“I wasn’t sneaking. So, um, Neen? What are you doing?”
“I’m— Wait. What are you doing?”
“I asked you first.”
“Okay. Well, I’m planting flower seeds.”
“I was walking. Couldn’t sleep.” He looks at the packets. “Planting? At twelve-fifteen?”
“Yeah.” I smile. It’s hard not to smile at Eli. “You got a problem with that?”
“No. I guess not. But here? And now? And, okay, can I ask why?”
“Don’t you remember that night we ruined Mr. D.’s flower bed?”
He scratches his cheek. “Uh … no.”
“We ran through it, playing hide-and-seek. We were little. Me and you and Jorie. And he got mad and wanted our shoes.”
“Oh, yeah.” Eli laughs. “Crazy guy.”
“No, he’s not crazy. That’s the thing. Our parents were the crazy ones. Overprotective.”
“So after all these years, you just decided to come out here and fix his garden? In the middle of the night?”
“Yes. This is when he leaves his house.”
“Okay …”
I kneel and continue digging. Eli’s just standing there, watching.
“Why are you doing all these things?” he asks. “It’s you, isn’t it? All this stuff that’s been going on?”
I keep digging.
“Neen?”
“You know the answer.” I open a second packet of seeds and sprinkle them into the dirt.
Eli shoves his hands into the pockets of his shorts. “You haven’t told me why, though.”
I smooth dirt over the seeds and look up at him. “You really want to know?”
“Yes.” He sits in the grass, stretches his legs out.
I start my third trench, then search his expression. Can I trust him? I want to. Try to explain this to someone. Maybe even to myself. But I don’t know where he’s at right now.
I sit back and remember how I drew the neighborhood houses on my poster board, eight separate squares that looked like they were floating in space. “You know all those movies, with heroes who fight aliens and monsters and powerful emperors and wizards gone bad … ridding the world of evil?”
“Yeah?”
“Well, what if that isn’t it at all? I mean, what if the bad stuff isn’t that obvious? It’s just sort of a part of things, all around us, but we don’t exactly see it. What if it’s … us? Like, the way we act? Or don’t act?”
“I’m sort of following you,” Eli says.
“And what if the solution is just … good? Plain, simple, small good things, so unnoticed, so unremarkable that they’re remarkable. And what if ordinary people could be the heroes?” I gesture to the dark houses. “Right here.”
Eli doesn’t say anything. His T-shirt ripples in the breeze.
I tear open another packet of seeds.
He moves some dirt with the toe of his shoe.
Then we look at each other, for what seems like a while, even though it’s probably a few seconds.
And I have that feeling again. About a kiss.
But. He stands. “I’ll get some water.”
When he comes back, I’ve emptied six packets of forget-me-not seeds into Mr. Dembrowski’s flower bed. Eli and I plant the rest together until we’ve filled up the entire garden. Then Eli soaks the dirt with his watering can.
“You think they’ll grow?” I ask.
“I don’t know.”
We’re just standing there. I don’t want to go back inside, and I can tell Eli doesn’t either. I should feel tired but I don’t. The moon is smaller and higher. Farther away but right above our heads.
I sigh. “Do you ever miss when we were little?”
“Sometimes.”
“My grandma died one year ago today.”
Eli nods. “So that’s why you wanted to do this tonight?”
“Yeah.”
He looks away. “Sometimes I wish my dad was dead. Life would be a lot easier.”
I gulp. “Oh, Eli, is it that bad? I’m really sorry.… ” I want to grab his hand, but he takes a step away. “Thomas kind of told me about the money thing.… ”
“Yeah, well, it sucks.” He shoves his hair off his forehead, then gestures to the dirt. “See, my dad, he wouldn’t get this. He’d never get stuff like this.” Eli picks up the watering can, turns, and starts walking.
“Wait, Eli.” I gather up the empty seed packets and wipe the digging tool on the grass. He has already reached my house. When I get there, he’s standing on the edge of his driveway.
