my car,” Gloria sobs.
Her car—I think about the empty driveway. I think about the empty garage.
I bite my lip. “But, Gloria. You don’t have a car.”
Her eyes widen. We are quiet for a long time.
Finally, she looks up. “Why did he call me?”
“He wasn’t very nice,” I tell her. “I think he was trying to trick you and take your money.”
Gloria nods somberly. “I was remembering a different car I used to have. A big Buick with huge doors. Albert called it the Blue Magoo.” Her eyes are wide, and they don’t look fierce at all.
“Everyone gets mixed-up sometimes,” I tell her.
Her cheeks are still wet from crying. Suddenly, she looks very small and alone, sitting in her chair. Otto’s tail wags, and he nudges her legs. She reaches to pet him distractedly.
“Maybe we should call Albert,” I say. “He might know what to do.”
“No,” she says. Her voice is soft, especially for Gloria.
“But …”
I watch her, running her hands over Otto’s hair. His tail wags gently. Gloria isn’t crying anymore. Her gaze on Otto is bright and alert. He has that effect on her.
“Albert would pack my bags if he knew,” she says simply.
“I don’t know—”
“Please. Otto needs me. I need him, too.”
He’s like her baby. The thought hits me in a flash. Once I think of it that way, I know I’ll never tell. I couldn’t bear separating them.
These Unlucky Stars Page 8
