Stealing Our Way Home Page 3

  Dad sighs. “I’m sure he’ll come around. Herons are persnickety little buggers. They get attitudes. Think they can go anywhere and do anything they want.”

  He reaches under my chin and tilts it up. A funny look comes over his face as he brushes my bangs to one side. It makes me feel embarrassed. I close my eyes, try to duck out from under his gaze.

  “Wow, Pip, you look older, you know that?”

  I blink a little, lower my face even more.

  He traces a fingertip along the edge of my hairline. “All this baby stuff is gone. You look a little bit more serious. Mature.” He pauses, grins. “You’re how old now?”

  I hold up ten fingers.

  “My double-digit girl,” he says softly. “That must be it. Yesterday you were three, and now you’re almost a teenager. You’re growing up, sweetheart.” He hugs me again, and when he does, wrapping both of his arms around my shoulders and bending over to kiss the top of my head, I wish that I could ask him to come home early tonight. That the nights he comes home so late are always the nights I have the terrible nightmares about Mom.

  But he lets go too fast, and just as I start to feel something move in the back of my throat, he’s gone again.

  The microwave won’t work. I push all the right buttons, open and shut the door, even unplug the thick cord in the back and plug it back into the wall again. But the little screen stays dark. None of the green buttons on the side light up either. How am I supposed to make my apple-cinnamon oatmeal?

  Jack comes in, scratching his head. His hair has gotten long and shaggy over the last couple of months, and his shorts and T-shirt, which he probably slept in, are a mass of wrinkles.

  “The electricity’s out,” he says, his voice thick with sleep. “You’re gonna have to eat something else for breakfast.” He goes to the fridge, takes out a half gallon of chocolate milk, and brings the container to his lips.

  I watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallows, Mom’s voice ringing in my ear: “You put that carton down, Mr. Manners, and get yourself a glass.”

  Suddenly, a strange look comes over his face as he rushes to the sink and spits out the milk. “Bleechhhh! It’s sour!” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and opens the refrigerator again. It’s dark inside. “No refrigerator, either.” His shoulders slump as he walks over to the window and stares out at the lake.

  Why is the electricity out? Why doesn’t the refrigerator work? I wait for Jack to explain, but he just stands there, looking out the window. I take my bowl out of the microwave and stir the flakes of oatmeal. Maybe I’ll just eat it dry. It can’t be that bad, can it?

  “Who’s that girl on the Andersons’ dock?” Jack asks suddenly.

  I swing my bare feet under the table and take a bite of the oatmeal. It tastes like little bits of paper, and I spit it back out.

  “You see her?” Jack asks. I pick out one of the dried pieces of apple and nibble the edge of it. If he’d said something about Mr. Thurber, I would have leapt out of my seat. I don’t really care too much about other girls. Except for Nibs.

  “C’mere. Pippa. Look, will you?”

  I get out of my seat and glance out the window. Some girl is sitting on the Andersons’ dock, on the other side of Nibs’ house, with her legs draped over the edge. Her hair is so long that it hangs down around both sides of her face like curtains. It’s hard to tell from here, but it looks like she’s wearing pink cowboy boots.

  “Have you ever seen her before?” Jack asks.

  I shrug.

  “Is that a yes or a no?”

  I shake my head no and head back over to the table.

  Jack turns around again. He doesn’t say anything for a long time. I know he’s probably thinking she’s pretty and that maybe he’ll work up the nerve to go say hi to her. Except that Jack would never do anything like that. The only thing that scares him more than pretty girls is the thought of actually having to talk to one.

  I get up from the table and grab one of Nibs’ newspapers, which I keep in a pile next to the sink. It’s an old one from two weeks ago, but I don’t care. This morning’s paper is still on the dock, and I need something to read while I eat.

  “Listen, Pippa.” Jack walks over to the table and leans against a chair. “You and me have to go into town today and get some new clothes for school.” He opens a bag of white bread and takes out the last four slices.

  I slump down against one arm. I hate shopping about as much as I hate dry oatmeal. Which, looking down into my still-full bowl, is saying something.

