SHINE
a book for mid-grade readers
by
Dakota Lane
SMASHWORDS EDITION
****
PUBLISHED BY:
Dakota Lane on Smashwords
Shine
Copyright 2010 by Dakota Lane
1.
Rain. Strumming, thrumming, bleck.
That's what it's doing, and I'm supposed to be packing. The suitcase is open on my bed, and my cat Mr. Jones is asleep inside it--flat on his back with his paws crossed. I think he has the right idea.
It's only noon but it's dark, and it's also hot. Everything feels soggy, even my brain. I just want to curl up with a book, and forget that my summer is ruined. But which book? I've got stacks and stacks of them, piled up on my floor, enough to fill nine suitcases, and I don't want to leave any of them behind. And mom would kill me if I curled up with a book in the middle of this disaster.
"Jada, two more hours!" Mom's been calling out orders since early this morning. My room looks like somebody dumped out all the drawers, ripped everything off the walls and then stirred the whole mess up with a humongous spoon.
"No problem," I shout back, in as cheerful a voice as possible.
"Almost done!" I don't want her to start crying again. I leave the big orange tiger in my suitcase and wade through my junk to my bookshelf which is empty now except for Turnip's cage.
He's a miniature bunny, the size of an ice cream scoop, chocolate brown, with a white on his forehead and paws. He scampers into my hand, relieved to get some attention. By this time, he's usually out and about.
"You don't know what's happening, do you?" I settle back on a pile of clothes, and rub the velvet spot between his ears.
The TV's going in the living room, weather bulletins, the announcer's voice tense and urgent. I pick up fragments: Orange alert emergency,
heavy flooding, evacuation in effect,...traffic is orderly on the interstate, helicopters are....
"You're gonna be okay," I whisper into the top of Turnip's head. He smells so innocent, like fresh cut grass and clover. He shudders with the cutest sigh and sinks onto my chest, sleepy as Mr. Jones.
If only they knew what was coming.
If only I didn't.
And if only summer had kept going the way it started.
2
The Perfect Day
For me, summer officially started when they rang the last bell on the last day of school.
We swarmed outside and there was a bit of a partying mood-- the sky endlessly blue, the day warm, bye-bye fifth grade forever.
A bunch of kids sat on the wall outside, talking about plans.
Olivia and I ripped open our report cards; we were supposed to wait, but our Big Trip depended on the outcome. Her mom and my mom are best friends—we were planning this huge camping trip—just the four of us—two hours up the coast at Dayton Beach, with a huge boardwalk and rides, body surfing by day and sleeping under the stars at night. Paradise.
"Yes!" said Olivia. "Made it!"
"Me too!" We needed all Bs if we wanted to go on the trip and we'd both managed mostly As.
Groans and cheers were rippling through the little crowd; on the back of the report cards were the sixth grade placements.
But we scored big there also—not only were we placed in the same class, but we both got Ms. Senyak, the coolest teacher in sixth grade. Everyone had a summer reading list, but Ms. Senyak gave us only a few fun books, books I wanted to read anyway. "I've been praying to get her since first grade," said Olivia.
Out of nowhere, Dante, my karate sparring partner, came up behind and grabbed my hand; I pulled out of it and was about to throw a fake punch at him when he whipped out a marker and wrote his new email address on the back of my hand. For some reason it made my heart pound. No one had ever written on my hand before.
I caught one of the popular girls throwing me an approving look--not that I care, but it gave me this feeling that things were about to change.
I was right about that, but not the way I thought. Things never go the way you think, even when you plan them out.
Usually I get on the bus, but my mom showed up and was like "Where's my fifth grade-grad?" I tried to shrug out of her hug, but really I was happy.
A ton of kids were calling out to her--"Hey Mrs. Hendricks." She was a favorite substitute in my school, before she got her permanent job teaching at the junior high school. People I knew were running up for their own hugs, and I felt my usual mixture of pride tinged with jealousy. She is the type anyone would feel proud of, and she always says it's good for me to share her a bit since I don't have any siblings.
"And we will see you very soon, my dear!" She said, giving Olivia an extra hug.
We went across the street to the B& N, and it was jammed.
I looked out at the shelves, so full of potential, and got a fierce craving for a new book. I thought of my summer reading list—there was one book I was dying to read. But we mostly order books from my library, and besides, Mom was steering us into the cafe.
It's not like Mom and I were always treating ourselves, but this time we each got a big frozen drink.
"Only 12 days, baby, 12 days!" Mom said.
She didn't need to tell me, I had a count going in my head and I was marking off the days on my calendar at home.
Mom gets ten days off every summer—and we usually stay home, doing Farmer's Markets and country fairs, backyard cookouts and movie parties—we could probably write a book about how to have an amazing vacation without ever leaving home.
This is the first year we decided to go for something a bit more exotic, but in the budget—and camping with our best friends was the perfect answer.
We sat in the B&N, slurping our Coolatas and making lists for our trip. We love our lists.
1.Small cooler
2.Trail mix, health food store
3. Bathing suits
4. Pet Instructions for YWG.
YWG was short for Your Witchy Grandma.
She lives next door with my cousins Mariah (two month older than me, just turned twelve) and Squeak (five) and it shouldn't have been a big deal for my Witchy Grandma to feed my pets but somehow....I just didn't trust her. She was the kind of person who would boss you around and expect you to do every single thing perfectly and yet she was always messing things up herself.
I was trying to paint a dire picture of what would happen if we left Mr. Jones and Turnip in my WG's care—but Mom wouldn't hear it.
