by Bree Despain
“This will do.” He nodded and took off into the darkness.
I stood and watched until he disappeared. I didn’t even notice the headlights stop in front of my car until I heard someone call my name.
“Grace?” Pete ran up to me. “Are you okay? Why didn’t you stay in the car?”
I looked over his shoulder to the white truck idling in the dark. Its cabin light barely revealed Jude’s face as he sat in the driver’s seat. His expression was blank and stiff as if carved out of stone.
“I got the car running,” I lied.
“Good, but you’re freezing.” Pete wrapped his arms around me and held me to his chest. He smelled spicy and clean like always, but this time it didn’t make me want to be closer to him.
“Can we skip bowling tonight?” I said as I pulled away. “It’s getting late, and I don’t feel up to it. We can go some other time.”
“Sure. But you’ll owe me.” He draped his arm around my shoulder and walked me to the truck. “It’s nice and warm in there, so you ride with Jude. I’ll take the Corolla and then after we unload I’ll drive you home. Maybe we can stop for coffee on the way back.”
“Sounds good.” But the thought of rich coffee made me ill. And that stony look on Jude’s face as I climbed into the truck made me want to find a hole to bury my head in.
“He shouldn’t have left you here,” Jude said under his breath.
“I know.” I held my fingers up to the heater. “But he thought he was keeping me safe.”
“Who knows what could have come along?” Jude shifted the truck into drive. He didn’t speak again all night.
CHAPTER FIVE
Charity Never Faileth
SATURDAY
I wandered aimlessly around the house like a ghost all morning. Except I was the one who felt haunted.
All night long, I’d dreamed of rattling car doors and that strange, high-pitched noise. And then Daniel’s eyes, glinting and hungry, staring back at me through the glass. I woke up more than once, cold and sticky with sweat.
In the afternoon, I sat in my room and tried to write a report on the War of 1812, but my gaze—and mind—kept drifting out the window to the walnut tree in the front yard. After I’d started the first sentence of my report over for the tenth time, I kicked myself mentally and went downstairs to the kitchen to make some chamomile tea.
I rummaged in the pantry and found a bottle of honey shaped like a bear. It was the same kind I’d loved when I was young enough to live off of peanut-butter-and-honey sandwiches with the crusts cut off. But now it seemed grainy and goopy as I squeezed it out in tiny globs on the surface of the brown tea and then watched them sink to the depths of my steaming mug.
“Got any more of that tea?” Dad asked.
I jumped at the sound of his voice.
He pulled off his leather gloves and unbuttoned his wool overcoat. His nose and cheeks were bright red. “I could use a pick-me-up.”
“Um, yeah.” I mopped up the puddle I’d spilled on the counter. “It’s chamomile, though.”
Dad crinkled his Rudolph nose.
“I think I saw some peppermint in the cupboard. I’ll get it for you.”
“Thanks, Gracie.” He pulled a stool up to the counter.
I took the kettle off the stove and poured him a cup. “Bad day?” He’d been so busy with the charity drive and the endless studying in his office for the last month; it had been weeks since we’d really talked.
Dad wrapped his hands around his mug. “Maryanne Duke has pneumonia again. At least I think that’s what it is.”
“Oh, no. I just saw her last night. She looked tired but I didn’t think … Is she okay?” I asked. Maryanne was my dad’s oldest parishioner. I’d known her forever, and Jude and I had been helping out around her house ever since the last of her daughters moved to Wisconsin when I was twelve. She was practically our surrogate grandma.
“She refuses to go to the doctor. All she wants is for me to pray for her.” Dad sighed. He looked worn, crumpled—as if the parish itself rested on his shoulders. “Some people expect miracles.”
I handed him a peppermint tea bag. “Isn’t that why God invented doctors?”
Dad chuckled. “Now, would you go tell that to Maryanne? Your brother can’t even talk any sense into her, and you know how much she loves him. He told her that if she’d gone to the doctor last time, she’d probably be well enough to sing her solo tomorrow.” Dad hung his head low; his nose just missed the brim of his mug. “I don’t know where I’ll find a replacement this late. And tomorrow is the kickoff for next semester’s scholarship drive.”
