by Rachel Coker
Mrs. Nice’s pale, wrinkled hand clutched her cane as she struggled to stand. “Well, I’ll have you know that my chickens—”
Without warning, Cliff turned and bolted, homeward bound. My mouth dropped open. “Cliff!” I shrieked, running after him.
“Come back here, missy!” Mrs. Nice’s high-pitched voice could still be heard behind us.
We picked up the pace, our heels sending up miniature dust devils on the road. Anything to get away from that nightmare of a lady.
Cliff beat me home by three seconds. We stood by the porch for a few minutes, trying to pull ourselves together before Mama saw us. Cliff pulled a few peach tree leaves out of my hair, and I brushed the dirt off his jeans. “Okay,” I finally said, looking Cliff over. “You’re pretty clean. I think we’re good.”
Mama was sitting at the kitchen table paying bills. By now, she was fully dressed in her plantation uniform, her long hair piled on top of her head. Little frown lines covered her forehead. “Oh, great,” she mumbled, scribbling something on a piece of paper. She looked up when she saw us come in. “Good, you’re back.” She started to stand. “Scarlett, I’m getting ready to leave, so I need you to make sure Grandpop Barley gets to bed. Ask Juli if she’ll help you clean up the house.” She bent to kiss my cheek.
I nodded but made a face so she knew I wasn’t happy. She laughed and rubbed my arm. “Oh, and don’t let him have any more peanut butter. I found the jar up there in his room today. He’s going to eat himself sick.” She ruffled Cliff’s hair before he had time to duck. “You two be good, okay? Your dad should be back soon. He went to get fuel for the truck.” Her keys jingled as she pulled them out and left, slamming the door behind her.
I groaned and banged my head against the refrigerator. I felt like an unappreciated employee, way down in the ranks, who got stuck with the task of running things because no one would.
So running the family fell to me again. I whipped up a quick casserole dish and dished up a plate for Grandpop before trudging up the stairs and knocking on his bedroom door. Well, here goes. I popped my head in and saw him sitting in his armchair, flipping through a book. I brightened, forcing a smile onto my face. “Hiya, Grandpop! What are you reading?” Cliff slipped into the room after me with his own plate of casserole.
I stepped forward to drop off Grandpop Barley’s dinner, and peeked at the book. The title was upside down. I groaned and turned the book so it was readable then handed it back. “You’ll get further this way.”
Hands on my hips, I walked out and stood on the top of the stairway, leaning over the railing. Where’s Juli? I didn’t hear the door slam so she’s got to still be home.
“Juli!” Silence. I leaned a little further forward. Whoa! The railing wobbled beneath me. I recoiled and stepped back, startled. Remember to have Dad look at that.
I glanced back at Cliff. He was sitting on the floor of Grandpop Barley’s room, blissfully lost in his television show. “You two stay right here, and don’t talk to each other. I’ll be right back.”
Music drifted under the doorway of our bedroom. I knocked on the door. “Juli?”
No answer.
I knocked harder. “Juli! Let me in! Dinner’s ready and I need you to help me with the chores.”
Still nothing. I pressed my ear to the door, trying to hear inside. I jiggled the knob, but it was locked. “Juli, I know you’re in there!”
“Is Mama gone?” Her voice was slow and slurred. I jumped at the sound of it.
“Yeah. Now let me in.”
The door opened, and Juli appeared in front of me. Her eyes were lined with kohl, and I noticed the blue streaks were slowly fading from her hair. In her hand, she clutched a large bag. “Okay, I’m out. I’ll see you later. Don’t tell Mama I’m gone. Tell her I’m in my room or something. Studying.”
She brushed past me on wobbling legs, heading down the hall into the kitchen. My eyes widened, unsure of how to deal with such a request, or with the odd behavior of my sister. “Juli, you can’t leave. Mama would …” I shook my head. “Mama would not be happy. Besides, I need you to straighten up the living room while I help get Grandpop Barley ready for bed.”
She flicked a strand of hair off her shoulder before pausing in the doorway. “See you later, Scarlett.” She lifted two fingers and winked. “Peace.” Then she disappeared, and I heard a car pulling out of the driveway.