"You're too protective of those animals," she said. "You have to learn to trust a little. You've got to trust Your Witchy Grandma."
She said this with a totally straight face, but seriously, who would trust someone named Your Witchy Grandma.
My mom almost never has a mean word about anyone, but she's been referring to my Grandma Nat as Your Witchy Grandma for so long I have to be careful not to call her that myself. At least in public.
It supposedly all started after the flood, back when I was three, and my dad wanted to take my mom out for a special dinner and so he told me: you're going to stay the night at your grandma's house and my mom said which grandma, and supposedly when I heard that I started crying because I thought she meant it was a Witch grandma, and ever since then it stuck, even though Dad didn't like it because my Witchy Grandma was his mother.
I have to admit she kind of does look like a witch—she's tall and white with black hair and her lipstick is blood red and she gets a scary look in her eyes when you don't do what she wants.
My Grandma Kendra is about the opposite—she's a foot shorter than my Witchy Grandma, and she's a little bit wide, but not fat, just comfy to hug. She has crinkly grey hair cut short, and wears bright patterns and colors like mom, but not a lot of makeup. Her skin is a deep warm, brown, a little darker than mine, just like mom. I don't know why I ended up with a mean grandma next door instead of the nice one. I see Grandma Kendra a few times a year, because she moved to North Carolina when I was little, after the flood ruined her house.
If you live anywhere around here you know about the flood. It happened when I was four, and my cousin Squeak wasn't even born yet. Hundreds of people died, whole neighborhoods were destroyed, and half the state was emptied out. There were not many houses or jobs to come back to. Everyone has stories about those days, and everyone knows someone who died.
Mom and dad's house was totally destroyed and so was My Witchy Grandma's and so was the house that Mariah lived in with her mom and dad.
Just a week before Dad had the accident, we moved into our brand new little house, and Mariah and her parents crowded in next door with my Witchy Grandma, in their brand new orange house, but I don't remember any of that, and now it's just me and mom in the our purple house and my WG and my cousins still living next door, with my father dead, Uncle Travis in jail and Aunt Pookie in mental hospital. A lot can happen in seven years.
Even though we're family we don't exactly act like it, but it seemed like I was stuck with the Witchy Grandma pet sitter arrangement, and just had to trust she would not poison my babies while I was tanning on the beach.
I browsed around the bookstore for a while, and I saw mom buying something, and I knew she was getting something for me, not because I'm greedy or expected it, but I saw her quickly look around with that I-want-to-surprise-Jada look.
She tossed the bag onto my lap in the car, and I just knew it was the book I wanted. Mom is uncanny that way, she somehow knows exactly what I'm craving, even if it's a certain flavor of lip-gloss.
So I reached in with this big grin on my face, totally confident that it was the book and --it wasn't.
It was something I'd never seen before: Angel Words.
I frowned down at it, shaking the box a little. Is it a game?
No, just this thing, you pick a word a day, it's for inspiration. She gave my hand a squeeze.
I got it just because I'm proud of you, and you're my angel.
The box of words seemed to transform right then in my hands into something a little magical, and that's the kind of day it was, each good thing leading into the next.
3
The Perfect Night
That night we were out on the porch with sweet iced tea, and grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches, our first porch picnic of the summer. Squeak and my WG were in their backyard, filling up the kiddie pool. Everyone calls our neighborhood Floodville, even the people who live there.
It's block after block of these tiny little identical houses, all of them painted sherbet colors. They were tiny, but strong, in case there was another flood.
Our houses might look the same, but what goes on inside my cousin's house is way different from what goes on inside mine. For one thing, they live like rich people. My grandpa, who I never met-- (my Witchy Grandma's husband)-- was a kind of famous country singer and they were living off the money he made from all his songs, back in the 1960s.
They weren't rich, my WG always says. "Lord knows that raising two grandchildren takes a bite out of the budget," she says. But that doesn't stop her from her favorite pastimes—spoiling my cousins.
My cousin Mariah was on her front porch, eating Chinese take-out and being a drama queen about how good it was.
I still wasn't used to her new hair.
Her snobby charter school ended last week, and they'd had some kind of end-of-year dance, so my WG took her to a stylist and Mariah decided to get a short cut and a perm.
Before she chopped off her hair, She looked almost exactly like that TV star Nicki Kovicki. They both have the same green eyes, golden skin, like a perpetual tan, and the attitude of owning the world.
I was studying Mariah like she was a magazine cover—I'm always trying to figure her out. It was just strange that a twelve year old would get a perm. She never seemed happy with herself—or anyone else either.
"You have a good last day of school, honey?" Mom was basically always nice to her.
"Yes, auntie." Mariah's voice was flat and she was staring out at something in the yard. For a second I felt sorry for her; I guess I might have a sour look all the time if I lived with My Witchy Grandma too. But then I remembered how she didn't invite me to her last sleep-over, and then got mad when I had a sleep-over with three girls, even though I invited her; about a million other times she acts like I'm not good enough for her and her friends.
For her crew, it's all about looks.
For me, it's always been about sports—I didn't care about how I looked so much as how well my body could perform; I love to move—and have been pretty competitive since first grade when I started taking karate. (Almost have my brown belt.) I'm obsessed with basketball, even though I'm not that tall and pretty much suck at it, but I'm sticking with it, because Olivia's really good at it, and pushes me so we can be on a team once we make it to junior high when they get serious about it.
I never cared that much about clothes, am bored by most fashion magazines, but once or twice got lured in by Mariah's fave show, America's top teen model—because the drama just gets to you and any kind of competition can be addictive to watch.