Dad believed that everyone deserved a quality Christian education, so he sponsored a biannual scholarship fund-raiser at the parish for Holy Trinity Academy. Eighty-something-year-old Maryanne Duke would always sing her infamous solo of “Holy Father, in Thy Mercy,” and Dad and the principal and other members of the Board of Regents would give talks on charity and “doing unto others.” Mom thought that Dad gave so much to the community that Jude and I should qualify for the scholarship fund.
“Maybe I should have opted for a children’s choir this year,” Dad said before taking a sip. “Remember how much fun you and Jude had singing with your friends? That was the best children’s choir in the state.”
“Yeah, it was great,” I said softly. I picked up a spoon and stirred my tea. It had grown cold unusually fast—or maybe that was just me. I was surprised that Dad would bring up the children’s choir. Jude, Daniel, and I started the singing group while Daniel was living with us. But it had lasted only a few months before we lost our lead tenor. Daniel had had the voice of an angel—surprising depth and clarity for such a mischievous boy—before it turned raspy and bitter, like what I’d heard last night. When Daniel’s mother took him back, it was a blow not only to our choir and our family, but to Daniel most of all.
“You could do it,” Dad said.
I spilled my tea again. “What?”
“You could sing Maryanne’s solo.” Dad grinned, his eyes lighting up. “You have a beautiful voice.”
“I’m out of practice. I’d sound like a frog.”
“You would really be saving the day.” He put his hand on mine. “Besides, you seem like you could use a spiritual lift.”
I looked down at my mug. I hated it when Dad could see into my soul. It was like his own, special pastor superpower.
“I’ll help,” Charity said from behind us. She’d come in from outside with an armload of library books. “I can sing with you, Grace. It could be a duet.” Charity gave me an eager smile. She loved to sing when she thought no one was around, but I knew her timid voice couldn’t carry a whole solo in a crowded church.
“Thanks. I’d like that,” I said to her.
Dad clapped his hands. “Charity never faileth,” he said, and hugged the two of us together.
SUNDAY MORNING
I ended up sitting next to Don Mooney on the temporary choir benches behind the altar. Charity sat on the other side of me, wringing a bulletin in her hands. Don bellowed out “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God” about two octaves lower than the rest of the choir. He sang with such exuberance and clumsiness that I found myself almost warming to him for the first time.
“It’s a shame about them windows,” Don whispered to me while Principal Conway delivered his biannual address. Don looked up at the clear glass windows above the crowded balcony, where the beautiful depiction of Christ knocking on a door used to be.
When a fire, a little over three years ago, gutted most of the balcony but left the stained-glass windows intact, they were celebrated as a miracle. However, we all mourned their loss when Dad reported that a misplaced ladder during reconstruction had shattered the windows. And since they had been crafted over a hundred and fifty years ago, there was no way to replace the stained glass on our budget.
“I dreamed I had a time machine and went back and stopped the fire,” Don whispered. “That way they’d still be there.”
Principal Conway glanced back at us. Don’s whispers were more like a low shout. I held my finger to my lips. Don blushed and slumped on the bench.
“As I was saying,” the principal said, “Holy Trinity Academy can offer hope and guidance to all teens from every walk of life. However, it is up to us to help less fortunate students to succeed. So I ask each and every one of you to ponder this question: what can you do, how much can you give, to bring grace and salvation unto even one soul?” Principal Conway patted his handkerchief to his lips and took his seat next to my father.
The organ keyed up, and I sat there wondering if someone’s salvation could really be linked to getting an education from HTA.
Charity pulled on my sleeve. “It’s our turn,” she croaked.
We stood at the podium, and even though we’d rehearsed for over three hours yesterday, my hands started to sweat. I looked out to the audience. Mom, Jude, and James sat in the front row, smiling at us. Pete Bradshaw had come in late but was now sitting with his mother a few rows back. He gave me a big thumbs-up. My vision darted to the windows above the balcony and stayed there while Charity and I sang.