I ran to the window. Ziggy was sitting in the driver’s seat of a beat-up yellow Volkswagen. Juli hopped in the passenger’s seat and threw her bag in the back before they drove away.
I shook my head and shuddered. Mama will be worse than not happy.
Shouts erupted upstairs. My head began to hurt. What now?
I bounded up the steps. “Get your hands off of that, you filthy child!” Grandpop Barley was shouting.
“Hey, let go!”
I burst open the door. Cliff and Grandpop Barley were on the floor, wrestling over a jar of peanut butter. My mouth dropped open. “What on earth?”
With his toothless mouth foaming, Grandpop Barley took a swing at Cliff. “Let go of my peanut butter,” he growled.
“You’re not allowed to eat it!” Cliff protested, ducking the attacks. He looked up and caught sight of me standing in the doorway. “Scarlett! Tell him he’s not allowed to eat it!”
I moved toward the skirmish while trying to clear my head. “Okay, both of you get off each other! You’re acting like a couple of toddlers.” I wrenched Cliff away from Grandpop Barley and placed him firmly on the ground. Then I gripped Grandpop Barley’s arm and led him back to his armchair. “Sit.”
I stood back and looked at the two of them. My eyes wandered to the abandoned jar of peanut butter on the ground. That will only cause more trouble. I picked it up and hid it behind my back. I frowned at Grandpop Barley, wagging my finger at him like a child. “If you keep carrying on like this, Mama will never let you have any peanut butter.”
He muttered to himself, wrapping his arms around his chest and glaring at Cliff. “Troublesome kid tried to take it from me. He wanted it for himself.”
“Did not.” Cliff stuck out his tongue. “Grandpop Barley knew he wasn’t allowed to have it. He told me not to let Mama know.”
“Okay, okay.” I placed a hand on my forehead. Why do I always have to fix everything? I pointed at Cliff. “You go downstairs and play with your cans. I’ll be down in a little while. And you …” I glanced at Grandpop Barley. “I am going to give you a bath, so you go into the bathroom and wait for me,” I said firmly, “while I go throw away this peanut butter.”
“Throw it away?” Grandpop Barley sat up, his eyes suddenly looking very sad. Tears welled up in the corners of them as he stared at the container. “But it’s such a nice jar.” The tips of his moustache sagged downward. “I love that jar.”
My heart pinched with guilt, but I was resolved to stay strong. “Yes, it is, but you behaved very badly, and I’m afraid that means I have to throw this peanut butter away.” I hid it behind my back, where he couldn’t see it anymore. I hated treating him like this, but it seemed to be the only way he responded nowadays. “Here,” I said, lifting his red necktie. “I’ll wash this tomorrow and give it back to you.”
“No!” His eyes turned wild. He clutched at the tie, trying to grab it from my hands. “Give it to me!”
I recoiled. “No way. It smells like sweaty peanut butter.”
“It’s mine!”
I shook my head. “This tie hasn’t been washed in months. It’s disgusting.”
Grandpop Barley lurched forward and snatched it from me, holding it to his chest. “It’s mine.”
I took a step back. He was foaming at the mouth again, his face turning a tomato-ish shade of red against his pale skin. “Okay,” I said slowly. “You can keep it. Never mind about the bath. Now, just … go to bed.”
After I’d put Cliff down for the night and grabbed some dinner for myself, I sat in my room and looked through cookbooks until I hea
rd the kitchen door open downstairs and could make out the faint voices of Mama and Dad. I shut the cookbooks and tucked them under my arm. My shadow loomed on the floor in front of me.
I made my way down the stairs, my shoulders heavy. I’d better tell Mama about Cliff and Grandpop Barley’s fight.
The voices in the kitchen were getting louder. I could make out a few words. They were talking about money. Bills, checks, loans … Dad was sounding angrier, while Mama’s voice was starting to break.
I placed the cookbooks on a bookshelf in the living room and made my way to the kitchen. A door slammed and Dad stormed out toward his bedroom. I pushed open the kitchen door and stuck my head inside. No one.
