by Tate, Kristy
“I don’t know how or why my dad shifted from my mom to Maria. It’s like there’s a missing piece of that puzzle.”
“You have a grandmother. Do you know anything about her?”
I shook my head. “She’s coming, too. Uncle Mitch isn’t happy. He really hates it when he’s ejected from his science cave.”
“But Faith Despaign!”
“What about it? Do you even know anyone who goes there?”
“Yeah. Dylan Fox.”
She said his name as if I should know who he was—as if he were someone to be revered, like Prince Harry.
“So?”
“So—I would love to go to Faith Despaign, just so I could breathe the same air as Dylan Fox.”
“Who is he?”
“A friend of Josh’s.”
She bounced off the bed, went to the window and pulled back the curtain to watch her house. “In fact, he went to the comic book store with Josh this morning. I wanted to go, but they wouldn’t take me. Even after I swore I was a huge Spider-Man fan.”
“They didn’t believe you?” I rolled off the bed and went to stand beside her. I loved that I could see Bree’s house from my room.
The Hendersons lived in a giant Victorian, which must have been added onto a hundred times. It had jutting gables and a crazy-wampum roofline. The original house had been built sometime before 1820, like ours, because both houses had plaques from the Woodinville Historical Society stating they had been there when the town was incorporated. But that was where the similarity ended.
Our boxy colonial had perfectly symmetrical windows and a boring roofline. The Hendersons’ house had a turret, a widow’s walk, and a mishmash of dormer windows. Our house was white with black shutters and a cranberry colored front door. Theirs boasted about ten different shades of blue with splashes of white. Our house was quiet. Bree’s house rang with the noise of eight kids, two parents, three dogs, five cats, and a couple of rabbits. To be fair, the rabbits didn’t live inside the house with everyone else. They had their own cages in the backyard. They were the only creatures in the Henderson household that didn’t have to share a bathroom.
“They asked me a trick question.”
“Like what?”
“The name of Peter Parker’s uncle.”
“How’s that a trick question?”
Bree shushed me when a red convertible BMW pulled into their drive. “They’re back,” she said. Car doors slammed, and Josh, and a tall, lean guy with bronze-colored hair climbed out. Actually, Dylan Fox was hotter than Prince Harry, although not as hot as Bree’s brother—but I couldn’t tell Bree that.
Bree grabbed my arm and squeezed.
“Hey, I thought you liked Marcus.”
Bree sighed. “I do love Marcus, but he’s in Virginia, and I’m here. And so is he.” She nodded at Dylan. “You got to love the one you’re with. Someday, I’m going to marry Marcus, but until then . . . Mr. Fox.”
And as if he could hear her, Dylan Fox turned and looked directly up at my window. Our eyes met briefly.
Giggling, Bree tugged on my hand as she dropped to the floor. I landed next to her with a thud.
“Ev—ie?” said Mrs. Mateo.
“I’m okay, Mrs. Mateo,” I said.
Bree sat up and inched toward the window.
I followed.
Dylan was in the exact same spot, staring in our direction.
Laughing, Bree put her hand on the top of my head to push me down. “How can we get him to pay attention to me?”
“Why not stand up and wave? Wouldn’t that be better than scrunching and hiding?”
Rolling her eyes, Bree frowned at me, looking exactly like her mother when Bree forgot to take out the trash. “You can’t be so obvious.”
“What if you fell out of the window? Maybe he could run over and catch you.”
She blinked at me. “You’re joking, right?”
“He’d have to sprint really fast to get here in time.”
“I’m serious. How can I make him pay attention to me?”
“Just think how romantic it would be. You’d flutter down, calling for help like a damsel in distress—”
I stopped midsentence when I heard the familiar hum of the opening garage door. “My dad. You have to go.”
Bree nodded and squeezed my hand. Standing, she threw one leg over the sill.
Moments later, I heard branches and twigs snapping. I ran to the window in time to see Bree’s arms and hands flailing.
CHAPTER THREE
“Bree!”
