Peas and Carrots (19 page)

Grandma Amelie adjusted her red-framed glasses. “And so I've heard. Nice to meet you, Dess. Go on and get in before that parking guy gets to waving his arms at me again and snaps my patience.”

Hope fastened her seat belt and leaned between the two front seats. “When did you come? Are you staying overnight?”

“I'm staying until Friday. I've got to see my doctor, and I thought I should stop by and see my babies.” She beamed over at Dess. “Robin's my biggest baby, and Henry's my littlest one, but I've come to see the rest of my babies, too.”

Dess finally found her voice. “Excuse me, Mrs. Larsen? Where did you get your sweater?”

Grandma gave a bark of laughter. “ ‘Mrs. Larsen'? Darlin', my mother-in-law passed on to her reward years ago. I am ‘Grandma Amelie' or ‘Ms. Amelie' to you, Miss Dess. As for the sweater—I don't even remember where I got this old thing.”

“From the 1980s,” Hope muttered under her breath. “And they want it back.”

Dess turned in her seat. “We have
got
to find a sweater like that,” she said, her expression intent. “Hope, you could rock that sweater at Rob's party!”

“What?”
Hope and her grandmother said in unison.

“Are you crazy?” Hope whispered fiercely as she followed Dess to her room. As usual, Grandma Amelie had insisted on sleeping in the family room on one of the fat futon couches, so Hope kept her voice down to avoid offense. “How could you tell my grandmother you want one of her awful muumuu sweaters? I'm not wearing that!”

“Well, duh, you're not going to wear it like it is
now,
” Dess said, waving her hands. “Don't you like the pattern, though?”

“No! And there's, like,
miles
of it,” Hope complained. “It's horrible and
huge.
”

Dess sighed. “Okay, so it's a little wild. But with some work, it could be cute.”

“A
little wild
?” Hope repeated. The garish clash of colors was burned on her retinas. She couldn't understand Dess's enthusiasm. “Even if you unraveled the whole sweater and knit another one, it wouldn't be cute. And you can't even knit, can you?” She gave Dess a look of slitty-eyed menace. “Look, Dess. I just got Grandma Amelie to start giving me money for presents last Christmas. If you get her all excited about buying me ugly clothes again, I will kill you to death, you evil heifer. Understand?”

Dess snorted and threw her bag on her bed. “If I'm already dead, who cares?”

“Seriously,” Hope whined. “You can't tell Grandma Amelie stuff like you
like
her
clothes.
What is the matter with you? The woman wears sequined
sweat suits.
”

“So? Sequins can rock. I like your grandma's clothes better than my Granny Doris's.” Dess kicked off her ankle boots. “Even when she picked me up from school, all I ever saw Granny Doris wear was those quilted housecoat things.”

“Now, those are
super
cute,” Hope said in saccharine tones. “I'll wear
my
grandma's sweater if you wear one of your grandma's housecoats, mm-kay?”

“Actually, now that I think of it…” Dess trailed off thoughtfully.

“Ugh! Stop!” Hope pleaded. “You're crazy, you know that? I will not go out in public in a grandma sweater! How do I even know you can sew?”

“You have to wear it,” Dess pointed out. “Your grandmother already took ‘before' pictures and put them on her online photo album. She says I have to take a picture of you in the dress for the ‘after.' ”

“Well, that's not going to happen.” Hope scowled.

Dess laughed, a surprisingly evil chortle. “Your mom said she'd take it.”

Hope's eyes narrowed. She stomped into the hallway. “Mom!”

Dinner was broccoli stir-fry, two kinds of pot stickers, and steamed rice. Aunt Henry was late, so they started without him. Grandma Amelie regaled Dess and Hope with stories of Mom's girlhood. Mom rolled her eyes a lot, and Dad tried to keep Austin from imploding with the sheer excitement of having an extra person to play with.

Aunt Henry finally arrived in a burst of cold autumn air, wearing his regular uniform of plain blue work pants and a blue T-shirt with the fire station emblem on the shoulder. He gave Austin a high five, then kissed Grandma Amelie, who was eating one-handed, cuddling Jamaira.

