Peas and Carrots

by Tanita S. Davis

  From next door, Hope heard similar crashes and booms, and for every crash she heard, Hope made one louder. It was weirdly satisfying, like getting the last word for real. When she stubbed her toe on the corner of the bed, she swallowed a curse and limped to sit on the bed, sitting stiffly. Ow.

  Then she heard a muffled voice shouting her name.

  “Hope? Dessa? Hope!”

  Crap.

  Pretty much all of the rules for foster sisters had been completely broken. You weren’t supposed to scream at your foster siblings. You weren’t supposed to fight with them. You definitely weren’t supposed to call them names, or kick their walls, or wish you could kick their heads.

  A sharp knock on her door. “Hope. Harmony. Carter! Answer me!”

  “Yes, Daddy.” Hope opened her door and stood in the hallway, licking her lips. Her father was usually a soft touch—usually—but when he shouted her name like that…Hope knew she was in trouble. She cringed as he scowled at her.

  Her father breathed noisily, his nostrils flaring. “What. Is. All. This. Shouting?”

  “I— We’re fine.” Hope looked down in shame. Nothing was fine, of course, but she couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “Fine? It doesn’t sound fine.” Her father appeared rumpled in his pajama shirt and jeans, and he was holding Jamaira tucked against his chest without her sling, which meant they’d gotten him out of bed. He scrutinized Hope’s face, then looked over her shoulder as Dess’s door clicked open. “There you are, Dess. What’s going on here? Do you need arbitration?”

  “What, like a lawyer?” Dess asked, sounding amused—cool and calm, even. “No, Mr. Carter. It was just a little argument.”

  Hope turned and glared at the other girl. A little argument? Oh, wasn’t she just turning on the charm. Dess was so two-faced, so totally, ridiculously fake, just like the blond in her hair. Didn’t Dad see?

  “A little argument, huh? There’s nothing ‘little’ about all the hollering I just heard. If you girls need a listener for both sides, I can do that. There’s no need to shout when you can talk.”

  “Dad, I don’t—”

  “No!” Dess blurted. “I mean—um—”

  There was a little silence. “We can work it out, Dad,” Hope said finally. She felt her shoulders hunch under his frown.

  “I expect you can. I expect you can also work it out civilly. Both of you know the rules. No more of this hollering and name-calling and carrying-on. I will not have that in this house.”

  The last words were so hard and sharp-edged that Hope recoiled and deflated a little more. “Sorry, Dad,” she said in a small voice. Her father hated shouting. He’d grown up with parents who shouted and threw things when they were angry. Hope knew better than to scream like that—that wasn’t what they did at home. At school Mr. Workman had told Hope she had an exceptional vocabulary. Hope knew she could have told Dess where to go using four-syllable words and without raising her voice once—if she hadn’t gotten so pissed that her brain had shut off. Hope wished she knew why it was so easy for Dess to get to her. She was the one with the advantages here—the family, the mom who was home, the father who was not in jail, who was staring at her just then with his mouth a thin, tight line.

  “Sorry, Mr. Carter,” Dess said, sounding subdued.

  Hope gave Dess a narrow-eyed look. Suck-up. She used her most mature voice. “We’ll work it out, Dad. I apologize for shouting.”

  Her father let out a long sigh. “All right. Both of you probably need to raise your blood sugar. Come and eat,” he said, and waited as Dess preceded him up the hallway. Hope, taking a step to follow, slumped as her father barred her way. She sighed, anticipating his additional dressing-down. This so wasn’t fair. Dess had started it.

  “So you want to tell me what this was about, young lady?”

  Hope shifted uncomfortably. “No, Dad.”

  He shifted impatiently. “Hope, I know you’re struggling to adjust to the changes going on. I know it’s tough sharing space with someone your age, but first you snoop in private papers and now you’re screaming and carrying on. Your mother and I expect better of you.”

  Hope’s eyes stung as she staggered beneath the weight of his disappointment. It wasn’t fair. Dess had started everything, but only she was in trouble. Wasn’t she allowed to be hurt? Wasn’t she allowed to be mad? She said, a little bitterly, “I know what you and Mom expect, Dad.”

