Paper Things (18 page)

But I can’t ask Janna any of these questions because I wasn’t supposed to be in her room, snooping in her scrapbook. Not that she’d likely have answered my questions anyway.

I spend the whole weekend with Janna. She doesn’t have to work, so we watch HGTV together. Her favorite show is about a bickering couple. The woman is a decorator and she remodels people’s homes. While she’s fixing the home up, the man is busy trying to persuade the home owners to sell their house and move somewhere else. My favorite show is House Hunters, which is about people like me and Gage looking for the perfect home. I always try to guess which house the people will choose, and most of the time I’m right. Janna tells me I have an eye for real estate, which makes me happy.

On Sunday, I’m feeling mostly better — except for a cough and a nose that won’t stop running. I go to bed early and lie awake awhile, wondering if Gage and Janna have talked, wondering how long I’m going to stay at Janna’s. I’ve just drifted off to sleep when I’m awakened by Gage’s voice. At first I’m not sure if I’m awake or dreaming.

“Welcome to the real world,” I hear Janna say. “What did you
think
was going to happen?”

“I didn’t think that . . .” Gage stops and sighs.

It’s not a dream. I sit up high on my pillow, trying to listen. I can only hear what they’re saying when they raise their voices.

“Just for a little while.” That’s Gage.

What would be just for a little while? Are we moving back?
I get out of bed and stumble closer to the door.

“It can’t always be about you, Gage. What
you
need.”

“It’s not about me! This is about Ari!”

Silence.

Janna mumbles something, and then I hear her say, “You know the terms: if she stays, you can’t come back in a week or a month and tell me she’s moving in with you again. If she stays, she stays for good. I can’t go through this again.”

If
she
stays? Gage wants me to stay? Just me? With no chance of being a family again
? I suddenly have difficulty breathing. I crack open my door, wanting to hear more while I quickly pack up my things.

“We’re supposed to stay together,” Gage is saying, but he sounds defeated.

“Your mother never meant for Ari to suffer the way she has these past weeks. You and I both know that.”

I’ve heard about enough. I grab my backpack and walk into the living room. Janna is sitting in the chair by the gas fireplace. Gage is standing, zipping up his coat.

I walk over to Gage and take his hand.

“You’re OK,” he says, sounding relieved. I wonder what Janna must have told him to make him look so worried. I squeeze his hand.

“I’m ready to go,” I say.

After what feels like an eternity, Gage gives a decisive nod. “I was only asking for a little more time to put everything in place,” he says to Janna. “But as usual, things have to be on your terms.”

We head over to the door to get my shoes. I reach down to put them on, and my finger pokes through the hole in the stitching. Gage grabs them out of my hand. “You can put them on outside,” he says. “So you won’t leave any tracks in here.” But I know the real reason is that he doesn’t want Janna to notice what sorry shape they’re in.

And I realize that today, unlike the day we left, I really made a choice. I chose to go with my brother rather than stay with Janna. Suddenly I feel more sad than angry. No matter which way I turn, I have to say good-bye to someone I care about. To someone I love.

I run back and give Janna a hug.

“Ari —” Janna starts, but Gage pulls me out the door before she can finish.

“You’re not going to school, Ari,” Gage says later that morning when I walk out of Briggs’s bathroom in my school uniform. (Thank goodness we have clean laundry at Briggs’s. I wonder what Janna did with my shirt — Briggs’s shirt — that I threw up on.)

“I feel better,” I say, which is somewhat true; showering always makes me feel better. “Besides, if I don’t go, I’m going to fall further behind.”

“You’re behind?” Gage asks, putting his chair-bed back together.

“Some,” I say. I haven’t wanted Gage to know how far behind. I don’t want him to think that I haven’t been working as hard as he has to keep on top of things.

“Then stay and get caught up,” Gage says. “If you go to school and have a relapse, they’ll call Janna again.”

“Why can’t you just tell them to call you?” I ask, though I think I know the answer.