  “Yeah, well, I feel the same way.” Jack shoves bread into his mouth. “But Dad gave me his credit card and said we have to go. He said you could pick out whatever you want. As long as it’s not a belly shirt or anything with heels.”

  I roll my eyes. Like I’d ever wear a belly shirt.

  Jack crams the last of the bread into his mouth and looks up at the clock. “It’s only nine o’clock now. The stores don’t even open ’til ten. We have lots of time. I’m gonna ride down to the junkyard to look for some more wood for the tree house. You go upstairs and get ready. When I get back, we’ll go, all right?”

  Junkyard, my foot. Jack’s already got more wood stacked up in the backyard than he can use in a year. He’s going to Finster’s Rock, just around the bend in the lake, so he can stare at that girl without her knowing.

  The house is so quiet after he leaves that I almost start to cry. I like the quiet outside, with the stillness of the water and the silence of the sun, but inside, all it does is scare me. It’s funny how the sound of nothing can be filled with so much something. Whatever something is.

  I turn my attention back to the newspaper and read the funny pages. But none of them are funny, so I start leafing through the middle section. Most of the stories, which seem to be about church festivals and something called stock inflations, are boring. Like, really boring. I’m not really sure what Nibs always seems so worked up about when it comes to reading this thing. She pores over it from front to back every morning, as if someone’s hidden something in there that she’s got to find.

  Finally, on the third page, there is a story that catches my attention. It’s about a man who put on a Spider-Man mask and walked into a bank. He handed the lady behind the counter a note that said he had a gun and that he would use it if she didn’t give him all the money in her register. But the lady started to cry, and when another bank person came over to help her, the man got scared and ran out.

  I shake my head, rereading the last part again about him running out. What a dope. Then again, if you’re dumb enough to rob a bank wearing a Spider-Man mask, I guess you’d be dumb enough to run back out again without any money.

  On the other side of the Spider-Man story is an article about a curly-haired lady who caught a forty-five-pound catfish in Lake Bomoseen. I lean in so I can examine the fish up close. Catfish are ugly, and this one is no exception. Its long whiskers hang down near the woman’s knees, and its eyes are as big as pool balls. WHAT A WHOPPER! says the headline. The lady, who is wearing a big orange windbreaker and a blue knit hat, is smiling so hard it looks like her face might break in half. I can’t really blame her.

  Jack will be so jealous. The biggest fish he ever caught weighed six pounds and was about as long as his arm. But then, he’s never been much of a fisherman.

  I cut out the picture and hang it on the refrigerator.

  Jack’ll spit when he sees it.

  The girl is still there when I crawl out on the ledge of Finster’s Rock and peek over. Finster’s Rock isn’t so much a rock as it is a kind of packed dirt cliff with a ledge, but everyone’s always called it that anyway. It’s just around the bend from the Andersons’ place, with a perfect bird’s-eye view of the Andersons’ dock, so it’s the absolute best place to be. When I catch sight of her, my heart does a belly flop in the middle of my chest. The surface of the ledge is so hot that I have to balance myself on the inside of my wrists and then scooch all the way over t
o the left side, where there’s a tiny bit of shade. But it’s worth it.

  Man, is it worth it.

  She’s sitting on the end of the dock just like before, except that now her face is tilted up, like she’s trying to get some sun. Her neck is as long and thin as a reed. It’s hard to know how old she is from this distance, but she is without a doubt the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. Even prettier than Alice Jamison, which is really saying something. This girl’s got light brown hair that spills down over her shoulders, a little nose, and a round chin. Her jean shorts are frayed at the bottom and the green T-shirt she’s wearing has something I can’t make out written on the front. Her long, brown legs disappear inside a pair of pink cowboy boots, and she’s crossed one ankle over the other.

  Who is she? And why is she sitting on the Andersons’ dock? I wonder if they are related. Mr. and Mrs. Anderson are definitely old enough to be her parents, but they just got married a few years ago. She can’t be their daughter. Maybe she’s a niece. Or a friend of the family. But what’s she doing here on the lake? And how long will she be around?