“S'up, Mommy,” Henry said, and snitched a pot sticker off her plate.

“Boy, get your own food.” Grandma Amelie swatted him, then pulled him closer for another kiss. Hope smiled. That was Grandma Amelie all the way through—halfway smacking you in line and halfway smothering you with love.

“How's work? Been busy out there?” Dad asked as Mom filled a plate with colorful stir-fry, a scoop of rice, and the fried and steamed dumplings.

“Thanks, Rob. Not too bad, Russ,” Aunt Henry said, taking the plate and shoveling in a mouthful of hot food. He continued, “Getting a lot of overtime, teaching CPR this month….You're awfully quiet over there. How's it going, Texas?”

Hope caught her foster sister's expression. Dess, sneaking glances at Aunt Henry, looked more witless and worshipful than usual. Under cover of the table, Hope kicked Dess's foot. “Aunt Henry says,
How's it going, Texas.
” Hope spoke with an exaggerated enunciation, as if translating from a foreign language.

Dess blinked, turned a blotchy pink, and kicked Hope back, harder. “Everything's great,” she said, smiling through gritted teeth. “Thanks.”

“This young lady asked if she could buy my sweater,” Grandma Amelie said, apparently oblivious to Dess's whisper of “Quit kicking, heifer,” and Hope's muffled snort. “I'm going to wash it tonight and give it to her.”

Aunt Henry choked, then coughed noisily. Hope slapped him on the back as he blinked. Eventually he straightened and gave his mother's sweater a long, slow look. His voice serious, he deadpanned, “Halloween, huh? You going as a jester, Texas?”

Grandma Amelie yelped. “
Jester?
Henry Aaron, you wouldn't know fashion if it
slapped
you. My sweater is many things, but it is
not
a clown sweater.” She gave an injured sniff.

“I like your sweater,” Mom said loyally, patting their mother's arm.

“Suck-up,” Aunt Henry coughed, and jerked away as Mom swung a fist.

“I'm pretty sure we had a couch covered like that in the seventies,” Dad said reflectively. “Could be worth selling as upholstery fabric.”

“Anything I make with it will be worth selling when I'm done with it,” Dess said, ignoring Aunt Henry's whoop of laughter and Grandma Amelie's furious protest.

“I can't wait to see it,” Mom said, laying her hand on Dess's arm. “I have complete confidence in your design sense.”

Dess preened a bit, sitting tall in her seat. Across from her, Hope rolled her eyes expressively. Design sense?
Puh-lease.

Catching Hope's eye, Aunt Henry gave his niece a meaningful glance before setting his plate on the counter. “Thanks for dinner and the entertainment, folks. Mom, I'm off Monday night. I'll come by Tuesday and take you to Good Day Cafe for breakfast.” He jerked his chin toward the door. “H, walk me out,” he ordered.

“I'm sorry I don't have more,” Foster Lady says, handing over a picnic basket with a lid. “These days I don't do much but make patches for Austin's play clothes and replace buttons.”

“It's fine,” I say, digging through the basket to find a stuffed felt mushroom bristling with pins, two pairs of plain steel scissors, spools of colored thread, a tiny foil sheet of needles, and a variety of buttons, hooks, and other odds and ends. This stuff, along with my kit, a black marker, and a roll of masking tape, is enough to start with.

“It's not what you need for a real project,” Foster Lady is saying, biting her bottom lip. “If you make me a list, I'll be sure and get you what you need from the fabric store tomorrow—”

“Yeah. Uh-uh, it's fine,” I repeat, forcing my smile wide, willing her to go away. “Really. This is great
. Thank you.
”

“I can tell when I'm not wanted,” Foster Lady says, finally catching a clue. She wishes me a good night. When the door clicks shut, I wait until I hear her steps fade. Then I hurry to the bottom drawer of my bedside table.