  Her father gathered Jamaira closer to his chest and stared at Hope a long moment. Eventually he sighed and looked away. “Go on and eat. Since you two obviously aren’t working on any project anymore, you’ve got time to help get the groceries and wash the cars when you’re done.”

  Hope sighed. She knew punishment detail when she heard it. “Yes, Dad.”

  —

  Shopping with her father was an exercise in efficiency. Usually Hope, her father, and her mother each had their own list and their own area of the store. They split up, each with a cart, and then reconvened in the checkout area fifteen minutes later to consolidate their haul and go through the self-check. It worked: Hope didn’t have to stand around sighing, bored stupid while Mom read every single word on ingredient labels; Dad could talk to strangers without embarrassing everyone; and an hour and a half’s worth of shopping was usually crunched, all told, into a half hour, if Mom could help and Austin wasn’t whiny or Maira didn’t need a diaper change in the middle of everything. Since a few weeks ago, when they’d had to go back to the store to return a pack of gum that Austin had walked away with, Hope and her father had been doing the shopping by themselves, and Mom had been keeping Austin’s sticky fingers at home.

  “Okay,” Dad was saying, whipping three small sheets of yellow paper from a sticky pad. “Dess, you’re on ‘baking’ through ‘cans.’ Hope, you’ve got ‘toiletries’ through ‘frozen.’ I’ll take ‘dairy’ through ‘produce.’ Okay—twenty minutes, ladies.”

  Hope headed for the carts and yanked one free. Dess, looking wary, grabbed a cart of her own and followed Hope into the store. When Dad took off toward the right, Dess started to follow, then halted as Hope headed left. She stood with her cart in front of a pyramid display of tangerines, looking confused.

  Hope shrugged and looked down at her list. Dess looked lost, but Hope knew better than to try to tell her anything. Wasn’t Dess always acting like she had it together? Fine—let her. Dess Matthews wasn’t Hope’s problem. Not anymore.

  Hope raised her chin and pushed her cart away.

  “Hopeless—Hope! Wait!”

  “What?” Hope’s voice is flat. At least she took off those big old sweats; in jeans and a T-shirt, she looks normal, the kind of normal other people in the store have, confidently pushing their carts. Hope looks more normal than I do, stuck on stupid here with a little piece of paper in my hand. And a cart. When was the last time I got groceries by myself? When was the last time I was pushing one of these things instead of riding in it? Oh, that’s right, never.

  “What, Dess?” Hope asks again, sounding impatient. “We’ve only got seventeen minutes before we’re supposed to meet at the self-check.”

  “I—I don’t know how,” I tell her, frustration wrapping the words in barbed wire. I hear the nasty tone in my voice, but I can’t stop it. “I don’t do all this domestic shit. I didn’t have to shop at my group home. They just fed us, like normal people.”

  “Normal?” Hope sneers, stiffening. “You know the only other places where people who aren’t sick or old just get fed and don’t have to shop? They’re called prisons. That’s not normal, Dess, that’s an institution.”

  “You know what? Shut the hell up.” If she starts in on Trish being in jail, I swear I’ll—

  Hope raises her hands defensively. “Look, I’m just saying. The only people who don’t shop are in hospitals, in jail, or so rich they don’t have to bother. None of that’s us, so suck it up and come on. Or don’t. I don’t care either way.” Hope turns away, but I hear her mumble, “Dad
probably wanted us to do this together anyway.”

  Oh. I get it. This is Mr. Carter’s idea of punishment. But for who?

  Leaving my empty cart behind, I trail after Hope, stuffing my hands in my pockets. She pretends she doesn’t see me glaring at her.

  “Okay—since my list covers the far end of the store, let’s do mine first.”

  “Fine. Whatever.”

  Hope checks her paper. “TP’s on the back wall,” she says, and turns the cart.

  “What kind?” I ask, jogging toward the neat stacks of plastic-covered rolls.

  “Meh, whatever’s on sale,” she answers.

  I frown and turn back, hands on my hips.

  “On sale? Seriously? You guys are rich. Who cares what’s on sale?”

  “Jeez, Dess, we are not rich.” Hope rolls her eyes. “We have enough money, but we have bills to pay, just like everybody else.”

  Bills. Ha. When you’ve got bills, you have something to show for them. People who live in motels and then get kicked out just have stuff in the back of the car. I shrug. “Whatever, fine. You’re the richest people I’ve ever met.”