  I watch, spellbound, as she stands up suddenly and stretches, reaching up toward the sky with both hands. Her pink boots go up almost to her knees and I can only make out a single word—HAT—in the middle of her shirt. Hat? Hat what?

  I try to imagine what her name might be. Jennifer? Samantha? Lindsey? Maybe she has a really unusual name. Something different like Ainsley or Thora that sounds like music and makes you think of the woods or whole other countries. But this girl doesn’t look like a Thora. Or an Ainsely. She looks more like a Rose. Or a Summer.

  I watch as she reaches around the back of her jean shorts and pulls out a small package that could be a deck of cards or a pack of gum. She reaches inside the package, pulls something out with her thumb and forefinger, and inserts it into her mouth. She chews for a few moments and then, puckering her lips, leans forward and spits. It’s impossible to know from this distance what has traveled from her mouth into the water, but the long, smooth arc of it, combined with the distance it travels, are equally mind-blowing. I sit still as a deer as the girl chews and spits another four times. All of them travel just as far—if not farther—than the first, each one suspended over the water in a single, fluid curve before dropping into it again with a tiny plop. The ripples in the water spread out like butter melting and then fade away into nothing.

  She’s the best spitter I’ve ever seen, boy or girl. And I know without a doubt that by the time she turns and walks back into the house, I’m halfway crazy in love.

  “Pippa!” I yell, braking so hard in the driveway that the dust curls up in big clouds around my legs. “You ready?” Pippa’s face appears in the upstairs window. “Come on, let’s go!”

  I head over to the garage to pull out her bike. It’s pink, with a glittery banana seat and long, white streamers. She’s only ridden it once or twice since Mom got sick, but she has to ride it today. Downtown Poultney is three miles from the lake, and there’s no way I’m walking. Especially afterward, when we’ll be armed with bags of clothes looped over the handlebars. The bike makes a strange clinking sound as I roll it out, and I squat down to take a look. The chain is off the track. Again. Dad said he’d get it fixed the last time Pippa rode it, but he never did. No surprise there. Work is the only thing he ever has time for anymore.

  Pippa comes out and stands next to me, watching silently as I fiddle with the chain. “It fell off again,” I say, trying to guess what she might be thinking. “I’m just getting it back on the track. I’ll be done in a second.”

  She nudges my shoulder with something until I look up. It’s a little pink notebook, the kind you can fit in your pocket, with wire loops at the top. She’s written something on one of the pages. I lean forward, reading the words. “Did you find any wood?”

  I look up at her. The question isn’t coming from her mouth, but it’s still a question. It’s still a way of speaking. For the first time in four months. The inside of my nose tingles. I want to shout. I want to reach out and hug her. Tell her thank you for not staying inside there, where it’s so dark and sad all the time. Thank her for coming out here. Even if she’s just peeking her nose out. Even if it’s just for a little bit.

  Instead, I pinch my nose. Rub the little space beneath it with the edge of my finger. “No, there wasn’t much there today,” I answer. And then, “Where’d you get that notebook?”

  She writes something carefully with her pink glitter pen and then turns the notebook around again. “Nibs.”

  I nod, smiling a little to myself.

  Good old Nibs.

  Pearls or no pearls, she’s a pretty good egg.

  I have to focus on pedaling. I haven’t been on my bike in a long time and it feels a little wobbly. Lake Road is bumpy and pebbly, too, which makes it feel like I’m going to fall. We’ll only be on this road for about ten minutes, though. After that, we’ll switch over to Route 30, which is straight, smooth pavement all the way into Poultney.

  The sun is high overhead now, and it feels good against my bare arms. The smell of green is everywhere. Wild blackberry bushes clot the edge of the road. Their branches are heavy with berries as big as my nose. My stomach growls just looking at them. That dry, cold oatmeal didn’t do a thing. I’m starving.

  “So I thought we’d just go to Murphy’s,” Jack says, looking over his shoulder. “They’ll have all the clothes we need, plus shoes. And they take credit cards.”

