“The same one.”
“Let me get this straight. This Blake guy is trying to decide between me and Shawna?”
“Tyler says she sings to the plants.”
“Shawna? I’d have to see it,” Amber says. “Maybe Mark, from peer communications, and Shawna should get together. That’d be a couple.”
“Leaving Blake for you.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Well, think about it anyway. We could go to Saturday’s game together. Tyler and me and you and Blake.”
We talk for a while about peer communications and Snyder’s class, and about the rumor that Arielle Lunden is pregnant.
“That is so weak!” I say.
“I heard she wanted to get pregnant.”
“That is so stupid! How’s Arielle going to take care of a baby?”
“Don’t know,” Amber says. “I’m only telling you what I heard.”
“Change subjects,” I say.
“Okay.”
“I’m trying to figure out what to give Tyler for our anniversary. I want it to be something really special, that he’ll always remember.”
“Have you got enough money to buy him a leather jacket?”
“Yeah, but I don’t think he’d like that. I’d like to give him a little diamond earring, but he refuses to get his ear pierced.”
“Give him what he really wants,” Amber says.
“Amber! What a thing to say. You’re always talking anti-sex, but then you say something like that. I’ve told you, I’m staying a virgin until marriage.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll bet by the time you’re eighteen and a day, Tyler will have persuaded you to break your vow of virginity.”
“It’s a bet! Tyler’s decided that if I want to wait until marriage, that’s how it should be.”
“Oh, right. I wonder how long that will last.”
“That’s how much he loves me,” I tell her. “He doesn’t want to do anything that’s not right for me.”
“Give me a break.”
“You wouldn’t be so cynical if you let love into your heart,” I tell Amber.
“And that would be Blake?”
“Could be.”
“Show him to me tomorrow, so I’m sure we’re talking about the same person.”
“We’ll have so much fun! The four of us!”
“I’m not saying I’ll go out with him! I can’t this Saturday night, anyway.”
“Why?”
“Because, my mom won’t let me go out with anyone unless they ask at least a week in advance.”
“But the door isn’t locked, is it?”
“Speaking of doors,” Amber says, sidestepping the question. “I’ve got this information on Habitat houses . . .”
We talk for another hour or so, then I start my homework. Later, Grams comes in with Chinese food and we pig out in front of the news.
I’m back to my homework when the phone rings. I answer, and again it is no one. It gives me a shaky feeling, like something is wrong in my life, and I don’t know what it is.
When all of my homework is done, I stretch out on the bed to read from Angela’s Ashes. Frank McCourt has had a terrible life, with so many people he loves dying, and teachers being mean to him, and his own father deserting him. But he doesn’t seem to be bitter or resentful at all. I’d like to ask him how he keeps bitterness and anger out of his heart, but I’m sure he’s too famous to talk to me.
I’d like to talk to Charlotte Bronte about Jane Eyre, too. Why wasn’t Jane Eyre angry and bitter? That’s something I’m wondering about more and more these days. Why do I get so angry, when others, who have just as much right to be angry, are mellow and kind?
The phone rings. In a moment Grams is knocking on my door.
“Were you expecting a call?”
“Not especially,” I say.
“Surely Tyler’s not afraid to ask for you if I answer, even if it is after calling hours.”
“It’s not Tyler.”
“We should have an unlisted number,” Grams says. “Next year I won’t have them list it.”
Grams leaves and I try to go back to my reading, but I can’t concentrate. There is probably nothing to be nervous about, but I feel it, anyway.
Chapter
14
With the help of Amber’s mom, we make arrangements to visit a Habitat for Humanity site on Saturday. One of the main organizers has agreed to let us interview her on tape, if we’ll help serve lunch.
Amber’s decided to join us for the project, to finish up her community service hours. That’s a Hamilton High requirement—at least forty hours of community service or no graduation.
Mrs. Brody drops us off around ten in the morning, telling us she’ll be back at two to pick us up. Shawna is sitting on the curb waiting for us. Tyler’s working today, and Blake’s helping his grandmother move, so it’s just the three of us.
The house sits on a small lot between two older, slightly rundown houses. It looks like it’s almost finished, at least on the outside. Swarms of people are doing stuff, painting trim, putting hardware on windows and doors, working on a porch railing. In the back some guys are mixing concrete, getting ready to pour a slab for a patio.
“Cute place,” Amber says. “Not a great neighborhood, though.”
Shawna tosses her hair back just long enough to give Amber a mad look. “I live just around the corner,” she says.
“Sorry,” Amber says, her face growing red from the neck up.
A woman dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt walks over to where we’re standing.
“Are you the group from Hamilton High?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Jackie Salazar,” she says, sticking her hand out. “Call me Jackie.”
“Lauren Bailey,” I say, reaching out and shaking hands.
She’s smaller than I am, but what a grip she’s got!
Jackie goes through the same routine with Amber and Shawna.
“Come on, I’ll show you around, then we can find a spot to talk for a bit.”
“Can I start my tape recorder now?” I ask.