I imagined the stained-glass windows there, with Christ standing outside an old hardwood door. “Ask and ye shall receive, knock and it shall be opened unto you,” my father had once told Don Mooney, and it had driven the giant man to tears. I remembered finding Daniel alone in the chapel shortly after Don’s first arrival at the parish. He’d looked up at the stained-glass windows and asked the same question I had only days before—why my father had forgiven Don even though he had hurt him.
“Shouldn’t he have told somebody or called the cops?” Daniel asked.
I tried to repeat what my father had told me, but I was still so confused I’m sure it came out all wrong. “Dad says we have to forgive everybody. No matter how bad someone is or how much they hurt you. He says people do bad things because they’re desperate.”
Daniel screwed up his eyes and wiped his nose on his sleeve. I thought he was about to cry, but then he punched me in the arm. “You Divines never make any sense.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and limped up the aisle. At least his injured leg was getting better. It seemed like he could barely walk only a few hours ago when we picked him up for church. Daniel said he’d fallen out of the walnut tree the previous morning. But I knew he was lying. I’d been out front all day planting petunias with my mother, and I knew he hadn’t come out of his house.
I wished he’d ask for help.
My voice faltered as we sang the line, “Bless them, guide them, save them.”
A thought hit me like a slash of paint on canvas. What if Daniel, in his own sideways manner, had been asking for help the other night? Asking for my help?
When the song was over, I sat down in my seat with renewed resolve. It was too late to scrape the idea away.
I knew what I had to do.
MONDAY, BEFORE SCHOOL
“I’m sorry, Grace, but there’s nothing I can do.” Mr. Barlow stroked his mustache.
I couldn’t believe how unreasonable he was being. My entire plan hinged on this factor. If I was going to help Daniel get his life back, I would have to get him back in school first. Then I’d find a way to make things right between him and my brother. “The decision is yours, Mr. Barlow. Daniel needs this class.”
“What that boy needs is respect.” Barlow shuffled a stack of papers on his desk. “Kids like that think they can waltz in here and screw around. This is AP art, not an easy-A course.”
“I know, sir. Nobody takes this class lightly. In fact, I think it’s an honor just to be in here—”
“Exactly. That’s why your friend will not be joining this class. This is a place for serious artists. Speaking of which”—Barlow opened his desk drawer and pulled out a long slip of drawing paper—“I want to discuss your last project.” He laid the paper on the desk. It was my shoddy teddy bear drawing.
I sank down in my chair. So much for fighting for Daniel’s spot in the class; it was my own standing that was on the line now.
“I must say, I was quite disappointed when I saw this.” Barlow waved his hand over the drawing. “But then I realized what you were up to. Quite a brilliant idea.”
I sat up taller. “What?”
“Tell me if I’m wrong, because I would hate to make an improper interpretation. I asked the class to draw something that reminded them of their childhood, but I love your take on the assignment. This is plainly an example of your talent and skill level as a child. I’m impressed with your artistic vision.”
I nodded, then wondered if I was doomed to hell for doing so.
“You should have turned in both of your assignments together. I almost gave you a failing grade before I saw this one.” Barlow pulled a second drawing out of his drawer and laid it on the table. It was the charcoal sketch of the walnut tree.
I almost choked. At the bottom of the drawing was my name scrawled in April’s unmistakable curly handwriting. “I didn’t …” But I couldn’t bring myself to admit the truth when I saw the admiration in Barlow’s face as he looked over the lines of the tree.
“This is an excellent example of your growth and breadth of skill over the years,” Barlow said. “To be honest, I didn’t expect to see this level of skill from you before graduation.” He pulled out a red pen and marked a bold A+ at the top of the paper. “It is an honor to have you in my class,” Barlow said, and handed me both of the drawings. “Now get out of here so I can get some work done.”
I stood up and started to walk away. Then I stopped and turned back. My resolve from yesterday returned.
