“They’re all around here! Hiding and stuff!” Thomas says. “You see them?”
I laugh. “Yeah!”
I pause in my driveway. Mrs. Chung’s marigolds are wilting. She can’t possibly water them. I look toward Mrs. Millman’s. No sign of her. I get that air-rushing-into-my-lungs feeling again as I quickly turn on our hose and start spraying the flowers before I change my mind. While I’m watering, the mail truck drives by. I get Mrs. Chung’s pile from her mailbox and leave it at her front door.
Number six. And seven.
“Pow!” Thomas roars, making a tough face. “I got one! I got a bad guy, Nina!”
I wave at him. He leaps high, then does a somersault on the grass.
Hmm.… Good thing done. Bad guy gone.
Mrs. Millman or no Mrs. Millman, I don’t want to stop.
It feels right to keep going. I sound like Jorie talking about Eli, but that’s totally different. I don’t get exactly why I know; I just do.
This is how dinners are at my house these days.
I’m starving by six p.m., but Mom and Dad are still at work. So I make myself something like macaroni and cheese or a frozen pizza, then debate between a healthy dessert (apple) or an unhealthy one (Reese’s). Most times, I end up eating the Reese’s in two bites. (With milk to take the edge off the guilt.)
Matt goes to Subway with his friends. How do I know? The floor of his car is littered with paper napkins, and his T-shirt has that bread smell.
My parents usually get home around seven-thirty with square black plastic carryout containers. They are divorce lawyers, in their own practice. Fine and Ross, Attorneys-at-Law. My mother is Fine. (She kept her maiden name, and she is not really fine much of the time.) My dad is Ross (his last name, mine too). They’re on a mission to get to the top. Of something. They take one of the earliest trains into the city every day and the six-thirty train back. Sometimes an even later one. From what I can tell, their job is to get the person who is divorcing the other person the most money possible. The Fine and Ross formula: divorce + money = happiness.
Mom texts me every morning: All okay? and Dad calls in the afternoon when I’m home from summer school, but I hear him shuffling papers in the background. Matt’s supposed to be checking in on me. But he’s at work a lot, and then, just, out.
Summers when I was younger, someone was always home when I got off the day camp bus—Matt or Mom or Grandma. And after camp ended, Grandma took me on special outings: afternoon tea at a fancy downtown hotel; and to the butterfly house, where if you stood still and quiet, one might land on you.
When my parents finally get home, they spread out at the kitchen table with their containers of food, laptops, and phones, and they work and eat and strategize. For months, they’ve been immersed in the biggest case of their careers, apparently the kind they’ve always wanted. Dad told me, “Divorces don’t come any more high profile than this,” and Mom, while she was dipping a lettuce leaf in fat-free dressing and reading an email, said, “This case has catapulted us to an entirely new category.” Like they were holding on to those wobbly high-jump poles and hurtling over the Lawyer Wall of Fame.
The other night, she took a minute to ask if everything was going all right in my life.
I said, “Sure.”
She nodded. “We’ll talk more later, okay? I just need to finish something.” Her phone rang, and Dad said, “It’s Melanie.” (The big, important client.) Mom answered immediately.
If I said my family was different once upon a time, no one would believe me.
But I swear it was.
I remember me and Matt and Mom and Dad before we got separated. Or divorced, I guess you could say, but still living in the same house.
Everything’s faded, like the few photos I have of my grandma. I don’t like to look at those, because I get too sad.
But if I do allow myself to think about the memories, it’s like watching a video of how family dinners used to be. There’s one from when I was around nine … before Grandma lived with us … when Mom and Dad had low-profile clients … and before the whole thing that happened with Matt.
The video is funny, and sweet: Dad cutting spaghetti with a knife and fork because it was easier to eat, Matt sticking his foot on my chair and me telling him to stop (but laughing because his toes were tickling my leg), and Mom smiling at us while she sliced a loaf of garlic bread, crumbs scattering across the table like pebbles.
Was that really us?
Sometimes that video feels like it’s someone else’s. A different, happier family.