“Yeah. I don’t know how much you’ll pick up in the middle of all this noise, but give it a try if you want.”
We follow her inside.
“Today’s the day the wallboard goes up,” she says, motioning toward a corner where materials are stacked. Two sawhorses are set up in the living room, and two guys are measuring and cutting the wallboard to size. Two women about Grams’ age are using nail guns to secure the wallboard in place.
“Every inch of work that’s done here is by volunteers. Some know what they’re doing, and some don’t,” she laughs. “It all works out, though.”
“Where do you get the money for the materials?” I ask. I’m sort of proud of the question because I know one way for journalists to get a story is to follow the money.
“We get a set amount from national Habitat for Humanity funds, and then we often get donations for extras. For instance, the patio wasn’t included in the original plan, but donations of money and labor made that possible. For a family of five, with three kids under seven, the patio will add a lot to their enjoyment of their new home.”
Shawna stands with her hands in her jeans pockets, looking at the house, the porch, the yard.
“How do people get one of these houses?” Shawna asks. “My mom and me and my sisters need a house.”
“It’s complicated,” Jackie says. “But I’ll be happy to give you an application. The houses all go to families with low income.”
“No problem,” Shawna says.
Jackie walks over to a worktable that’s set up in the dining area, shuffles through some papers, pulls out an application form, and hands it to Shawna.
“Sad to say, but there are hundreds of applicants for each house.”
Shawna looks disappointed, but carefully folds the application and puts it in her backpack.
“Does the poorest family get the hous
e?” she asks.
“No, we have a committee. They screen all the applications and evaluate them based on certain criteria.”
“Then what?” Amber asks.
“Well, ultimately every application that meets the standards is put into a big container, and we have a public drawing. Whichever application is drawn, that’s the family that gets the house. It’s very exciting.”
“What are the standards?” Amber asks.
“Well, one adult in the family must be working full time. They must have character references from neighbors and previous landlords. No one in the family can have problems with substance abuse . . .”
Shawna reaches into her backpack, pulls out the application and hands it back to Jackie.
“Our apartment’s okay,” she says, ducking her head so that all we can see is hair.
Jackie pauses for a moment, watching Shawna, then leads us through the bedrooms and baths. Everything is pretty basic. The bedrooms are smaller than the ones at Grams’ house. There are two small bathrooms, one with a tub and one with a shower. There’s a nice fireplace in the living room.
The family who’s going to live here comes in just before lunch time. The six-year-old boy is in his soccer uniform, jazzed because he’d made a goal.
“It was cooool, Jackie,” he says, drawing “cool” out to make it a three-syllable word.
“I wish I’d been there, Tommy,” Jackie says with a smile.
The mom, Mary, is carrying a boy who looks like he’s about a year old, and there’s a girl about four, maybe Hope’s size, clinging to the mom’s jeans.
“Where’s Richard?” Jackie asks.
“He said to tell you he’s sorry not to be here to help pour the patio. He had a chance to work overtime.”
“Well, good for him. We’ve got plenty of help here today.”
“The extra money’ll be enough to buy that bunk bed for the boys’ room. He’ll come over after work Monday and do some painting to make up for missing today.”
“Hey, Mom!” the oldest boy calls from one of the bedrooms.
“Better go see the progress,” Jackie tells her with a smile.
Mary and the other two go to the door of the room that Tommy’s inspecting.
“Cooool,” he says. “Look at these shelves. This is where my hamster cage can go, and here’s where Batman and Robin can live, and . . .”
“No hamster!” Mary says.
“But Mom . . .”
Jackie laughs, then leads us into the kitchen.
“These folks are living in a one-room, roach-infested apartment now, upstairs, with no place for the kids to play. You can imagine how thrilled they are to be moving into a three-bedroom place of their own.”
Jackie introduces us around to the people working in the kitchen.
“Sam, can you put these three to work?”
“Sure can,” he says.
Sam hands us each a big serving spoon and stations us by huge pans set up on a board between the two sawhorses. I serve refried beans, Amber serves rice, and Shawna serves some kind of hamburger casserole. People help themselves to salad, bread, and sodas. After everyone else is served, Amber, Shawna and I help ourselves. We take our plates outside where we find a place to sit on the back steps.
“I’m glad we chose this project. This is cooool,” I say, imitating Tommy.
Shawna lifts her head and pushes her hair back away from her face.
“It is cool,” she says.
“I might like to volunteer some more,” Amber says.
Shawna nods. “They’ll need landscaping. I could get some plant discards from the nursery—you know, the things that aren’t good enough to sell but will grow fine with the right care—I could get a whole bunch of that stuff. Right now there are about ten sick-looking camellias out behind the shed. Nobody wants them. I could teach you how to prepare the soil and all. There’s a little orange tree back there, too.”
Amber and I both look at Shawna, momentarily speechless. It’s the most I’ve ever heard her say at one time, and she’s actually smiling.
Finally, Amber says, “Well, yeah. That’s a great idea. I’d help.”
“I’d help,” I tell her. “We could all plant them next Saturday.”
