Quaking

Table of Contents

 

 

To Bill—Thanks for being our Sam.

Special thanks to Patricia Lee Gauch and Tamra Tuller for teaching me to tie the theads together and weave a richer story, and to my children for kissing the manuscript good luck before mailing.

 

PHILOMEL BOOKS

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Copyright © 2007 by Kathryn Erskine.

All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, PHILOMEL BOOKS, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014. Philomel Books, Reg. U.S. Pat. & Tm. Off. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Published simultaneously in Canada.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Erskine, Kathryn. Quaking / Kathryn Erskine. p. cm.

Summary: In a Pennsylvania town where anti-war sentiments are treated with contempt and violence, Matt, a fourteen-year-old girl living with a Quaker family, deals with the demons of her past as she batttles bullies of the present, eventually learning to trust in others as well as herself.

[1. Patriotism—Fiction. 2. Toleration—Fiction. 3. High schools—Fiction. 4. Schools—Fiction.

5. Quakers—Fiction. 6. Family life—Pennsylvania—Fiction. 7. Self-actualization (Psychology).] I. Title.

PZ7.E7388Qua 2007 [Fic]—dc22 2006034563

 

eISBN : 978-1-101-04285-4

First Impression

CHAPTER ONE

 

F
amilies come in all varieties but with no warranties. I have lived with first cousins twice removed, second cousins once removed, and now a third cousin who is removing herself. I call her Loopy. Because of her large earrings. And because she is insane.

Loopy drives like a ten-year-old car thief on a sugar high. “Don’t worry,” she says, as we skid across the ice-encrusted Pennsylvania Turnpike, “everything will be fine.”

We are driving to my next hostile takeover. I crouch in the back because the front seat implies friendship. It is also the Seat of Death with Loopy behind the wheel. The Loopmobile doubles as her self-storage facility so I pile rolls of toilet paper and a bag of rock salt on top of me for protection.

“I wish I could bring you on my Mission but it’s no trip for a girl.” Loopy sighs. “Some of the places I’m going, they don’t even want to
hear
about Jesus.” She shakes her head and her earrings do loop-de-loops.

Loopy is taking Jesus on the road, whether He wants to go or not, and apparently there is not room for all three of us. I tell Him that being nailed to a cross would be preferable to riding with Loopy but I am sure He does not hear me. He never does.

“You need some TLC, sugar.”

TLC is not “Tender Loving Care” in Loopy-speak. It stands for “The Love of Christ.”

Give me an Almighty Break. Like most of my born-again relatives, Loopy feels more at home with Jesus than with me. But I do not care for them, anyway. Nor do I care for the pseudo-religious relatives, who could only get five of the Ten Commandments right on a pop quiz—six, if they said, “Jesus Christ, I always forget these!” and then remembered the one about not taking God’s name in vain. The nonreligious cousins, who do not even pretend to be sacred, are more my style. Except they get fed up with me faster because there is no Jesus screaming at them to be nice to their enemies.

Loopy shakes her earrings. “What’s going on with you, Matt? You’re a sweet girl, and so smart, too.”

According to most, it is my mouth that is smart. And occasionally my ass.

Loopy sighs.“I finally found a second cousin of mine, but you need to make it work, Matt. This is the end of the line for you.”

I glare at the rearview mirror.

“They’re . . . um . . . different but . . . really religious.” Her earrings spin.

Oh, God. It is a cult. I just know it.

“They’re Quakers.”

Quakers? Excuse me? I thought Quakers were extinct. Or maybe that was Shakers. It was one of those trembling-type religions. Who can keep up? I am not even sure it is a religion. Maybe it is a commune. Or a disease. Oh, God, is there no one else?

“You’ll love these people, honey.”

I do not love anyone. I have no feelings. She should know that.

“Give them a chance, okay?”

My stomach acid is eating my internal organs. I must be carsick. I try to open my window, then remember that nothing works in the Loopmobile.

I chew my nails.

“Stop chewing your nails. And spit out any nail bits you have in your mouth.”

I have nothing in my mouth. Except wicked words. I shoot my Evil Woman look at the back of her head.

“I saw that!” she says, without turning around.

I hide behind my wall of rock salt and chew my nails some more.

“Their names are Sam and Jessica.”

Sam and Jessica? They sound old-fashioned and fairy-tale-ish, like
Little House on the Prairie
. Could it be? I am picturing a farmhouse. Sam is in overalls chopping wood. Jessica is in a long dress and is baking me some apple crisp. It is my favorite dessert but no one has ever baked it for me. I have just enjoyed it by accident because someone else wanted it.

