Every Day After (3 page)

Inside, Erin took her usual seat behind me. It was nearly too much to bear, having to sit with the back of my desk permanently attached to the front of hers. How was I supposed to make lemonade from that? She leaned forward, her hot breath blowing past my ear. As the door clicked shut she whispered, “I’ve had it with you, Lizzie Hawkins, and I’m gonna make you pay.”

 
Three
 

He Who Would Gather Roses Must Not Fear Thorns

By the time school was dismissed, the sun had come out in full force. Its heat had turned the mud puddles to sticky holes in the road. Wind wisped through the oaks and ruffled the honeysuckle vines overtaking Mr. Watson’s pasture fence. Ben pulled a pebble from his pocket and placed it in his slingshot.
Snap!
A sharp crack ricocheted off a bare post. Ben’s dad had given him that slingshot for his eighth birthday. He’d always loved it, but during the past year, since Mr. Butler had passed away, Ben hadn’t let that slingshot out of his sight. I suspected he even slept with it, like a baby with a blanket.

I watched him cradle it in his tanned hands. He was too quiet after Erin’s threat. He hadn’t said a single word since we’d left school. I couldn’t stand his calm any longer. “Did you see the looks she kept giving me? So my grades are better than hers. That’s no reason to have me packed off to an orphanage. And I still can’t figure exactly how
she knows about Mama. You think she’s heard it from all the church ladies?”

Ben scratched his neck and kicked a rock across the road. He popped his slingshot’s empty band. Of all the times for him to get quiet, why did it have to be now? I stomped a ball of dried mud, crushing it into a thousand tiny particles. I was mad, and I wanted Ben to be angry too. But he wasn’t. He was too busy popping and snapping that blasted band.

“Those church ladies probably think Mama’s crazy for not coming to church lately. A few of ’em came by to visit after Daddy left, to drop off a jar of jam or a batch of biscuits, but they never saw Mama. I always told ’em she was scrubbing floors or gone into town. They never seemed to doubt me. But still, when they stopped showing, their mouths likely started moving. Do you figure that’s where Erin heard it?”

Ben shrugged and cleared his throat like he was gonna say something. He didn’t.

“Benjamin Butler!” I yelled. “Do you hear me?”

It was times like these I’d have traded Ben for a girl in a blink. Girls live to get riled up over stuff. Boys would shake hands with the man who’d shot their dog.

He snatched up a rock and shot it into a sweet gum. A single leaf floated to the ground. “I just got a lot on my mind.”

“Good. You should. I was starting to think you didn’t care what Erin did to me.”

“Course I care, Lizzie. That’s why I think you should just sit this contest out. You’ve probably got the best grades anyway.”

“And I’d like to keep it that way. Extra credit is sorta like my guarantee. And there’s no point in feeling sorry for Erin. You know her. What she wants, she gets.”

Ben raked his fingers through his straw-colored hair. “Sounds like somebody else around here.”

I heaved a breath in frustration. Ben wasn’t as worried about me as he should’ve been. Heck, he didn’t seem worried at all. But then again, he always wanted to see the best in people. He even refused to believe it was Erin who’d scared the life out of Myra Robinson. The very same Myra Robinson who’d dared me to knock at Mr. Reed’s door.

It happened last October, not two months after Erin came to Bittersweet. Erin and Myra had started out friends, but Erin didn’t realize that she’d gone off and picked the wrong girl to friend up with—a bully just like herself. Aside from whipping out dares faster than green grass passes through a goose, Myra had the nasty little habit of spreading rumors, and it wasn’t long before she was spreading one about Erin. One Friday morning, Myra began swearing up one side and down the other that Erin was adopted. I didn’t know whether to believe it, but the Sawyers were pretty old. Not grandparent old or anything, but older than everyone else’s parents. And Erin didn’t look a thing like either of them, except for
her eyes. You could’ve plucked out Mr. Sawyer’s eyes, put them in Erin, and not been able to tell the difference. And anyway, why would they want to hide that Erin was adopted?

Well, by Monday afternoon, Erin had got wind of what Myra was telling the whole school. That Thursday, just as me and Ben were about to split an ice-cold Nehi from Hinkle’s General Store, Ziggy got loose. It was a known fact that Myra Robinson was terrified of dogs. Huge or tiny, old or young, it didn’t matter. If it had four legs and barked, she ran the other way. It was also a known fact that each afternoon Myra had to run past Mr. Reed’s driveway on her way home from school.

Besides holding the prize for Town Resident Older than Dirt, Mr. Reed also claimed bragging rights for Owner of the Friskiest Dog in All Creation. Ziggy, Mr. Reed’s pampered retriever, would find a way to move even if you glued his paws to the ground. He’s kept penned at all times, except for the occasional squirrel- or duck-hunting trip, because he knocks down every poor soul who crosses his path. He’d never once gotten out of his pen until that very moment when Myra happened to be running past.

Ziggy never could resist a moving target. He bolted and headed straight down the hill, right toward Myra. She went to screaming like she was dying, squealing so loud she almost cracked a window at Hinkle’s. She headed for the nearest door, but Ziggy was too fast for her. He jumped up and she went down, kicking and screaming
something fierce. Mr. Hinkle rushed out and pulled Ziggy off her. Myra took off like a burglar from a bank, her back soaked with dog slobber. A muddy puddle marked the place where she’d gone down, and the front of her departing dress told where that puddle had come from. She’d flat out wet herself! Right there in front of God and everybody.