There's a lumpy roll of blue satin cloth nestled behind my socks. It's frayed on the edges, and stained—really, I should wash it. Instead, I hold it close to my nose, imagining I can still smell Granny Doris's hand lotion the day she gave this to me, when I was tiny and believed that Trish would stay forever and that everything Granny Doris said was true.

Carefully I unroll the slick fabric and lay it flat on the bed, frowning over the places it has frayed. My fingers ghost over the little pockets, each with a small treasure. First, the blunt-tipped metal scissors that Granny Doris bought me when I was six, which are too small for my hands now. Then the odd buttons and an old house key filling one little pocket, the flat paper spools of colored thread that fill another pocket, and, finally, the filmy roll of Stitch Witchery, the ribbon of fabric glue Granny Doris taught me to use with a warm iron when I was eight. It's not much. Mostly, there's inspiration in this little seamstress kit. I found picture after picture on the Internet of other people who took old clothes and made them better than new. I taught myself to use my tools to change my dolls' looks. It was only a tiny step to learn to change my own. And now…Hope's. And she'd
better
wear it.

I roll up my sleeves, and get started.

It takes just a second to pull from underneath my bed the T-shirt I stole from Hope's laundry—clean, of course. I'm not trying to get my hands gross and germy. Putting a bath towel down on the floor, I spread out the gigantic sweater, inside out, and lay the T-shirt on top, aligning the shoulders carefully. I pin it down, trying to keep the pins straight along the edge. The sweater sleeves are huge, so I'm extra-careful to make the T-shirt lie flat, so the underarms of the sweater match exactly. Too much fabric, or a weird cut, and it will be totally jacked up.

Near the middle of the T-shirt I stop pinning. Picking up my marker, I draw a flared curve, making an A-line from the waist to the sweater's hem. I can barely see the line I've drawn, so I take out my roll of masking tape and follow it all the way down. It looks weird, this pieced-together pattern, but it'll do.

Once the sweater and shirt are stuck together with every pin I have, I start the boring part—sewing it all together. If Ms. Amelie wasn't in the family room, I could use Foster Lady's sewing machine for this, but it's no big deal—I'll have to hem it anyway, so I can make the seams really tight later. This is just to be on the safe side, before I cut anything.

Choosing a strong white thread that I can see against the jumbled colors, I sew fast, sloppy stitches through both layers of the sweater, marking a new seam along the pins. No matter how fast I sew, this is going to take forever. I wonder if Foster Lady will let me move the machine into my room next time.

From the bathroom I hear movement and then a tentative knock.

“Hey, Dess? Can I come in?”

“What did I say?” I singsong.

“Dess! Come on,” Hope whines. The door creaks as she leans against it.

I laugh, then swear, stopping to suck the finger I've just stabbed with a straight pin. I have to pay attention. “Not until it's done.”

“Oh, come
on.
I just need a peek. Give me some proof—” Hope begins, but I cut her off.

“What did Henry want after dinner? Did he ask about me?”

Hope snorts. “You wish.”

I do, but I play it off. “You know he wants me. If he's seeing someone, I will track her down.”

“Whatever, jailbait. Anyway, how weird would it be if you were my Aunt Dess, and practically the same age?” Hope pauses, and the doorknob rattles. “Come
on.
Just let me—”

“Hope,”
I mimic. “Go away. Just till it's done.”

A huffy sigh. “I'm not going to wear it. I never said I would.”

“You're going to wear it, if I have to knock you down and dress you, woman.”

A burst of laughter. “You're violent, you know that? They have medications for
Dessturbed
people like you.”

“Yeah? Well, you're
Hopeless.
There's nothing we can do about that, but I'm
trying.
”

“Hate you,” Hope grumbles.

“Backatcha.” I smirk.

“If this little makeover dress makes me look bad, I will
end you.
”

I give a gasp. “Violence! Is that any way to talk to a
foster child
?”

A snort. “Bite me.”

After a moment the door creaks as Hope removes her weight. I hear the click of the mirror-fronted cabinet closing and then the buzz of Hope's electric toothbrush.

I suck my finger. I have stabbed myself five times on this stupid thing. Hope had better appreciate the blood I've shed into this fabric.