  Hope hunches her shoulders. “Well, we’re still not rich. And the one with the little puppies on it is on sale, so get a nine-roll pack, okay?”

  “Fine.” I grab the package and shove it down under the cart. “What else?”

  She reads aloud from the list. “Contact lens solution. Diapers. Toothpaste. Tampons. Pasta. Cheerios. I’ll get the toiletries and stuff. Do you want to see what you can get of the rest?”

  “Fine, I’ve got it.” I can do this. Mr. Carter had just better be there when we’re done, though. I’m not standing around in public next to someone with diapers or tampons.

  —

  When we go inside with the first bags, Baby’s dancing around with a toy microphone, singing Elvis songs along with the tinny little voice coming from the speaker. Foster Lady comes out to help—but I notice Hopeless disappears after one bag. Figures. Lazy heifer. Not gonna lie, though. I’m only going to unload till I find my chocolate pudding, and then I’m out.

  By the time I think about her being gone, she’s back—in her ratty white sweats.

  “What are you doing?” I ask after her third trip into the house with a load of Baby’s coloring pages, stray socks, toys, and plastic sippy cups. All that mess was in the van, but Baby’s just going to put it back.

  Hope gives me a hard look. “What’s it look like?”

  I almost laugh. She looks guilty almost as soon as she opens her mouth. Mr. Carter probably told her she has to be nice to me. Sucker. I trail outside after her, smacking on a piece of jerky I liberated from my snack cabinet stash. “You have to clean up after Baby, too?”

  “Dad wants the cars cleaned,” Hope says shortly, and drags a vacuum behind her to the vehicle. She unhooks the hose from its housing, plugs in the vacuum, and flips on the switch.

  It’s boring watching someone vacuum, but I really have nothing better to do, and from the expression on her face, I know it’s annoying Hope that I’m just lolling around in front of the house, in the sun, watching. I finish my jerky and pull out some chocolate-covered almonds, which I toss in the air and catch in my mouth. I throw the ones I drop into the garage, trying to hit Hope. She ignores me.

  Eventually she climbs out of the van and picks up a spray bottle and a rag. Within moments, I smell fake orange scent wafting out of the van as she wipes down the seats, the dashboard, and the steering wheel. She is seriously cleaning.

  That girl’s trying way too hard to make me look like a slacker. Ha. Like I care if she works harder than I do. “You know, you’re so good at cleaning,” I say when she stops to wipe her sweaty forehead. “You should go into business.”

  Hope grimaces. “Please. I am going to school so that I cannot do this, thank you. I hate cleaning.”

  I roll my eyes. Granny Doris cleaned houses, toilets and stuff. Cars are nothing.

  She says, “Last summer? We had ants in the van ’cause Austin dropped a cookie under the seat, and Mom left the windows open. We had ants for weeks.”

  I shrug. “It could’ve been roaches.”

  Hope gives me a sour look. “Either way, no thank you, I am not opening a cleaning business. Austin’s enough of a slob for me.”

  “Baby’s not a slob—he’s learning,” I say, pricked by her criticism.

  Hope points her spray bottle at me. “Yeah? You’re the one who looked like you were going to throw up the last time we had burritos and he licked out the refried beans. He’s ‘not a slob—he’s learning,’ though, right?”

  The smears of brown on Baby’s face did make my stomach turn. Foster Lady had told him if he didn’t use better manners, he was going to eat by himself, in the yard. Baby just kept licking his limp, disgusting tortilla, caring exactly nothing about what anyone thought. I shudder. “Okay, you’re right—that was nasty.”

  Hope tilts her head—like she always does when she’s about to get nosy. “So why do you call him that?”

  “Who, Baby? Because…that’s what I always called him. I thought that was his name when I was little.”

  “Cute.” Hope climbs in to do the backseats.

  It isn’t. It’s what He always said. “Trish! Shut up that damned baby!”

  “Shut up! Shut him up!” Hard hands, shaking me. Him shoving me against the wall. Trish screaming, “Eddie—” Damn. My hands are so sweaty, they skate across my thighs as I try to dry them. My heartbeat is too fast, and I rub my chest as I shove the bad thought away, away into the dark, and heave myself up from the sidewalk. I talk myself down, like Rena told me to. Count backward from a hundred. Baby’s not ever going to see him, they got him for twenty-five years, Trish will make sure it’s life—all that’s over, so let it go.