Soon enough the whole school was talking about it. Eliza Dawson, the sheriff’s daughter, had been walking to the sheriff’s office and had seen the whole thing too, and everybody knows a sheriff’s daughter isn’t allowed to exaggerate. No one ever figured out how Ziggy got loose, but I knew. Myra Robinson knew too, but she wasn’t about to tattle on Erin for fear the next act of revenge would be even worse. Myra went the long way home from then on.

The Robinsons moved to Huntsville just before Christmas, and some say it was because of what happened with Ziggy. No kid had dared say the word “adopted” or cross Erin in any other way since … until me. I had no doubt she was planning her revenge, but I wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of carrying it out. She was barking up the wrong tree.

I looked over at Ben. His mouth was moving, but I only heard the last of what he was saying. “… somehow. You know?”

I stared at him, not sure how I was supposed to answer. “Uh-huh” was all that came out.

“You weren’t listening again, were you?”

“I was listening,” I said in my most convincing voice. “I just didn’t quite catch that last part.”

“Forget it,” he mumbled. “We goin’ fishin’ today or not?”

“Yep. I just need to check on Mama and change first. You run on and grab the poles. I’ll meet you down there.”

“All right,” he said. “Hurry.” He took off toward our barn.

I bounded onto the front porch, kicked off my crusty shoes, and ran inside. “Mama, I’m home,” I called. There was no reply. Before Daddy left, Mama would answer with “Hey, sweet. Did you have a good day?” But every day after, I’d been greeted only by silence.

I peeked through the curtain at the back porch. She was in her rocker, the exact spot I’d left her when I headed off to school. She’d need to stand up and stretch her legs, and I’d have to make her do it. Otherwise, she’d rock in that chair till the rails fell off.

I ran into my room and changed as quickly as I could—T-shirt and overalls, bare feet. Prime fishing wear. I threw my mud-stained dress into the bag with the rest of the clothes I needed to wash. The dress would need to be scrubbed harder than usual, and even then the stain was probably set already. My church dress would have to do for school until next laundry day. My crusty shoes could be cleaned off down at the pond.

I hurried to the icebox and chipped some ice off the block—one chip for me, the rest in a glass of water for Mama. I took it out to her.

She didn’t look up. She never did. She just sat there, staring, her right hand resting in her lap, clutching her worn book of old proverbs. Mama had become quiet over the past month. Too quiet. She was no longer feisty, no longer sharply spouting off the exact right quote from her book at the exact right time, no longer racing me down to the pond to fish with Daddy. Those parts of her had disappeared with Daddy. She didn’t laugh anymore or cry anymore. She simply
was
.

I held the glass up to her. “Are you thirsty, Mama? I brought you some water.”

She took the teeniest sip. I set the glass on the wooden table beside her rocker, then reached down and took her hand. It was bony and frail, yet warm and comforting at the same time. She rocked in steady rhythm. Loose strands of graying hair wisped across her sunken cheeks, escapees from the tight bun I’d made earlier at the base of her neck. Mama’s looks had always been soft and ladylike, but lately they’d developed an aged hardness that shook me down deep.

I helped her up, still grasping her hand. “Want to walk a little?”

She gripped my hand with one of hers, still tightly clutching her book with the other. We strolled back and forth across the porch, my arm hooked into hers. After a few minutes, she began to pull at me. She needed to rest.

I eased her back into the rocker and glanced at the pond. Ben was already down there. I pointed him out to
Mama. “Me and Ben are going fishing down at the pond. You can watch us if you want.”

Nothing.

“Wish us luck,” I said. “I’ll be back in a bit to fix supper.”

I went out through the front door to grab my shoes, then headed around back into the field. Fishing after school had become more than a habit; it was a need. At least, it was for me. Before Daddy left, I’d fished with him almost daily, except during winter, when fishing wasn’t good anyway. To me, fishing was the best thing in the world, and I didn’t understand girls who spent their time on pointless activities like primping or gabbing on and on about boys.

I spotted Ben’s boots lying in the grass and smiled at my own bare feet. We always fished barefooted. It’s an unspoken rule in Bittersweet—if you ain’t barefooted, you ain’t fishing. The cool grass tickled my toes, and the still-damp ground sank with each step.

I glanced back at Mama rocking away on the porch. I waved. She didn’t. I squatted down in the grass beside Ben and began to rinse my shoes in the warm, shallow water. Orangey mud swirled into the pond. “You think she’ll ever wave back again?”

Ben stopped digging and dropped another worm into his carton. “One day. Just that nobody knows when.”

I sat my shoes beside my pole, plopped down beside them, and hugged my knees to my chest. Though Ben was
trying his best, he couldn’t hide his true thoughts from me. We both knew that as long as Daddy stayed gone, so would she. Erin hadn’t seen Mama since Daddy left, and I had to keep it that way. The minute she saw her would be the minute I was hauled off to the nearest orphanage and Mama to the nearest mental ward.

“What if she never does? What if I can’t get her back? The biggest things I’ve done up till now are making As and catching old One-Eye. That’s it. And I had Daddy here on both counts. Now, not only do I have to make sure we don’t get booted from our house, I have to take care of Mama too. I’d give anything for Daddy to come home. This must be what it feels like at Wits’ End Corner.”

“Where?” Ben rumpled his brows. “I ain’t heard of that before.”

I lay back on the soft ground. “It’s a poem Mama’s had for a while. I forgot where she found it, and I don’t remember all of it, but I like it.”

“What part do you remember?”

“Only the first lines, but I can say them if you want to hear.”

Ben scooted closer to me.