On and on she drones, saying things she must have said to so many students so many times how can she even stand it, and all the while Flor watches a trapped bumblebee throw itself against the window. The rain has let up, and the sky has a pearly sheen. She’s dying to get up and let the poor bee out but prefers not getting her head bitten off. Mrs. Defoe raps her desk.
“Maybe you could tell me what you think the book’s theme is. Since you failed to include that, among other things, in your report.”
Flor sits up straighter. She can do this.
“It’s about . . . about how beautiful the world is. Anne’s in love with it. All of it! Wildflowers and cows and rain and fairy tales and even cranky, crabby old people. She wants everyone else to be in love with the world too.”
Mrs. Defoe’s eyes narrow. She rests the arms of her bog-colored blouse on her desk. “Go on.”
“And she thinks the best way to do that is be a teacher. Her friends are going to be teachers too, and they warn her she has to be strict and give out punishments. But Anne says no. She won’t yell or be mean. She wants to be the kind of teacher who wins her students’ hearts.”
Flor pauses. The trapped bee thuds against the shut window.
“Continue.” Mrs. Defoe’s tone is what Anne Shirley would call perilously ominous.
“Well, it turns out one boy’s so bad and disrespectful she does punish him, but afterward, she feels like a tragic failure. And so she and Anthony—that’s the boy—become friends, and he starts to work harder and discover he’s smarter than he thought, and it just goes to prove what Anne believes, that there’s good hiding in every person, if you only look for it.”
Flor flops back in her chair. Mrs. Defoe taps the book.
“Kindly show me that passage, Flor O’Dell.”
Flor takes the book and pages through. But before she can find it, she comes to where someone wrote HERMOSA in the margin. HERMOSA, in that neat, pointy handwriting. For a moment, the world spins. Cecilia never writes in books, Cecilia never breaks the rules, but this one time, even she couldn’t resist. She loved this part too much. When she was eleven, her heart, her heart too, sped up at the part where Anne says how big, how beautiful our world is.
When Cecilia was Flor’s age, she loved the same book. So did Mrs. Defoe. How can that be? How can people so absolutely different have this in common? A mystery. A mystery Flor almost feels she could solve—if only Mrs. Defoe wasn’t eyeballing her, if only that poor bee wasn’t having a nervous breakdown. Flor can’t bear it another second. She jumps up and opens the window. The bee zooms out into the fresh, rain-washed air. Sitting back down, she finds the section she was describing and hands it over to Mrs. Defoe.
Mrs. Defoe reads. Behind her glasses, her eyes take on a distant, almost dreamy look. A look so un-Defoe it’s embarrassing, but also fascinating. Outside, somebody is raking. The scritch scratch is the only sound. Mrs. Defoe strokes the corner of her dried-drool-encrusted mouth. She cocks a penciled-on eyebrow, regards Flor over the top of the book, then gets up and walks to the window.
“I once knew this book nearly by heart.” She gazes out at whoever’s raking. Mr. Hawkins, probably. “I’ll confess something, Flor O’Dell. I haven’t reread it in decades. I assumed I knew it through and through. But the remarkable thing about good books is, they stay new. Reread this book when you’re my age, and I guarantee you’ll see Anne Shirley with different eyes.”
Flor is absolutely sure that’s impossible, and likewise sure it’s no time to argue.
“For years I’ve remembered Anne as a shining crusader against the dark forces of ignorance. But maybe she was more like a treasure hunter. Each of her students was a treasure chest, full of riches for her to uncover.” Mrs. Defoe touches a hand to her throat. “I may also have forgotten how easily she laughed.”
Mrs. Defoe opens the book and reads some more. Flor sits still, afraid to move. Is she off the hook? Still in trouble? Scritch scratch goes the rake. After several centuries, Mrs. Defoe raises her eyes and looks surprised Flor’s still there.
“There’s no avoiding the fact that you wrote a truly reprehensible report, Flor O’Dell. However, you do know the book.” Which she does not hand back. “You are dismissed.”
Flor gathers her things and pulls on her jacket. Slipping out the door, she glances back to see Mrs. Defoe, deep into the book, lift her hand to her mouth. It doesn’t cover her smile.