I double-stitch the last bit of thread, double-knot it, and snip off the remnant with my teeth. After sticking the needle into the mushroom, I smooth out the heavy knit fabric, running my eyes along the white outline. Now for the moment of truth.

I pick up my scissors.

“It's a costume party.” Natalie scowls, twisting her pale blond ponytail. “Rob says Levi changed it to a costume party. I don't know why—it's three weeks till Halloween. I haven't started thinking about a costume yet!”

“Me neither,” I lie, trying to look concerned. Actually, I don't care if it
is
a costume party. Hope and I are going to dress as
hotties.
That's the best costume, anyway.

Of course, every time you have something else to do, school seems to last your whole life. I'm dying to go home, and by sixth period I'm about to fall over. I'm tired, my neck is stiff from bending over on the floor until late, and I want a nap. When we come in, Hope's standing by the piano, talking to Mr. Mueller, and he's shaking his head, smiling. She looks pissed. Honestly, I'm too tired to care, but I try to be nice.

“What's the matter?” I ask as she grabs her folder and heads for her seat in the row in front of me.

“Nothing,” she says, her mouth tight.

If that's the way she wants to play it, okay. I shrug and slump down in my seat.

All through chorus, Hope sits stiffly in her seat, barely opening her mouth to sing. The moment the bell rings at the end, she's on her feet with her bag in hand, the first one headed toward the door.

“The Stillwaters list is posted on the bulletin board,” Mr. Mueller calls above the rising noise. “Congratulations to everyone who made the cut. See you next week.”

I yawn so hard, my eyes water as I put my folder in its slot. On tiptoe, I crane over the crowd by the bulletin board and see that Hope made it in. Good for her. Why's she pissed, though? Then I see it: my name, next to the words “soprano alternate.”

Is that her problem—she didn't want me in the group?

I hesitate, eyes on the column of names. Hope's been okay ever since she got all pissy the other day. She couldn't be mad I'm in Stillwaters. I mean, she told me I had a nice voice. I didn't ask her to say that.

Stupid.
None of that means anything. I shoulder my way through the crowd toward my locker. I don't care about the stupid list, and I hate the way my chest feels tight.

Hope is waiting for me, arms crossed.

“It's not what I wanted.” Her voice is as sharp as the crease between her eyebrows. “He was supposed to put you in.”

I drop my bag. “Huh?”

“I
asked
you. Remember when I asked you if you liked chorus? Mr. Mueller asked me— Well, he
said
he was going to put you in. Then he made you an alternate.”

“But…I…It's fine.” I shrug. “Doesn't it mean I sing, like, every other concert or something?”

“That's not what it means. I—” Hope looks thoughtful. “On second thought, that's brilliant. We could try that….”

I roll my eyes. “I am brilliant, duh. Recognize.”

Hope sounds normal now. “Shut it, blondie. This is a better idea than Mueller's, anyway.”

“Great.” I yawn and pull my math book out of my locker. “Anything else? I've got to go sleep through math.”

“Slacker.” Hope shakes her head and tsks.

“Yeah, instead of being a hard worker like you, who's not making her foster sister clothes to wear,” I remind her.

Hope gives me a dirty look. “I am
not
wearing a grandma sweater in public.”

The rest of what she says is drowned out by the bell, and we take off running.

My plan was to just lie down for a little nap before I started my homework, but Foster Lady wakes me with a knock on my door.

“Dess? Mike Bradbrook's here,” she says, her voice muffled by the door.

“What's
he
doing here?” I whine, staggering out of bed. I got the monthly social work visit a week and a half ago, and he brought up those letters from Granny Doris again. I don't want to talk to him.

I take my time in the bathroom, running a brush through my flattened hair, slapping cold water on my face. When I finally open the door, Foster Lady is still hovering in the hall. Her face tips me off—it's serious. Somehow, she looks like a stranger, more like Amazon Lady again. As I shuffle down the hall, I can feel my skin tightening and chills prickling up my spine.