Here in the Real World

by Sara Pennypacker

  “But the deal. Remember? I bring a hose, we hook it up to yours, and we both get to use them.”

  Jolene tapped a grubby finger to her lip and scrunched her face. “Nuh-uh, that wasn’t the deal,” she said after a thoughtful moment. “The deal was: you bring me your hose, I wouldn’t kick you out of here. Which I didn’t.”

  “That’s not fair!” Ware really, really hated unfairness.

  Jolene’s jaw fell open. A happily startled expression lit her face. “Wha . . . ?” she gasped, looking around the lot. “Is this Magic Fairness Land???” Then her shoulders drooped. “Nope, darn. Still here in the real world.” She picked up her trowel.

  Ware felt his jaw clench again. “So, you . . . you’re seriously going to cheat me?”

  Jolene clapped a hand to her chest, as though deeply wounded. “Of course not. We’re going to make a new deal is all. You dig me some new trench today, I’ll let you use my hose.”

  She pointed to a spade leaning against the fence and smiled brightly.

  Ware lifted his chin and thrust out his chest, as if he was not quite the most pathetic kid in the world. “Fine,” he conceded boldly. “But the new deal is also this: no more boundaries.”

  Eighteen

  “The Greeks were on it,” Jolene said, speaking in the kind of awed tone people usually reserved for superheroes. “In 500 BC they ruled that garbage had to be buried at least a mile from the city.”

  Ware’s palms burned and his shoulders ached. Sweat rolled in currents down his back. He gritted his teeth as the lecture dragged on.

  “In Britain, everybody was croaking left and right from the Black Plague because the streets were piled with garbage and rats and all. So they invented a job where men called rakers raked the trash off the streets.”

  Ware had to admit that part was kind of interesting. The Black Plague hadn’t killed as many people in castles as in cities, because castles had cats and dogs to keep the rats out of the grain stores. Still, he wished he could go back in time and tell those knights, Thou shalt pick up the trash.

  “The ancient Romans used their urine for lots of things,” Jolene went on. “Growing juicier pomegranates, whitening their teeth, cleaning their clothes.”

  “Castle defenders threw pots of it at invaders trying to climb over the walls,” Ware countered. “It was a weapon. Urine!”

  Jolene nodded approvingly. “Repurposing.” Then she moved on to papayas. “Two hundred thirty-six seeds I got out of that single rotten papaya she gave me,” she marveled.

  Ware figured he should act as if he was listening until he got his hands on the hose, so he asked, “Who?”

  “Mrs. Stavros. She owns the Greek Market. I told you: she gives me stuff for my compost.” She raised a palm to the seedlings. “I only have forty-seven cans, so that’s all the seeds I could plant this time. I could have had two hundred thirty-six plants right now if I’d had enough cans.”

  “Too bad,” Ware said, secretly relieved there’d been only forty-seven. He wiped at the sweat pouring down his face. “You sure must love papayas.”

  “Oh, I love them, all right. A papaya will give you fruit in just ten months. These first ones will start ripening in October. Like, fifty on a plant! A hundred plants could give you five thousand fruits. If each of those had two hundred thirty-six seeds . . . Anyway, the point is, we need to do a lot more digging.”

  Jolene stabbed her shovel into the hard dirt and threw a load over her shoulder.

  A clod hit Ware in the ear and clumped onto his sweaty neck. He brushed it off and was weighing the odds Jolene would let him wash up with her hose when he heard a rustling.

  He leaned away from Jolene’s furious digging and listened.

  Someone was inside the lot.

  Nineteen

  An older girl, fourteen at least, emerged from the bushes at the corner of the foundation and marched down the handicapped ramp. Her shorts were knife crisp and so white they hurt Ware’s eyes.

  At the bottom, the girl scanned the parking area and frowned. She began taking careful leaping steps along its curb, like a gymnast on a beam. She held her arms out, pointer fingers extended as if warning the world not to mess with her balance. A neat ponytail flicked up behind her at each leap. Ware liked the look of that ponytail, slick and black and acting all surprised.