“I agree with you that bad stuff is right around us. I get what you’re saying. But the truth is, good doesn’t work for everyone,” Eli says. “Some people—a lot of people—just don’t understand good. They’re always looking for something else. Only thinking of themselves.”
I walk to him. “No. You’re wrong.”
“Flowers? Foot pads? You’re so naive. As if those could change anything.”
“You don’t really believe that, do you? Like you don’t have any hope?”
“It’s sweet, Nina, but if you ask me, people are too messed up. This world is too messed up for little things to matter.”
I narrow my eyes and take a step back. “I never asked you.”
I didn’t know Eli had gotten like that.
Jorie will be better for him. She’s fun, and doesn’t worry about the world. Maybe she’s a new soul.
I refuse to believe what he said. Another trait of old souls—stubbornness.
41. I water the forget-me-not seeds daily. No word from Mr. D., so I don’t know if he saw the dug-up dirt in the back of his house.
42. I still water Mrs. Chung’s marigolds, and Mrs. Bennett’s little pot. Both are blooming out of control.
43. When I find an unopened box of golf balls in our basement (Dad tried the game—way too slow for his hyperspeed), I drop a few of them on the Millmans’ lawn, and sure enough, the next day, Mr. Millman is out there practicing his swing. He hits one into the Dixon weeds, then turns and faces the other direction.
Mrs. Millman is outside too, her mahjong bag snug against her hip. A little tuft of white fur is sticking out of the top. She scans the houses, opens the bag, and peeks inside. “No sign of anything, Beanie. It’s safe again.” A whimper comes from inside the bag.
“Whatever it was must be gone,” she tells Mr. Millman. “The smells must have driven it away.”
“Myrna,” he says, inspecting his golf club, “you’re a little obsessed with that dog, you know.”
“Don’t start with me, Stan.”
Mrs. Millman sits on a chair in her driveway and lifts Beanie out of the bag.
“It’s all right,” Mrs. Millman says, petting her. She tries to put Beanie on the ground, but the dog is clawing at Mrs. Millman’s arms and yelping.
“Oh, for God’s sake, bring her inside, Myrna!” Mr. Millman shouts.
She grabs Beanie and disappears into her house. Just me and the whooshing sound of Mr. Millman’s golf club.
I hear “Neeenaaa!” and look over to see Thomas on the other side of the bushes between our houses.
I wave.
He separates the bushes with his hands and whispers, “I need Mystery Girl!”
“You do?”
“Yeah. Can you call her up?”
“Maybe. What’s wrong?”
He pummels through the bushes, then turns around to show me the back of his cape. “Ripped again,” he says sadly.
“Maybe you shouldn’t keep cutting through bushes.” I smile and stroke his arm.
“But that’s where the bad guys hide!”
Should have known that. “Right. I’m sure I can contact Mystery Girl. You’ll have to give me the cape, though, okay?”
He nods solemnly. I help him untie it, then fold the cape in my lap.
“How come it keeps breaking?” His eyes are big, full of questions.
“I don’t know. But when things break, we just have to keep
fixing them.”
He looks small and defenseless in only his shorts and T-shirt.
“Hey, you’re wearing clothes today,” I say, and tickle him. He jumps away, giggling.
Then he frowns. “Eli said I have to. So when I go to kindergarten, people won’t think I’m weird.”
My heart breaks a little. Thomas has to start living by the rules because he’s going to school. I flash ahead and see him getting off the bus with a tired face and a backpack instead of a sword. Pretty soon he’ll forget all about being a hero, and the bad guys in the bushes, even though they’ll still be there. He just won’t see them anymore.
But it’s still summer.
“Thomas,” I say. “I’ll get Mystery Girl to fix your cape, and I’ll bring it back to you. Promise.”
“Hurry, okay?” He trots back through the bushes.
Later, Mom and Dad are on the sofa, drinking coffee.
“Nina!” Dad calls. “Come see this! We were on the news today!” He holds up his phone and plays a video. Fine and Ross being interviewed by a reporter.
“Cool.”
Dad turns the phone toward himself and plays it again.