“I bet Tyler would help us, too,” she says.
“I’m sure he would,” I say, wondering why I hadn’t thought of it first.
We go inside and tell Jackie of our landscaping ideas.
“See, that’s what I love about this Habitat for Humanity business. When we start out, it looks like we’ll only be able to provide the bare necessities, and then things like this just keep happening. That’s how we’re getting the patio, and how we got the garage and the fireplace . . .”
“Hey, Mary,” Jackie calls to the mom, who is cleaning spackle away from a window in the dining room. “These girls are going to get some plants for us. You like camellias?”
Mary looks at us, smiling broadly. “I am so lucky,” she says. “Sometimes I get scared. With so much good, when does the bad come?”
“I keep trying to convince Mary that her balance sheet can take another century of good luck and still not be caught up with the earlier bad luck.”
She and Jackie both laugh, but it’s more of a wise laugh than a funny laugh.
Mary turns to us. “Thank you,” she says. “Camellias are my favorite.”
Back in Jackie’s “office,” she hands us a lot of printed materials about Habitat for Humanity. I’m thinking maybe next week we can come out and take pictures.
At Jackie’s suggestion, Shawna, Amber and I interview a few of the other workers. There’s a professor of comparative literature, a woman from Claremont College, who’s done the major plumbing work. A guy who works at the Honest Engine car repair place has done most of the electrical work. The two women I noticed earlier who were nailing wallboard have worked every Saturday since the foundation was poured.
When we run out of tape we stop interviewing. It’s nearly time for Amber’s mom to pick us up, anyway.
“I’ve got to get back to babysit my little sister,” Shawna says.
“You want to wait and get a ride from my mom?”
Shawna smiles. “I live just around the corner, remember?”
Amber laughs. “See you Monday.”
“Yeah. I’ll talk to my boss about those plants tomorrow . . . Bye.” She waves to us, and to Mary who is still working at the front window. Amber and I sit on a pile of bricks by the side of the walkway, waiting for her mom.
“Wow! What a change of personality,” Amber says.
“No kidding! It’s like she’s the grump of the century, and then, once she started talking about the plants she was all transformed.”
“I can see why that Blake guy would like her,” Amber says.
“He likes you!”
“Did you tell him I’m unavailable?”
“He wants your phone number.”
“Did you give it to him?”
“Noooo. I wouldn’t give him your phone number unless I asked you. Can I?”
“I don’t know. It would be fun to do something with you and Tyler. But . . . I don’t know about this Blake guy.”
“It’d be great,” I tell her. “We can go to the game next week. If you don’t like him you don’t ever have to go out with him again.”
“Yeah, well. I don’t know.”
“When I pointed him out to you yesterday you said he was kind of cute.”
Amber starts laughing.
“What?”
“I just said that ’cause he was so far away I couldn’t even see him.”
“Was not!”
“Was too. He was about from here to the end of the block, down where that red car is.”
I look quickly in the direction she’s pointing.
“That’s it! That’s the red Honda I’ve been telling you about.”
Amber squints, then stands up.
“I’m going to walk down there and see w
ho it is.”
I grab her hand. “No! It’s someone weird. I know it is!”
“Well, if it is, they’re after you, not me.”
She pulls her hand loose and walks away. I’d go after her, but she’s right. Whoever it is seems to only be stalking me. I watch as she casually walks down the sidewalk, to the end of the block. I see her come up even with the car, and then the car slowly pulls away. I see her watching and I hope she’s noticing the license number. Once the car is out of sight, Amber turns and runs back. I get up and run to meet her.
“Quick. Get me something to write on before I forget. KZY389, KZY389. KZY389,” she chants over and over until I can get pencil and paper from my backpack and write it down.
“Get this! I recognized the guy!” she tells me.
“What? Who is it?”
“It’s that guy, Jacob.”
“Jacob?”
“You know, the ex-druggie who visited peer communications that day. The one that kept looking at you!”
“Are you sure? How can you be sure?”
“I am sure. I’d recognize any of those people. I was paying attention, okay?”
“But . . .”
“He was just sitting there. When I stopped and looked in the window though, he turned his head away and drove off. I’m sure it was that guy.”
“But why is he following me around?”
“I don’t know. But I don’t think people follow people like that, kind of secretly, for good things. Do you?”
“I guess not.”
“We should call the cops and give them the license plate number.”
“But what am I going to say? I see this car sometimes? They’d think I’m nuts.”
“They could at least run a check on the plate, see if the car’s stolen, or if it belongs to some recently released sex offender.”
“But he hasn’t done anything.”
“Right. It would be good to check him out before he does do something, don’t you think?”
I mull it over, wondering, too, what the mysterious phone calls are all about.
“Someone keeps calling our house and hanging up when we answer,” I tell Amber.
“Maybe wanting to know if you’re home,” Amber says. “As soon as I get home I’m calling the cops. I don’t care what you say. . . He’s a big guy, and he’s black, in case you don’t remember.”
If You Loved Me Page 12