  Without taking his eyes off the intruder, he tapped Jolene’s back.

  “What—”

  “Shhh.”

  Jolene straightened. For a moment, she watched with her mouth agape, as if she couldn’t believe what her eyes were telling her. “Hey!” she yelled.

  The girl brushed a cool glance over them, then began leaping again. She stopped at the corner, pulled out a phone, and took a picture of the asphalt. Then she began pacing the curb with the same gymnast steps.

  Jolene came to life. Her hat flew off as she charged, legs pumping like pistons, still wielding the trowel. “Hey. This is our place!”

  Ware dropped his shovel. He hated fights, fights made his soul retreat to a tiny kernel, but he hurried after her. Jolene had just called the lot their place. Theirs, together. Just like that. It was a thrilling development.

  Drawing up, Ware could see the girl was even older than he’d thought. Fifteen at least. He dragged his fingers through his hair, sticky with sweat, and reseated his cap.

  “First of all,” the girl said to Jolene, “this is not your place. This is parcel number 788, owned by Sun Shores Bank.”

  Jolene leaned in. “You work for a bank? They let a kid work for a bank? I want to talk to someone there!”

  The girl laughed and shook her head. “I want to talk to someone there, too. Or whoever buys this place at auction. But it’s definitely not your—”

  “Auction? What auction?” Jolene was glowering over the rims of her sunglasses, but just for an instant Ware had seen it again: the look of fear on her face. The look that pierced his heart, thunk-thunk-thunk.

  The girl stepped back. “Um . . . it’s foreclosed? That’s what happens. Anyway—”

  “When?” Jolene demanded.

  The girl threw her hands up. “I don’t know! Forget it. I don’t work for a bank, remember?” She took out her phone again, snapped another picture over Jolene’s shoulder, and tapped a few keys.

  Then she turned to Ware. “Look, I’m finished now. You two can get on with your . . . um, mud fight?”

  Ware ducked his face into the neck of his tee and swiped, wishing he’d gotten to the hose. He heard Jolene mutter, “Don’t come back.”

  The girl shrugged. “I won’t.”

  Jolene headed up to her plants as if she’d won something.

  Ware wasn’t so sure. He caught up with the girl at the rear of the foundation. “Wait. You said you weren’t coming back, but somebody else is, right?”

  “Actually, a lot of somebodies? The bank people, whoever they get to put up security lights. I’ll let the Audubon Society know—”

  “No! Nobody can come here!”

  At his shout, Jolene shot up and came tearing back over.

  “Someone’s coming here?” she sputtered. “Who?”

  The girl tipped her head to the sky, as if she were deciding something. “Okay, whatever,” she said after a moment. “Here’s the deal.”

  Twenty

  The new girl climbed the back steps, sat primly at the top, and looked down at them like a teacher waiting for her class to settle.

  Jolene planted herself at the base of the steps, arms crossed.

  Ware perched on the railing. He was still feeling a little dizzy. Their lot.

  “In low light,” the girl began, “wet pavement can look like water to waterfowl. Geese, ducks, cranes.”

  “Who’s coming here?” Jolene demanded. “And by the way, they can’t.”

  The girl arched a single dark eyebrow and began again calmly. “Wet pavement, in low light? They think it’s water, try to land on it, and they break their legs.”

  “Even if that’s tru
e,” Jolene interrupted, “what’s it got to do with our lot?”

  “Um, again . . . your lot?” The girl rolled her eyes.

  Again, their lot.

  Jolene ignored the eye roll. “So, what? You’re afraid some geese are going to crash down here?”

  “Not geese.” The girl pointed straight up. “This is a sandhill crane flyway. Every fall, thousands of them migrate right over this place. This exact place, which now, with the church moved out, is unlit. I just measured the parking lot: about ninety feet by fifty. That’s a big enough patch of pavement to be a problem. Plus, see how the driveway curves into it? Like a river. If it’s wet and dark when they fly over . . .”

  Ware looked back at the parking lot. He couldn’t help picturing it covered with crashed birds, hurt and scared.

  He groaned.

