Stealing Our Way Home Page 15

  “And then one day, your dad showed up.” Nibs nods, as if remembering. “He came to her high school graduation party along with a bunch of other people and stayed until the very end. I remember watching them sit together at the end of this very dock after everyone left. They talked for hours that night. Hours. And I knew that things would change a little between us. Not in a bad way necessarily, but in a different way.”

  “Were you sad?” I write. “Because he took her away from you?”

  “No.” Nibs shakes her head. “That’s the whole point of this story. Your father didn’t take her away from me. He just showed your mother that she could open her heart a little bit more. A little bit wider. That she could let us both in.” Nibs nods again and this time when I look over at her, I can see something glistening in her eyes.

  “We were always friends, Pippa,” Nibs says. “Right up to the end.”

  Up to the end.

  Something comes to me suddenly that I haven’t thought of before. “Did you ever go see her in the hospital?” I write quickly.

  Nibs nods. “Several times. She was always asleep. But I’d sit there and hold her hand and just talk to her. Tell her what was going on down here, how my plants were doing, what the sky looked like that morning. When I’d last seen Mr. Thurber.” She looks up, searching the sky, as if he might appear suddenly. “I miss her,” she says softly. “I miss her too, Pippa. Every single day.”

  “What if you knew something really bad about someone?” It’s my turn for Deep Dark Questions on Finster’s Rock. “But if you told anyone about it, that person would get into huge trouble?”

  Shelby takes a bite of her Snickers bar and looks out at the lake for a moment. “Depends on who ‘someone’ is. Is it a person you care about?”

  I nod, sliding my hands under my legs so she can’t see them trembling.

  “Okay, then.” She puts the candy bar down next to her and pulls up the thick blue socks she’s been wearing since the temperature started dropping. They make her legs look like Popsicle sticks, peeking out from the tops of her pink cowboy boots. “How bad is really bad?”

  “Really bad.”

  “Like how bad?”

  “Really, really bad.”

  “Jack!”

  I wish I could tell her. I really do. It’s not that I want to get Dad in trouble. I’ll never do that. But sometimes it feels worse, keeping it all locked up inside. Sometimes I think that as awful as it would be to tell, it would be even worse not to. Like having a cancer inside of you that’s eating you alive, and not having any medicine to heal it.

  “Is it like hurting someone bad?” Shelby’s looking at me worriedly. “Is someone hurting you, Jack?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  “Is someone else being hurt?”

  I shake my head again. “No, no one else either.” At least, not on the outside.

  I throw a small twig into the water and watch as it floats along the opaque surface. Leaves have started to clutter the edges of the lake, all different colors of them, in every shape and size: small yellow aspen, red maple, and deep orange oak. Before she got sick, Mom used to take Pippa and me for walks around the lake every fall to look for different-colored leaves. We’d get hundreds of them, each one whole and unblemished, and then bring them home where Mom would iron them between sheets of waxed paper. We’d cut them out and poke holes through the top and string them all over the house so that we’d have fall leaves all year round. So that we wouldn’t forget how beautiful things were, Mom said, just before they left again.

  Shelby snaps her fingers in front of my face. “Hello? Anyone in there?”

  I blink and shake my head a little. If only I could do that in real life. Blink, and make it all okay again. Bring things back to the way they were. The way they used to be. “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “Well, you’re goin’ to have to talk serious here if you want a serious answer.” She picks up the candy bar again and takes another bite. “If no one’s hurting you or anyone else, then how bad is really bad?”

  I turn my head and stare into her green eyes. There’s no use talking about this. I’m not going to be able to say it. Not out loud. Besides, what did she say Nibs told her on the way home from the airport that first day? That there was no point living in the past or the future? That all we had was this moment right now? “You know what? I’m just freaking out. It’s nothing, really.”

  “You sure?”

  I nod. I’ve never been more unsure about anything.

  But all I have is this moment right now. And it might never come again.

