The Summer I Saved the World ... in 65 Days (13 page)

“We had four calls today from prospective clients,” Mom tells me. “I think we're getting famous.”

There's some gargantuan blond woman standing next to them in the video. “Who's that?” I ask.

Mom takes a sip of her coffee. “Melanie.”

“Whoa.” She's one of those women who's obviously addicted to plastic surgery. Big lips, big breasts, big hair. She could be on a reality show.

“Don't let her looks fool you. She's tough. And smart.”

“Okay.… ”

Mom's phone rings, and she stares at it. “It's like she heard us say her name.” She answers. “Hi, Melanie.… ” Mom listens, nodding. “No problem. Yes. Don't worry. We'll take care of it. Get a good night's sleep, all right? We'll talk in the morning.”

Mom hangs up, shakes her head. “Now I'm her therapist too.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Grandma would have said, ‘That woman needs a good talking-to.' ”

Mom looks pained. “I suppose she would have.”

Awkward silence.

Dad stands, picks up the coffee cups. “Everything okay, my girl?”

“Yeah.” I shrug. “My phone's having issues, though. In case you try to call me and it doesn't go through.”

He goes into the kitchen, rinses the cups. “Nina. What is it with you and phones?”

Just Mom and me on the sofa. She's staring off into space.

I bite my lip. “I didn't mean to make you sad.”

“I'm not sad.” She pats my knee, then gets up abruptly and goes upstairs.

In the middle of the night, I wake and hear a noise. I creep halfway down the stairs and see Mom sitting at the kitchen table, with an open shoe box. Crying. There are all sorts of papers and index cards, and she's shuffling through them, like she's looking for something.

I know that shoe box.

It was Grandma's.

T
he next morning, I don't see the box, and I sneak Grandma's sewing basket up to my room so Mom won't get upset. Does mending Thomas's cape again count as another good thing? So what? This is forty-four.

The last time Mom and Grandma were together, they had a fight. Maybe that was the only way they could end, after a lifetime of arguing. Mom was pleading with Grandma to take her medicines and have the surgery so she could get more time. Grandma kept saying, “For what?”

“You are the most difficult woman I've ever known,” Mom said.

Grandma's hands were in her lap. “As are you.”

Both were right.

Mom was at work on the day Grandma actually died. I wasn't with Grandma either. She was in hospice then, in a bed all the time. One of the nurses, Shelley, told us she thought Grandma had waited to die when she was alone. “It's a strange thing,” Shelley said. “I've seen it happen again and again. People wait until their loved ones aren't in the room. They somehow know.”

That night, I'm in my room, about to thread the needle, when I see a flash of light from the Dixon house.
What
is going on?

I put Thomas's cape down, then go outside and make my way across the empty, dark street, walking around the circle of grass in the middle, watching for anything—an animal, the
kumiho
, Eli, stray bad guys. Everything feels spooky tonight, and goose bumps trickle across my arms. The way the wind skirts through the lawns. The moon partly covered by a cloud. Tree branches scraping against a house. Maybe I should have worn the cape. I don't doubt its protective powers.

I walk slowly along the Millmans' grass toward the back of the Dixon house. The house is dark and silent, but there's a bad smell, like spoiled milk. And
mothballs. I hear an engine revving in the distance. A screech of tires. The pop of a firecracker.

The weeds are wet and sticky around my legs; then my foot kicks something. A glass bottle shoots a few feet ahead of me. A strip of moonlight shows more. There must be at least ten dark bottles, most under a dead pine tree. Plus crumpled chip bags, candy wrappers, and apple cores. Like some kids had a party back here.

I look down the street that leads out of the cul-de-sac. No cars. Whoever was here is gone. They must have parked somewhere else. I pick up one of the bottles. Hard to tell what it is in the dark. No label.

A mosquito buzzes near my face, and I wave it away. I can't just leave all this. It's completely gross. Flies are circling the apple cores. I walk back to my house and get a garbage bag, then quickly clean up. Number forty-five, I suppose. Although why does this one feel different? It makes me think about what Eli said—the world is messed up and some people just don't care.

I knot the bag, pick it up, and turn the corner around the back of the house.

A voice shouts from the darkness. “Aha! Caught ya!”

Mrs. Millman is standing in her bathrobe, pointing a flashlight into my eyes.

I
s she insane?

“What's in the bag?” She laughs crazily.

I come up with something brilliant: “Um …”

“Well?” Mrs. Millman moves the flashlight over the bag. Her hand is shaking.