  I blow out a breath and cross my arms. “So…you need some help or something?”

  “Oh, you’re offering now, when I’m almost done? Excellent.” Hope gives me a sour grin. “Thanks so much, Dess.”

  “Not my cars.” I shrug. “Do you want help or what? I can put the vacuum away.”

  She gives a nasty smile. “Yes, I want help. Thank you. Start on Dad’s car.”

  I glance over at the ice-blue muscle car tucked into the garage. “Seriously? You have to do his, too? Are you in trouble or something?” I ask, suddenly catching on.

  Hope makes a rude noise. “Ding, ding, ding! The girl wins a prize. Duh.” She rolls her eyes. “Do you seriously think my parents can’t wash their own cars? I usually vacuum only if I want money for something and they think I should suffer first.”

  “Suffer.” Please. This little princess doesn’t know what the word means. I roll my eyes at her drama. “Okay, fine. I’ll vacuum Mr. Carter’s car.”

  Hope pauses. “Seriously? Thanks. That would help. Um…pick up the floor mats and make sure to vacuum in the cracks of the seats, okay?”

  I give her a slitty-eyed look. “I know how to vacuum out a car, Hopeless.”

  “You may think so, but Dad will just make us do it again if you don’t get under the floor mats and into the seats, so try to get it right the first time, Dessturbed.”

  I make a face behind her back and drag the cleaner to Mr. Carter’s car. I’ve never actually vacuumed a car before, but how hard could it be? Rena showed me how the vacuum at the home came apart, so I figure out how to take apart this one and get up under the seats with the hose. It’s not a huge car—it’s a classic car from the ’70s with only two doors—and since Mr. Carter doesn’t have half-chewed animal crackers glued to the floor, there’s not much to do.

  When he comes out to check on us a little later, he sees me winding the cord for the vacuum. “I’ve got two worker bees!” he says, including me in his smile. I glare at him, slightly offended. Yeah, the bucket seats in his car look clean enough to eat off of, but I’m nobody’s worker bee.

  He opens the door to the minivan and looks around the inside, bending to check under the seats, prying up
the floor mats, and checking the mirrors. He even opens the back doors and looks where the tire sits. Hope was serious—he is inspecting. I expect him to drag out white gloves. He nods. “Fine,” he says gruffly to Hope. Then he smiles at me. “So you know how to work, Dess. Good for you. Go ahead and leave my car. I’ll drive it through the wash at the gas station in the morning.”

  “I’ve already got water in the bucket,” I complain. And I got my shoes wet filling the stupid thing, too.

  Mr. Carter beams. “Well, thank you very much.” He digs in the front pockets of his jeans. “Wait a minute, now, let me look…I can probably find a couple of bucks for my worker bee. Or at least a piece of gum and some lint.”

  He’s making bad jokes as usual, and I roll my eyes like always, but I notice that Hope’s already started wiping down the interior of his car. No expression on her face, she keeps working like a little robot, like this whole conversation isn’t happening, and…her dad’s digging out his wallet, smiling and stuff, like I’m the one who did all the work.

  I glance at Hope. My hand is practically itching for the handful of singles or the five-spot that’s coming. Mr. Carter’s always got bank. Every day he’s dumping handfuls of change out of his pockets, dropping us a couple of bucks for nail polish or ice cream sandwiches after school. I don’t even have to stay on my hustle, with him opening his wallet every time I turn around, but—

  It’s like this: Foster Lady and Mr. Carter always talk about choices. When Baby’s stubborn butt is getting hauled off to his room for one of Foster Lady’s “think times,” it pisses him off. But come on—ten times out of ten, the little booger-breather brought it on himself. He doesn’t actually think yet, because he’s little and whatever. But he’s not stupid—when Foster Lady asks him why she had to send him to his room, he says, “Because I didn’t choose to listen.” It’s hard to put into words, but something isn’t right about taking money from Mr. Carter. Not because of Hope—if she runs her mouth at me, I can take her. But getting something for nothing—just me—feels less like a hustle I’m running and more like something else—something that has hooks and glue to catch my hands and hold me.