They’re copies of each other—dark hair, stocky, in the same blue striped T-shirt: one small, one medium, one large. The youngest kid looks close to Thomas’s age, and I wonder why they don’t play together.
The tallest one pitches the ball to the middle kid. He hits a pop fly, and the younger kid does his best to get under it, but as he’s stepping back, he’s getting closer and closer to the weeds that used to be the front lawn of the Dixon house. He stops as the ball lands in the field of weeds, and they all just stare. I suppose that house is to them what Mr. Dembrowski’s was to me, Jorie, and Eli. The stuff of ghost stories and nightmares.
“You suck!” the older Cantaloni boy yells to the younger brother, who runs inside their house, crying.
“You get it!” the older one says to the middle guy.
“No, you!”
“I’ll give you my best baseball card.”
“Forget it. I’m not going in there.”
“I’ll let you use my mitt for the rest of the day.”
“Uh-uh.”
They look at the weeds, where something makes a rustling sound. The boys glance at each other, then tear into their house.
I put my sketchbook on the ground and go to the edge of the Dixons’, trying to see the ball and what was making the sound.
I take two mini steps into the weeds; they’re as high as my knees in some spots, and scratchy against my bare legs. I hear the rustle again and see the weeds by the front window move. Must be a squirrel or a rabbit.
I haven’t ever been this close to the Dixon house. The family was here for just three years. In that whole time, I found out only that there was a husband, wife, and a kid in college. They kept their shades down, never planted flowers, and closed their garage as soon as they pulled their cars in. Dad joked that they were in the Mafia. Mom thought they just kept to themselves.
I start walking slowly, parting the weeds, looking for the baseball and keeping my eye on the spot where the rustling occurred.
I’m in front of a regular house, in a quiet, boring suburb, the same as thousands of suburbs everywhere, but with the overgrown weeds, it doesn’t seem like the Fertile Crescent but like the Florida Everglades. What if the rustling is from a snake, or an alligator, or a panther? Impossible, since our most terrifying wildlife around here is a coyote. Still, I get a little shaky.
Just when I spot the baseball, a flash of coppery red fur swishes through the weeds and runs into the middle of the street. I catch my breath, crouch, and freeze. Will it see me? Attack? Where is Beanie, the great watchdog?
The red fox turns and looks me straight in the eye as I peek out from among the tips of the weeds. The fox is beautiful, wild, and captivating. Its ears are pointed up, and its tail is long and thick, lighter than the rest of its coat.
It takes off, running between Jorie’s and Mrs. Chung’s houses. Then it’s gone.
As I slowly stand, my legs shaking, I see Mrs. Chung, leaning on her crutches. She hobbles to the end of her driveway.
I pick up the baseball and toss it onto the Cantalonis’ lawn (eighteen) and head toward Mrs. Chung, who is wearing a sock and a sandal on the normal foot.
She picks up a crutch and points in the direction the fox ran. “Kumiho,” she whispers.
That doesn’t sound good. “What?”
“Nine-tailed fox. Korean legend. Evil.”
I stop. “Evil?”
She nods and looks at the sky. “Fox is often a bad sign.”
I follow her gaze. The sky is clear and blue, not one cloud. Evil? No, I want to say. Good. Good things.
“Mrs. Chung—” I try to think of one of Grandma’s STs, something reassuring, but Mrs. Chung hurries back inside as quickly as she can on crutches.
I glance around. Still. Silent. The lone baseball on the Cantalonis’ lawn.
There’s movement in Mrs. Chung’s window. I see her parting the drapes with her hand. Now I think of what to say: The fox is gone. And it had only one tail. So it couldn’t have been the kumiho. Really, no kumiho here.
I pick up my sketchbook. It’s eighty-five degrees out, but I get goose bumps on my arms as Mrs. Chung lets the drapes fall back.
Thank God the Cantaloni boys choose this moment to tumble out their front door and seize the baseball like a miracle has happened.
They don’t even question it, just start their game.
“Catch it next time, you moron!” the older one yells.
“Shut up, Jack!”
I sink to the grass. Jack. The oldest boy’s name is Jack.