“Mr. Barlow?” He looked up. “Yes?”
“You love to teach students who have a lot of promise, like what you saw in this drawing? You even said it was an honor.”
“Yes, I did.” Mr. Barlow stroked his mustache and squinted. “What are you getting at?”
I walked back to his desk. I took a deep breath and then blurted out, “I didn’t do this.” I handed him the tree drawing. “Daniel did.”
Mr. Barlow sputtered. “You turned in his work!”
“No. This drawing is mine.” I held up the teddy bear sketch. “This is the one I turned in. Someone else must have put that one”—I pointed at the drawing in his hands—“in the pile by accident. I’m sorry. I should have told you right away.”
Barlow picked up his watercolor pens and shoved them, one by one, back into his handcrafted mug. He dropped the mug on top of a stack of files and then leaned back in his chair. “You say Daniel did this drawing?”
“Yes. He’s trying to get into Trenton.”
Barlow nodded.
“He really needs this class.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what. If you and your friend meet me here at seven twenty-five sharp, tomorrow morning, I’ll have a talk with him and see what I can do.”
I sprang up on my toes. “Thank you, Mr. Barlow.”
“If Daniel misses another day of school, he’ll lose his tuition scholarship.” He shook his head and muttered, “How he got a scholarship in the first place is beyond me.”
I cocked my head and smiled. “You’re pretty cool, Mr. Barlow.”
A couple of students filed into the class as the first bell rang.
Mr. Barlow glanced at them. “Don’t tell too many people,” he said. “And I expect to see a quality resubmission of your assignment by Monday.”
CHAPTER SIX
Miracle Worker
AFTER SCHOOL
It wasn’t until I was eating lunch with April in the art room that I realized the major fallacy of my brilliant plan: somehow I had to actually find Daniel to tell him that Barlow was willing to give him a second chance. All I knew was what apartment building he was “staying in.” I didn’t have an apartment number or even a way to get downtown. My parents absolutely forbade me from going into the city on my own—let alone to Markham Street. And I’m not exactly a fan of public transportation—April and
I both got pickpocketed when we took a bus to the mall in Apple Valley last summer. So somehow I had to finagle one of my parents’ cars and a decent alibi.
I wasn’t a liar by nature. My chest and neck would turn bright red even when I told the slightest fib. Good thing no one bothered to ask how I’d gotten the car running again, or I would have turned into a shiny, blubbering radish. But I figured I might be able to get away with a half-truth when begging a car off my mom.
“I have to meet April at the library.” I scratched at the thick wool scarf I’d wrapped around my neck to hide the blotching. “We’re working on our research project for English.” April and I were scheduled to meet at the library—but not until later.
Mom sighed. “I guess I can go to the grocery store tomorrow. We’ve got plenty of leftovers.”
“Thanks. I probably won’t make it home for dinner. I’ve … we’ve got a lot to do.”
I zipped my coat up to my chin and took the car keys off the table. I was ready to bolt, but Mom reached out and clasped her hand on my forehead.
“Are you feeling okay, honey? You seem flushed.”
“I just haven’t slept well lately.” I hadn’t had a full night’s sleep since I first saw Daniel on Wednesday. “I gotta run.”
“You’ll have to take the minivan.”
Ugh. It was one thing to come rolling into the city in an old sedan, but it was another to show up in that part of town in my mother’s Blue Bubble—that’s what April called our royal-blue minivan, which resembled a bubble-gum ball on wheels and screamed “middle-aged mom out to get the groceries.” I could just picture the snide look on Daniel’s face.
DOWNTOWN
I almost turned the car around three times. I must be crazy, I thought as I navigated through the alleys near Daniel’s apartment. I pulled over under the same lamp from Friday night and studied the squatty building across the street—it didn’t look quite as ominous in the waning afternoon light. It was constructed of yellowed bricks that looked like rows of rotting teeth with a wide gap in the middle where the front doors must have once stood. Cigarette butts and mucky trash littered the crumbling stoop.