Muffled sobs were audible from the bathroom. I tiptoed across the floor and pressed my ear against the door. Hesitating, I whispered, “Mama?”
A sniff. And then, “What is it, dear?”
My heart began to race. “Is everything okay?”
Mama was silent for several seconds. “Yes,” she finally replied, her voice soft and paper-thin. “Everything’s fine. Was there something you needed?”
I thought about telling her about Cliff and Grandpop Barley but decided not to. “No.” I turned to go.
“Scarlett?” she called.
“Yes?”
“Is … is Juli home?” She sounded quiet and scared, like a little girl.
I lowered my eyes, pressing my head against the door. Mama sniffed. My chest squeezed. “Yes,” I lied. “She’s in our room.”
“Good.”
I went to my room alone, stopping to check on Cliff. He was sleeping soundly, undisturbed by the drama downstairs. I envied him; my heart was beating hard. I’d heard Mama crying and told a lie. Something told me both of those things weren’t right.
I crawled into bed and wished I was a little kid again and could sleep all through the night without any cares or worries. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Tomorrow will be better.
The next morning, I slept in until almost eight. Then I rubbed my eyes and stretched, feeling the warm sun shining on my face through the window. My bed was so warm and snuggly. I pulled the covers up to my chin and sighed, feeling happy and ready to start over again. Another day. Another morning. A smile spread across my face. And isn’t it lovely?
Juli’s bed was rumpled. So she did come home last night.
A hammer pounded outside, disturbing my state of sleepy elation. What on earth? It was too early for Dad to be home on his work break.
I pushed the covers off and stood, holding back a gasp when my bare feet hit the cold wood floor. I scrunched up my toes and stretched before heading downstairs.
Voices sounded from inside the house. I bounded down the steps and squinted. “What’s that noise?” I ran into the kitchen and froze.
Frank Leggett stood in the open doorway, hammer in hand. He was laughing at something Cliff just said. They both looked up when I stepped in.
“Oh. Good morning, Scarlett.”
I could feel Frank’s eyes look me up and down, from my bare feet to my rumpled pajamas. A smile tugged at his mouth. “You have really messy hair.”
I crossed my arms, my face heating. “Thanks for pointing that out again. As if I didn’t notice.”
Cliff stuck out a gray mass of fur. “Frank brought Mittens over when he came to help build the pie stand.”
Oh, right. Frank said he was coming in the morning. My face flushed all over again.
“Hey, want to hear a knock-knock joke?” Cliff asked, turning to Frank.
Frank stepped into the house and shrugged. “Sure.”
“Knock, knock.”
“Who’s there?” A tiny grin pulled at Frank’s mouth; he was expecting a good joke. That made me feel good for some reason. He didn’t think Cliff was stupid. He thought Cliff was the kind of kid who could make up a good punch line.
“Nobel.”
“Nobel who?”
“No bell at all, that’s why I had to knock.”
They both laughed, and I remembered that I was standing on the edge of the kitchen in my pajamas.
“Well.” I crossed the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, pulling out a carton of orange juice. I poured it into a glass, avoiding their eyes. “If you give me a few minutes to dress, I’ll come out to help you.”
“We’ll wait.” Frank eyed the carton and pulled up a chair. “I might take some of that while I’m sitting here.”
I rolled my eyes and handed him my untouched glass. “Just take this. I’ll be right back.”
I took the steps two at a time, running into my bedroom. What to wear … I pulled out a worn pair of blue jeans and a gingham shirt, pulling them over my narrow body. I glanced at myself in the mirror. My hair.
It really was wild—a zigzagging mess of auburn falling all around my shoulders. I grimaced at the thought of brushing it. It just becomes big and poufy, and that really is ten times worse than ratty. Plus, messy hair is ten times worse when you have freckly skin. I’m sure the porcelain-skinned girls can pull off any type of hairstyle. Those of us with freckles and dimples have to work a little harder. And then there was that little birthmark by my mouth …
I sighed. I’m not even going to think about that thing this morning.
Finally, I settled on running a comb through the snarls before pulling my hair into a ponytail. Then I threw on some tennis shoes and ran back downstairs.
