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I take a bite of my sandwich while Tristan and Drew are at each others throats. Its just like old times, except Kendras not here . . . and my sister refuses to join the land of the living.
Before that thought leaves my head, the girls minus my sister strut into the cafeteria. Sabrina, Danielle, and Brianne come in first, followed by Kendra and her best friend Hannah.
"Howd practice go?" Tristan asks Brianne.
Brianne reaches out and touches his shoulder. "That is so sweet that you care," she says.
Drew coughs. "Why dont you guys do a cheer for us?"
"Right here in the cafeteria?"
"Why not?"
Kendra winks privately at me, then says, "Sure, lets do it, girls. "
Kendra stands up front while Brianne, Sabrina, Danielle, and Hannah settle into a pattern behind her. Kendra gets her hands up as if shes about to clap and says, "Ready?"
The other girls respond, "O-kay," then they all start clapping and jumping and chanting:
Takedown, tilt em,
Or go for the pin!
Stay off the bottom,
And get that win!
You gotta ride em, roll em, get that pin.
Come on Panthers, leeeeettts win!
The girls end their overly energetic cheer on a jump/kick combination.
Drew stands up and claps. "That was in-credible! Can you do that end part again where you bounce up and down and talk about riding them?"
"Shut up, Drew," Kendra says.
He holds up his hands and shrugs. "What? I was just admiring the cheer. "
"Please," Danielle says as she sits down next to Brian and gives Drew a disgusted look. "You were admiring something, all right. Our chests. "
"That, too," Drew admits. "Im a teenage guy with raging hormones, what do you expect? I bet Caleb admired them, too, cause he hasnt seen any in almost a year. Isnt that right, CB?"
I should have known it was just a matter of time before my jail time got thrown in my face. Great, now everyone is looking at me, waiting to hear the ex-cons response. Including Kendra. I stand up and walk out of the cafeteria. I dont want to deal with this crap right now.
"I was just kidding, Caleb. Come back here!" Drew yells.
Every week in the DOC we had rage-intervention classes. They stressed avoiding confrontation, teaching us instead to release anger in other, non-violent ways. Since punching Drew in his mouth that runs like diarrhea isnt an option, I head to the school workout room.
I walk right up to the punching bag and whack it until theres a permanent dent in the side. I dont even care that my knuckles are bleeding.
"Caleb, take it easy on that thing. "
Its Coach Wenner, standing near the free weights with a cup of coffee in his hand. Hes wearing a golf shirt with Panther Wrestling embroidered on the front.
I stop punching the bag and stuff my hands in my pockets to hide my bleeding knuckles. "They tell me this is your last year coaching. "
"Yep. Ill be teaching drivers ed as well as gym classes come next fall. "
I shake my head in disbelief. "Drivers ed?" The guy lives and breathes wrestling.
"The wife doesnt want me to be away on the weekends after the baby is born. Above all else, you got to do what you think is best for your family. Right?"
"I guess. "
Wenner takes a sip of the drink and leans against the wall. "You know, what happened last year shocked the hell out of me. I would have bet my right arm a kid like you wouldnt leave the scene of an accident. "
"Lucky for you, you didnt make that bet," I counter.
"Uh huh," Wenner says, then adds, "go to the nurse and get those knuckles wrapped," and casually walks out of the room.
SIXTEEN
Maggie
It took Caleb a week to slide right back into his life without a hitch. I left the cafeteria this afternoon when the popular girls did a cheer right in front of him. I could have sworn he thought the cheer was just for him.
As if that wasnt bad enough, I heard Tristan Norris say in earth science that Caleb is going out for wrestling this year.
Not only did I lose Leah as a friend and everyone else thinks Im a walking freak, I have no hope of joining the tennis team or playing sports ever again.
Im chastising myself for comparing myself to Caleb as I ride the bus to Hampton for my first day working for Mrs. Reynolds. I just wish it was easier for me . . . or less easy for him. I realize Im bitter, but I cant help it. Ive been through such pain and agony the past year, and going back to school has only emphasized what an outcast Ive become.
I reach Mrs. Reynolds house and ring the doorbell. She doesnt answer. I keep ringing, hoping nothing bad has happened to her. Just my luck she decided to fire me before I even started the job.
Placing my book bag on the ground, I head to the back of the house.
Mrs. Reynolds is sitting on the porch swing. Her head is slumped over, but her chest is rising and falling with each breath. Okay, the woman is sleeping. Phew. Balancing in her hand is a glass of lemonade.
This job is going to be a piece of cake. I feel ashamed for taking so much money from Mrs. Reynolds for doing nothing.
I tiptoe toward the swing. I have to take the glass out of Mrs. Reynolds hand before it spills all over or, worse yet, shatters when her grip loosens and the glass hits the ground.
Slowly, silently, I reach out and slip the glass out of her hand.
"What do you think youre doing?"
The old ladys voice startles me and I jump back. Mrs. Reynolds has one eye open like that guy from the cartoon monster movie. "I, uh, thought you were napping. "
"Do I look like Im napping?"
