Feathered Page 4

  Maybe she’s out looking for a job, I think. A new job would be great. My heart does a Snoopy dance just thinking about it. I want my old mom back so badly. I think a new job would help.

  There’s nothing good on TV, so after I eat a couple of Fudgee-Os, I head to the bathroom, strip down to my underwear and look at myself in the big mirror that hangs behind the door. I step up really close, searching for signs I might be changing like Karen or Shawna did over the summer. We’re the same age, after all. So how come they both look so much older than me? I search in every corner and crease, but there are absolutely no new lumps or bumps or strange little hairs that I can see. Just the same freckly, knobby-kneed, ribs-sticking-out, skin-and-bones body I’ve always had. I take a few minutes to search my neck and arms for new feathers, but there are none of those either. I don’t know if I’m happy or sad about that. As much as I can’t wait for the rest of my feathers to grow in, the idea of it makes me feel a bit nervous. What if they grow in while I’m at school? What if they grow over my face, too? What if the other kids call me a freak? Karen and her Jordache-jeans-wearing friends would have a field day with something like that.

  I pull the elastics out of my brown hair and shake it loose. It falls just a smidgen shy of my shoulders … like a little kid’s dangling legs, too short to reach the floor. I turn my head from side to side, as if the answer to my problems might be there if I check from a different angle. What if I tried wearing lip gloss like Karen? Would Mom get mad and make me take it off? Or would she even notice? Either way, I don’t think I want to. The thought of having sticky pink lips all day isn’t a nice one. I push my hair away from my face. What if I tried wearing it back in barrettes? Would that make me look better? Or older? Or would it make me look young, like Pinky? I liked the ribbon barrettes she was wearing in her hair the day we met. Maybe I could make some of those for myself. It probably can’t be too hard. Laura Ingalls probably made her own hair ribbons.

  Mom is home by the time I get out of the bathroom. I find her sitting at the kitchen table in front of a tall stack of unopened mail. There’s a bag of groceries on the counter and a glass of ice water on the table beside her.

  “Where were you?” I ask, pulling up a chair. I put my arms around her and give her a hug. Really gentle, though. Her body’s so thin, it feels like she could snap if I hug too hard.

  She jingles the ice cubes around and around in her glass. “Just out.”

  I wait for her to say something more about it, but she doesn’t. “I thought maybe you found a job,” I say, hopefully. My voice is so small and squeaky, I don’t even recognize it.

  Mom takes a sip from her glass. She sighs. “Can we talk about something else, honey?”

  “Okay. But why?”

  She shakes her head while she taps her last cigarette loose from the gold-and-silver package. “Times are tough right now, Finch,” she says, popping the corky-looking end in her mouth. “There aren’t any jobs.”

  And then she flicks the wheel of her lighter. So casually. Like she’s snapping her fingers to an old song. Like what she just said didn’t make my heart drop through the floor.

  No jobs? Anywhere? That can’t be true. How are we going to live if Mom doesn’t get a job?

  I stare into those big blue eyes of hers, searching for something to tell me it’s going to be all right. She stares back at me, her expression as blank as blind Mary Ingalls’s. I jump to my feet, grab the grocery bag off the counter and peer inside.

  Five more boxes of frozen fish sticks. Each one marked with a blood-red sticker. Buy Four, Get One Free.

  “Your brother said he’s going to be home for dinner tonight,” Mom says. “I thought I’d make his favorite.”

  My mouth opens, but no words come out. How can she be serious? How can she serve us fish sticks again? Are we that low on money? Or is there a secret ingredient in cigarettes that makes you lose your marbles?

  Surprisingly, Harrison’s in such a good mood tonight that he doesn’t say a word about the crummy fish-stick dinner. Instead, he natters on about a new kid in his class named Albert who moved here from Montreal over the summer and who’s got a Ping-Pong table in his basement and a swimming pool with a diving board in his backyard and a golden retriever named Nacho. Albert invited Harrison over to swim tomorrow after school. It hits me that this is the first time I’ve seen my brother so happy in months. It reminds me of the times when we used to be closer, before Daddy died, and it makes my anger melt away a bit.

