Every Single Second
Read Every Single Second Online
Authors: Tricia Springstubb
Once a book ventures into the world, it belongs to readers, not me. Yet I can’t let this one go without saying that my deepest hope is that it sparks questions, conversations, discoveries, and most of all, new and deep connections. My heartfelt thanks to Donna Bray, Viana Siniscalchi, and all the genius people at HarperCollins who believed in this challenging book.
Mille grazie
to my agent, Sarah Davies; to my wonderful readers, Mary Oluonye, Delia Springstubb, and Kris Ohlson; to Mary Grimm and Susan Grimm for everything, including Mario Lanza; and to Mary Norris for her support and especially her knowledge of Italian.
For my family near and far,
who have been there for me
time and time again
C
ONTENTS
- Acknowledgments
- Dedication
- Map
- Prologue
- Secret Sisters
- An Announcement
- What the Statue of Jeptha A. Stone Would Say if It Could
- Land of Innocence
- Flip of a Coin
- Because Angela Didn’t Tell
- What the Statue of Jeptha A. Stone Would Say if It Could
- Nonni, Cross to Bear
- What the Statue of Jeptha A. Stone Would Say if It Could
- Disaster Dolls
- Among the Barbarians
- Breakdown
- What the Statue of Jeptha A. Stone Would Say if It Could
- You Can’t Always Get What You Want
- In Common
- P2F2
- Dad’s Secret
- What the Statue of Jeptha A. Stone Would Say if It Could
- Marie
- Aiuta!
- Anthony’s Secret
- What the Statue of Jeptha A. Stone Would Say if It Could
- The Future Awaits
- Because Angela Didn’t Tell, Again
- What the Statue of Jeptha A. Stone Would Say if It Could
- Bell and Rem, Time Sisters
- Seize the Doughnut
- Buona Festa!
- What the Statue of Jeptha A. Stone Would Say if It Could
- Too Late
- The News
- Flip Book
- What the Statue of Jeptha A. Stone Would Say if It Could
- Angela DeMarco Has No Friends
- Marie, Again
- Seashell
- What the Statue of Jeptha A. Stone Would Say if It Could
- Landslide
- What the Statue of Jeptha A. Stone Would Say if It Could
- Nonni, Time Traveler
- This Voice Inside
- With a Capital F
- Why God Made So Many of Us
- Camera’s Eye
- Gad
- Choose Your Own Adventure
- Sticks and Stones
- Nella’s Turn Not to Tell
- What the Statue of Jeptha A. Stone Would Say if Only, if Only It Could
- Mi Ricordo
- Chutes and Ladders
- James Garfield Middle School
- A Small, Pure Bell
- Do-Over
- What the Statue of Jeptha A. Stone Would Say if It Could
- The Countdown Begins
- Seashell, Again
- Speak
- What the Statue of Jeptha A. Stone Said
- Now Now Now
- The True Turtle Girl
- Leap
- You Know
- What the Statue of St. Amphibalus Would Say If It Could
- Every Single Second
- What the Statue of Jeptha A. Stone Wanted to Say More than Anything
- Leap Second
- More than Three Dimensions
- Nonni, the Secret Keeper
- What the Statue of Jeptha A. Stone Would Say if It Could
- The News, Again
- Crapp
- Friendship, Fate, and Other Cosmic Things
- Now and Always
- A Final Word from the Honorable Jeptha A. Stone
- About the Author
- Books by Tricia Springstubb
- Credits
- Copyright
- About the Publisher
A
t first Nella doesn’t recognize the sound. The wind, maybe? Except the trees behind the stone wall don’t move. A flock of birds with heavy wings? Except the sky is empty. Ghosts? Except of course that’s ridiculous. A girl who’s lived her whole life across from a graveyard does not let herself believe in ghosts.
The July night is warm, but she shivers. Until a few days ago, Nella knew every sight and sound, smell and taste of her neighborhood. The steep hill and narrow houses, the cheesy music at Mama Gemma’s, the supernatural perfume of fresh doughnuts, and the zing of lemon ice. She
and Angela used to love— No. Don’t think about Angela. Just don’t.
She starts down the hill. Past the deserted bocce court. The silent social club. The boarded-up school. Emptiness all around. The sound grows louder. It’s almost dark and she should go home, but the sound tugs her forward. The hill is so steep, the houses and shops have to dig in and hang on with all their might. When Nella was still little, maybe seven or eight, she saw pictures of a landslide. She freaked. She imagined her neighborhood suddenly swept away, tumbled and crushed and reduced to piles of bone and rubble. Anthony, Angela’s big brother, reassured her.
No landslides in this part of the world,
he said, shaking his princely head. Smiling with those deep-set eyes. Personally guaranteeing nothing bad would ever, ever, do you hear me
ever
, happen to her or Angela.
Anthony!
The world tilts and goes blurry.
“You okay?” asks a soft voice at her elbow.
A stranger. A woman with long dreads and dark, anxious eyes. Nella has almost reached the street where it happened, and suddenly she’s surrounded by other people, all intent on getting to the source of that sound. Looking into the woman’s concerned face, Nella at last recognizes
what that sound is. Voices. Voices singing.
“I’m all right,” says Nella, and then, who knows why, she says thank you in Italian.
“Mille grazie.”
The woman hesitates, but the sound, the singing, is pulling her, too. She reaches up—Nella is taller than she is—and gives Nella’s head a motherly pat. Then disappears around the corner.
Police cars block off the street. Cops lean against them, arms folded. Maybe they’re here to protect people, but they scare Nella. There are news vans, men with cameras on their shoulders. She looks around, recognizing no one. A tornado snatched up every person she knows and spun them away. An earthquake gobbled them down. A landslide pulverized them.
She slips between the barricades. A sea of strangers overflows the narrow street, spilling onto the sidewalks and little front lawns. Where did all these people come from? What are they singing? It sounds like a hymn, but not one Nella knows. She searches for Angela’s face, her bright shining hair. Crazy! Of course she’s not here. This is the last place on earth she’d be.
There was blood on the sidewalk, her little brother said. They washed it away, but you can still see it.
Nella squeezes her eyes shut. She can’t stop shivering.
Wrapping her arms around herself, she thinks,
This is where it happened.
Thinks,
How could it happen?
The voices rise, growing richer and stronger, gaining power till they turn into a solid thing, pushing hard against the darkness, trying to push it back and make something happen.
Or undo something that already did.
T
hey met on the very first day of school.
The night before, Nella Sabatini laid out her uniform, a plaid jumper and round-collared blouse. She had new pink sneakers with snow-white laces she still didn’t know how to tie.
And she had a lunch box. Her father had given it to her, proving again that he loved her best. The lunch box was pink, with her name in sparkly letters. For days Nella had carried it everywhere. That night, it stood on the kitchen counter, waiting to go to kindergarten with her.
Back then, Nella only had one little brother. Salvatore.
But her mother was pregnant again, and Nella was sure it was a sister. (Little did she guess that in the coming years her mother would bring home nothing but one fat, squally boy after another.) That night, Mom’s back hurt too much for her to bend over, so Nella stood up on her bed for her good-night kiss. The plan was to leave Salvatore with Nonni, their crabby great-grandmother who lived nearby, and for both parents to walk her to St. Amphibalus Elementary School. Even back in those days, having her parents all to herself was a rare event. Put that together with starting school, and no wonder Nella couldn’t sleep. No wonder she had strange dreams of her mother moaning and her father pacing, no wonder she thought she was still asleep when she felt his hand on her shoulder, shaking her. Not gently.