by Anna Shinoda
to spending some quality time with him. How about
September or October?” Another pause. “I’ll try. Okay,
Mom. I love you too.”
She hangs up the phone and looks at me.
“Granny?” I ask. She nods. “How is she?”
“Restless. She wants to get the house fixed up so she
can sell it and move into a retirement home condo.” “Granny wants to move to a condo?” I feel dizzy, like
someone just told me gravity no longer exists. Granny’s
house and Granny feel like one inseparable thing to me.
Even though I rarely get to go see her, I know that she
is in that house, stuffed with curtains she’s hand-sewn
and blankets she’s knitted, the back porch built by Dad
and Papa before I was born, Papa’s workshop in the
barn, the small chicken coup, and rows of vegetables in
the garden.
“The house is just too much work since your grandfather died. I’m actually surprised she’s stayed there
this long.” Mom gives my shoulder a squeeze. “It’s a
good thing. She’ll be around people her age. There’ll
be help when she needs to get to a doctor’s appointment
or wants to go grocery shopping. Anyway, I’ll be going
out there this fall to get the house ready to sell.” I can’t imagine never going to the farm again, so I
find myself saying, “Can I go? I’ll help.”
“We can barely afford my plane ticket, Clare, but
thanks. Besides, you’ll be back in school by then.” She
waits a beat, then asks, “What’s on the agenda for today?” “Homework. AP history summer assignment.” For a second I think she’s going to add something to
my to-do list. Clean the bathroom or scrub the kitchen
floor. But instead she says “Study hard” as she leaves the
room.
Before pulling out my history book, I sit on my bed
and sift through my newly purchased bags of yarn. If I
work it right, I think I can make a violet baby blanket with
flowers in three shades of pink, another with blue and
green stripes, and a rainbow one with the rest. Granny
has a great book of patterns for using up odds and ends
of yarn. Maybe she can mail it to me.
As I cast on each purple stitch, I imagine the baby
that this blanket might go to. Maybe a newborn, all
squishy and tiny. Or a little one-year-old just learning
to walk. I think of her mama and wonder if, like me,
she’s waiting for someone she loves to be out of prison.
And I slide the stitches on a little faster, because of all
the things she has to think about, at least with this blanket
she won’t have to worry about her baby being warm. A knock, and my door starts to open. I fumble with
my knitting, dropping it onto my bed and picking up
my history book.
“Clare, do you think you can park your bike in the
backyard from now on? It’s such an eyesore,” Mom says. “Sure,” I agree, looking back down to my history
book.
“What are you working on?” She motions to my
needles.
“Another beanie,” I lie. It’s ridiculous, I know, but
I’ve never told anyone I make blankets for the homeless
shelter. Not even Drea.
“Okay. Well, when you take a break, please move that
bike.”
After she leaves, I put my knitting away, thinking
about how the first time I walked into Loving Hearts
Homeless Shelter, Peggy at the front desk looked up at
me and said, “How may I help you?” There was not one
look in her eye of suspicion or judgment.
I don’t tell anyone that I knit like crazy year-round
and drive the forty-five minutes to Loving Hearts at
least twice a winter. I don’t tell anyone, so I never have
to worry about Skeleton following me there.
Chapter 14
Creation and Destruction
THEN: Age Nine
Granny’s hands moved fast. Click, click, click, click, click. I stared as the string of heart-red yarn became a scarf just for me.
“When I grow up, will you teach me how to do that?”
I asked.
“No.” She looked up and smiled at me, but her fingers
didn’t stop. “But I can teach you now.”
“Now? I want to make a blanket,” I told her. “A blue
one, with sunshine-yellow flowers.”
She put down her needles and dug into her knitting
bag. “Let’s start with something simple. How about a
scarf for one of your dollies? We’ll use this yarn, so it
matches yours. I’ll get it started for you.”
