by Susan Lubner
“Come on in,” my mother said. She waddled out of the kitchen and opened the door.
“My goodness, what an evening! All that smoke in the air! Feels sort of like my lungs have been charbroiled!” Bibi slipped her sneakers off and, using her foot, gently swept them under the coat rack.
I loved Bibi and the funny things she said. Sometimes I didn’t know if she was being serious or just crazy silly. About six years ago, she had moved up north from someplace down south, renting an apartment just a couple of blocks from us.
“Less snakes and frizz-free hair,” Bibi had told me was the reason she had settled in East Thumb. By now she must have learned that we have frizzy hair up here. And snakes, too. I had seen one slither under the Dumpster more than once.
Bibi loved to bake, and my parents never said no to her desserts when she brought them into the diner. I’d highlight them on the blackboard with the other specials—Bibi’s snickerdoodles, Bibi’s whoopie pies, or Bibi’s whatever—depending on what goodie she felt like whipping up. Sometimes I’d go to her apartment and bake with her. On those times, she always made sure the blackboard said my name, not hers. “Lizzy’s dessert today!” She’d tell the customers, even when I had only cracked the eggs and measured flour.
“Smells good,” my dad said. “What have you got there? Something made with cinnamon, I know that.”
“You’ve got a good nose for sweets, Henry.” Bibi carried a tray of sticky buns into the kitchen.
She unbuttoned her furry coat using her free hand. “Don’t you worry, this ain’t real,” she said to me. “It’s high-quality fake. Feel it, come on.” She held an elbow out for me.
“I believe you,” I said. I patted the fur tentatively with my hand.
“I know y’all are big animal lovers. I wouldn’t traipse in here with a real fur even if I could afford one.”
“That’s good to know,” I said. Real fur coats made me sad when I thought about how they got to be coats.
“Let’s go into the living room,” my mother suggested. Bibi’s black hair was out of its usual ponytail that she wore to work. It was pushed off her forehead with a wide headband and the ends flipped up a little bit like buffalo horns, which bounced as she followed my parents down the hall.
She held the tray out to us. “These buns are dan-ger-ous—they are so good. I’ve got two dozen more I’ll bring into the diner tomorrow. If I don’t eat them all up myself. Please! Somebody stop me, if I try!”
My mother pulled a tiny piece off of one. “I’m going to save the rest for breakfast.”
I knew she was just being polite. And Bibi knew my mother well enough now, too, to know that Mom wouldn’t eat a sticky bun for breakfast or anytime, actually, ever since she became pregnant and turned into a way healthier eater than she used to be.
Dad pushed a big hunk into his mouth.
“I’ll have one,” I said. It was warm and sticky when I scooped it up.
Another bun slipped off the tray. Dad held his hand out and caught it before it hit the floor.
“Oops! Nice save,” I said.
“Thanks. I guess that calls for seconds.”
I could see by Mom’s face she wasn’t too happy about that, given the conversation we had just had at dinner. But I couldn’t blame Dad. When a sticky bun falls into your hand, that’s a no-brainer sign to eat it.
Bibi put the tray down on the coffee table, and when everyone took a seat, I headed back to the kitchen window to check again for the girl. Would she at least find the bag and the Coke I had left for her?
“Listen here,” I heard Bibi say to my parents as soon as I stepped out of the room. I stopped. She continued in a whispery voice, “I chatted with Sergeant Blumstein for a bit outside, and he implied that the fire might be no accident.”
“Is that so,” my father said.
No accident? I took a step back toward the living room.
“I guess something like that is always a possibility,” my father continued. “But the building is old and battered. Even without an accelerant, I bet it would have blazed up very quickly.”
Waffles sat a few feet away by the back door. He barked several times to go out. But I didn’t move. My brain was still processing what I had just heard.
“Lizzy? You taking the dog out?” Mom hollered.
