The same person must have built all these houses. Shame they’ve all gone to waste.
I step back to admire my handiwork. “And I shall call you the secret garden.”
Mom pokes holes through the blisters on my palms and I suck air through my teeth to keep from whimpering.
“I’ve never seen anything like this before,” Mom mutters, shaking her head. “You sure you were wearing gloves?”
“Maybe it’s just . . . been a while. Different earth here and all.”
Despite my work gloves, the intense labor at the secret garden wreaked havoc on my hands. Looks like I’ve been clawing at sharp volcanic rocks.
“Probably should take it easy for the next few days,” Mom says. “Maybe let Yusef do more of the hefty lifting in garden club. Seems like you’ve made a nice . . . friend.”
The accusations are like a bullhorn. “It’s not what you think.”
“I didn’t say anything,” she says in that annoying parental tone that says she’s saying something. “I think you’re smart enough to not fall for a boy’s alleged offer to help. Again.”
Parents have this unique way of reminding you of the ways you’ve disappointed them without spelling it out.
“Okay.” Mom sighs. “Upstairs, under the bathroom sink, grab the salve ointment. I’ll cut up some wraps.”
I take my time on the stairs. Yes, my hands are ravaged, but that’s just my outer injuries. Feels like I lost a wrestling match with Mother Nature herself. My lower back, feet, and arms ache. Without track keeping me fit, I have the body of a ninety-five-year-old woman.
But it’ll be worth it, I keep telling myself just as I reach the top of the stairs, catching a snip of Piper’s low whisper.
“Really? You’d do that? But what if they find out?”
Her pink lava lamp illuminates the dark hall. She’s talking to someone much taller than her, but the wall by her half-open door is blocking the person from view. It’s not Alec; he’s downstairs watching TV with Sammy.
Stepping closer, I try to keep my feet light, but the creaking floor gives me away and her head snaps in my direction.
“Who are you talking to?” I ask.
She lunges toward me, blocking the entrance with her arms. “Huh? No one.”
“You were just talking to someone.”
For a moment, Piper appears unnerved before she quickly straightens, brushing back her hair, eyes going cold. “No, I wasn’t.”
“Yes, you were.”
Piper sucks in a breath and smiles before screaming, “I said NO, Marigold! The money in Mr. Piggy is MINE!”
Heavy footsteps crush the floor as Alec bounds up the stairs.
“Hey! What’s going on?”
“You little bitch,” I mumble, and she smirks at me.
“Nothing, Daddy,” she says, her voice light and innocent.
Alec rushes toward us, hard eyes switching from her to me, then back.
“What were you just yelling about?”
I point above her head. “She was talking to someone. In her room.”
Alec glances at Piper, head cocked to the side.
Piper’s eyes widen. She glances at me, then mumbles to the floor. “I was . . . talking to Grandma.”
Alec’s face drops as he falls onto his knees in front of her. “Of course you were, sweetheart. You used to talk to Grandma every day. And that’s okay. It’s okay. Even if she’s not here in the physical sense, Grandma’s always with you.”
Alec pulls her into a tight hug. She sets her chin on his shoulder, a nasty smile smearing across her face.
We should put her in acting school, is my only thought. She’d make us millions, and then maybe we wouldn’t have to live in this house.
Seven
“DO YOU REALIZE that books are just trees . . . with words?”
Erika gives me a lazy smile across the lunch table. She must have blazed sometime before gym and jealousy is steaming out my ears. She smokes almost every day, coming to class as calm and relaxed as I dream of being.
“Trees with words? That’s deep,” I say, stabbing my salad.
Erika grins, proud of the revelation. “Right. It’s like, the trees are talking to us, but through the page. They sacrifice themselves to be heard.”
In the corner of the lunchroom, Yusef is sitting at a table, surrounded by girls. They laugh at all his jokes, on cue, like mini robots, and he looks . . . kinda miserable. It’s not in his smile but in his eyes. He glances in my direction and I flicker away.
Erika twists her neck around and spots him. “Heard you were over Yusef Brown’s house the other day.”
“What? Who told you that?”
“Oh, girl, please. You think the first girl to walk inside the Browns’ home in years wouldn’t make headline news? Ms. Steele told Ms. Merna who told my grandma who told the rest of the city. You’re public enemy number one around here now.”
I suck in a breath. “It’s . . . fine. I’m used to being a social pariah.”
She frowns. “Really? Even at your old school?”
Shit. This could open the door to the past I need to keep shut. This place is supposed to be a clean slate.
Change is good. Change is necessary. Change is needed.
“Doubt I’m the first girl. I couldn’t possibly be the first,” I say, changing subjects. “He’s too cute to not sneak a couple of chicks through his bedroom window.”
She brightens. “Ohhhh, so you do think he’s cute! Well, I get it. I don’t talk to him much in school either. But outside of school, we cool. He usually gives me a ride up to Big Ville.”
“What’s Big Ville?”
“The prison.” She frowns. “My pops and brothers are up in there. So is Yusef’s dad. So is just about everybody’s dad.”
“Whoa,” I mumble. Across the room, a small group of girls stare at me. Not the way you’d scope out an enemy. Almost as if they’re trying to figure me out.
The rest of the day, it’s like that. More curious stares. More whispers. By the end of eighth period, for the first time since we moved to Cedarville, I’m excited to be walking through the front door of our house.
“Hey! I’m home!”
The silence is so unsettling in here, to put it mildly. Old-house noises, wind whistling through hollow walls, groaning wood, creaking floors . . . I freaking hate it.
“Mom?” No shoes by the door. Guess she went to pick up Sammy and Piper. I make my way to the kitchen, pulling out my phone to text her, and run right into an open cabinet door.
“Shit,” I mumble, rubbing my throbbing forehead. “What the . . .”
My stomach drops as I blink at the scene.
Every single kitchen cabinet door and drawer is open . . . and empty. Food, dishes, pots, pans, silverware . . . all laid out on the counters. Everything is lined up neat like building blocks, size and color coordinated.
“Sammy,” I chuckle, grabbing a box of granola.
Outside, Buddy hysterically whines on the deck, staring in as if he’s been out there for hours.
The front door clicks open.
“Hey! We’re home!” Mom calls. “Marigold? You here?”