She has her hair in some sort of net thing, and there's whitish cream around her eyes. She's scarier than any tree or fox. Maybe the
kumiho
has already shape-shifted into an evil woman and it has been Mrs. Millman all along. Did Mrs. Chung ever think of that?

“I saw a light,” I say.

She takes a step closer to me. “And? What was it?”

“I just found some garbage.” I gesture to the Dixon house. “Back there.”

Mrs. Millman crosses her arms. “What kind of garbage?”

What is she, a detective? “Like, bottles, candy wrappers. You know,
garbage
.”

“Bottles? Was it alcohol?”

“I don't know.”

I think she's going to grab the bag, open it, and inspect the contents, but she says, “Did you see anyone?”

I shake my head. “No.”

She takes a few more steps until she's standing just inches from my face. She's scarier up close. If that's even possible.

“There is something going on. That
house
. A wild animal attacks an innocent dog. Now it sounds like a group of reckless kids are using it as their hangout.” She lowers her voice. “I suspect paranormal activity as well.”

I stare at her.

“I watch that TV show. The signs are all there.”

“Wait. You mean, like, ghosts?”

“Exactly!”

Mrs. Chung is convinced there's a nine-tailed fox spirit stalking the neighborhood; now Mrs. Millman suspects ghosts. Okay.

She adjusts her net thing, and I shift the bag to my other hand. Who would believe this? I am standing in the Dixon weeds in the middle of the night, holding a bag of gross garbage, talking with Mrs. Millman about ghosts.

“What kind of signs?” I ask.

“Lights, noises, shadows, faces in the window. This place is haunted!”

“You've seen faces in the window?” Creepy. If true. Doubtful.

She clicks off the flashlight and nods briskly. “Yes, I have, and I suppose it's up to me to do something. Like always.” She gathers her bathrobe closer. “I'm watching you,” she says, doing that thing with her fingers in a V, first toward her eyes, then toward me. “I'm watching everyone.”

She stomps back to her house.

I walk home and cram the bag into our garbage can.

I'm watching too.

T
he next morning, there's a huge sign on Eli's garage for the entire neighborhood to see.

E + J = HC
.

Oh, God.

There it is. They're going to homecoming.

Matt is leaning against his Jeep, eating a bowl of cereal. He looks like he slept in his shirt. “Who's J?”

“Jorie.”

“I didn't know they were going out.”

“It's just a thing right now. Last I heard.”

“I always thought Eli had a thing for you.”

“Apparently not.” But then I say, “Why'd you think that?” I'm blushing.

Matt shrugs. “Guys can tell.”

“Well, it's not true.”

“Weird, though. The guy asks to homecoming.” Matt gestures to the sign with his spoon. “The girl asks to Turnabout. So why would the sign be on Eli's garage? Is Jorie asking him?”

I don't know, but I have this urge to run over and rip that sign off.

Matt looks at me. “You okay?”

“Why wouldn't I be okay? Of course I'm okay. Don't I look okay?”

“Just asking.” He spills the milk out into the grass. “I gotta go.” He hands me the bowl. “Bring this in for me?”

I hand it back to him. “I'm not your servant.”

He raises his eyebrows.

“What?” I snap.

“Hey, if you're mad about that”—he points to the sign—“don't take it out on me.”

“Yeah, why would you want to get involved? Why would you care?”

“Huh?”

“Just go, Matt. Like always. Things get bad, you take off. Close up.”

He's staring at me. “What does that mean?”

I see Jorie's mom backing out of their driveway. “I don't know. Think about it. I'm leaving.”

Matt says, “Hey!” but I start walking.

When I get into the backseat, Jorie lets out a sigh. Then another, and another. She's just waiting for me to ask.

I finally give in. “So you and Eli are going to homecoming?”

“Yes,” she breathes.

I have to say it. “He asked you?”

“More or less.”

I feel sick.

“I'm happy for you. You guys are good for each other. Did you get the red dress?”

“I still can't decide. But I have time.” She turns to me. “I want you to go in the group with me and Eli. So I've made a list of potential dates.”

“Seriously?”

She's completely serious. “So far I've come up with three.” She shows me the list on her phone: Leo Berman, Raj Patel, and Grady Brunson.

First, I don't know any of these boys, except for a face in the hall. Second, I don't want Jorie to choose a date for me. Third, I don't even know what third is. And fourth, this is not how you dream about these events in your life.