Frank and Cliff were still sitting at the table discussing the Spanish Civil War. “It really was unfortunate,” Cliff said, taking a sip of juice, “that so many Spaniards should die.” He grinned. “I have a real affection for the Spanish culture.”
Frank raised an eyebrow. “So I’ve noticed.”
I cleared my throat, and they both looked up. “I’m ready.”
Cutting wood was hard work. It was heavy and splintery, and the Georgia heat was already growing unbearable. Not that Cliff and I were much help. We lifted a piece of lumber here and there and helped hammer a few nails. But mostly we sat atop piles of wood and sipped lemonade while watching Frank work.
He was really strong for a skinny boy of seventeen. I guess working at his father’s peach farm built his strength somehow. Cliff poked at his own muscles, probably hoping that under his scrawny arms was the same amount of strength.
“Frank?” I asked after a while.
“Yeah?” He glanced up, squinting from the sun.
“Are you smart?”
He made a face. “What kind of a question is that?”
I swung my legs, thinking through the question. “Well, you seem to know a lot about math. Or at least about shapes and angles. You know, for building the stand.” I bit my lip. “But everyone knows you do poorly in school. I mean, not that I do much better … Because … I don’t … do much better, I mean. Well, I do get slightly better grades. But still …” My face warmed, and instantly I wanted to grab all my words and stuff them back into my mouth. “You know what I mean.”
Frank smiled. Apparently, I couldn’t offend him, no matter how hard I seemed to be trying. He propped up a piece of wood and leaned against it. “I rescue kittens. And turtles. I read about gravitational force and perpetual motion for fun. No one talks to me at school, so I pretty much live in my own little world. How much more of a dweeb would people consider me if I pulled straight As?”
“That’s really smart,” Cliff quipped, beaming at Frank.
Frank chuckled. “Thanks.” He turned and continued nailing boards together.
I wanted to say what was on my mind, but I didn’t. I wanted to tell him that it didn’t matter what people thought—that he should do well in school and not be ashamed of it. Frank was good-looking and smart and actually really sweet. It didn’t make any sense that he would worry about protecting himself from others’ opinions. But maybe it was different when you were alone. At least I always had Cliff. The only creatures Frank had to talk to were turtles and rabbits.
“Here. I think it’s finished.” Frank
stood back and admired his work.
It was about five feet long with room for two wide shelves on the front. Four posts flanked the corners of the counter to allow for a canopy overhead. And there was just enough room in back for three chairs.
“It’s perfect.”
Cliff ran up and stood behind the stand. “I get to paint the sign. I’ll hang it right here.” He pointed, practically puffed up with joy.
Pressing a hand to my back, I faked a heavy sigh. “I guess you guys deserve a homemade peach pie. Might as well throw one together for you, seeing as I’m so appreciative and everything.” I winked at them both and headed back into the house.
Chapter 5
The kitchen was hot and sticky, filled with the smell of baking pies. I inspected the center of the pies looking for gooey, bubbly bits. Not quite ready yet. I stepped back and closed the oven door.
“How’s it coming?”
I spun around. Frank stood behind me with his hands in his pockets. “Sorry.” He looked at me sheepishly. “Where’s Cliff?”
I pushed a strand of hair behind my ear. “I think he’s in the living room looking at his Spanish dictionary.” Frank opened his mouth, but I held up my hand. “Don’t even ask.”
He laughed, looking around the kitchen. “What a wreck. Do you need help cleaning up?”
I shrugged. “Sure.” I set to work scrubbing the counter. Peachy streaks had stained the wood. I grimaced. Mama isn’t going to be too happy about this.
Frank began piling dishes in the sink and running hot water. He glanced at me. “Why do you wear your apron inside out?”
I looked down, and my face reddened. I hadn’t realized it was still like this. I pulled the apron off and turned it right-side out. It was white and lacy, with the initials VB written in fancy script across the chest. “It’s Mama’s. Her mother gave it to her as a wedding gift. Mama passed it on to me a few years ago because she stopped cooking, but I couldn’t bear to get it dirty. It’s too beautiful.”