  “Exactly. A sandhill crane weighs ten pounds. That’s a lot of bird landing on two skinny legs.” She rose and brushed off her shorts, which had remained miraculously spotless. “But not on my watch.”

  As she passed, Ware caught the crisp scent of apple shampoo. He wished again he’d run that hose over his face.

  “What are you going to do?” Jolene asked. “Send the bird police? Set up detour signs?”

  “Hilarious. Sandhill cranes have been doing this for millions of years, so neither of those would even work. Those birds are coming. I’m making a list of all the danger spots in the city. My father’s a city councilman. I’m going to have him order the owners to light them up. I’ll also bring the Audubon people here, see what they can do.”

  Jolene shot her palms out. “Nope!”

  “Nope!” Ware dropped from the railing.

  The girl looked from one to the other. “Um . . . yes?” She pulled her ponytail over her shoulder and twirled the end. “My father will get it done. He’s already agreed.”

  “Well, make him unagree then,” Jolene said. “No bringing those bank people. No bringing those bird people.”

  The girl looked them over again. “What is it with you two? What’ve you got going on here?”

  Twenty-One

  “Tell me about your day.”

  Ware looked up at his father, stretched out on the couch, and considered. He really did want to tell someone about his day. He’d called his friends, but Mikayla had gone up north with a friend and Vashon was at basketball camp.

  He fixed his gaze on the silent ball game and began. “That empty lot beside the community center. Apparently it’s on a migration flyway. Thousands of cranes fly over. Tens of thousands.”

  His dad settled deeper into the couch. “Mm-hmm.”

  “Remember I told you the church was gone? A wrecking ball did it. They took out most of the stuff, but they left anything too heavy, or bolted down. Like, the pews. You could sit on them if you cleared off the wreckage.”

  Ware paused, sure his dad would ask how he knew all this: Wasn’t he in Rec? At best, he’d definitely warn him about trespassing or rusty nails.

  But his dad remained quiet, his eyes closed as if waiting for more. Ware relaxed a little. It felt good to be listened to.

  “They left the baptistery behind. I didn’t know what it was, but another kid told me.”

  Ware paused again, thinking about “another kid.” He could still feel the moment Jolene had taken his hand, how it had stayed warm. He couldn’t remember another time someone had held his hand, although his parents must have when he was little. He leaned back and rested his head very softly against his father’s knee. His dad didn’t move.

  “People get dunked in the water,” he added, edging up to the important part. “And they get born again.”

  Ware waited. Again, his dad said nothing.

  “I was thinking that might be good for me. This time, I could try to be more like you and Mom.”

  Ware held himself perfectly still. He had said it. Out loud. Oh, no. We don’t want you to change a bit! his dad might answer. Or, That would be terrific, son!

  Ware didn’t know which response he’d like better. Or which response would make him feel worse.

  Just then, his dad’s arm dropped off the couch and clocked him on the cheek. Ware panicked for a second—eyes closed, mouth slack, his father looked too much like the people rolling by on gurneys at the hospital the other night. But then he let out a shuddering snore and Ware breathed again.

  He picked up his dad’s arm and tucked it gently back on the cushion.

  He nudged up the volume until he could hear the announcer. It wasn’t much, but when his dad woke up, at least Ware could give him the play-by-play.

  Twenty-Two

  After a good five minutes of pulling with the rope, Ware finally heard the bell budge with a crunching groan. He ran back and peered over the edge.

  The news was bad. The bell had busted a crater in the bottom of the baptistery.

  The thing in his chest that must be his soul took the news hard. He collapsed onto a step.

  The do-over tub would never hold water.

  He would never be reborn.

  For the rest of his life, he would be the same not-normal, outside-the-inside, antisocial disappointment of a son to his parents. A kid whose every report card would say Ware needs to participate more in class! when by “participate” they meant shout out answers without taking time to consider them. Or Ware is very bright, but keeps this hidden! Or, once, Sometimes I forget Ware is in my class!

  What kind of a teacher forgets about a kid just because he’s quiet?

  Just then, a lizard hopped onto the step beside him and blew out its scarlet neck flap. “I’m not looking for a fight,” Ware assured it, hands up.