She looked up at me, her mouth a perfect O as she tumbled backward. She landed on the grass.
Josh and Dylan sprinted across the lawn, followed by the Hendersons’ three dogs: Joker, the German shepherd; Penguin, the ancient black-and-white Boston terrier; and Riddler—a puzzle-piece assortment of breeds.
“Gabby! Go get Mom!” Josh called over his shoulder to his little sister before vaulting over the hedge separating our yards. He landed with a one-footed thud.
Feeling a little like Rapunzel, I leaned out my window. “Bree? Are you okay?”
She moaned without opening her eyes. She lay flat on her back, her arms spread wide. If not for her left leg sticking out at an odd angle, it looked as though she were napping.
Her brother and Dylan stared down at her as if she were a strange fish washed ashore. Josh looked up and frowned at me. Dylan smiled at me.
“Hi,” he mouthed.
I waved. Heat crawled up my neck, and I hoped he couldn’t see me blush. We stared at each other until the front door opened and shut with a bang.
Dad.
He stomped up the stairs and entered my room. Dad was the GQ version of Uncle Mitch, handsome—but in a way that indicated he knew it and cared, as opposed to Uncle Mitch, who wore his good looks without intention or effort. He joined me at the window, concern for Bree overriding, for the moment, our mutual frustration with each other.
Mr. and Mrs. Henderson came running from their house—Mrs. Henderson in a pair of denim overalls, and Mr. Henderson in the slacks and white button down shirt he wore every day to his furniture store. Gabby, Bree’s little sister, followed, and tried to rein in the dogs fussing over Bree.
“This day just keeps getting better,” my dad mumbled, turning his attention from the Henderson family crisis to the giant baby blue Cadillac approaching the house. He looked at me—with about as much enthusiasm as he would if the city were overrun with rats—and said, “Your grandmother is here.”
“Don’t you think you should have told me about her before now?”
He grunted and turned away.
“No! You don’t get to be mad at me! I’m mad at you!”
He didn’t respond, but pounded down the stairs to the living room.
I ran after him, wanting to confront him before the mysterious grandmother arrived, but stopped short when I saw her standing on the tapestry rug in the almost never used living room. She was small, trembling, fuzzy-haired, and bright-eyed. Despite the warm autumn air, she wore a long crimson velvet skirt, a brown wool blazer, and a pink feather boa. She extended her arms to me.
“There you are, Beautiful!” She pulled me in for a warm, lavender-scented hug. She felt fragile and brittle in my embrace, and the boa tickled my nose. “You must be very brave, dear,” she whispered in my ear.
Her words fanned my neck, and a chill went down my back.
Pulling away, she held both of my hands. “You look just like your mother did at your age.”
“Sophia has strawberry-blonde hair,” my dad said. He stood in the center of the room, frowning at us, and looking, for once, awkward.
“And Evelynn’s hair is the color of honey,” my grandmother quipped, without looking at him, “both delicious and edible.”
Uncle Mitch—who must have shown up some time during the hug—snorted.
My grandmother threw him a nasty look over her shoulder. “What’s that, Mitchel?”
She said Mitchel,
but for some reason, it sounded like Michelle. I had never noticed how similar the two names sounded until just that moment.
Uncle Mitch bit his lip and looked away.
“Shall we all sit down so we can discuss my granddaughter’s education?”
Officially the house belonged to my dad and uncle, and yet this tiny woman acted like she owned the place. She had the two grown men, both successful and well-respected, shuffling to their seats. What was it about her? She had to weigh less than a hundred pounds. She looked about as old and as harmless as Penguin, the Hendersons’ ancient terrier. Sitting on the sofa, she smiled at me and patted the cushion beside her.
“Now, my dear, why don’t you tell us where you would like to go to school?”
I looked at the two nearly identical brothers. My dad wore a pin-stripe suit, a heavily starched shirt, and burgundy tie. Uncle Mitch had on khakis and a button-down cotton shirt. But they both wore matching scowls.
“I want to go to Norfolk High School,” I said, smiling into my grandmother’s dark eyes.