“They’ll love you, I’m sure.They’re already foster parents for a disabled boy.”

My face gets squashed against the window as the Loopmobile spirals its way around an exit ramp. I stare out into the snow and see the spindly trees that have a coating of ice on them, still, hard, and cold.As we drive down a two-lane highway I see the fawn, also frozen, beside a Dumpster, alive but motionless so no one will see her. I understand. It is the only way to survive in the wild. Do not get involved. Do not be noticed.

It is a lesson lost on many. Like Loopy. She makes noise constantly. She is now singing about Making a Joyful Noise unto the Lord. I hope He is finding her yelping joyful because there is no stopping her. The only thing that can interrupt Loopy is herself.

“Oh, look! Here we are!”The Loopmobile takes a sharp left onto a narrow street, heaves over a curb, and jolts to a halt.

I think I might heave, too. My hands and feet are icy cold. I stare at my fingernails, or what is left of them.

Loopy pulls me out of the backseat. I watch the toilet paper and rock salt swallow my niche. I take a breath of the arctic blast, and shards of ice pierce my throat and eyes. I shiver convulsively and drop my backpack in the snow.

Loopy drags me up a path, but not to a farmhouse. Casa Quaker is an ugly, gray, two-story duplex. A huge rainbow flag with giant white letters on it hangs from the roof all the way down to the top of one of the front doors.

“I think that’s a peace flag,” Loopy says. “You know how Quakers are into peace.”

No, actually, I know nothing about Quakers. Besides, the letters on the flag spell PACE. Either they need to buy a vowel or Sam and Jessica are advertising their last name. And they are overly enamored of it.

The door under the PACE flag opens and Loopy shoves me from behind. “Here she is!”

I am definitely not in
Little House on the Prairie
. These people wear jeans, although you could fit two Jessicas into one pair of Sam’s jeans. She is skinny and pinch-faced. Her brown magazine-model hair has a few streaks of gray. I wish I had magazine-model hair. Instead, I have frizz. Sometimes it frizzes out horizontally so I look like a tetrahedron head. But that is better than a tetrahedron body, like Sam’s. If he were a handyman, he would be the crack-showing kind.

Loopy pokes my ribs and hisses, “Say hello!”

I open my mouth but the words, if there are any, are frozen.

CHAPTER TWO

 

M
y alarm goes off. I do not want to get up. But it is not worth hearing the concerned voices asking me why I am not getting up. So I do. And then I stumble. I believe the stupid, garage-sale sofa bed trips me up on purpose. Every morning. It might have something to do with the fact that there are only six inches between the bed and the wall so it is hard, even for me, to squeeze through. I swear, loudly.

“Mattie! Are you all right?” It is Jessica, shouting her concerned-mother voice up the stairs.

I stomp around while I get dressed to let her know I have survived the attack of the sofa bed again.

I trudge down the worn brown-carpeted steps to the kitchen. I wonder what is for breakfast. I hate the smell of eggs. Especially first thing in the morning. And especially mixed with coffee.

“Eggs?” says Jessica. “Coffee?”

I shake my head, but just barely, so as not to actually barf.

“What can I get for you, then?”

I sigh. I can feel some words coming on. They are not friendly ones. Shouldn’t they be eating oatmeal? Quaker Oats? Isn’t that the Quaker national dish?

Sam turns around from his ancient computer in the corner. The little swivel stool screams under his weight, cringing and sighing when he stands up. His big round face is beaming like a kindergarten drawing of the sun.

“Good morning, Mattie! Looks like it’s going to be a great day for your first appearance at Franklin High.” He picks up his coffee from the table and sniffs it like he is going to snort it through his nose.

I stare past him through the window at the Pittsburgh Steelers “Super Bowl Champs” thermometer, the light from the kitchen illuminating it enough to see that the dial is way to the left on the dashing black football helmet.

“It is four frigging degrees,” I say, the first words I have spoken to them since I moved in two days ago. It is important for the first words to be harsh. So they know not to get involved. It is for their own good.

Sam gapes at me and spills steaming coffee down the front of his sweatshirt, then jerks back, spilling more.

He and Jessica look at each other.

Jessica clears her throat. She does not wake up bright and sunny like Sam. Her eyes and voice are only half there. It is something I like about her. You should not act all cheery when you have to get up and it is still dark outside, for God’s sake. Sam, this means you.