  The old church was littered with lizards, baking on the hot concrete rubble. Ware didn’t begrudge them the space, but they always reminded him of the day he’d heard his mother say she wished her son was normal. It would have been better if he’d seen a different animal that day. Something less common, like the luna moth he’d found out there once trembling on the screen door: pale milky green, big as his hand.

  “Go away,” he told the lizard beside him now.

  The lizard blinked.

  Ware bent for a closer look. Lizards, like cats and camels and aardvarks, he remembered, had an extra, translucent eyelid—a nictitating membrane that they could draw across their eyes vertically like drawing the curtains, like saying, No, thanks very much, I’m enjoying some private time right now.

  The lizard had some antisocial eyelids. Maybe it was the right animal to have seen after all. Maybe he should keep remembering what a disappointment he was.

  His eyes pricked with tears and his throat stung. He pressed his head between his knees, glad no one was around.

  After a minute, he heard the sound of metal scraping on the pavement below. He peeked over the rim of the baptistery.

  Jolene was dragging a caveman hammer across the parking area. Leather gloves swamped her elbows and a pair of safety glasses hung from her neck. Her face wore the most purpose-driven expression Ware had ever seen.

  He climbed out and stood in the back doorway. She was actually going to try it.

  Yesterday, she’d driven the girl—Ashley, it turned out her name was—out of the lot by promising to get rid of the bird-bone-breaking pavement. “Presto: no pavement, no problem. So no bank people, no bird people, no lights, and no you!”

  Ashley had snorted. But Jolene shot her a look of such smoking rage, she’d scrambled over the chain-link fence and hopped on her bike. “Whatever,” she’d called before speeding off. “I’ll come back next week, see if you’ve really done it.”

  Ware figured Jolene had been bluffing, because afterward, she’d refused to talk about it. She just checked the sun the way she had the day before, then hid her tools in the hedge, pulled out a black garbage bag, and left with it.

  But now here she was. She drew a foot-long spike from her belt, crouched, and worked it into a crack in the pavement. Then she stood up, snapped on the glasses, hoisted the hammer, and slammed
it down with a ringing smash.

  Jolene looked up at him and pointed down.

  Ware shook his head. Her crazy promise was her crazy promise.

  She continued pointing.

  He walked down the stairs and ambled over. Just to see.

  A wedge of asphalt had split off.

  “Haul it away.”

  Ware looked up toward the useless baptistery. His throat tightened again. “No. I don’t care who comes. I’m done here. Sorry, Jolene.” He started to walk toward the Rec. His legs felt like stone.

  “Well, sorry yourself, Ware. You’re still helping move this pavement.”

  Ware kept walking. “No, I’m not. Goodbye, Jolene.”

  “Yeah-huh, you are. Because . . .”

  There was a pause. Then he heard, “I need you.” The quaver in Jolene’s voice rang like an alarm.

  He turned and the arrow volley struck him: thunk-thunk-thunk, all one hundred arrows landing true. He ran back, hand to his chest.

  Jolene blinked back her tears, stood up straighter. “Mrs. Stavros at the Greek Market will sell whatever I grow.” She sniffed. “It’s a lot of bunny. Which I need.”

  “A lot of bunny?”

  Jolene sniffed again. “Money. I said money.”

  “Oh. But . . . but you can’t do it, Jolene. You just can’t chop up a parking lot and carry it away.”

  “Well, I have to. Otherwise that rich girl is going to bring all those nosy people here and I’m going to lose this place.” She lost her fight with the tears. They spilled down her cheeks. “I can’t lose this place.”

  Those tears.

  “Okay, okay, wait,” he said. “Let me think.”

  He looked around, as if an answer might be floating in the air, and saw the watchtower. Watchtowers were excellent for getting the whole picture. For seeing things clearly.

  “Stay here,” he said. “Don’t be afraid.” Then he climbed.

  From the top, he got the whole picture all right. He saw things clearly.

  And his heart lifted. It actually lifted, just like in books, and hope flooded into the space created.