I watched her loop ten stitches onto a set of big
needles. Then she guided my hands. I mumbled aloud
with each stitch, “Needle into loop, yarn over, slip, and
slide.”
The front door creaked open, but I didn’t even look
up. It was probably just Peter coming home from Evan’s
house. I hoped he went straight to his room.
But the footsteps stopped right in front of us. “LUKE!” I shouted, jumping up. “Look! I’m knit
ting. This is going to be a scarf for my doll.”
“Wow, Squeakers! Let me see.” He picked up my little
scarf already two lines long and said, “You did this?
Nah . . . it must have been Granny.”
After giving me and Granny hugs, Luke announced
he was going to be home for a while.
“Yay!” Granny never came for visits, and now Luke
was there too! Maybe he’d stay a long time instead of
just a few days.
It was the best week ever! Granny helped me finish my
doll’s scarf, and we started on a hat to match. She even
gave me my own knitting needles. Luke and I went to the
lake and made a sand castle, and every night we watched
a movie. I was so happy it was summer, because I didn’t
have school to ruin my fun. But the week came to an
end, and Granny had to go home.
At the airport she gave me three quarters.
Once home, I ran to my room to put them into my
bank on the dresser.
Where was Piggy? She was there yesterday, right next
to my ballerina music box, when I found two nickels
and three pennies between the cushions of the couch.
But now the bank was gone.
Maybe Luke could help me find her. I shouted for
him and ran around the house, but he wasn’t anywhere. So I looked for Piggy by myself, everywhere. Imagined
she got tired of staying in one place and somehow her
pink body, fat with change, leapt from my dresser and
ran out of my room. It was stupid, but the only other thought was that someone had taken her. I’d rather believe in magic, even though a piggy bank coming to life was a pretty creepy idea. I kept looking.
No Piggy anywhere.
I went outside and searched the backyard. She wasn’t in the flowerbed with the snapdragons or under my favorite apple tree. Maybe in the front? There on the road: bright pink pieces. Pieces of Piggy! I ran to the edge of the yard. What had happened? I squinted my eyes, looking to see if I could find any of my coins on the street. None. They were all gone. Someone had taken Piggy. And smashed her. And they’d taken my coins, too.
Dad helped me pick up the pieces, but he couldn’t put them together, making jokes about Humpty Dumpty each time he tried.
He promised to get me a new bank and gave me all the change in his pocket: two quarters, a dime, and six pennies. I’d had a lot more in there than that.
I waited for Luke to come home, imagining we’d become detectives to find out what had happened. But Luke didn’t come home that night. Or the next night. Or the next week. And Mom and Dad and Peter didn’t want to help me solve the case. Maybe one of them had broken Piggy. It wasn’t Granny, and it couldn’t have been Luke. Luke would never have done that to me. A few months later, my ear tight to the bedroom door, I heard Mom and Dad whisper about Luke going to jail,
twenty-three months, eighteen with good behavior. “Was he in the wrong place at the wrong time, again?” I asked my fish, contemplating whether the question was worth getting in trouble for eavesdropping for. But I knew it would be best not to ask, even though I really wanted to know more, because I doubted that Luke could be so unlucky to be in the wrong place at the wrong time again.
Chapter 15
Rain
NOW
I wake up hardly believing it’s the Fourth of July weekend already. Summer is moving fast.
BOOM! CRACK! BOOM!
Who in the hell is setting off fireworks at eight in the morning? I moan and pull my pillow over my head. I have a half hour more to sleep.
Then I realize: My room is still dark. Too dark for seven a.m.
There is another BOOM. I roll over to my window and pull back the curtains.
Thick clouds fill the sky, touching the treetops. Rain pushes the leaves of the apple tree down, making it look as tired as I feel. The sky brightens with a lightning strike. One one thousand, two one thousand, three one—BOOM!
“Wow, that’s close,” I think, slamming my window shut. No work for me today. The lake is closed if there’re thunderstorms. No picnics, no fireworks, no Fourth of July. No phone, no TV, no friends, no nothing. I am stranded.