“The public school?” she asked, sounding genuinely surprised.
Uncle Mitch gave a small shake of his head.
“Why not?” I said, jumping to my feet.
Uncle Mitch looked at me. “They won’t take you.”
“They won’t take me?” I echoed. “What do you mean, they won’t take me? They’re a public school. They have to take everyone.”
“No, they don’t have to take those who may put their students at risk,” Dad said.
“Put their students at risk?” I repeated, feeling woozy. I sat back down on the sofa and, as if to complain, it let out a puff of dust. “They think I’m dangerous?”
“Do you know anything about this, Beatrix?” Dad asked.
“And if you can’t go to the public school,” my grandmother pressed, completely ignoring my dad, “what would be your next choice?”
“Don’t you think we should call an ambulance?” I asked, pointing to Bree.
“Let the Hendersons handle it,” my grandmother snapped. “I’m sure they’re more familiar with the emergency room than most.”
“You don’t even know them,” I said, standing and heading to the door.
“Of course, I do.” My grandmother took my hand.
Her touch held me spellbound.
“But right now, there’s nothing we can do to help them,” she said, “and everything we can do to salvage your education.”
On the lawn, I could see Bree making the best of a bad situation by batting her eyelashes at a blushing Dylan as he tried to help her up, despite Mr. Henderson’s obvious disapproval. In the distance, an ambulance wailed.
“Evelynn?” my grandmother pressed.
“Well,” I shot both my uncle and dad quick glances before sitting back down on the sofa, “then I guess I would want to be homeschooled.” But even as I said it, I knew it wasn’t true.
Through the window, Dylan grinned at me, but his smile faltered when he saw my dad’s glare. I wanted to go to Faith Despaign, if only to see Dylan again.
“You must call me Birdie,” my grandmother continued, squeezing my hand. “Faith Despaign is a wonderful school. Your great-grandparents both attended there, as well as your grandfather, your mother, and me.”
She must have read the surprise on my face. “Your mother never talked about Faith Despaign?”
“She never talked about you!” I blurted, pulling my hand free.
“Oh, naughty Sophia.” Birdie tsked. “And what does my daughter say about this turn of events?”
The two brothers exchanged glances as the ambulance’s wail grew louder. The Hendersons’ dogs began to howl. With a crunch of tires on gravel, the emergency vehicle pulled down our drive, and three paramedics jumped out.
“We haven’t been able to get a hold of her,” Uncle Mitch said.
“Well, aren’t you a couple of pansies?” Birdie laughed.
Both men bristled. Dad stood and paced the room.
“I tried calling her lots of times,” I said, giving Birdie only half of my attention. I felt sick as I watched Bree being lifted onto a gurney. “Can I go with Bree?” I asked Dad.
He gave a short, brisk shake of his head without breaking his pace. “They wouldn’t let you in the ambulance,” he added in a softer tone. “It’s a Henderson emergency. They’re used to those.”
“She’s with that awful Fred, I suppose,” Birdie murmured.
I tore my attention away from Bree to look at my grandmother. “You know about Fred?”
Birdie fixed her dark eyes on mine. “She’s my daughter.”
“Yes, but . . .”
“This is settled,” Birdie said. “Evelynn must attend Faith Despaign.”
I looked back out the window. Everyone had their back turned to me, but Dylan’s smile flashed in my mind again. If he was Josh’s age, he’d be two grades ahead, so we probably wouldn’t share classes, but I could still see him . . . at least more than I would if I was homeschooled and stuck in my bedroom alone with a computer. I thought about all the stuff I’d miss if I were homeschooled—the prom, the games, the clubs.
Tears sprung in my eyes, surprising me. I tried to blink them back, but a few fell down my cheeks and landed on my hands clenched in my lap.
“I will pick her up tomorrow.” Birdie lifted herself off the sofa, and smoothed down her ruffled feather boa.
“Why?” Dad asked.
“So I can take her to school, of course. Mrs. Craig is looking forward to meeting her.”
“She is?” I asked.