  Okay, a lot.

  Okay, I guess I’m talking to him again.

  At least one of us met a new friend, I think.

  After dinner, I go to his room to talk about Mom. He’s lying on top of his rumpled Star Wars sheets, listening to music on the new Sony Walkman he bought with the pile of paper route money he’d been saving for five years. I’d like a Walkman, too, but I don’t have enough money to buy one, and you can bet Mom isn’t going to give it to me if she’s worried about the cost of fish sticks.

  I wave my hands and poke the air around my ears until Harrison sees me and clicks the music off.

  “What?” he says, pulling down his headphones.

  “I’m worried about Mom,” I reply, closing the door behind me so she won’t overhear. I wait to see if Harrison says something like, “Yeah, me too” or “I know what you mean.” But he just shrugs and gives me one of those Get-to-the-point-fast-before-I-kick-you-out-of-my-room looks. So I do.

  “She told me there are no jobs anywhere,” I say. “She just sits in that chair and smokes all day. It’s like she’s not even inside her own body half the time. You know what I mean?”

  Harrison shakes his head. “She’s fine. She’s still getting over losing Dad.”

  I stare at him in surprise. She’s fine? How can he say that? “Really? Then how do you explain the fish-stick situation? She told me tonight it’s your favorite dinner.”

  He shrugs. “Give her a break, Finch. She’s just got her mind on other things …”

  I wipe away the tear that’s spilling down my cheek. “Well, it’s been nine months already,” I say. “How much longer till her mind comes back to us?”

  “I don’t know. I think it’s different for everyone.” His face softens a bit. “She’ll be okay. Quit worrying. Now, scram.”

  He hands me a tissue for my face. But before I can say thank-you, he puts his headphones back over his ears, pushes Play and closes his eyes.

  And that’s that.

  CHAPTER 7

  There’s a new message waiting for me in the end stall today. It’s written in the exact same black marker as the last one, so I can only guess it’s from the same person. This time, it’s three words:

  Me too sometimes.

  And beside it, there’s a frowny-face doodle.

  I read it over and over again. Okay, I know this isn’t exactly like having a real friend. But this is by far the closest I’ve been in months. Somebody out there in this school heard me. And she feels the same way I do. And she wants me to know about it.

  This makes me happy.

  So what do I do now? I’m almost afraid to take this message-writing thing any further, just in case I mess it up. But I can’t help myself — I have to write something back. I can’t leave the message chain hanging like this. Can I?

  Just once more and then my days of graffiti will be over.

  Promise.

  I think for a minute. Then I pull out my pencil.

  Whoo are you?

  I leave the bathroom with a smile on my face. Even if the other girl doesn’t write back to tell me her name, I think it’s okay. And even though Mrs. Garvin gave me a D on my paragraph about “My Sixth-Grade Goals,” I’m still smiling when the final bell rings. I’m happier than I’ve felt in weeks. I want to share my happiness with someone. On the way home, I decide to try Pinky one more time. I ring the door
bell and wait. But, just like last time, there’s no answer. Where could they be? The white Chevrolet isn’t in the driveway. Are they picking up Pinky from the Hindu school? Or maybe they went on a trip? Maybe they drove to Niagara Falls like my family did the weekend I was turning eight and Mom decided it was high time I saw something big and important. I put my ear to the door. But all I hear is the hush of utter silence.

  To my surprise, there’s a big green apple sitting on our front doormat when I get home. Someone’s tied a red hair ribbon in a neat bow around the stem. There’s no note saying who it’s from, but I have a guess.

  Did Pinky leave this for me? As a thank-you for the Fig Newtons?

  I don’t know if it’s true or not, but the thought makes me smile. I pick up the apple, slip the ribbon into the pocket of my jacket and go inside. Mom is taking a nap, so I go to the kitchen to eat my snack and I discover a new pile of mail on the kitchen counter. It’s been dropped right beside the pile of mail Mom left there yesterday. I pour myself a cup of Kool-Aid, sit down at the table and look over the letters, checking to see if there’s anything for me. None of the letters have been opened. And three of the envelopes are stamped with the words Final Notice.