“You know why, B’Neatie,” he says, trying for a teasing tone, but I can tell he’s not feeling especially playful right now. “So just stay here and rest up. And catch up, too.”

“Stay,” says Briggs, sitting on the arm of the love seat while attaching his One Stop Party Shop name tag to his shirt. “You can play your paper game.”

“No, she can’t,” says Gage. “If she’s well enough to be up, she’s well enough to do schoolwork.” He sounds just like Janna when he says this, though no way am I going to point that out.

“Then you can use my laptop,” says Briggs. “To do research or type up any assignments. But no matter what you do, remember to keep things quiet. I don’t want the landlord to know that you’re here — especially when I’m not.”

I sink down onto the love seat, slightly relieved. It will be great not to have to figure out who to sit with at lunchtime, or not to have to face everyone after the snowflake-and-projectile-vomit fiasco — especially Mr. Chandler. And it will be nice, too, if I can actually finish my report on Louisa May Alcott.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” says Gage, reaching into his Jiffy Lube shirt pocket. “Janna gave me this.” He pulls out a slip of paper that practically glows. He doesn’t have to tell me or Briggs what it is. Anyone who’s gone to Eastland knows that a half sheet of paper the color of a pumpkin means one thing: detention.

Tears sock my eyes. I can’t believe that I actually got detention! “But we were trying to do a good thing,” I say.

“Yeah, but you trespassed on school property. If I had known that’s what you and that Daniel kid were up to —”

But Briggs cuts him off. “You’re hardly the first Hazard to serve detention as an Eastland Tiger. Your brother was known to bend the rules from time to time himself. Or have you forgotten, dude?”

I look up at their smirking faces. They’re clearly remembering some pranks Gage pulled back in the day, when Gage was goofier. Back when Mama was alive.

“Yeah, but it looks like I’ll be the first Hazard not to go to Carter,” I say.

Gage’s smile disappears.

“You’ll go to Carter,” says Briggs, knocking me playfully on the back of the head. “ ’Cause you’re a smart aleck. Now get over here and eat your Cheerios.”

Gage has to leave first. He stands too long at the door, and I know that he feels nervous about leaving me alone. “I’ll come back at lunchtime to check up on you,” he says.

“There’s not much here to eat,” Briggs says. He opens the refrigerator door to reveal two beers, the remaining milk, and a container of sour-cream-and-onion dip.

“I’ll pick something up,” says Gage.

“And still get back to South Port City on time?” says Briggs. “It’s your second week on the job. There’s no way you can get here and back on the bus in an hour.”

“I’ll be OK,” I say to Gage. “You don’t need to come back. I’ll have more Cheerios for lunch.”

Gage isn’t convinced.

“You can call me to check in,” I say. “Call me at lunchtime.”

The alligator lights and the smiley-face rugs stare at me now that the guys are gone. I reach into my backpack, intending to pull out my biography of Louisa May Alcott, but my Paper Things folder catches my eye and I pull it out instead. The folder is so worn and dirty that it feels more like cotton than card stock. Someday I’d like to buy a binder with more pockets. Then I could divide up my families, furniture, and the day care.

I run my fingers over the familiar faces and objects in my Paper Things folder, saying hello to these images that have been such a big part of my life for so many years. I would really like to spread everything out on Briggs’s floor (maybe after giving it a quick vacuum), but I promised Gage I’d work on my report today. With a sigh, I put the folder back and pull my copy of
Little Women
out of my backpack. I want to add more quotes from the book to support the section of my report where I talk about what a great writer Louisa May Alcott was.

I write my new pages on Briggs’s computer and then start typing up the pages I wrote over lunch in Mr. O.’s room. It’s pretty slow going, though, because I’m not the fastest typist in the world. Plus, I have to keep stopping to blow my nose.