“I’ll do it,” Dad said before I could answer. “I want to dump the garbage.” I scrambled back down the hall into the kitchen so Dad wouldn’t catch me eavesdropping. I heard the metal part of the leash bang against the wall when Dad lifted it off its little hook. “Let’s go, big guy.”
When my feet could move again, I made my way to my room. My bedroom shared a wall with the living room, and I could hear bits of conversation about the weather, and a “to die for” sweater Bibi had just bought and was gushing about. Nothing more about the fire. Suddenly, I felt exhausted. I plopped onto my bed. I had a great view out my window of all the action still going on outside. After a few seconds, the flashing lights bothered my eyes, and I dropped my shade.
I reached for my cell phone to text Joss, but she beat me to it. It buzzed in my hand.
Did u see the girl?
No. But Bibi came over and told us the fire was set on purpose
OMG really????
I told Joss about finding Smoky and everything I knew.
You think the girl did it?
Maybe. Do U?
IDK. Why would she? She gone for good?
Probs.
“Looking for this?” Dad poked his head into my room. He held up my bag.
“Oh, thanks,” I said. He dropped it gently on my floor. Before he closed the door, Smoky tore through his legs and sprang onto my bed. “How about that. Making himself right at home already.”
Before he could shut the door, I yelled out, “Wait!”
“What?”
“Where’s my Coke? Did you throw it out?”
“What Coke?”
“The cup I left outside next to my bag. I forgot that, too.”
“Well, you must have forgot that someplace else. There was no Coke. Just the bag.” Then he cupped his ear and tilted his head upward.
“Hear that?” he asked me.
“What?”
“It’s a sticky bun calling my name.” He made the Vulcan salute and left.
I jumped up and grabbed my bag. I turned it upside down. Four pencils, my notebook, a pink eraser, and two already wished-on wishbones spilled out. That was it. The food was gone. But, probably, so was the girl.
CHAPTER
7
IT TOOK A POODLE, A CAT, AND A STICKY BUN TO find her. Waffles’s barking woke me, but I was sort of already waking, anyway, trying to escape a bad dream.
I sat up, but the dream was still inside my head. The siren wailed. Dad’s face glowed bright blue. That’s the image I always remember. My dad’s blue face when the lights of the police car showed up behind us.
I squeezed my eyes shut while the dream floated out of my reach like a lost balloon. My heart thumped and my nightgown stuck to my back with sweat. I pulled it away from my skin and kicked the covers off. One thirty was technically morning, but way too early to be up. Though my pets didn’t seem to mind.
Enough moonlight seeped through my shade so I could see that Smoky was perched on top of my dresser, and Waffles jumped and yapped at him. The cat seemed amused and took a couple of swipes at the dog, but missed. I got out of bed and stepped on Waffles’s favorite toy, a well-chewed stuffed owl with an eye missing, just like him. It squeaked under my foot. At the sound, Waffles grabbed it in his mouth and trotted out of my room. Now I was wide awake and hungry.
In the kitchen, I ate a sticky bun, which made me thirsty. Smoky was following me, and he rubbed his head on my calf while I waited at the sink for the water to run cold. It was pitch-black outside the window. Then, I saw the light go on inside the Enterprise. I saw the back of her head and that red hair. I was so surprised, I turned the faucet off fast, like she could hear it.
I didn’t want to startle her and have her run off again. Duh, like she had superpower hearing or something. I shut the kitchen light off, just in case. I didn’t want her to know she’d been seen. That might make her run. I wanted to know who she was. Why she had to sleep in my father’s truck. Why she hadn’t run away from here, after all. She was writing in something. A notebook…? A diary? I couldn’t tell.
I grabbed a sticky bun and a napkin. Maybe she had eaten most of the food by now. Then I threw my coat on, stuffed my feet into a pair of boots, and quietly raced down the stairs and outside.
She jumped when I tapped on the passenger side window. Her first instinct was to shut the light off. But then she quickly pushed it on again as if it had registered in her mind that it was me and not anyone else. The wind blew. I got a whiff of the burned apartment building, and I shivered as I felt the cold bite at my bare legs. The girl stared back at me through the truck window as if not knowing what to do. Her face was pale, like a glass of milk. Her cheekbones were sharp and high, jutting out under two of the greenest eyes I’d ever seen. I walked around to the driver’s side where she was sitting and opened the truck door.