  That doesn’t sound good.

  Those ones are addressed to Mom, and I know it’s not okay to open another person’s mail, so I don’t. Instead, I hold those letters up to the kitchen window, hoping I might be able to read a few words and understand what they’re all about. But either the light’s too dim or the paper’s too thick, ’cause I can’t read a thing. I drop them back in the pile and pick up another letter. This one has the words NOTICE OF DEFAULT in big red letters across the top. It’s addressed to Bennett.

  Technically that’s me, I think. I’m a Bennett. Before I lose my nerve, I slide my thumbs under the flap and rip open the envelope. My eyes skim down the page.

  Dear Mrs. Bennett,

  This letter is a formal notification that you are in default of your mortgage (account #479279). This account has been overdue for 90 days and previous requests to reconsolidate this debt have been ignored. Unless the total amount ($1,625.34) is received within 30 days, we have no choice but to begin the foreclosure process on your home.

  The letter falls to the floor along with my cup of cherry Kool-Aid. I jump up to clean the mess and all the while my brain is racing with questions.

  Foreclosure? Default? Reconsolidate this debt? What exactly do those words mean? Are we going to lose our house? I wish I had a dictionary handy.

  The doorbell rings just as I finish wiping the last drops of the Kool-Aid off the letter. I fold it up, stuff it into the waistband of my shorts and pull my T-shirt down over it so nobody will see what I’ve done. Then I go to answer the door, but I freeze when I see who’s there. It’s awful Matt. He’s scowling down at me from the front porch.

  “Harrison’s not here,” I say, staying well back behind the safety of the screen door.

  He shakes his head as if I’ve just spoken in a foreign language. “What do you mean? Where is he?” he demands.

  “At a friend’s house.”

  Matt looks stunned. Like I’ve punched him or something. “Whose house?”

  That’s when it hits me. Maybe Matt doesn’t have any other friends. Maybe he needs Harrison as much as Harrison needed him. “None of your beeswax,” I say.

  He stares at me silently for a few seconds. Then he leans forward, his shoulder falling against the door frame with a thump. “Okay, so invite me in anyway. We could hang out. You and me.” His lips curl into a hideous pee-colored smile.

  Matt wants to spend time with me? My stomach turns at the thought.

  “No thanks!” I say quickly, reaching out to close the front door. Matt’s eyes narrow. Before I know what’s happening, he’s pulling the screen door open and shoving me to the side. “Hey!” I squeal as he muscles past me.

  “I’m coming in,” he says, marching straight to our living room and flopping down on the couch. I follow along behind him, scrambling to find my voice.

  “What are you doing?” I finally manage to sputter. “I told you my brother’s not here.”

  He crosses one dirty sneaker over the other, right on top of those sky-blue cushions the old Mom used to be so careful about keeping clean. “I don’t mind waiting,” he says, reaching for a section of yesterday’s newspaper, folded up and lying on the coffee table. “I’ve got time. And nothing else to do anyway.”

  He opens up the paper. Terry Fox’s face stares out at me from the front page. Marathon of Hope Comes to an End, reads the headline. I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

  “This isn’t your home, Matt,” I say, pushing the words out as loud and strong as I can manage. “You can’t just be here uninvited.”

  He drops the newspaper and stares at me in surprise. “Really? Well, who’s going to stop me, Flinch?”

  I don’t know what to say to that. I don’t know what to do now. Matt’s bigger and stronger and meaner than me. I don’t want him in my house for another minute, but there’s nobody here to help get him out. What if I called the police? Would Detective Kroon come to help? Could he arrest Matt for trespassing?

  “Come on, little girl. Kick me to the curb, why don’t you?” he taunts, grinning at me with those awful yellow teeth.

  My palms suddenly feel wet. I glance toward the staircase, wondering if I should run and wake up Mom. Would she help me get rid of Matt? Would she even care that he’s pushed his way into our home?