Mom smiles. “How many times have you watched that, Steven?”
“I lost count. You know, I look pretty good on TV.”
“We had four calls today from prospective clients,” Mom tells me. “I think we’re getting famous.”
There’s some gargantuan blond woman standing next to them in the video. “Who’s that?” I ask.
Mom takes a sip of her coffee. “Melanie.”
“Whoa.” She’s one of those women who’s obviously addicted to plastic surgery. Big lips, big breasts, big hair. She could be on a reality show.
“Don’t let her looks fool you. She’s tough. And smart.”
“Okay.… ”
Mom’s phone rings, and she stares at it. “It’s like she heard us say her name.” She answers. “Hi, Melanie.… ” Mom listens, nodding. “No problem. Yes. Don’t worry. We’ll take care of it. Get a good night’s sleep, all right? We’ll talk in the morning.”
Mom hangs up, shakes her head. “Now I’m her therapist too.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Grandma would have said, ‘That woman needs a good talking-to.’ ”
Mom looks pained. “I suppose she would have.”
Awkward silence.
Dad stands, picks up the coffee cups. “Everything okay, my girl?”
“Yeah.” I shrug. “My phone’s having issues, though. In case you try to call me and it doesn’t go through.”
He goes into the kitchen, rinses the cups. “Nina. What is it with you and phones?”
Just Mom and me on the sofa. She’s staring off into space.
I bite my lip. “I didn’t mean to make you sad.”
“I’m not sad.” She pats my knee, then gets up abruptly and goes upstairs.
In the middle of the night, I wake and hear a noise. I creep halfway down the stairs and see Mom sitting at the kitchen table, with an open shoe box. Crying. There are all sorts of papers and index cards, and she’s shuffling through them, like she’s looking for something.
I know that shoe box.
It was Grandma’s.
The next morning, I don’t see the box, and I sneak Grandma’s sewing basket up to my room so Mom won’t get upset. Does mending Thomas’s cape again count as another good thing? So what? This is forty-four.
The last time Mom and Grandma were together, they had a fight. Maybe that was the only way they could end, after a lifetime of arguing. Mom was pleading with Grandma to take her medicines and have the surgery so she could get more time. Grandma kept saying, “For what?”
“You are the most difficult woman I’ve ever known,” Mom said.
Grandma’s hands were in her lap. “As are you.”
Both were right.
Mom was at work on the day Grandma actually died. I wasn’t with Grandma either. She was in hospice then, in a bed all the time. One of the nurses, Shelley, told us she thought Grandma had waited to die when she was alone. “It’s a strange thing,” Shelley said. “I’ve seen it happen again and again. People wait until their loved ones aren’t in the room. They somehow know.”
That night, I’m in my room, about to thread the needle, when I see a flash of light from the Dixon house. What is going on?
I put Thomas’s cape down, then go outside and make my way across the empty, dark street, walking around the circle of grass in the middle, watching for anything—an animal, the kumiho, Eli, stray bad guys. Everything feels spooky tonight, and goose bumps trickle across my arms. The way the wind skirts through the lawns. The moon partly covered by a cloud. Tree branches scraping against a house. Maybe I should have worn the cape. I don’t doubt its protective powers.
I walk slowly along the Millmans’ grass toward the back of the Dixon house. The house is dark and silent, but there’s a bad smell, like spoiled milk. And mothballs. I hear an engine revving in the distance. A screech of tires. The pop of a firecracker.
The weeds are wet and sticky around my legs; then my foot kicks something. A glass bottle shoots a few feet ahead of me. A strip of moonlight shows more. There must be at least ten dark bottles, most under a dead pine tree. Plus crumpled chip bags, candy wrappers, and apple cores. Like some kids had a party back here.
I look down the street that leads out of the cul-de-sac. No cars. Whoever was here is gone. They must have parked somewhere else. I pick up one of the bottles. Hard to tell what it is in the dark. No label.