“Hi. I brought you something,” I said. I offered her the sticky bun.
“Thanks.” She took it and pushed almost half of it into her mouth. She closed her eyes when she chewed, like it was the best thing she’d ever tasted in her whole life.
“Good, isn’t it?”
“OMG,” she said, licking her fingers. “Thanks for all the food. I already ate most of it. I guess running away makes me hungry.” She turned and looked back up at my apartment. “Your parents don’t know about me, do they?”
“No. They don’t know about you at all.” Though it crossed my mind right then that they, too, could have seen her on the news. “I saw you through the kitchen window when I got up to get a drink of water.”
“I didn’t know where else to sleep,” she said.
“That’s fine. I hope it’s… comfortable.…”
“It’s better than sleeping under an overpass.”
“Really?”
“Well, yeah!” The girl looked surprised, like, why wouldn’t I know that the inside of a truck was way better than sleeping under a bridge?
“I meant, really you’ve slept under an overpass? Not, really was the truck more comfortable.”
“Oh,” she said, shaking her head. “No, I didn’t sleep under an overpass, I’m just saying this truck was a better option than that.”
“And a burning house,” I added.
She blinked a few times without saying anything, and then said, “Yeah, that too.”
“How old are you?” I asked her.
“Eleven,” she said. “How about you?”
“Oh,” I said. Suddenly, she looked even smaller. And her hair, not so much spiky and cool in the front, but just a mess.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing. I thought you were older.” That made her smile. “I’m twelve,” I added. “And just so you know, my dad gets up at four thirty to get ready for work. I think it’s close to two or something,” I told her.
“Okay,” she said, finishing the bun. “I should just leave now and look for a new place to hide.” She grabbed her bag and grasped the steering wheel with her free hand, sliding herself off the seat. The truck was pretty high. I stepped forward and offered her my hand. What had Bibi said about sticking your hand out when someone needs it? The girl took it and hoisted herself out and down. That’s when I got a good look at the little green tattoo drawn on her hand. A clover. But not a regular plain old clover. It had four leaves!
“Your tattoo!” I said. I felt the hair stand up on the back of my neck. I was already practically freezing to death, and my teeth were chattering. But this was a different chill.
“What about it?”
“It’s… good luck.”
“Pfffftttt!” she said. “I wish. I’m going.”
“Where? Where are you going to go?” I asked.
“I can’t stay in your dad’s truck,” she said.
“I know, but what are you going to do? Where do you think you will go?” I was staring at the thing on her hand. Was this a sign? A sign that she was good luck? If she was lucky, and she stayed around, maybe I wouldn’t have to worry about something bad happening to Mom again.
“Thanks for that awesome cinnamon bun,” she was saying. “I probably won’t see you after tonight. Maybe I can find another empty house.”
All those worries about Mom spilled out of my brain and piled up inside me like a tall stack of pancakes. “Wait!” I said to her, before she had the chance to walk away. “I saw you on the news today. Well, my friend did. People are looking for you. But I can hide you. I can keep you in my room.” The words just shot out of my mouth. It was too late to catch them and shove them back inside. “Then you could have a warm place to sleep every night and food.… I could bring it to you easily.… My parents are at the diner a lot.” A tiny bubble of fear fizzled inside my belly. But sneaking this stranger into my house could not have been scarier than what this poor girl must have been feeling not knowing where she was going to hide. And she was only eleven! I needed to bring her inside where she would be safe.
She stared at me. It dawned on me that I was a stranger to her, too. She must have been scared. But she shrugged her shoulders and said, “Okay.”
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Charlotte,” she told me.
When I first saw her, I would have guessed she had a name like Jade or Willow, or something edgy like that. But now, she definitely seemed more like a Charlotte.