  I nod, gripping my handlebars. Murphy’s is as good a store as any, I guess. Mom used to take us there every year when it was time for back-to-school shopping. But that was just the beginning. After Murphy’s, we’d have to go to a couple of stores at the mall in Middletown Springs for shoes and underwear, and then to Kmart and Target in Rutland for school supplies. It was a long, long day.

  “You want to start with a milk shake at Dipsy Do’s?” Jack asks. “Like Mom used to?”

  I nod happily. Sometimes I wonder if Jack and I think about the same things when it comes to Mom. Or maybe it’s just that he’s a lot like her. He even looks like she did. Dark hair. Lots of freckles across the bridge of his nose. Little, sort-of-pointed ears. He’s built like she was too, with superlong legs and arms and hardly any neck. I look more like Dad, with my paler skin and green eyes, although I’m the only one with red hair, which I used to hate until I read Pippi Longstocking last year. Now I kind of like it. Dad says my red hair fits my personality. It might be the only thing that does anymore.

  “I can’t believe we have to go back to school next week,” Jack calls from up ahead. He slows down a little so that I can catch up to him. “You excited for fourth grade?”

  I shake my head. I honestly can’t imagine anything worse right now than having to go back to school. I know the kids will look at me funny the way they all do after something bad happens to someone. They looked at Marissa Shedlock that way last year after her dad made a scene at the Christmas pageant and yelled a bad word at her mom. Being looked at because I don’t have a mom anymore might be worse than having a mom who gets things yelled at her, but I don’t really know, because Dad never yelled anything at Mom, not ever. Even Molly and Susan, who used to sit with me at lunch, will look at me different, and I don’t want them to. I don’t want them to look at me at all.

  “Yeah, me either,” Jack says glumly. “Although Ben told me last year that seventh grade is supposed pretty cool.” He pauses, pushing down hard on his pedals. “I just don’t know if I want to see anyone yet. Or answer anybody’s questions.”

  I nod.

  I think Jack and I think about exactly the same things when it comes to Mom. And maybe a lot of other things, too.

  The inside of Dipsy Do’s is white and cool. Ceiling fans whir softly overhead, and the white wicker furniture has new blue-checkered seats.

  “Hi there!” A tall, thin man with blond hair and wire glasses leans over the counter. “What can I help you with?”

  By the l
ook on Jack’s face, I can tell that he’s never seen the blond man before either.

  “Where’s Mr. Switzer?” Jack asks.

  “Oh, he’s on vacation,” the man says. “He flew to Alaska on Tuesday to do some salmon fishing. I’m just looking after things until he gets back.”

  “Oh.” Jack is as disappointed as I am. Mr. Switzer is the owner of Dipsy Do’s. He reminds me of Santa Claus, with his big belly and long, white beard. I can’t remember the last time we came for ice cream and he wasn’t here, pulling at the end of his white whiskers and telling us funny jokes. It feels strange that he’s gone, even if it’s just on vacation. Like something else is off.

  Jack and I sit at the counter toward the back and order our milk shakes from the new guy. Double-chocolate for Jack, coffee-vanilla for me. Just like we used to. Mom always ordered strawberry, topped with three big swirls of whipped cream and a cherry, which she would save until the very last bite.

  “Enjoy!” the man says brightly, sliding Jack’s shake in front of him. “I’ll be up front if you need me.”

  Jack and I clink our glasses together, bend our heads over our straws, and take a long sip. But then the weirdest thing happens. As soon as the cold ice cream fills my mouth, my throat tightens and this strange sensation comes over me. It’s like Mom’s in the milk shake. Or at least remembering her is. For a split second she’s right there on the empty stool between us, her long legs tucked around the bottom of it, her eyes getting real round as she pulls hard on the straw, looks sideways at me and then over Jack, until we all start laughing.

  I swallow as hard as I can, forcing the liquid over an acorn-sized knot and wince in pain. Tears fill my eyes. I bend over the straw again, pretending to sip, not wanting Jack to see me. But when I peek over at him, he’s stopped drinking his, too. He’s just stirring it with one hand and wiggling his nose. I pull on his shirt. Point to my milk shake and shake my head.