I’ve never been terrific at finishing projects. This past year, I started a scrapbook, a journal, three books, daily yoga stretches, and a beauty routine involving a weekly mask and blackhead strips. I didn’t continue any of them. I got bored, distracted. But the sixty-five things are something I want to finish. I have to. They’re sneaky and fun and exciting—thinking of them, figuring out how to keep them secret. Every time, I get this filled-up, kind of powerful feeling. Strong. Hopeful. I wish I could tell Grandma. And my teacher, Mr. Pontello. They’d know what I mean.
19. Matt’s been working a lot at his cashier job at the pool. His car’s a mess, and I don’t want Mom and Dad to get mad, so I clean it out while he’s in the shower. What I find: fifteen Subway napkins; one black, stretchy headband; a white sock; seven pens; two pencils; gum wrappers; a torn ace of diamonds card; crumpled notebook paper; and an almost-empty soda bottle that really smells.
Later, Matt doesn’t notice. He just jumps in and drives away, his hair still damp.
20. I find a bunch of Matt’s old baseballs in our garage and put them on the Cantalonis’ lawn. They’ll have lots of spares now in case they hit one into the weeds.
Mrs. Millman has kept up her daily stakeouts. I find a little silver balloon in our basement, attached to a plastic stick. It has a yellow smiley face with the words HAVE A NICE DAY!
When Mrs. M. leaves for mahjong, I stick the balloon into one of her outside flowerpots (twenty-one). Maybe it will make her smile for once. But later, the balloon is gone, and notes are taped on everyone’s front doors: Important neighborhood meeting. Tonight, seven p.m. We must get to the bottom of these pranks. Yours in safety, Mrs. Myrna Millman.
But no one can come. Conflicts, too busy.
“Probably just some kids fooling around,” Dad says, crumpling the note and tossing it into the garbage can. He shakes his head. “We had a Mrs. Millman type where I grew up. Mrs. Betty Lunetti.”
“You’re kidding.” I laugh, sitting next to him at the kitchen counter. “You never told me that. Betty Lunetti? What a name.”
“Yep. We were terrified of her. She always had these electric blue curlers in her hair, and come to think of it, she had a poodle too, this mean, yippy little dog—”
“Steven, c’mon,” Mom says, opening her laptop. “Everyone knows Myrna Millman has nothing else to do except dream up this nonsense. Focus. We have to be in court first thing tomorrow.”
Even though it’s eight p.m., Mom looks crisp in her black trousers and sleeveless white sweater. Black-and-white-checked jacket over the back of her chair. Black heels kicked off onto the floor. You know that store that has only black-and-white clothes? Mom keeps them in business.
She’s one inch shorter than me. When Matt and I were younger and she would get mad about something, we used to joke that she’s four feet eleven of tough and one inch of mom.
Dad grabs his seltzer, sits down, and then flips a page on a legal pad. “Where were we?”
I want to tell them: I like the neighborhood nonsense. It’s way more fun than your nonsense.
Mom glances at me as her phone rings. “Nina, honey. I know we haven’t connected in the last few days. It’s been crazy. I’ll come up later. I want to hear all about the art class, okay?”
“Sure.”
I fall asleep before she comes. If she even does.
The next day after summer school, when I’m getting the mail, something lightly pings the ba
ck of my head. A tiny crab apple hits the ground. I turn around. No one. I sit on the grass and flip through the envelopes; then another apple bounces off my arm.
Eli used to pull crab apples from his tree and toss them at me through the bushes that separate our side yards like a row of soldiers.
Back then it was funny. He’s fourteen now, almost taller than the bushes.
“I see you,” I say calmly.
He cuts through and sits next to me. “What are you doing?”
“Not much.”
“I know it’s you.”
“What’s me?”
“All this stuff that’s been going on around here.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Eli lies back, clasping his hands on his stomach. He closes his eyes to the sun. “I’ve thought about it. There’s no one else who would do these kinds of things. It has to be you.”
I plunk the mail down. “You don’t even know me anymore.”
He smiles, eyes still closed. “Yes, I do.”