It’s Joe raking leaves. He’s got a big soggy pile.
“Are you really Flor? Or did she murder you, and you’re Zombie Flor?”
“She’s not so bad.”
Joe takes her head in his hands and examines it.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Checking for brainwashing.”
He’s an efficient raker, and it’s a pleasure to watch him, even in this drizzle. If the clock worked, Flor could tell how long she stands there before the behavior of the graveyard lilac gets her attention. She crosses the road.
“Come out,” she tells it. “I’ll introduce you.”
“I can’t. My father needs me at the quarry.”
“Your father won’t mind. He wants you to make friends.”
Clank clank. She must be wearing her tool belt.
“Joe’s nice,” Flor says.
“I already know that. My observations show—”
“Did you ever think that maybe you overdo the observing?”
Clank. A hiking boot pokes out, draws back.
“Watching other people is a protective mechanism I developed early in life. When I went to school, the other kids . . . I hate when people stare at me. Or make a big point of not staring. Or . . . worse. I learned to be alert.”
“Otherwise known as hiding.”
The bush grows very quiet.
“Sorry,” says Flor. “I’m not trying to be mean.”
“You are not a mean person.”
“Sometimes. Sometimes I am.”
“And sometimes . . . sometimes I’m a coward.”
This is Jasper-speak for “sometimes I’m a coward.” Because Jasper always says what she means. No matter how hard or unpleasant that may be. Being named after a rock truly suits her.
“Joe won’t tease you about your arm. I promise. Come on. Please?”
After a moment, “All right,” whispers the bush.
Joe’s putting the rake away in the shed. His gaze arrows straight to Jasper’s belt.
“Whoa,” he says. “Some serious tools.”
He quizzes her on what each is for. The two of them are members of the same species. The Species of Tool Worshippers. Rain drips off Flor’s nose. Pleasure fountains up inside her. As Jasper explains about the trilobites, Joe absently picks up a rock and chucks it at the clock tower. Jasper looks surprised, but then, as if she thinks this must be some kind of initiation ceremony, she picks up a rock too. Winds up and lets fly. The stone vanishes in the mist, then descends in slow motion to settle neatly into the old bird’s nest behind the hour hand. Joe gives a low whistle. He regards Jasper with such admiration, Flor possibly feels jealous.
“My right arm is very strong,” Jasper says. “It compensates for my left.”
“Something’s wrong with it,” he says. “Right? I mean, left?”
Jasper darts Flor an anxious look. Flor nods encouragingly. Quick, like she’s afraid she’ll change her mind, Jasper pushes up her sleeve. Joe takes a look, shrugs. For once Flor loves that shrug.
“My uncle in Kentucky, his arm got chewed off by a combine. He got a really cool mechanical one.”
“I might get one someday. The correct term is prosthesis.”
Joe picks up another rock. But a voice that makes grown men’s blood freeze in their veins shakes the air.
“Joseph Hawkins Junior!” Mrs. Defoe’s head juts out the window. Her hand, still holding Anne, shoots out. “What do you think you’re doing, young man?”
“Umm. I don’t know?”
“Just as I tho
ught. Come inside this instant.”
So much for any possibility of Mrs. Defoe morphing into Anne Shirley. So much for change. Still 11:16, taunts the stubborn, triumphant clock. Na na the boo boo!
Chapter Twenty-One
On Sunday they skip Mass. Flor guesses Dad’s tired of people asking him questions about Mama, and she hopes God will understand. If God is even still paying any attention to them.
Instead Flor rides into town with Dad, who has paperwork to do. His office is in the town hall, and except for them, it’s empty. Flor meanders around, twirling chairs, trying out the single jail cell at the back of the building, where Dad sometimes has to lock up tourists too sloshed for their own good. She swings the door shut and sits on the cot, pretending she’s a prisoner. For about fifteen seconds. It’s horrible. Like you’re choking. Or maybe drowning. She bangs the door open so hard, Dad calls, “Whoa!”
“I’m going to take a little walk,” she tells him.