  Matt’s eyebrows arch. Ever so slowly, he swings his legs off the couch and stands up. “There’s nobody here to save you, is there, Flinch?” he says quietly, taking a step toward me. I take a step back. I can hear my heart thumping in my ears. “Where’s your mom?” he asks.

  I move to the other side of the room, making sure to keep the coffee table between us. “She’s right upstairs,” I say. I don’t mention anything about her being asleep.

  Matt smirks. “Good. So we have time to play a fast game. This one’s called Kiss the Matt.”

  What? But there’s no time for questions because now he’s lunging toward me, hands outstretched. I scream and race away toward the kitchen. If I can get to the phone, I’ll be okay. At this point, calling Detective Kroon seems like a really good plan. I stumble once but find my footing again quick enough. Still, Matt manages to catch up to me just as I reach the kitchen. I cringe when I hear his footsteps thundering behind me. I shriek when I feel the wet heat from his breath on my neck. But a second later I’m saved when the screen door opens and Harrison strides into the house clutching a wet towel. His shaggy brown hair is still damp from Albert’s pool. In my whole life, I’ve never been so happy to see my brother. His eyes narrow when he spots me and my panicked face. And they narrow even more when he spots awful Matt stopped short behind me, panting like a hound on the chase.

  “Hey, what are you doing here?” Harrison asks. His words come out slow and careful … like he’s tiptoeing around broken glass.

  Matt’s hands fly up, all innocent-like. “Waiting for you, man. We were supposed to hang out today.”

  A few seconds go by when nobody says anything. Then Harrison comes to stand beside me. “Finch?” he says quietly. “Everything all right?”

  I’m just about to speak up when Mom walks into the kitchen, her face and neck creased pink from the bedsheets. Her gaze jumps from Matt to me, then to Harrison, and then back to Matt. Her eyes go wide with question marks. For the first time in months, she actually looks awake.

  She takes my hand and tugs me to her side. “Did I hear a scream down here?” she asks. Her usually soft voice is edged with steel.

  Matt’s answer comes too loud and too quick. “Yeah. We were just playing tag. Right, Finch?”

  The noise of his voice hurts my ears. Instead of an answer, I stick out my tongue at him. His eyes go dark and I move closer to the safe
ty of Mom. I’m glad she’s here. My heart is gradually slowing back down to normal, even though the NOTICE OF DEFAULT letter stuck into my waistband is digging painfully into my skin. I’m itching to ask her about it, but I don’t want to do that with Matt and Harrison standing right there listening.

  Mom puts her thin arm around me. She smiles at Matt, but it doesn’t come anywhere close to reaching her eyes. “I was just about to start getting dinner. We’re having fish sticks tonight. Would you like to join us?”

  My stomach does a little flip. This is the closest she’s sounded to the old Mom in ages. Except for the fish-stick thing.

  “Actually, I think I better go. My folks are expecting me.” He turns and pokes Harrison in the arm. “You coming?” he says under his breath.

  My brother glances at me and at Mom, then his eyes turn toward the floor. To my surprise, he gives his drooping head a shake.

  “Sorry. Fish sticks are my favorite. I wouldn’t want to miss them.”

  CHAPTER 8

  First thing this morning, Mrs. Garvin catches me daydreaming. She taps her ruler on my desk to “wake me up,” then sends me to the office to hand in the attendance (which everyone knows is just an excuse for her to get rid of me for a few minutes). I take my time walking down the hallway, carefully stepping over all the dark lines in the tile flooring.

  Step on a crack, break your mother’s back. Step on a line, break your mother’s spine.

  Last thing I need right now is for anything bad to happen to Mom.

  When I get to the office, I’m surprised to see the principal sitting behind the secretary’s desk.

  “Morning,” she says, barely glancing up from the stack of papers in front of her.

  “Hi, Mrs. Fiorini,” I reply. The bikini doodle from the bathroom flashes through my head and I have to swallow my giggle. I hand her the attendance list. “Where’s Mrs. Epstein?”