"Right now you dont. "
Mrs. Reynolds sits up straight, her grey hair perfectly styled on top of her head. "Enough chatter. We have lots of work to do today. "
"Do you want me to refill your lemonade? Make you a snack?" Fluff your pillows?
"Nope. You see those bags over there?" Mrs. Reynolds says, her crooked finger pointing to the side of the yard.
About ten huge paper bags are lined up in the grass. Theyre all labeled with strange names: Apricot Whirl, Chromacolor, Decoy, Drift, Yellow Trumpet, Lemon Drops, Rosy Cloud. "What are they for?"
"Were going to plant them. Theyre daffodils. Well, they dont exactly look like daffodils right now. Theyre only bulbs. "
Plant? I peer inside the bag marked "Drift. " There must be more than thirty bulbs in it. I limp over to the next bag, "Lemon Drops," and theres more in this one than the first.
"Dont look so startled, Margaret," Mrs. Reynolds says. "It doesnt suit your face. "
I grab a few bulbs from the next bag, the one marked "Audubon. " Behind me Mrs. Reynolds says, "Dont even bother picking them up right away. You need a plan first. "
"A plan?"
"Of course. Have you ever planted before?"
"Just some herbs in preschool. But that was in a little planter we took home for Mothers Day. "
"No bulbs?"
I shake my head.
Mrs. Reynolds looks worried. "Let me tell you something about daffodils, Margaret. Theyre fragrant, beautiful, and hardy. "
I scan the eight bags lined up. "These are all daffodils?"
"Oh, yes. But they each have their own unique scent and personality. "
Wow. I dont know much about flowers in general, let alone details. My favorites were dandelions, because when we were younger, Leah and I used to search and pull all the dandelions from our neighbors lawns, sing Mama had a baby and her head popped off, and flick the tops of the flowers off of the stems as we sang the word popped. Although, to be technical, dandelions arent flowers. Theyre weeds.
"Youll need a shovel to start with," my employer says, interrupting my daydream. "I think theres one in the garage. "
I place the bulbs back in their respective bags, then head for the detached garage in the back of the yard. Its a large, two-story stru
cture. Yellow paint, though cracking and peeling from years of neglect, indicates this had once been a place of pride. There are stairs on the side, leading to the second level. Dirty, dusty windows outline the upstairs room. Is it an office of some sort? A private room?
The garage door is closed, so I have to lift it using my own strength, which isnt easy. With a loud creak of protest, the door finally lifts to reveal a large, black Cadillac parked inside. The place is dark and full of spider webs. Which means the place is full of spiders. Im not fond of either.
Maggie, you can do this. As I venture farther into the darkness, my eyes do the spider-scan. My mom used to make fun of me that I had peripheral vision specially designed to detect eight-legged creatures.
A shovel hangs on the wall, not far from the entrance. Good. I slowly inch forward, reaching out to grab the handle. Once I hold it, I let out a breath I didnt even know Id been holding. I scurry out of the garage and head back to Mrs. Reynolds, sure at least a few webs have managed to stick to me.
"I got it," I say, holding out the shovel like a prized trophy.
The woman doesnt look impressed. "First, well have to prepare the soil. "
I walk over to the empty flower beds and start poking the shovel into the dirt to loosen it. I do this for a few minutes. Its not so bad.
Mrs. Reynolds sneaks up behind me. "Wait. "
I turn around. The woman is holding out a long, pink and green flower-print robe.
"What is that?" I ask.
"My muumuu. Put it on. Itll keep your clothes clean. "
"Mrs. Reynolds, I cant wear that. "
"Why not?"
Mrs. Reynolds clutches the muumuu, a big, ugly housedress. Im self-conscious enough as it is without wearing something my great-aunt Henrietta probably has in her closet.
"Its . . . its not my size," I say lamely.
"Dont be a ninny, muumuus fit everyone. One size fits all. Put it on. "
Reluctantly, I take the muumuu and slide the material over my head. The dress hangs on me like a tent.
Mrs. Reynolds steps back and surveys me. "Perfect. "
I smile weakly at her.
"Okay, lets get to work. "
For the next forty minutes Mrs. Reynolds directs me on how big to dig the holes, how to measure the extra soil needed in the bottom of the holes to create a pillow for the bulbs, and the best way to plant the bulbs--not in rows but scattered five inches apart.
Im sweating now, and I fear Mrs. Reynolds is just getting started. But Ill do anything to keep this job. If it means creating pillows for her precious bulbs for the next few weeks until colder weather bears down on us, thats just fine. I can handle anything if the end result is earning the money to get away.
Sitting back, I wipe the dirt from my face with the sleeve of the muumuu. "Whats over there?" I ask, pointing to a pile of lumber.
"The gazebo that never happened. "
"I was in a gazebo at the Botanic Gardens last year," I say, imagining a huge gazebo in the middle of the yard.
"It reminded me of that scene in The Sound of Music where Liesls boyfriend sings Sixteen Going on Seventeen to her. "
Mrs. Reynolds looks longingly at the pile. "Yes, well, Im afraid the wood will probably be sitting there long after Im dead and buried. "
"You should totally get someone to build it," I tell her excitedly. "I can imagine it, with a pointed roof and all. "
Leaving Paradise Page 11