The only thing open is the Cockeyed Gull, serving Sunday brunch. A stiff wind’s blowing off the bay, but old Violet Tinkiss huddles on the bench out front, Minnie parked at her feet. They’re dressed up for Sunday afternoon in town, with a red ribbon in Violet’s hair and a matching one around Minnie’s neck. Violet’s eating a leaky sandwich that doesn’t smell too good and not paying a particle of attention to Perry Pinch, who stands beside her, ready to spit.
“Time to move someplace else,” he says, and not, Flor can tell, for the first time. When he sees Flor, embarrassment flicks across his face. He juts his chin. “I know you heard me, Violet.”
Violet stares straight ahead. Chews.
The Pinches own the Cockeyed Gull, and sometimes Perry washes dishes here. But he can’t really care if Violet sits out front. He’s just being despicable.
“She’s not hurting anything,” says Flor.
Perry pushes at his bright hair. It flops right back in his eyes. “She’s sitting here cussing out every one of our customers.”
“People don’t mind,” says Flor. “They know she’s not cussing them. She’s just . . . just cussing. Violet won’t hurt a flea.”
“If people around here would use their eyes,” he says, “they’d see an old lady sitting out in the cold, eating rotten food. Anyplace beside Moonpenny, she’d be in some kind of institution. She’d be way better off.”
Violet’s gray head wobbles on its turkey-wattle neck. Minnie growls low in her throat. Flor pats the little dog.
“Don’t talk like she’s not here,” she says. “Besides, Violet’s always outside in winter.”
“Like that means it’s right? What made me think you were smarter than that, Flor?”
Queenie and her family, on their way into the restaurant, stop to see what’s going on. People coming out pause too. “Looking for more trouble,” someone mutters. Betty Magruder stares at Flor in a meaningful way. What? Like she has any connection to him?
“Time’s up, Violet!” He says it louder, and now Minnie’s up on her two good feet. That dog barks like she’s ten times her size.
“It’s okay, Minnie,” Flor tells her. “Calm down.”
“You leave them be, hon.” Queenie shoos her hands at Perry like he’s a big pesky seagull. “Leave well enough alone.”
Minnie barks, people laugh, a baby cries—it’s turning into a circus. This’ll be gossip for days. Perry’s face goes slack. Not a friend in the crowd. They’re all on ornery, cussing Violet’s side. Perry sets his jaw, but Flor sees it tremble. Just a little, maybe not enough for anyone else to notice. Since Sylvie left, who’s he got to talk to? Who’s there to understand him? He pushes at his silly hair, and it falls right back in his eyes. Flor tells herself it’s his own fault and he deserves it, but right then Perry doesn’t look like a bully. He looks like the most alone person she ever saw. Even more alone than her.
Splat! Like a leaky missile, Violet’s sandwich flies through the air. Perry stares in disbelief as a greasy string of something slides down his chest and lands on his shoe.
“Bull’s-eye!” somebody cries. Minnie hobbles over to lick his shoe. Perry’s face darkens. That does it. He grabs the dog’s collar and yanks her sideways. Violet screams, leaps up, and pounds him with her bony fists. Minnie howls. Perry staggers back, Flor springs forward, and somehow his big hand closes on her arm. Hard. He’s so strong. So much stronger than her. Suddenly Flor is the little girl he used to swing up onto his wide shoulders and piggyback so high, she was a queen on a throne. A star in the sky.
Only she was never afraid of him then.
Quick as he grabbed her, Perry lets go. But his hand left a mark on her skin. His hand let her know her bones are twigs he could snap in two.
All at once, people step back. Dad’s here, standing in their midst. He makes everyone feel caught out. A little ashamed of themselves. Minnie stops barking and lies down. Violet sinks back on her bench, as if now she knows she’s safe.
Dad pulls a bandanna from his pocket and offers it to Perry. Who doesn’t take it.
“Helping out your dad, were you?” Dad asks. “Protecting the family business?”
“Whatever.” The word pushes out through Perry’s clenched teeth.