He’s teasing. He’s changed. What’s with him and Jorie, and the other night? I’m so mad at both of them. I mean, all this time, it was always the three of us.
I peek at Eli: the hair on his legs, his T-shirt loose around his shoulders. Faded, wrinkled cargo shorts. His fingernails: clean and short. And then, a rush of the memory of us hiding from Jorie, his brown eyes shining in the dark. My heart beating, loud and fast.
“It’s okay,” he says. “I won’t tell anyone.”
Good. Thank you.
Eli stands and walks toward his house. “My mom uses those foot things every day.”
I pick up a crab apple and toss it in his direction. I’ve always been a good shot. The tiny apple plunks his arm.
I count this as twenty-two because he laughs.
Something that’s the same: his laugh.
Eli picks up the crab apple, throws it sky-high, and then catches it. “See you later. Mystery Girl.”
Jorie’s mom drives us to summer school every morning. She wears cute, trendy outfits—flowy chiffon tops, skinny jeans, wedges. Each day, she sends Jorie off with some sort of caution.
“If anyone offers you drugs, just walk away.”
“Don’t go into the bathroom alone.”
“Be sure to choose a fruit or vegetable during your snack break.”
I know Jorie is aching to do the opposite. (Except for the drugs.) Every morning, though, she says sweetly, “Okay, Mom. Bye. Love you.” Then she pulls my arm toward the door. Her mom watches us in the rearview mirror as she drives away.
We’re early today, and Jorie sits with me on a bench by the gym. Probably because she doesn’t see Savannah/Dakota/Antarctica.
The heavy girl from art, Amber, and Chase, the spike-haired guy, are sitting on a bench across from us, comparing their color wheels. They’re both wearing black, head to toe. A group of jock boys walks by. One laughs and mutters, “Freaks.” Amber stands, sneers, and raises a fist, but Chase pulls her arm, and they gather their stuff and leave. Jorie’s oblivious, looking at her phone. Amber and Chase are halfway down the hall when I see a color wheel on the ground. Someone steps on it.
I hesitate. Should I? Chase picks up an empty chip bag and throws it into a can. Yes, do it. I bolt from the bench, grab the color wheel, and run after them. “Hey, you dropped this.”
They just look at me, so I hand it to Amber. My hand is shaking a little and my heart is going a hundred miles an hour.
“Thanks,” she says warily.
I nod and start walking back toward Jorie. I feel like they’re watching me, but I don’t look back. I say softly to myself, “Number twenty-three.” This one was a little like jumping over a fence to an unfamiliar neighborhood.
Jorie’s head is tipped to one side. “Why’d you do that?”
I sit. “Those color wheels, they’re a big part of our grade.”
“That was … really nice.”
“It wasn’t anything.”
She’s staring at me. “It kind of was. I wouldn’t have done that. They’re so weird.”
“I know.”
Jorie laughs. “Anyway, I was going to show you my dress.” She taps her phone screen, and a strapless, shimmery, really short red dress appears.
“Your dress for what?”
“Homecoming. Duh.”
“Wait. Did someone ask you?” Please don’t say Eli. Please say someone else.
She shakes her head. “Not yet. But it’s just a matter of time. A lot of girls have been asked already. The dance is so early. The middle of September.”
“Oh.” Not much homecoming discussion going on in art. A lot of talk about piercings, though. Where to get them, how many can go on an ear, an eyebrow, elsewhere.
“People are already talking about groups,” Jorie says. “I’ll have to see if Eli wants to go with my group or his. Either one’s fine with me.”
Eli likes her; she likes him.… So why is there a lump in my throat?
“If Eli’s friend Tyler asks someone, maybe we could go with him and his older brother. How cool would that be? We wouldn’t have to get our parents to drive us then.”
“Right.” I nod. She has it all worked out.
“If I got the red dress, which shoes would I wear? Black is always good, but it can be boring, you know? Maybe silver.”
“Yeah, silver is good.” My face feels hot. “Silver is terrific.”