A mosquito buzzes near my face, and I wave it away. I can’t just leave all this. It’s completely gross. Flies are circling the apple cores. I walk back to my house and get a garbage bag, then quickly clean up. Number forty-five, I suppose. Although why does this one feel different? It makes me think about what Eli said—the world is messed up and some people just don’t care.
I knot the bag, pick it up, and turn the corner around the back of the house.
A voice shouts from the darkness. “Aha! Caught ya!”
Mrs. Millman is standing in her bathrobe, pointing a flashlight into my eyes.
Is she insane?
“What’s in the bag?” She laughs crazily.
I come up with something brilliant: “Um …”
“Well?” Mrs. Millman moves the flashlight over the bag. Her hand is shaking.
She has her hair in some sort of net thing, and there’s whitish cream around her eyes. She’s scarier than any tree or fox. Maybe the kumiho has already shape-shifted into an evil woman and it has been Mrs. Millman all along. Did Mrs. Chung ever think of that?
“I saw a light,” I say.
She takes a step closer to me. “And? What was it?”
“I just found some garbage.” I gesture to the Dixon house. “Back there.”
Mrs. Millman crosses her arms. “What kind of garbage?”
What is she, a detective? “Like, bottles, candy wrappers. You know, garbage.”
“Bottles? Was it alcohol?”
“I don’t know.”
I think she’s going to grab the bag, open it, and inspect the contents, but she says, “Did you see anyone?”
I shake my head. “No.”
She takes a few more steps until she’s standing just inches from my face. She’s scarier up close. If that’s even possible.
“There is something going on. That house. A wild animal attacks an innocent dog. Now it sounds like a group of reckless kids are using it as their hangout.” She lowers her voice. “I suspect paranormal activity as well.”
I stare at her.
“I watch that TV show. The signs are all there.”
“Wait. You mean, like, ghosts?”
“Exactly!”
Mrs. Chung is convinced there’s a nine-tailed fox spirit stalking the neighborhood; now Mrs. Millman suspects ghosts. Okay.
She adjusts her net thing, and I shift the bag to my other hand. Who would believe this? I am standing in the Dixon weed
s in the middle of the night, holding a bag of gross garbage, talking with Mrs. Millman about ghosts.
“What kind of signs?” I ask.
“Lights, noises, shadows, faces in the window. This place is haunted!”
“You’ve seen faces in the window?” Creepy. If true. Doubtful.
She clicks off the flashlight and nods briskly. “Yes, I have, and I suppose it’s up to me to do something. Like always.” She gathers her bathrobe closer. “I’m watching you,” she says, doing that thing with her fingers in a V, first toward her eyes, then toward me. “I’m watching everyone.”
She stomps back to her house.
I walk home and cram the bag into our garbage can.
I’m watching too.
The next morning, there’s a huge sign on Eli’s garage for the entire neighborhood to see.
E + J = HC.
Oh, God.
There it is. They’re going to homecoming.
Matt is leaning against his Jeep, eating a bowl of cereal. He looks like he slept in his shirt. “Who’s J?”
“Jorie.”
“I didn’t know they were going out.”
“It’s just a thing right now. Last I heard.”
“I always thought Eli had a thing for you.”
“Apparently not.” But then I say, “Why’d you think that?” I’m blushing.
Matt shrugs. “Guys can tell.”
“Well, it’s not true.”
“Weird, though. The guy asks to homecoming.” Matt gestures to the sign with his spoon. “The girl asks to Turnabout. So why would the sign be on Eli’s garage? Is Jorie asking him?”
I don’t know, but I have this urge to run over and rip that sign off.
Matt looks at me. “You okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be okay? Of course I’m okay. Don’t I look okay?”
“Just asking.” He spills the milk out into the grass. “I gotta go.” He hands me the bowl. “Bring this in for me?”
I hand it back to him. “I’m not your servant.”
He raises his eyebrows.
“What?” I snap.
“Hey, if you’re mad about that”—he points to the sign—“don’t take it out on me.”
“Yeah, why would you want to get involved? Why would you care?”
The Summer I Saved the World ... in 65 Days Page 8