Lately I've been staring in the mirror more, and I don't mind what I see. It's not like I'm obsessed about my looks, but it is a little weird to be going through the typical changes, any second now going to get my period.
People say I have nice eyes or great hair or I'm "attractive." Only mom says I'm beautiful. The most annoying thing is since I was little, perfect strangers always asked me what race I was.
a. None of their business. b. I particularly hate when they come right out and say things like are you mixed?
Stupid word, mixed.
What's good is I guess I can pass for anything: African American, Italian, South American—once someone even asked me if I was part Japanese. My skin is much darker than Mariah's, my hair is curlier and thicker—and way too long; I always comb my fingers through it in the morning so I don't end up with dreads and scrunch it back in a messy ponytail. My mom's African American with a tiny bit of Cherokee and has high cheekbones and almond-shaped yes like me, and my dad was white. Was. Try to never think about that. I mean I think of him, every day, but more like he's with me and not gone. Don't get me started.
"Hey, Jada, want to see what I got for camp?" Just another one of Mariah's typical moody turnarounds; she's all sparkly, jumping up with excitement.
And no, I really didn't want to see, but she didn't wait for an answer. She leaped up from her plate of eggrolls and spareribs, sped into the house and came out with an armful of new clothes, tags still on.
Ever since their parents left, Witchy Grandma has done nothing but lavish them with stuff, especially Mariah.
She even had some of those summer leggings. They come in all kinds of patterns and are super light, so you can wear them under short dresses or even under jeans that have holes in the knee. I'd been dreaming about which kind I wanted—with day-glo flowers or the black ones with pirates and skulls—and now Mariah had both!
Mom was watching me like a mother eagle. Be kind, she hissed so only I could hear.
Nice, I said, to everything Mariah showed me. Cool.
"Oh, that's so cute!" said my mom about a tank top that looked somewhat blah to me.
"I am so going to rock this," she said, nodding in agreement with herself.
Mom didn't even notice her self-centered attitude. Maybe she was fooling my mother, but not me. She only acted friendly when she wanted to show off her new things or brag about her life. She'd always get this little smile when she saw she was making me jealous, but it wasn't going to happen that night.
All the streets in our neighborhood are lined with tall, young trees and a kind of mysterious purple twilight was gathering in the tops of the leaves. I'd just gotten this new metallic bike helmet for an early birthday present, and I couldn't wait to try it out. My neighborhood was the perfect place for biking—I knew practically every family in every house, the traffic was slow and you could feel safe but have freedom at the same time. I was already thinking ahead to the morning—would I sleep late, or burst out of bed with excitement?
Mariah wasn't getting to me as much as she usual. I particularly was not jealous that she was going away to some rich kids camp for the whole month of July. I wouldn't have traded our one-week vacation for an eternity in a rich kids camp. I heard those kind of camps were like fancy prisons—lots of rich kid toys but way too many rules.
The main annoying thing about Mariah was not that she had money, or even things; it was her attitude, the same attitude that everyone else probably had at that camp.
I was watching her hold up yet another cute top when I caught a flicker of movement: Mr. Jones crawling on his belly on Mariah's lawn, hugging the shadows, doing his ninja spy routine. He was either stalking a bird or—nope, he had something bigger in mind. He shimmied up the side post of Mariah's porch, then graceful as a tightrope walker, he was gliding across the rail. He dropped onto the porch and for his final move, he went into a flying tiger crouch, reached up a stripey little arm—
SCAT! said my mom, with a clap of her hands, scat you beast!
I really wanted to see him snatch that rib.
Anyway, it was finally summer.
Still sunny even at seven at night.
We put our feet up and ate Rocky Road ice cream for dessert and talked about how good the sun felt on our cheeks after that long, dark winter. It was so nice out on the porch, I asked if I could sleep outside, and Mom said no, but promised there would be so many other porch nights.
I don't want you to think that I put too much importance on Mariah. She is basically a mosquito, and except for the feeling of wanting to swat her away, the first day of summer vacation was like having a bag full of gold coins. Every coin was a day, and I could feel the weight of that gold, tons of days left to spend.
I fell asleep with my window open and the sound of crickets, lying on my stomach with Mr. Jones on my back. I know that sounds odd, but I'm so used to it, sometimes I can't sleep any other way. He started it when he was a teeny kitten, and no one knew he would grow into a giant beast. Sometimes he even throws in a free massage!
I fell asleep dreaming of campfires and toasted marshmallows, crashing waves and coconut suntan lotion and in the dead center of the night, I woke with an explosion in my head—a crack of lightening hit our front yard and shook the house.
Mr. Jones leaped into guard duty-- scanning the room with his blazing yellow eyes, first standing over me, then patrolling in front of Turnip's cage, and again back to me, daring the world to try anything. I would have laughed so hard if the storm wasn't so serious.
The sky sounded like two pieces of Velcro being ripped apart, and each flash lit the front yard so clearly that I could see the green of the lawn and the red of our mailbox.
The lightening reached down with a long jagged finger, just like in the horror movies.
Mr. Jones wouldn't calm down until I took Turnip into bed and all three of us curled up together, which is how we would always sleep if Turnip could just learn not to leave little poop pellets everywhere.
And poor Chief, our pit-bull mix, whimpering like a puppy and refusing to come from under mom's bed. Usually he's fearless, and often fights with Mr. Jones for the prime spot on my bed—and he watches over Turnip like a worried mom, even carries her around in his mouth, gently like she's a kitten, but not when the storms hit. The only thing Chief's scared of is thunder.