Mrs. Millman has pulled a patio chair around to her driveway. Every morning when Jorie and I leave for summer school, she’s sitting out there with a newspaper, holding it the way people do in old detective movies, when they’re pretending to read but are really snooping on someone. I heard her tell Mrs. Cantaloni that she’s watching so she can find out who is doing things.
Should I tell her it’s an inside job?
I think I’ve figured out a good strategy, though. When I get home, Mrs. Millman’s guard chair is folded up and she’s walking around with Beanie on a tight leash. After Beanie takes care of business, Mrs. Millman, being a considerate, law-abiding neighbor, picks up the poop in a little blue bag, deposits it in her garbage can, and brings Beanie inside. She comes back out with a tote bag over her shoulder that says MAHJONG, ANYONE?, then gets into her car and drives off. Some of Grandma’s friends played that game, with the tiles that have Chinese symbols.
Mrs. Millman has a very predictable schedule. With her two-hour mahjong outings every weekday afternoon, that’s more than enough time to go ahead with my plan.
Not only do I worry about Mrs. Chung (number eight: untangled a plastic bag caught on one of her trees; and number nine: hung up the wind chimes that had fallen off the hook by her door), but I’ve been concerned about Mr. Dembrowski. Does he have food in there? How old is he now? Maybe he’s become a hoarder and can’t get out the door. Is that why no one ever sees him?
Mr. Dembrowski used to be the guy all us little kids were scared of. There’s one in every neighborhood. He yelled when a ball went into his yard, or someone ran across his grass, or someone left their bike on his sidewalk.
When Jorie, Eli, and I were eight, we were playing hide-and-seek on a sweltering summer night. Our cheeks were red and hot and we were buzzing with the electricity and heart-pumping thrill that happens when a neighborhood goes from day to night and you’re finally old enough to stay up and be outside in the dark.
Eli and I were hiding from Jorie. We were in back of Mrs. Chung’s house, behind a row of bushes, hugging our knees tight. I could hear the sweet piano music coming from her house and wondered if she was giving a lesson. Jorie’s voice was getting madder. “Where are you guys? This isn’t funny!” But Eli put a finger up to his lips and shook his head. He took my sweaty hand. I swear I could feel his heartbeat through his fingers.
After Jorie found us, someone—and to this day, I don’t know who—ran through Mr. Dembrowski’s flower bed. He had all these unusual kinds, fragile and exotic, but how were we supposed to know that? We were just trying to find the best hiding places.
It had just rained, and in the morning, there were shoe prints and trampled flowers. Mr. Dembrowski marched over to each of our houses and demanded a shoe. So he could match the print.
This was one of the times when my mother was not fine. She flipped on her lawyer switch and made a federal case about not turning over my shoe. It could have been anyone, she said. Jorie’s dad got mad too (he is a very high-strung stock trader) and said Mr. Dembrowski was making too much out of it and we were just kids. Eli’s parents were getting divorced about that time, so no one was even there when Mr. Dembrowski rang their bell.
That was when Eli started to pull away, and I get it, I really do. He had a lot going on. His parents got back together just long enough to have Thomas; then they split again. Messed-up normal.
I’ve always felt guilty about
Mr. Dembrowski’s flower bed. We all should have taken the blame. But our parents argued us out of the situation.
So good thing number ten will be for Mr. Dembrowski.
I find a dusty package of brownie mix on the top shelf of our pantry. The expiration date is this month, but I figure that’s okay. I’m pretty good at baking when I concentrate. I preheat the oven, follow the directions, and mix with exactly fifty strokes like the package says.
Then I start a sketch for art while the chocolate smell fills the kitchen. The assignment is to do a realistic drawing of a normal household item, with shading, light and dark, and good composition. I choose to draw a chair, which somehow ends up looking like a house on stilts.
I take the brownies out and stick in a toothpick. Done. Let them cool. Cut into neat squares, and place ten (for good thing number ten) on a paper plate, then slide it into a ziplock bag.
Mrs. Millman is at mahjong, and no one else is in sight, so it’s easy to walk across to Mr. Dembrowski’s house. I stand at his front step for a second. Whoa! The rose is gone.