Around lunchtime, I decide to give my fingers a rest, even though I’m not really hungry yet. I get up and look out the window. Pine Street below is busy, and it’s fun to spy on people when they have no idea you’re watching them. There are lots of people around Gage’s age who go by, and some mothers — or maybe nannies — with young children. It’s sunny out, and warmer than it’s been. People are peeling off their scarves and unzipping their jackets as they walk. It’s hard to believe that it was snowing just a few days ago. One little kid has rubber boots on and is pulling his mother’s hand so he can jump in every single puddle.

Just when I’m about to turn back to the computer, I see a woman I know. At first I can’t place her; she has on a fuzzy hat and her head is down, but her walk looks so familiar. And then, as she passes, it hits me: it’s Fran! Fran from Head Start. I rush to my backpack, and then out the door.

She hears me on my third shout, turns around, and walks back up the hill toward me. “Ari! What a surprise,” she says. “We’ve missed you at Head Start.” Then she notices what I’m wearing. “You’re dressed for school, but you’re not in school.”

“Gage wouldn’t let me go today. I’ve had the flu and he wants to make sure I’m over it.”

“Good idea,” says Fran, shifting her messenger bag from one shoulder to the other. “But shouldn’t you be wearing a coat?”

“I’m OK,” I assure her. “It’s nice out, and I only came outside to give you this.” I hold Reggie’s plane out to her.

“Oh, wow!” Fran takes the plane and examines it closely. “It’s a beauty! He’s one talented guy, your airplane man.”

“It’s a Hell Plane,” I tell her. “He chose it for you because it has two points, the way a bicycle has two wheels.”

Fran smiles. “I almost hate to let it go,” she says. “Where do you think I should fly it?”

“Are you walking to Head Start now?” I ask.

Fran nods. “Well, to the bus stop,” she clarifies.

I try to picture a high place between here and the bus stop. “There’s that church nearby — the big white one. Maybe you can get up into the bell tower.”

I expect Fran to dismiss this idea, but instead she seems to be considering it.

“I can come with you, if you want,” I offer. This definitely sounds like more fun than typing, and I’d love to see Reggie’s Hell Plane fly.

She laughs, and I realize that I don’t hear Fran laugh much. Now, Carol, she laughs all the time, but Fran, she keeps her feelings more to herself. “I don’t think that’s what your brother has in mind for you today. In fact, you’d better get back inside. It may be a nice day, but you can still catch a chill.”

She thanks me again for the plane and has me promise to tell Reggie how grateful she is to him. We say our good-byes, and I head back into the apartment building. As I trudge my still-wobbly legs up the stairs, it occurs to me that Fran must live in the same neighborhood as Briggs. It probably takes her an hour to get to Head Start, between the walk to the center of Port City and the bus ride to the East End. Now I know why she’s so desperate to get a bike; if she had a bike, she could ride directly down Commercial Street and be in the East End in a third of the time — maybe even less.

I arrive at the door of Briggs’s apartment and turn the doorknob. It doesn’t turn.

I use both hands to twist the knob as hard as I can, but of course it still doesn’t turn. It’s locked.

I push on the door, hoping it didn’t really shut all the way, that the force of my push will make the door pop open. It doesn’t.

I try the doorknob again.

The door is locked. I don’t have a key. And Gage and Briggs aren’t going to be back for hours. Oh, and I can’t go to the landlord — even if I knew which unit was his — because Gage and I aren’t supposed to be staying here anymore.

Despite the warmer weather outdoors, it’s cold in this hall. I don’t know anyone in the building. I don’t have a coat. I haven’t eaten any lunch.

Just then, the phone rings inside the apartment. It’s probably Gage, calling to see if I’m OK.

Holy moly, what have I gotten myself into?

I hear footsteps coming down the hall. What if it’s the landlord? I dash back down the stairs and out the door so I won’t be seen near Briggs’s apartment.

A man leaves, but I have no idea if it was the landlord or not.

Not knowing what else to do, I crouch against the wall of the building across the street. People glance at me as they pass by, and I can tell that they’re wondering if they should stop, wondering if they should do something for me. But no one does.

An hour passes, maybe more. The day starts to get cooler, and a fog rolls in. I can’t afford to get sick again.