Of all our pets, I secretly love him the most: Mr. Jones cracks me up with his antics, and Turnip's like having a live stuffed animal—but Chief is nearly human—he was a pound puppy and he has the most soulful, intelligent expression in his amber eyes; the way he'll sit and look into my face when I'm depressed and just rest his paw on my knee; I swear he knows everything I'm thinking. One of our neighbors gave him to us on the third anniversary of Dad's death. It was a weird coincidence. I was eight so he's about three now.
Sometimes it's kind of fun being scared. Summer storms are usually like drama queens—raging and crashing all night, but glistening and sunny by morning.
Only not this time.
The day after the first big storm was all dark gloom and the thunder kept on rolling, and the rain would not stop.
After that: more rain.
It's been raining for 16 days and 16 nights. Fruits are rotting off the vines, half the streets are flooded, and mushrooms are growing in people's yards and even in their bathrooms. It's happening all over this part of the country and it's always on the news. It's all anyone talks about.
The sun has peeked out here and there, never for long. Mom just got laid off from her summer teaching job because they finally closed her school because it was cancelled so many times due to the flooding.
My cousin came home from camp one week after she got there, because the bunks all got moldy-- and how many days could those rich kids stand being inside the arts and crafts cabin with each other?
We never got to go camping on the beach.
Seems like it's been raining for more days than it rained when Noah took out his arc, but instead of an arc, we're packing up our car and getting out of here. They're not saying it's a hurricane—it's not even hurricane season, but there are all kinds of rumors about catastrophe and something worse.
This time they think the whole area's going to evacuate, with plenty of notice, so not too many people end up trapped in shelters or worse.
We're heading north, away from the coast, to my Aunt Jackie's house. We might even end up in North Carolina with Grandma Nat, but our plan is to comeback when the storm blows over.
Until now we've been able to handle things—our neighborhood was wet, and some of the streets get closed, but now there's some insane weather coming— and they say the river might rise higher than ever, turning our houses into swimming pools. The big Emergency's supposedly six hours away—and when it hits, we don't want to be the last ones left in Floodtown.
4
how to fit your entire life into a suitcase
"How did you do it?" I'm crouched in front of my dresser, sneaking a call to Olivia. She's already on the road with her family, headed even further north than we're going, to stay with her older sister. "Liv--I've got less than three hours and not one thing packed."
"That's plenty of time, Jay!" Her voice is instantly reassuring.
Mr. Jones is standing up on two hind legs looking out the window at the rain, mouth quivering in disgust. Poor dude. If he's not so happy now, he's going to just love it being cooped up in his carrying case for the five-hour drive to my aunt's--14 hours if we end up in North Carolina. Longer if we sleep at a motel. I don't even want to think about it.
"There's two ways to pack," Olivia's telling me. "One, you make a list of what you need, that'll help you think straight. That's what I did." Of course that's what she did—Jada's always been the organized type. I love lists, but they don't help me to be organized. They help me to dream.
"And what's the other way?" I'm walking around my room now, and basically I want to pack everything, even the things I almost hate, seem to have a place in my life, like that ugly clown doll on my dresser that my cousin D'angelo won for me at a fair. I don't even see him anymore but I used to almost worship him when I was little and it just reminds me of him, and it also reminds me of when I was five and used to be scared of clowns, but I kept it on my dresser to make myself braver, and it must have worked because they don't scare me anymore—so every time I see that ugly clown it reminds me of how I used to be close to my cousin and also how I got over being scared.
"And don't even think about taking that ugly clown," says Olivia. She isn't even reading my mind; we just knew each other for so long, and spent so many nights in each other's rooms, it's like she's right here with me, only she isn't and a wave of missing her suddenly rises up inside me and makes me almost break out in tears.
"So what's the other way?" I say again.
"The other way is to do nothing until the last second and end up with a suitcase full of crap," she says.
I grab a pad and a pen. Scribble first two items on the list—
1. Pad
2. Pen
"Are you making it?" she says.
"Yeah." I grab my white hoodie with a blue dolphin on the back that I got as a souvenir when we went to the aquarium last summer—it was too big then, but fits perfectly now and goes with everything. " And I'm already packing—I put my sweatshirt in."
"The dolphin one?"
"Yeah." But then I take the hoodie out, and put it on— if I wear it, it'll save room in the suitcase. Genius! Only now the suitcase is empty again, but I don't tell Olivia.
"What did you bring?" I ask her. "Besides clothes?"
She hesitates, and I can hear the car radio in the background, weather channel, just like at our house. I kind of wish that I were there with her in that car right now, sitting in the backseat, suitcase already packed, speeding out of here.
"I packed stuff I need and stuff I couldn't ever get back," she says.
"What about my books?" There's a sea of them swarming up around my ankles. "They're so heavy—and I want all of them!"
"No books." Her voice is so confident it calms me down. "You can always buy books again, and clothes. So just bring like three outfits, and the rest—"
And then her mom is speaking up in a sharp voice, something about didn't I tell you not to waste the minutes on that phone—and Olivia protesting—and then her mom just takes the phone. "Jada, I'm so sorry, but Olivia knows this is an emergency and we have to save the phone. But we love you very much and we will be in touch. You and your mom be safe. Bye, babe." The last thing I hear is Olivia screaming out: don't take the clown!
And yet, the clown is the next thing I grab; he just needs to come. So I'm sitting on a pile of clothes, with the clown in the suitcase,
trying to think of what else to put on the list, when I look up and my heart almost stops.
My mom's looming in the doorway, shaking her head. Taking in the mess. The suitcase empty except for the clown. "Jada Lauryn Hendricks, do you think this a joke?'"