“You guys have it easy,” I say to my fish, dropping in their flakes. They race to the surface, gulp the food down. The tank is looking dirty—algae growing on the glass, pebbles, and no fishing sign.
Raymond is the last to finish eating; his black spotted nose pecks around the rocks for flakes that may have sunk. As he roots around, I take out their castle and the no fishing sign and place them into my fish bucket.
I barely register the phone ringing. It’s seven thirty in the morning, so I know it’s not one of my friends calling. Besides, they all know I’m grounded.
Scrubbing the sides of the tank with a sponge on a wooden rod, I watch the glass clear as the water becomes murky. I empty a quarter of the tank with a siphon, change the filter, replace the castle and sign. All that I have left to do is add more water and treatment solutions to make sure the pH is right.
“Clare.” Mom opens my door as she knocks. “That was Lucille calling. The lake is closed today. So since you aren’t working, I have a job here that I want you to do.” She looks at my fish tank, my wet arms, and adds, “You can finish that later.”
Wiping my arms with an old towel, I follow her to the living room. Couldn’t I at least have breakfast first? She points at the faded spots on the carpet that lead to the front door. “I’d like for you to work on getting these stains out.”
Skeleton slides into the room, sipping his brandy, using a closed umbrella as a cane.
“Mom.” Is she senile? “I’ve already tried everything to get those stains out.”
“Well, I bought this new pet-stain remover, so try that.” She hands me a bottle and an old scrub brush. Skeleton taps the spots on the carpet with his umbrella, flapping his jaws open and shut, open and shut. “I think this stuff was made for fresh stains. These are at least six years old.” My hands are shaking. My stomach knots up, rotten inside.
“Try it again and see.” She starts to walk away. Turns around to look back. “Are you still in your pajamas? Really, Clare. It’s almost nine. Wasting the day away in bed.” She pauses. “Speaking of which, I don’t think I saw your bed made.”
If I stay in this house much longer, I’ll go crazy for sure. One more year. One more year and I’m free. College. Dorms. I just need to make sure I’ve got enough money saved to move out as soon as I graduate. The lake’s being closed today is not helping my college fund.
After making my bed and pulling on an old T-shirt and some ragged cutoff jean shorts, I do a few things to procrastinate. Add water and treatments to the fish tank. Eat a bowl of cereal and drink a mug of coffee. Then decide to have a glass of orange-mango juice as well.
As I tilt my drinking glass for the last time, I grimace, knowing I can’t put it off any longer. Mom will freak out if she doesn’t see me on my hands and knees with brush in hand soon.
I spray and scrub. Spray and scrub. A half hour later the only thing I’ve managed to do is saturate the carpet in a gross fake-orange smell. The stains haven’t gotten even 1 percent lighter. My only hope is to scrub so hard that I wear a hole right through the carpet. Then the stains will be gone.
Peter walks in from his room, heading to the front door. He stops midstride when he sees me on the floor.
“What. Did. You. Do?” he asks.
I shrug. “It’s raining. I can’t work. I guess she needs to keep my hands busy?”
“I’m glad I’m out of here,” he says, moving toward the door. “If Mom asks, I’m at Evan’s watching the Dodger game.” Then he stops, licks all five fingers on his right hand, and plants them one by one on each of Mom’s ornaments. I’m not sure if he just potentially made my life worse, but I am strangely satisfied knowing the ornaments are no longer perfect.