Every shade is pulled down. I have no evidence that he actually took the rose. It could have blown away, or been carried off by an extremely strong ant population, or even been eaten by Beanie.
I leave the plate by his door.
When I come in, Matt is leaning against the kitchen counter, wearing dark sunglasses and a cap, eating a brownie.
“Matt,” I say happily. “Welcome to the downstairs.”
“Funny,” he says, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth and taking another brownie. “Why’d you make these?”
“I just felt like it. How are they?”
He smiles at me with chocolate all over his teeth. “Good.”
“So, are you in disguise?”
He lowers the glasses and raises an eyebrow. Doesn’t answer.
I put the pan in the sink and run water into it. I just know he’s going to finish the brownie and disappear again. “Hey, um, are you doing anything? Wanna hang out? Maybe … play cards?”
He shrugs.
“Remember that time we played war for hours? We said we’d play till someone won.”
Matt laughs. “No one ever wins war.”
“You won that time.”
“I did? Oh, yeah.”
I cross my arms. “I want a rematch.”
He pushes up his sunglasses. “Can’t. Got some stuff to do. See ya.”
He goes out. I look at the gross brownie water.
Nice chatting with you, Matt.
In the morning, the plate of brownies is still there. I can see it from my window. This makes me sad, and more worried about Mr. Dembrowski.
In our basement storage room, there’s a treasure trove of stuff in boxes and bags: unopened gifts my parents received from clients, things they bought and never used, and other random items.
I have good uses for them.
11. I wrap up a package of gel foot pads, the kind for shoes, and leave them for Eli’s mom, Mrs. Bennett, who is a nurse and stands for hours at a time.
12. I leave an aromatherapy candle for Jorie’s dad because he needs to calm down.
13. There’s a box of wrapped cigars that Dad has never even touched, and I have this feeling that Mr. Millman is the kind of man who would like to smoke a cigar once in a while. Living with Mrs. Millman can’t be easy.
It’s when I’m sneaking the cigars to the Millman house that I realize the plate of brownies is no longer on Mr. Dembrowski’s front step.
I’m elated. I have a warm feeling inside, like a tiny flame was lit.
14. When Jorie drops her lip gloss on the bus, even though it’s slightly rude that she has her back to me and is talking to the girl across the aisle, I catch it with my foot, pick it up, and slide it into her tote bag.
That night, I see a small red glow across the street and I can just make out Mr. Millman standing in his driveway, smoking a cigar. He looks content.
Then I hear voices. Jorie’s. The bounce of a basketball. And … Eli’s laugh.
I go downstairs and pass Mom and Dad, who are working at the kitchen table.
“Hey, hon,” Mom says, not looking up but waving in my direction. “Did you eat?”
“Yeah. I had a frozen pizza.”
“Nina,” Dad says, “could you grab that bottle of seltzer from the fridge?”
I hand it to him, then poke my head out the front door.
Jorie and Eli are in his driveway. It looks like they’re playing one-on-one, and Jorie is going for a gold medal in flirting. She’s wearing the shortest butt-hugging shorts I’ve ever seen. With a tight, low-cut tank top. Dark purple, glittery. Plus she’s doing this fake, high-pitched giggling. That’s not how she laughs. “Show me how to do a layup,” she says.
Eli puts his hand on top of hers and helps her dribble. Then when they get close to the basket, he picks her up so she can shoot the ball.
She sort of falls back into him as he lets her down. And fake giggles. And shakes out her long hair. The ball rolls onto the grass, and they’re standing really close.
I feel sick. Like I’m watching something I shouldn’t. She’s serious about Eli and homecoming. Usually Jorie’s ideas come and go in a flash.
Eli and Jorie don’t see me, and I go back inside, a little shaky.
Mom’s cleaning up their papers. She’s been wearing her short hair gelled back behind her ears. Not even one strand came loose all day.
“I’m running to the grocery store,” she says. “Do you want anything special?”
I hesitate. “You know what I really want?”
She piles the papers into her briefcase. “What?”