"Sorry, Mom!" I scramble to my feet. "It's just that it's hard to—"
"Do you think I was playing with you when I told you a hurricane is
coming?" I start grabbing things, anything. I don't dare talk back to her and tell her that the last weather report said no hurricane in sight.
"Do you think you are Dorothy and that's Toto?" She tosses her chin in Mr. Jones's direction and I let out a laugh, the idea of Mr. Jones as Toto.
"THIS IS NOT A MOVIE!"
I take a breath. She doesn't.
" I ask you to pack one suitcase—ONE SUITCASE—and I am taking care of this entire house, this entire move all by myself and this is the support I get from you?"
I shove a collection of unicorn glitter barrettes that I despise into an old vinyl wallet and tuck it into the suitcase. I start folding, something, I don't even know what it is. I just keep moving, like I have a system, like I know exactly what I'm doing.
"I'm talking to you Jada, quit playing, quit throwing any old thing into that suitcase. What is the matter with you?"
"Mom, sorry!" But she doesn't even hear me.
"Do you not understand that this is my nightmare? Do you not understand that THIS IS HOW YOUR FATHER DIED and now it's happening again and I WANT TO KEEP BOTH OF US ALIVE?"
She is walking around my room touching things, and now we're both crying.
My father was a volunteer fireman, and he died after Katrina hit, a hero, on the front page of all the papers, for going into a house that caught fire. He saved two people and a cat, then didn't come out again, and by the time they got to him...
I was four, but I still remember him. The main thing I remember is right in the middle of Katrina when he fished a six-week-old kitten from the river. Mr. Jones was clinging to a piece of board and weighed like three ounces and he plopped this kitty into my arms when I woke one morning and said, baby, here's your new best friend.
The worst part is just this big gap of not having a dad. I push it away, focus on the present, that's what mom always says, action is the cure for everything.
I try to move into high gear, but my heart is slamming up in my ears and the choices seem even more serious and it's even harder to
know what to pack. She's right, it's like truly being inside a nightmare, the kind where bad things are coming but your feet are suddenly made out of lead and you just want something to come along and save you.
"Here," she says, tossing a plastic zippered pouch into my suitcase. "You need this. It's an emergency bag."
I catch a glimpse of the contents and for some reason it makes my stomach turn over: flashlight, matches, candle. Nothing she's ever packed for me before.
"But why do I need this? You're going to be with me aren't you?"
She turns to me, gentler now. "Baby, of course."
We both slump down on the floor back against my bed, kind of leaning on each other. "Then why—"
"Because," she said, sighing. "Just because. Can you not question me now?"
"I'm sorry—" I begin.
"Don't," she says, putting her hand over mine. "I'm sorry too, but we're both going to keep it together and get out of here, and there's no time for tears."
She leaps up all brisk and business again and leaves me with one word: "Pack!"
But she pops back in almost instantly, tossing me a shiny pink bag. "It's nothing really, just some fun things—I wanted to give them to you in happier times." I peek in the bag, and it's the summer leggings—the ones with the pirates, and also the book I wanted. Like I said, she always knows, only this time instead of feeling happy I have this kind of twisted feeling like I'm sinking, and the tears that come to my eyes are not really tears of joy.
"Mom—" I throw my arms around her and hug her tight. "Mom, this is so weird."
"I know, Jada, I know, but for goodness sake, let's both get moving!"
Next thing I hear her talking to some neighbor guys and then a lot of hammering. All over the neighborhood people are nailing boards up over their windows so they won't break in the storm.
Chapter four
countdown
Two hours to go.
There's no time to waste, so I fold up some essentials and toss the emergency bag on top. She put some cheese and crackers in there and I start to open it, because I haven't eaten all day, but then I remember: it's not picnic time, and these are rations.
I go out for a snack and instantly wish I hadn't.
The rest of the house is a mess, like my room times 1000. Now I know what mom's been dealing with. There are stacks of packed boxes by the door, but there's so much more I want to take. The thought of leaving all of it makes my mind go dark and dizzy.
I go and sit at the white piano, the piano mom got for her 38th birthday, because she's wanted lessons since she was a little girl. I wanted them too—but it never quite happened, even after we got the piano. Every year we were too busy, and last New Year's Eve, we made a pact that this would be the year.
I touch the keys, imagining what it would be like to see my fingers fly and something beautiful come out. So I make this deal with God: let everything be OK for all of us, and I will take lessons for the rest of my life, no matter how boring they are.
I want the piano and I want the framed photo of me and mom and Mr. Jones that's on the piano. Mr. Jones was tiny back then, I'd first got him and I had this amazingly proud look on my face, and he was tucked under my chin, his little teeny tiger face peeking out. My father took the picture, it was only a few days after he fished him out of the river, and just a few days before my dad died.
Even though my dad's not in the picture, I feel like he is, because me and my mom are smiling at him and every time I look at the picture I smile inside, thinking of how my dad was a hero, not just for saving Mr. Jones, but helping so many people after the flood.
My memories of him are so few, but pictures are so powerful they can deliver the whole person to you in one second. It doesn't even have to be a photograph; Like right above the piano is the seventies style painting of my dad and his three brothers. I must have spent 100 hours looking at the painting since I was little.
In the portrait, Dad's is about the age I am now—he's got orange hair and a huge, silly smile and I want that painting, how could we not be taking that painting?
Out of nowhere, I feel this swelling up of love for every single thing in my house, even the floors. Mom was always so proud of her "real wood floors." They're of a shiny, dark, reddish wood--a little scratched here and there, from when we have Thanksgiving and move the table into the living room and push the couch against the wall, because we always get more people than we think.