  I take a deep breath.

  And then I lean over and take her hand in mine. It’s warm and softer than anything I ever thought possible. I close my fingers around hers and look up, hoping she doesn’t pull away. She’s stopped chewing. She’s smiling. And then, before I realize what’s happened next, she leans over and rests her head on my shoulder.

  All around the lake, the trees are new colors. Pomegranate red. Pale orange. Lemon yellow and lime green, and even a few patches of dark purple. Vermont is famous for two things: maple syrup and fall. People come from all over just to look at our leaves, to stare at the beautiful colors and take pictures of the sunlight coming through them. But as I sit on the dock this morning, wrapped in Mom’s sweater, I can’t help thinking that as pretty as autumn is, all the warm months are gone now. Pretty soon, the cold will come, and we’ll have months and months of icy, frigid weather. Lake Saint Catherine will freeze over, so thick in some spots that even the ice fisherman won’t be able to dig through it for fishing holes. The winter wind will snap and howl, rattling the shutters on the windows and making the house groan, and the snow will come in deep, sugary drifts, blanketing the world around us. Which means that unless Mr. Thurber took off one day without bothering to say good-bye, he doesn’t stand a chance of making it to spring.

  “All right, everyone.” Miss Rhodes claps her hands to get our attention. “Today is Monday, which means that we have just two days left to get everything in order before we give our Spartan presentations on Friday.”

  “That’s three days!” Raymond Dutters calls out, counting off on his fingers. “Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday.”

  “You don’t have school on Wednesday,” Miss Rhodes corrects Raymond. “It’s a teacher’s in-service day, which means only the teachers need to be here. So we only have two days together to get things in order.”

  “Oh.” Raymond sits back in his seat. “No one told me about a teacher’s in-service day. Sweet!”

  Miss Rhodes gives Raymond a look. She’s told everyone about the teacher’s in-service day every morning for the last two weeks. Plus, she doesn’t like it when students talk without raising their hands first. “All right now,” she says, “since we are expecting so many outside guests this year, the presentation itself is going to be moved into Mrs. Paciotti’s room.”

  “You mean the music room?” Raymond calls out again.

  “Yes, I mean the music room.” Miss Rhodes nods. “And if you keep shouting out, Raymond, you and I are going to have a problem. You know how many times I’ve asked you to raise your hand first if you have a comment.”

  “Yes, Miss Rhodes,” Raymond mumbles.

  Susan raises her hand.

  “Yes, Susan?”

  “There aren’t any seats in the music room,” Susan says anxiously. “And my great-grandpa is in a wheelchair. Where will everyone sit?”

  I look back and forth between Susan and Miss Rhodes. Susan is right; the only seats in the music room are the elevated steps that have been built into one wall. They’re supposed to look like bleachers so that we can practice singing in such a formation for the winter and spring concerts, but I doubt any of the guests will want to sit on them. They’re dirty from all of our feet traipsing up and down them all the time, and most of the bottom rows are polka-dotted with wads of old gum.

  “The janitors will be bringing in chairs from other rooms,” Miss Rhodes
says. “Don’t worry. Everyone will have a place to sit.”

  Susan sits back in her seat, but she doesn’t look convinced. I don’t know what she’s so worried about. Not only do I not have a guest coming to the presentation on Friday, I don’t even have a presentation! The truth is, after I decided not to do it on Mom, I kind of gave up. I guess I could do it on Dad, but I just don’t want to. And that makes me not want to write about anyone else, either.

  “We will be bringing in a real podium.” Miss Rhodes points to the one at the front of the room, and then walks over to stand behind it. “And just like I do every day, you will all get up, stand behind the podium, and give your speech to the audience.”

  A murmur of excitement ripples throughout the room. Not only are outside visitors coming in, but we are going to be giving them a show. A real one, behind a podium, with a microphone!

  I slump down a little farther into my seat.