Twenty minutes and one lunch break later, it’s still raining and I’m wondering how long I need to pretend to scrub before Mom will be satisfied that I tried. Skeleton is settled in Dad’s easy chair, sipping his brandy, reading the paper, occasionally looking down at me, frowning and pointing his umbrella at the spots leading from the front door to the living room. He wants me to remember. Scrubbing furiously at the carpet, I look away from him, trying to concentrate on anything else. Of course my brain goes straight to Ryan. He’s in Venice now, but the four days before he left, he was at the lake at the same time I swam. And despite my promise to stay away from him, I found myself standing on his board every morning. Using a paddleboard oar, I was even able to do a lap without falling. And Mandy was never there, so after our morning swim and paddle, we’d sit on the side of the lake and chat for a minute before I had to work. Which was awesome. The more I get to know him, the more I like him. Ryan invited me to visit him in Venice. Even if I weren’t grounded, I’m not sure I’d go. After all, isn’t that a trip his girlfriend should go on with him? I’m not his girlfriend, and I’m not trying to be. Okay, maybe I am. But I’m not trying to steal him from Mandy. I’m just enjoying his company as a friend. For now. Of course, if they ever break up . . .
I’m so lost in my thoughts, I barely hear the front door opening.
“Squeaks?” I look up. Pause with the scrub brush in hand. Luke is standing right next to me, his shoes firmly planted on the bloodstains I wish could disappear.
Chapter 16
Perfect Circles
THEN: Age Eleven
With a breeze, summer became autumn. Under sunny skies the lake was full of children and silver-pocketed rafts, until the wind picked up, vacating the water and bringing night chill to day. Ripped from the branches, the first few leaves in fall oranges, reds, and yellows reached the ground.
My wet bathing suit soaked through my shirt and shorts. Goose bumps rippled my arms and legs. Home would be warm, with a welcome change of clothes and hot chocolate.
I pedaled faster, turned into our driveway. Then stopped short.
The front door window was broken.
I could see the clear, jagged edges that held to the frame.
Slowly I got off my bike. Rolled it to the tree next to the house, my hands turning white from gripping the handlebars. I leaned my bike against the trunk, my eyes still on the window.
I moved closer, then closer. My shoes crushed the glass on the ground into smaller pieces. Inspecting the shards that clung to the frame, I paused only for a few seconds before I turned the doorknob and walked inside.
The drops on the linoleum floor were round. In sixth-grade art class I had tried, again and again, to draw a perfect circle. I couldn’t do it without the compass attached to my pencil, stabbing the paper in the center. My freehand circles were always wavy, lopsided. I didn’t think it was possible to make a perfect circle without the compass. But here, right in front of me, were perfectly round, bright red droplets. Mom always said that we had thin blood. That’s how I knew it was one of us.
I could have gone back outside. Waited at a neighbor’s until I was sure Dad was home from work. He was used to blood. He was used to corpses.
But I didn’t. I don’t know why, but I followed the droplets.
They were a much better trail than breadcrumbs. The blood would stain the floor, stain the carpet. It wouldn’t be picked by birds. We’d always be able to follow it.
The sharp sounds of an argument and a nasty smell— body odor and alcohol, and another that I couldn’t recognize—stopped me for a moment. Maybe I should have left then.
Curiosity gave me bravery. I turned the corner.
Chapter 17
Homecoming
NOW
I look down at the stains and up at Luke in disbelief, hundreds of thoughts filling my head at once. Is it really Luke standing in front of me? It’s been almost four years, but he looks old, more like forty than twenty-nine. His face is leathery, wrinkled in spots. The Virgin Mary that I remember as so bright on his arm is now faded, the blue tattooed lines blurring into his skin.
“How’s my little Squeaks?” Luke’s long arms reach toward me before I even say hello. He’s unaware of his feet, how they step on the faded spots. The tiny hairs on my neck start to rise, then fall. He doesn’t remember. I can tell.
I stumble to stand, dropping my scrub brush. Luke sweeps me up with both arms, pressing my breath from my lungs, twirling me in a circle like I am still five years old. I can’t help but laugh as I spin.
He gently places me down on the ground. I’m dizzy, disoriented, happy. “When did you get so tall? I haven’t been gone that long! Hey, Ma,” he shouts out. “What are you feeding Clare? She looks like a teenager!” “Welcome home, Luke.” Mom briskly passes me and