I never even knew I cared about the floors, but suddenly I do, suddenly I want to take everything.
I want the couch, the sleepy couch we call it, because no matter who sits on it they fall asleep. It's big and velvety and dark green and me and mom have our coziest talks sitting on the couch, the TV going, fun nights.
All my favorite pictures books are still on the bottom shelf in the big living room bookcase—the frog and toad books, the golden book collection—all the babar stories—maybe we could get new ones, like Olivia said, but they wouldn't be the ones mom read me on her lap; I want them so bad I've never wanted anything more and I actually kneel on the floor to start sorting through them, I could at least take a few—
and on the side of the bookcase—the pencil marks—we can't leave those—the pencil marks mom made every year and sometimes twice a year to measure how much I was growing. I've got to at least take a picture of those marks—a picture of the marks, the painting of my dad—the books, the piano—
but I go in my room and can't find the camera and then I kind of wake up, like I've been a dream.
What the heck am I thinking? Taking a picture of the marks on the wall?
Then I see that box of ANGEL WORDS mom gave me, tiny and turquoise with a glittery angel on the front, not one of those corny angels; what I like about this angel is she's African American for a change. I peek in the box for the first time—the words printed on pretty little tiles. Close my eyes and pick one: TRUST. Hmmm, another: ALLOW. Um, yuck. Another: Illuminate. Better, more magical. I take a quick flip through all 40 of them, some clicking, others not, but kind of cool to have one single word that can inspire. Tuck the box carefully into my suitcase.
I'm still hungry so I go out and grab a chocolate protein drink and mom's left a couple of Peanut Butter and banana sandwiches on the table. I wolf down two and then I feel better.
Mom's laughing with one of the worker guys and I feel better still.
"When you get back, the first thing you'll want is to get these boards off," one of the guys is saying. "So I'll leave the hammer right inside."
"No," says my mom. "First thing I'll want to get YOU, so you can HELP us get the boards off, so I'll keep my TELEPHONE right here, and YOU hang on to this hammer."
They were laughing and so was I—
when you get back—hopeful words.
Chapter Five
One hour, thirty minutes
In my room, things don't seem as grim. I look around and take stuff that I'll want if we're gone a week or two. I run back out and grab the picture of me and mom off the piano and pack that too. I hug Mom's presents to my chest; with that bright pink bag, I almost feel like I'm set. I know it's just a new book and a pair of leggings, but I want them more than almost anything else in my room—
Hey!
Mr. Jones drops his toy mouse at my feet and makes me jump about a mile. He's sitting with his tail tucked in front, giving me that innocent look: oh, did I scare you? Just waiting for me to toss it.
I wing it across the room but it ends up under my bed, the one place Mr. Jones will never go for some reason, so I crawl under there and that's when I see my acid orange bike helmet-- I got it at the beginning of the summer, but went out maybe once on my bike.
The rain has to let up some day, so I get my bike from the laundry room and wheel it out the front to see if there is any possibility that we can strap it on top of the car or something. The roof rack's already jammed with stuff though, and mom's out there under an umbrella, trying to fit a humongous box into the car. Guilt rush: I could have done more.
"Want help?" I'm right next to her, but have to shout to be heard above the downpour.
"Yeah, take this!" She passes me a box of photo albums and I'm standing in the downpour, already¥ soaked to the skin, while she makes room for it in the back. We hoist it in together and she slams the door with a flick of her hip.
She looks at my bike and just shakes her head. "Sorry, tiger."
I throw it back on the porch.
"What else do we need to do?" I say, trying to sound eager, but my voice comes out cracked. I really don't want to leave that bike.
Chapter Five
One hour
I'm in my cousins' room, because number one on mom's to-do list is for me to be in here helping them pack. We have to be out in less than an hour and they still have half-empty suitcases.
"And I—EEE-I----EEE-IIIIII—WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOU—you—HOO==OOO—WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOU!" My little cousin Squeak is belting out a ballad, strutting on her bed.
"If you don't get off that bed and get your junk packed I'm going to beat your head in!" Mariah's voice comes out muffled from the closet. Squeak rolls her eyes and starts in on a second chorus, louder this time. She's wearing a rainbow-colored tutu and has a princess crown on her head.
"Come on, now," I catch her mid-jump, lifting her in a spin and making her squeal. "I'm here to help you, so just tell me what you want to take---"
I grab some stuffed animals."These?"
"Yup," she says.
I scoop up some books. "These?"
"Um, OK!"
"I guess you want everything?"
"YEAH!"
"Come on, tell me what you love most."
"You!" she says, knocking me onto the bed. As tiny as she is, she's almost stronger than me.
She climbs into my lap and starts playing with my hair. "I like your barrettes." She looks up at me with soft, dark eyes. "Can you fix my hair like that?"
"Get up off of her lap and get moving!" Mariah emerges from the closet looking like she's more ready to walk a runway than meet a tornado. She's wearing denim micro shorts and a glittery top and for some reason, some high heels. She sees me looking at them and kicks them off, embarrassed. "I'm trying to pick out what to bring," she says. "It's not easy packing only two suitcases."
"I only got one," I say.
"Well, I have a lot of good stuff," she says. She doesn't need to add: and you don't.
I feel really lazy all of a sudden so I plop down.
"We kind of need to do this, Jada?" she says it like a question, voice dripping with annoyance.
"Well I kind of am here to help you, since grandma kind of asked mom if I would? And I'm kind of waiting for your orders?" I say, matching her tone.