“What? Are you thinking that it’s creepy to be named after a spider?”
“Not at all. I loved Charlotte’s Web,” I said. “Besides, Charlotte wasn’t just any old spider. She was a hero. And brave. And really smart. And resourceful. Did your mom like that book or something?”
“It was her favorite to read when she was young. And ever since, Charlotte was always her favorite name.”
Maybe her mother shouted out lines from Charlotte’s Web like “Terrific!” or “Some Pig!” like my dad did with the Star Trek stuff. Maybe we had that in common.
“Come on. Let’s go. Don’t forget that.” I pointed to the book she’d been writing in that was still on the front seat.
“I won’t.” She reached in and grabbed it. Then, slowly, she closed the truck door, pushing it gently into place with both hands so as not to make a slamming sound.
“Stay behind me.” I grabbed her by the hand, guiding her to the door that led to our apartment. I pulled her inside.
“Watch your step.”
We immediately began to climb the stairs. “Wait here, while I check to see if the coast is clear,” I whispered, when we reached the door at the top. I stepped into the front hall. I tiptoed by the kitchen, and into a back hall that led to my parents’ bedroom. Waffles came from behind me, bumped up against my leg, and licked my hand. My parents’ door was open, and I could see the outline of their bodies. I could tell from the sound of their breathing that they were both still sound asleep. I hurried back, took Charlotte’s hand, and led her to my room.
“I hope you don’t mind dogs,” I whispered. “He’s super friendly.” Waffles had followed us and was all over Charlotte, angling for a back rub or whatever attention he could get.
“He’s so cute,” Charlotte said, “like a lamb.” His tail wagged like crazy while Charlotte petted the top of his head.
I rearranged some of the things in my closet, moving shoes, books, and a jewelry box out of the way. I grabbed an extra blanket off my closet shelf and the afghan Joss had knitted me for my birthday last year from the end of my bed. I laid the blankets out on the closet floor, creating a cozy space for sleeping. Then I handed her a couple of throw pillows.
“Ta da!” I said softly. I held my arms out toward my closet, welcoming Charlotte to her new home. “Your new closet. But it’s a lot better than the old one,
right?”
“Definitely.” She smiled. She dropped her bag inside. “Your room smells like pancakes. Or is it french fries? Grilled cheese?” Charlotte took a big whiff. “Does your house always smell this good?”
“Probably. But I’m so used to it, I don’t smell anything. It’s from the diner. Downstairs.”
“I’d be hungry all the time living up here.”
“You’d get used to it, too.”
“That’s so cool that your house comes with its own diner.”
Funny. In all the years we’ve lived here, which was my whole life, I never thought of it that way. A house with its very own diner. Maybe because we had to go outside to the back of the diner to get inside our home upstairs, it didn’t really feel like the same house, more like just an ordinary apartment upstairs. But actually, Charlotte was right. I did live in a house with its very own diner, and suddenly, it felt a little more special.
“Good night,” Charlotte said. “Well, good morning technically, but good night, anyway.” She curled up, tucked both pillows under her head, and closed her eyes. I shut the closet almost the whole way.
I climbed back into bed with my heart racing. I had just moved a total stranger into my room. There was something very thrilling about the thought. Because while I’m positive it’s never ever a safe thing to let a stranger sleep in your closet, it felt really good that I was helping someone. And very cool that I had a secret. And, possibly, a new friend, who, if I was reading the sign right, would turn out to be a real live good luck charm.
CHAPTER
8
IT TURNED OUT, NEITHER OF US COULD ACTUALLY sleep. The smell of the diner had made Charlotte hungry again; plus, Waffles stayed around and took up so much space on my bed I couldn’t get comfortable. So we (Waffles, too) ended up finishing off a bag of Dad’s potato chips and staying up for a while longer talking about a bunch of things, including the fire.
“Did you smell the smoke right away?”
“Yes. And I could taste it,” Charlotte told me.
“Weren’t you scared to death? I would have been, like, freaking out.…”