“The best thing about living here is, like it or not, we gotta depend on each other.” Dad’s voice is calm, though his face is worked up. “A place this small, we either have each other’s backs or we’re sunk. The rest of the world could take a lesson from Moonpenny.” He looks around. “By the way, thanks for the good meals you all have been bringing me and the kids. We appreciate your kindness and generosity. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again—why would a person in their right mind live anyplace else?” He pats his belly. “Only problem is my waistline. Lay off the desserts, will you?”
Everybody laughs, relieved. Nobody’s mad, nobody’s embarrassed or ashamed—let bygones be bygones. Dad’s smoothed everything over, once again. Flor watches Perry slink off and climb into his pickup.
Dad and Flor help Violet and Minnie into the back of Dad’s car. He always drives with both hands on the wheel, at ten o’clock and two o’clock. He turns up the east Shore Road, passes the big sign CAUTION: LOW-FLYING PLANES. They hit a pothole, and Flor’s soft brain rattles in her hard skull.
“You let him off the hook,” she says.
“Could be,” Dad says.
The landing strip is empty, but a swirl of gulls rises on an updraft. Violet and Minnie are asleep, and a sweet, doggy smell fills the car.
“People wanted you to call him out.”
“One thing a police officer learns quick.” Dad keeps his eyes on the road. “What people want isn’t necessarily what’s best for them.”
He turns onto the rutted road to Violet’s house. The neck keeps narrowing, like in a horror movie where the walls of a room press closer and closer. The trees hunch in the wind. Dad hums, no tune she can recognize.
How fast Perry got angry. How big his fists were. How much damage he could do. She looks down at her arm where he grabbed her. How could she have felt sorry for him for a single second?
Violet lives in a fishing shack up on cinder blocks, with a crooked chimney and thorny brambles all around. Dad helps her out, and Flor sets Minnie on the ground. The matching red ribbons flutter in the wind. Think how dark it must get out here. The sound of the lake your only company. Talk about alone. Maybe Perry’s right—Violet would be better off someplace else. But she would never go. This place is mapped on her heart with indelible ink.
Now she bows like a wind-up toy, and Minnie follows her inside. The door shuts. A lock clicks.
Back in the car, Dad squeezes Flor’s hand.
“I saw you protect Minnie. That made me proud, Flor.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
Flor doesn’t expect another word. Her father’s not one to explain himself, let alone defend himself. But wait. The day’s surprises aren’t over yet.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he says. “I was tempted to ream that boy out. There�
��s a special spot in hell for those who pick on the weak! But in the end, embarrassing Perry in front of people he’s got to live with day in and day out would’ve just made him angrier. That’s the last thing that kid needs.”
Every now and then, the thick trees allow a glimpse of lake sparkle. She closes her eyes for a second and sees Perry’s jaw tremble. Sympathy pushes at the walls of her heart.
“His life’s not so easy as people think,” Dad says.
“What do you mean?”
“Never mind.”
Dad is too forgiving, Mama’s voice says. He’ll do anything to keep the peace. Perry will only get worse if he keeps getting away with everything. Someday that boy is bound to really hurt someone.
Flor looks down at her arm. The marks have faded, yet how strong he was, how angry—that’s tattooed there.
Dad’s not done.
“Everybody wants to feel like their life matters, I guess.” It’s so un-Dad to talk this way. Flor turns to look at him. His cop cap. His big hands firm on the wheel. “We’re all after something in this world. Perry. Violet. You. Your sister.” His Adam’s apple bobs. He works his lips. “Mama.” A long pause. “The heck of it is, Flor? No two people see eye to eye on what happy is.”
Cecilia said, “It doesn’t matter whose side we’re on,” and Flor hopes that’s true. Because she’s got both her parents inside her. She sees through both their eyes. Never, ever will she be able to choose between them.
The trees give way and there’s the lake, stretching out forever. The restless water slaps against the silent rocks.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Tonight in her dream, instead of being way up high, Flor’s only a few feet off the ground. It’s not ground, though—it’s water, all around. I can swim, Dream Flor thinks, except where is the shore? Somehow she knows the water is deep. In fact, it has no bottom. In her dream, she finally understands how this can be. It makes perfect sense that something can become nothing. Solid can give way to empty. Alive can become dead.
Flor sits straight up in bed. Her heart bangs inside her. In the mirror, her face is white as an egg.
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