A huge explosion of thunder splits the air, and you can feel the boom in your chest, like a small bomb.
"What about these, Rye?" I take in her American doll collection with a sweep of my hand. "Don't you want any of them? I mean I know you don't play with dolls, but you've been collecting them forever and—"
Mariah's holding a black dress up to herself and studying herself in the mirror with that pout she gets. For an instant it looks like she's got tears glistening on her cheeks, and I start to feel sorry for her—but it's just sweat.
Usually their house is chill as a refrigerator. "Can't you put your air conditioning on?"
"Electric's out!" Squeak tells me. "Because of the storm!"
Nothing to do but keep moving. "So what about your art stuff? Want me to pack some of it for you?"
Actually, this could be fun: Mariah has a little easel in the corner with a collection of paints and sketchpads, and a rainbow of temptingly displayed pens and colored pencils. I'm this close to rolling up my sleeves and sitting right down and playing. Or maybe just lying down on their thick, cream colored carpet to take a nap. With the rain thrumming on the roof, and the heat of the room, it seems impossible to resist.
I pull out one of their floor cushions and scrunch it under my head.
Years ago, Rye and I played together, right in this room, right in this corner, having our tea parties. Our moms were constantly taking pictures of us and I remember those days as a series of photographs. Those pictures fill up a bunch of albums, and they're buried in some drawer somewhere. Back then we weren't only cousins, we were BFF.
We used to have a Sunday afternoon routine of making goopy marshmallow chocolate bars and pigging out in front of our favorite videos. It's like those two little kids have nothing to do with us.
I feel my eyes go heavy. Aren't you supposed to be all energetic in a crises? They say your adrenaline gets going, but
I feel like I could sleep forever on this dark afternoon—
except for that sudden odor, something sharp and unmistakable—
"Are you trying to kill me?" Mariah shrieks. Her little sis is on the
bed trying to paint her toenails. "You know you're supposed to use that outside!"
Mariah's sensitive to every smell known to mankind—
from fried eggs to wet dogs, and she supposedly gets sick if people
use nail polish in a closed room.
Squeak's still dabbing at her nails. Plus, she's leaving a line of purple drips on the carpet—
"Look at the freaking mess you're making—" Mariah strides across the room and squints at the bottle. "And that's MY NAIL POLISH, you brat!"
I'm just sitting useless on the floor, watching them like it's one of those obnoxious reality shows where people have fits over nothing.
Mariah yanks the bottle from Squeak and puts it back on her dresser, in line with 23 other nail polishes, and the injustice of this makes Squeak stand up on her bed.
"You're not even packing it! " Squeak was waving the top of the bottle around, flicking bits of polish everywhere. "It's just going to be ruined in the flood with everything else, so I might as well use it now!"
"You want it?" says Mariah. "Just take it then!" She wings it across the room, and it cracks on impact against Squeak's wall, leaving an impressive purple splat.
All three of us contemplate the splat in silence.
"Whatever," says Rye, shrugging it off. Always quick to forgive herself, just like my WG. In fact, her entire personality is beginning to seem more and more like my WG. Critical, vain, demanding...
"Why don't you help Shaniqua," she tells me, in her bossy queen voice.
When people get really mad at Squeak they call her Shaniqua, which is her real name, but people only say it when they're mad, so of course she's grown to hate that name and it takes exactly two seconds for Squeak to fly across the room and fling herself on her sister.
"Quit calling me that!" she was all skinny arms and flying fists, grabbing at Mariah's short new curls.
Next thing, I'm jumping into this frantic mess, and my witchy grandma appears in the room without speaking, which is worse in a way than screaming. Just standing there tall and white-faced, her red lips pressed together and her dyed black hair all wiry and stiff, looking around the room, shaking her head. She doesn't need to say a word.
The purple splat. The suitcases not packed. Us all sweating and out of breath and Squeak with tears streaked down her face.
"Grandma, I—" Mariah makes a move towards WG.
"Don't even," she says.
Her face is a calm mask, but I brace myself—we all know she's going to throw a fit that will make my mom's meltdown look like a Girl Scout party.
Chapter Six
Almost out
She starts off quiet, and she starts with me:
"I'm glad to see you've been helping, Jada." Her voice is sarcastically sweet and you can see how mad she is because this vein is ticking on the side of her neck. "Look how much has been packed—and the room is neat as a pin!" She has that hard smile on her face that sends a chill through me even in this heat. I can tell my cousins are scared, too. They don't even dare move, just holding their breath, waiting for the bomb to hit.
Next thing, it's pack this, junk that, carry this out to the car, help me this, but miraculously, she never quite explodes.
My WG is back in my house now, looking to see what my mom might have missed, and then we're all standing out in our driveways, ready to go, with only one problem—Mr. Jones and Turnip are missing.
I whistle for Chief—him too.
So we have a mad scramble, every one of us searching, hunting behind the bushes, and through the house, it's happened before, and they're usually always together, because when Turnip goes missing, Mr. Jones is always close by, protecting him. He thinks he's Turnip's dad. And Chief thinks he's the mom. This time it's scarier than any other, and my heart's pounding in my ears so hard that I can't even listen for Mr. Jone's meow, but then I find them--curled together on a sweater, on the floor of the laundry room. The three of them have this way of sleeping, every since I first brought Turnip home; Turnip scoots backwards somehow, right between Mr. Jone's paws, with her bunny tail facing him and he rests his chin on her like she's a chin pillow and you just see this cat face with this little bunny face under his chin. And Chief's wrapped around the two of them, with a protective paw over Mr. Jones. Mr. Jones's ears are flattened out when Chief slings his paw over him, but he tolerates it, and the three of them look so funny one of these days I'm going to make a youtube video and get about nine million hits.