  “I’ve also ordered these red sashes.” Miss Rhodes holds up a long, crimson colored piece of fabric. It looks like a very large, very wide red belt. Gold lettering has been stitched along the front of it that reads SPARTAN WARRIOR. “After your speech, you will go over and put your Spartan sash around your guest, like this.” She demonstrates, slipping the sash around her neck and then inserting her left arm through the middle of it until it sits neatly along the front of her chest. “Just like that.”

  “Awesome!” Raymond shouts out again and the rest of the class agrees, clapping their hands and nodding their heads. Miss Rhodes looks thrilled, too. She doesn’t even say anything to Raymond about not raising his hand before making a comment.

  “And when everyone is finished, we’ll all come back in here for cake and punch,” she says. “Your guests can look at your Spartan pictures, your book reports, and anything else you’d like to show them. Now, in a minute, I’d like everyone to come up to my podium and practice talking for a few minutes. Just to get the feel of it. So it’s not so scary for you on Friday.”

  Molly raises her hand. “Miss Rhodes,” she says, “what if someone doesn’t want to give their speech on Friday? Like, they’re too scared or something, or they get stage fright?”

  “That’s why we’re going to practice now,” Miss Rhodes replies. “To avoid that very thing.”

  “Yeah, but what if it doesn’t help?” Molly presses. “What if someone just won’t talk anyway?”

  Heads turn toward me. Everyone’s staring, except Molly, who sits there, blinking innocently at Miss Rhodes.

  Miss Rhodes tucks a piece of blonde hair behind one ear. “Are you going to have a problem speaking on Friday, Molly?”

  “Oh no.” Molly shakes her head. “I don’t get stage fright.”

  “Then you have nothing to worry about, do you?”

  Molly opens her mouth to reply and then closes it again, like a fish.

  But after class, Miss Rhodes asks me to stay. “Is your essay finished, Pippa?” she asks.

  I nod.

  “Completely finished? And you’re happy with it? With the length, the writing, what it says?”

  I nod again.

  “How about Friday?” Miss Rhodes says. “Have you thought at all about what you’d like to do?”

  I stare at the tips of my shoes, chew my bottom lip.

  “Would you like me to read your essay for you?” Miss Rhodes’ voice is very gentle.

  I would not like Miss Rhodes to read my essay for me. But I don’t want anyone else reading it either, no matter who it’s about, especially Molly or Susan or anyone else in my class. I don’t want their help. I know they’re curious about me, but I’m starting to think that because I can’t give them any answers, they’re getting frustrated. Which makes them start to act mean.

  “Pippa?”

  I nod my head yes.

  “You’ll let me read it for you?” Miss Rhodes looks relieved, as if a weight has lifted off her back.

  I nod again.

  What choice do I have?

  Dad comes into my room again the next morning, while Pippa’s out on the dock. “Hey, buddy.”

  I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, getting dressed for school, although I’ve just pulled a sock over the one I already have on. I keep doing things like that lately. My brain isn’t working right. Yesterday, after my bread popped out of the toaster, I took it out, buttered it, and put it right back in the toaster. I’ve heard that liking girls can do funny things to you, but I didn’t know it went this far. I didn’t know it made you loopy.

  I look over as Dad sits down on the bed next to me and puts an arm around my shoulders. “How you been?”

  “I’m okay.” I pull the second sock off the first and put it on my other foot. “What’s up?”

  “Not much.”

  “No?”

  There’s a long pause. “It’s all gone.” Dad stares at the floor. “We’re completely tapped again.”

  He doesn’t have to say anything else. I already know what “it” is and what’s coming next. My brain pauses, hits reverse, thinks back again, just to be sure. He hasn’t been in my room in weeks. And he only calls me buddy when something serious comes up.

  “Already?” I can barely get the words out of my mouth. My hands shake as I try to button my shirt.

  “I told you it wouldn’t take long.” Dad grimaces. “It never does.”