Birdie cupped my face in her hands and brushed a tear with her thumb. “Of course, she is. She’s intrigued by your powers. We all are.”
Powers?
She turned and headed for the door. “I shall be here at noon,” she said over her shoulder.
From the window, I watched Josh, Dylan, the dogs, and Gabby walk across the field that separated the Hendersons’ property from ours. I really wished that I could go with them. Birdie’s car followed the ambulance down the drive.
When both vehicles disappeared and our lawn was once again empty of anything other than trees and fallen leaves, I turned back to my dad and uncle. “Powers?” I asked.
Neither replied, but both studied the tops of their shoes as if they held some really fascinating text or information.
I tried another question. “Who’s we? What did she mean by that?”
Again—nothing.
I tried a third time. “Noon? Wouldn’t school start at like, eight?”
That got a response.
“Your grandmother has never been a morning person,” Dad said.
Uncle Mitch stood. “We need to tell her.”
“Tell me what?”
Dad rolled his eyes. “You’re right.” He turned to me and straightened his shoulders, as if bracing for a fight. “Your grandmother is a kook.”
“What?”
“She’s loony.” Uncle Mitch sat down, looking relieved.
Loony? Uncle Mitch didn’t use words like loony.
“She thinks she’s a witch,” Dad said.
“And is Faith Despaign a witch school?” My mind went to my sparking fingers. Witchcraft could explain a lot. Maybe.
Dad and Uncle Mitch both snorted.
“No, there’s no such thing as witches,” Dad said.
“Does Mom—”
“No!” Dad heaved a sigh. “Your mom and grandmother don’t speak.” He cleared his throat, as if what he was about to say might hurt. In all the years since their divorce, I’d never once heard my dad say anything unkind about my mom. “I didn’t agree with your mom about this. I think she was too hard on your grandmother. Birdie’s goofy, but not mean or malicious.”
I tried to put all of this information into a pattern I could understand. “Mom went to Faith Despaign, and she’s not a witch. So, I’m not being sent to a stateside Hogwarts?”
Uncle Mitch snorted again.
“Of cou
rse not. Look, Petunia,” Dad settled next to me on the sofa, “right now, your options may seem narrow, but they’re not. For you, the sky’s the limit. If you want to come and stay with us—we would love to have you.”
He must have read my expression, because he pressed on.
“I spoke to Maria, and she agreed you wouldn’t be expected to maintain the same religious training as your step-siblings.”
Which couldn’t be true. “I wouldn’t have to go to church on Sundays?”
“No-o. You know how your stepmother is. We’re a Christian home. You would be expected to go to church with us.”
“Oh, so . . .” Why was I even thinking about this? I put my hand on my dad’s. “That’s sweet of you and Maria—but I don’t want to move away from my friends. Besides, think of Uncle Mitch.”
My dad smiled and looked a little relieved . . . and a little guilty. “And your mom, you know she’d love to have you as well.”
He could say that now I’d already told him I didn’t want to leave Woodinville. We both knew the conversation would be completely different if I said I wanted to live with Mom.
“I’m not good with new places and people.” The thought of having to face classroom after classroom full of unknown teachers and students gave me a heavy, sinking feeling in my belly. I’d be expected to raise my hand and participate. I’d have to stand at the front of classrooms and give oral reports, and worst of all, I’d have to brave the cafeteria alone. “I’ve gone to Hartly my entire life, and this is the first time I’ve ever done anything wrong. Isn’t there something you can do to make them take me back?”
Dad shook his head. “Petunia, it’s only three years.”
“I think Maria told me Jesus’s earthly ministry was three years. Look at all the bad stuff that happened to him.”
Dad chuckled. “She’ll be glad to know you were paying attention.”
“Three years is a really long time. Lots can happen in three years. Heck, your life can change in three minutes. Just look at Bree. And this is my whole high school career. It’s the only high school I’ll get to have.” I decided to borrow a few of Mrs. Mateo’s clichés. “Life isn’t handing out re-dos. We can’t put the genie back in the bottle.”