She flips through a few more pictures of dresses, holding up each one—turquoise, yellow, and sickening Barbie pink. “I can’t even decide if that one is the dress. It’s an important choice. It sets the tone for, like, your whole high school image, you know?” She glances at me, hesitating. She knows fashion has never been my thing. “What do you think?”
“They’re all really beautiful.” I look at her. She is beautiful. Always has been. “You’d look amazing in every single one of them.” Completely true.
In my heart, I count this as number twenty-four even though it wasn’t exactly anonymous.
She squeezes my arm. “Aw, thanks. Guess what? I’ve picked out a dress for you.”
“Me?”
She shows me her phone. “Green, to go with your eyes.”
“Jor, it’s pretty, and of course I’d love to go to homecoming, but I don’t think there’s anyone who would ask me.”
She stands and crosses her arms. “Leave that to me.” She waves to the kids from her class, starts walking toward them. “We’ll talk about this later.”
“Wait, Jorie—”
She doesn’t hear. She’s showing her phone to Antarctica, then pulling her hair back, like she’s describing a style. Jorie has her plan, and I have mine. How can I love and not love her at the same time?
When I get off the bus (Jorie went to Antarctica’s), Mrs. Bennett is pacing in her driveway and Thomas is running around her in circles, cape on, sword in hand. She’s in her royal-blue nursing scrubs and keeps checking her phone.
“Hi, Mrs. Bennett,” I say. She looks completely stressed out.
“Oh, Nina.” She glances up. “How are you?”
“Fine.”
“Where is he?” she says, and sighs heavily. “Nina, could I ask a huge favor?”
“Sure.”
“Eli was supposed to be home to watch Thomas by now. I have a double shift today, and I’m already late. Do you think you could keep an eye on him until Eli gets here? I know you’re probably running somewhere with your friends.… ”
Um. Not really.
“No problem,” I say.
Mrs. Bennett’s face lights up. “You can? You’re sure?”
“Yes. It’s fine. Of course.”
She runs into their garage and grabs her purse, then digs inside. “I don’t have a lot of cash right now.… ”
“You don’t have to pay me.”
“No, that’s not right.”
“You said you were late. We can figure it out later.”
She lets out
a long breath. “You’re a lifesaver.” Then she catches Thomas by the arm. “Stay with Nina, okay, until Eli gets home.”
“Okay!”
I take his hand while she backs the car out. He jumps and waves. “Bye, Mommy!” Then he looks up at me with the same dark brown eyes as Eli. But a lot more freckles.
“So, what do you want to do?” I ask him.
He drops my hand and marches into the garage. “Ride!” He climbs onto a beat-up tricycle. I smile; it’s Eli’s. I remember when he got it and learned to pedal. He was so proud of himself. He went around the cul-de-sac about a hundred times.
I wheel Thomas to the sidewalk. He starts pedaling furiously.
“Wait! Don’t cross without me!” I yell, running to catch up, although there’s not a car in sight.
I walk next to him as he rides across the street, then turns left in front of the Dixon house.
He stops and points. “Scary house.”
“It sure is.”
He pedals to the Cantalonis’. “Baseball house.”
I laugh. “Do you have a name for every house?”
He nods, serious.
“Do you ever play with the Cantalonis? Isn’t the youngest kid your age?”
“Jordan? He’s four. But he’s always playing with his brothers.”
“Oh.”
Thomas points to the Millmans. “Doggie house.”
Of course. The Millmans have the only pet in the neighborhood. Jorie used to have a hamster, and I had a goldfish, but well, you know how that goes. My fish didn’t last long. Five-year-old traumatic experience. Dad helped me bury it in the backyard.
Thomas pedals to Mr. Dembrowski’s. “Night house.”
I peer at the windows. “Why night house?”
“The man there drives away in the night.”
“How do you know?”
“When I dream something bad, I wake up and look out my window. Sometimes I see the man in his car.”
The house looks as quiet as usual. I start imagining the worst: He’s a criminal? Leads a double life? When the police finally catch him, we’ll all say he used to grow flowers but we never really knew the guy. Wait—what if it’s something normal, like Mr. D. works at night and sleeps during the day?
The Summer I Saved the World ... in 65 Days Page 4