“Grandma’s carrot ring.”
She looks up, her face tight. “I can’t make that. I don’t even know where the recipe is.”
A long second goes by. She picks up her purse, takes out her keys.
“We’re out of frozen pizza,” I say, and shrug.
“Okay. I’ll get a few.”
Yeah.
Grandma used to make her carrot ring a lot when we went to her apartment for dinner. It was one of the best things I’ve ever tasted, and I don’t even like carrots that much.
Dad’s on the sofa, feet up on the table, flipping through channels. As I pass him, he says, “What’s the matter?”
I keep walking. “Nothing. I’m fine.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” Which is completely untrue.
I can still hear Jorie’s and Eli’s voices outside. Why am I upset? I mean, if they like each other … I just didn’t think Eli was like that. Going for the butt-hugging shorts and obvious flirting.
But I’m thinking about the Eli from when we were little. The quiet, protective boy who wouldn’t let go of my hand that summer night we hid from Jorie. The funny, sweet, awkward Eli who gave me a crumpled Valentine with a picture of a cartoon truck with goofy-looking eyes that said Sending you truckloads of [scratched-out word] on Valentine’s Day. Your friend, Eli Bennett. When I held it up to my lamp, I could tell the scratched-out word was “love.”
Do I even know the Eli from now?
And then this hits me: Do I know Jorie anymore?
On the way to summer school, Jorie doesn’t say anything about Eli, and I don’t ask. I show her my chair drawing. “What do you think this is?”
She tilts her head. “I don’t know … one of those old-fashioned tables where you do your hair and makeup?”
“You mean a vanity?”
“Yeah.”
I sigh. “No. It’s a chair.”
She squints. “Oh, okay. I see it.” Then she laughs. “I told you that you should’ve done the computer class with me. It’s easy. And I’m meeting so many new people. Lots of cute guys.”
Great.
In art, when I hold up my drawing, people guess a table, a bed, and a spaceship. But then the quiet girl, Sariah, says softly, “Is it a chair?” I almost want to hug her.
Ms. Quinlan gives me som
e tips about shading and dimension, and while I’m reworking the drawing, I glance at Sariah. She’s tall and skinny, with smooth brown skin and braces. Long, straight dark hair. Her drawing is a bowl of fruit, and it’s really good. When it’s time for the break, I try to catch her eye, but she walks out ahead of me and sits near a group in the commons. I hang at the edge of Jorie’s group.
By the end of class, my chair is starting to look more like a chair. Ms. Quinlan says, “Better. Keep going.”
And I do.
I bring Mrs. Chung’s mail to her door every day, but I’m not counting that anymore. It’s just my routine; I’m pretty sure she thinks it’s the mailman. I drop off two more plates of something sweet at Mr. Dembrowski’s door (fifteen, sixteen). Either the squirrels or Mr. Dembrowski take them, because they’re both gone the next day. I make chocolate chip cookies—just the break-and-bake kind—and leave some on Matt’s desk (seventeen). The empty dish is in the sink the next morning.
When she’s not at mahjong, Mrs. Millman has been stalking the cul-de-sac with Beanie. She told Mrs. Cantaloni that she’s training Beanie as a watchdog. She said Beanie’s grandfather was a killer. Excuse me for saying, but that scrappy little poodle does not look very much like a watchdog. Real intruders won’t be scared off by Beanie Millman.
Funny, but the more upset Mrs. Millman becomes, the more it makes me want to keep doing the good things.
I thought it would be hard to think of them. But it’s easy. I see something that needs my attention, and I do it. Random things present themselves every day. I keep counting, and Mrs. Millman keeps patrolling, like we’re in a silent race, Nina Ross versus Myrna Millman. Anonymous good versus suspicion. Who will win? I don’t know, but I really hope she doesn’t freak out and call the police again.
I’m outside on Friday afternoon, still working on the chair drawing. It’s due on Monday. I never want to draw another chair. The three Cantaloni boys are pitching and catching on their front lawn. I always mix up their names; they all start with J.
The Summer I Saved the World ... in 65 Days Page 3