Not today.
I stick Turnip in the outside pocket of my backpack, and hoist Mr. Jones up, hugging him to my chest.
I nuzzle his soft orange head and he does what he always does when I give him love—he reaches up and pats me on the back of my neck, pat, pat, pat. He's done this since he was a tiny kitten, and I swallow hard, no time for tears, mom said.
SO I pack them into their cages with food and water and a litter box for each of them. Chief's going to ride in the car with my WG because she had an enormous SUV, and then when we get to the bridge and go our separate directions, he'll squoosh in with us.
Mr. Jones does not look happy one bit, he's giving me this reproachful look with his golden green eyes and he's trying to poke his paw and his nose out of the mesh in the cage. I think about putting Turnip in with him so they can comfort each other, but instead I give Turnip a carrot and Mr. Jones his favorite toy mouse with the creepy realistic pink eyes.
Both cars are packed and all of us are standing outside, except for Squeak who's having an emotional fit in the front seat of their car.
It's eerie because the rain has stopped. Everyone notices. There's a greenish tint to the air and you can hear the wind picking up speed, the leaves of the trees whipping around. The streets are empty—no cars, birds, people. I feel this swirl inside my gut like animals must feel when they know it's time to run.
"Come on now," says my mom. "Let's do this."
But there's one last thing that keeps us from taking off, and that's Squeak. She's screaming for real now, if you heard it you would think she was being beaten with sticks, it doesn't happen that often, but it's happening now, and this time she's screaming because she wants me to come in their car.
Squeak started with this screaming business when her mother lost her mind and went to a mental hospital a few years back. Squeak is usually the happiest one of all of us. Her screaming is rare these days, but it's like an ambulance—you can't ignore it.
She's usually sunny, the happiest one of any of us, not even that badly spoiled, but when she screams it's do what she wants or else. At least that's what my witchy G does.
"Oh that poor child," says my mom, and my heart sinks. I do not want to go in their car with that screaming kid and Mariah's big fat attitude. I do not want to go in for even one second, but next thing there's a little conference—we'll follow close behind mom, meet up at the bridge—we all have to be at the bridge—there's no traffic, look how empty the streets are, it will be just fine-
There's a bit of a shuffle, and suddenly I'm crammed in the back seat, wedged between a bag of shoes and the window, and I feel like I'm being sealed into a tomb and then the door opens again and mom
squishes Mr. Jones and his carry-bag on my lap. "Can't have him yowling," she says, with a wink.
Chief is ecstatic, leaning over the way back seat and licking the top of their cages and then giving me a big slurp on the cheek for good measure. Good ol' Chief.
"I'm allergic—" protests Mariah, but my Witchy G takes off right behind mom and snaps on the radio news, drowning my cousin out.
"Happy now?" I ask Squeak.
Her damp little hand is in mine and she's still hiccupping from her tears.
She squeezes my hand in answer and I squeeze back. Poor kid, all my anger dissolves. Soon I'll be out of this car and Squeak'll be the only one I miss.
Once on Main Street, I see others like us. Gypsy caravans. Things tied to their roof, kids in back seats faces pressed to the window, and I start feeling sorry for them until I realize they're probably looking at me thinking the same thing.
It's weird—but almost exciting. Or it will be exciting once we're somewhere safe and I'm back with Mom. At least we're moving; I actually feel better now that we're heading out, and all the packing behind us.
At the very next block Mariah is protesting so loudly about cat allergies that my witchy G pulls over and mom takes Mr. Jones back, mumbling under her breath and shooting Mariah an evil look which makes me smile inside. I try to make my exit along with the cat, but it doesn't fly. Back on the road, and I already have a bad feeling, already miss the weight of his cage on my lap. Zip turnip inside my jacket so they won't steal him from me too. Chief rests his heavy head on top of mine and we drive like that. At least they left him out of his cage-for now it's packed with some of our last minute belongings; Chief panics in a cage.
Chapter Seven
One little black chin hair and everything in the world shifts.
If only she didn't have to have a witchy hair growing out of her witchy chin, but she does.
This is how it goes; my WG happens to catch sight of herself in the rearview mirror and tells Mariah, to dig through her bag for a pair of tweezers. "You need honest-to-good daylight to see these things," she says, squinting in the mirror at her pointy chin while her eyes should be on the road. I swear she has a grim smile on her face exactly like the witch in the Wizard of Oz. And right there in the middle of the crises she pulls over and starts working on that chin hair. Mom pulls alongside, and my WG motions for her to go first. Lets down the window, tells mom: "I'm right behind you."
Mom gives me a "What—the--?" look and a shrug, and moves on. Slowly.
In seconds, the pesky hair's been plucked, but this creep feeling comes all over me. I have a lump of fear in the bottom of my stomach and sudden cramps, too, lower. Sometimes I'm psychic and apparently this is one of those times.
There's a terrifying sound, a cracking, creaking I can't even describe to you, and one of the oldest thickest trees on the block suddenly uproots itself and falls directly in front of our car, blocking our path. Maybe that chin hair saved us or mom, but all I know is there's a tree in front of us now, cars starting to back up behind us, and mom screeches to a halt, gets out, and has to half climb the tree to get a look at us.
I'm out of the car, ready to climb over that tree, transfer everything of ours, and get the heck on into my own car with mom, and of course Squeak is squeezing onto my hand, digging her nails into my palms, screaming like a siren for me to not go.