  “And you can’t find a job? Anywhere?”

  “The market’s terrible right now. It really is. No one’s hiring. I still have resumes out all over the place, but I haven’t gotten a single call.”

  “So you’re … ” I swallow. “You’re going again?”

  Dad nods.

  “Where?” I lean over to tie my shoes. My nose is tingling.

  “Sandridge.” Dad clasps his hands together, studies the floor between his feet. Sandridge is at least an hour and a half west of us. I’ve never been there, but Ben went last year to a huge farm show where they displayed all kinds of tractors and other equipment. Sandridge isn’t as small or ritzy as Middlebury. It probably has bigger banks.

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow. You don’t have school, right? It’s a teacher’s in-service day?”

  “Dad.” I stand up from the bed and walk across the room. Place my hands on top of my dresser, as if to steady myself. “Come on. Don’t.”

  “I’ve got it all scoped out, buddy. There’s nothing to worry about. I’ve gone twice now and looked around. The bank’s three times the size as the one in Middlebury, which means I can get in and out of there three times as fast.” He takes a deep breath. “But I’m really going to need your help this time. There are a lot more tellers than the one in Middlebury. You’re going to have to distract them so they don’t notice me.”

  I bite my lip so hard I can taste blood.

  “We’ll get at least three times the amount of money we got last time,” Dad says.

  “You got last time.” I spin around, raging suddenly. “You robbed the bank in Middlebury, Dad. Not me.”

  His head drops, as if absorbing the blow of my words. Then he raises it again. Looks steadily at me.

  “Pippa knows,” I say quickly, although I’d already promised myself I wouldn’t tell him. “And not just because of the articles in the paper. She found the masks, Dad. Both of them.”

  “What are you talking about?” His face pales.

  “She found the Spider-Man one on the floor of the living room the night we drove to Middlebury.” Dad’s eyes dance across the floor, as if connecting puzzle pieces. “And then she went rooting around in your car and found the Batman one. And the pillowcase. She figured it all out.”

  He sits down heavily on the bed. “And?”

  “And what?”

  “And … what did she say? What did you say? To her?”

  “I didn’t say anything to her.” I turn back around, stare at my reflection in the oval mirror above my dresser. There are dark shadows under my eyes, a red pimple on my chin. My hair is clean, but the front of it han
gs in my eyes, the bottom of it down to my shoulders. I look different, I think suddenly. Older. When did that happen?

  “You didn’t tell her anything?” Dad repeats.

  “No. Nothing. I told her that whatever she was thinking she was wrong and to forget about it.” I turn back around. “But I know she knows, Dad. She’s not a dumb little girl.”

  “She never was.” Dad stands up from the bed. “Which means we’re not going to try to hide it from her anymore.”

  My heart skips. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’ll talk to her.” Dad nods. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”

  “My mom and I went up to the mall last night and I got the most beautiful dress for Friday,” Molly says at lunch. “It’s green with little white buttons down the back and this big poufy skirt. And my mom even let me get shoes to match. With heels!”

  “Heels?” Susan looks away from the sliced carrot she’s inspecting and raises an eyebrow. “How high?”

  “Oh, you know.” Molly shrugs. “Just little tiny ones.”

  Susan glances in my direction. I know she’s anxious about things between Molly and me. The three of us have been friends for so long that even I can’t imagine anything different. But I haven’t even looked at Molly since she asked Miss Rhodes the question about someone not speaking at the presentations. I know she was talking about me. And she knows I know, which is probably why she hasn’t looked at me either. Last night, when I was lying in bed thinking about it, I decided that I might be okay with losing Molly as a friend. She’s always been pretty loud, and one time I heard her say something really rude about how fat Jenna Lafferty had gotten. But I don’t want to lose Susan, too. I like Susan. She’s much quieter than Molly. And except for that dumb thing she said on the first day about me needing time (which wasn’t actually so dumb at all) she’s always been nice to me. Always.