I couldn’t help puzzling over Conn’s answer as if it were a clue to his character and he was a poem that needed to be interpreted. Uncertain? About what?
“Ms. Jones?”
Startled, I glanced at Ms. Goldberg. The awkward silence told me she had been calling my name for some time. I might have blurted out something random, but then I noticed that Conn had tilted his head slightly. Like a listening hawk.
I thought of J. Alfred walking on the beach with the bottoms of his trousers rolled, and how these lines of the poem weren’t the last, but might as well have been:
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
“He’s lonely,” I said. “And he’s given up.”
Conn didn’t turn around. He didn’t look at me.
Taylor, however, did.
Freak, she mouthed.
Who would have guessed it? As things turned out, Taylor was absolutely right.
5
The last bell rang. Jason slapped Conn on the shoulder, saying, “C’mon,” and the two of them strode out the door with Taylor leading the way.
I walked home. Where there weren’t trees or raised-ranch homes, I could see far and wide around me. The land here is as flat as the palm of my hand. Illinois is tornado country.
I always stayed outside in a tornado long after anyone sensible had gone down into a basement. I loved to watch the sky go green and brown and dangerous. The wind thrashed the trees, and sometimes, if I was lucky, I’d spot the cyclone twisting in the sky. Afterward, I’d walk around and survey the damage: willow branches lying in whips across the sidewalk, and gutters rushing with leaves and the stringy bodies of drowned worms.
The arrival of Conn McCrea at Lakebrook High made me think of a tornado—of the aftermath, and how the world looked as if it had been spun in a blender. Most of all, it reminded me of the very start of a storm. Of the alluring risk, the winds muscling against me as I waited to see if that cyclone would touch down, and where, and when.
* * *
WHEN I GOT HOME, I unlaced my boots and lined them up by the door.
Marsha’s place was your typical ranch home. The front door opened up into a living room that connected to the kitchen, with nothing to separate the two spaces except a brassy metal strip on the floor that marked the border between the carpet and the linoleum.
The house was cozy. And cutesy. An oil portrait of a raccoon hung over the television. There was a wall rack of forty-nine silver spoons with a different state bird painted onto each handle. Marsha had told me with great satisfaction that she had bought only one: the spoon with the Illinois cardinal. “The rest are gifts from friends,” she explained. “Once I get the willow ptarmigan from Alaska, my collection will be complete.”
Her pride and joy was the fish tank, which stood by the hallway leading to the two bedrooms. It had a bed of blue rocks, a treasure chest that burbled open every few minutes, and a crew of angelfish. Marsha called them each by name, though if she was too busy for individual hellos she might simply wave and say, “Good morning, my angels.”
I fed the angelfish, watching them dart after rust-colored food flakes. Then I launched myself onto the leatherette sofa and called Jims.
“Hey, sister.” He was chewing on something. “What’cha building?”
“A garden that grows ninja warriors.” I swung my legs over the armrest. “You?”
“A rocket ship fueled by chocolate sauce. No! A rocket ship that delivers chocolate sauce.”
For endless conversation about nothing at all, Jims was the best.
He began pestering me to see a band called the Flippin Idjits play in the city that weekend.
“Not sure.” I wagged my feet. “They sound a little too dance-y to me.”
“Nuh-unh. They sound like men with lean hips who know how to shake ’em.”
For pure distraction, Jims was the best.
He added, “Just like Conn McCrea.”
Or not.
“He’s in my American History class,” Jims said. “Right after lunch. The boy knows jack about the presidents. He said JFK died of a brain tumor!”
I pushed myself off the couch and strode into the kitchen. “I don’t care.”
“You don’t care because you prefer your men sweet and empty, like one of those hollow gumballs you can buy for twenty-five cents from a dispenser in the grocery store.”
“No.” I paced the linoleum floor and lied through my teeth. “I don’t care because I’m thinking about my art project, and want your advice.”
“Yeah?” I could almost hear him rubbing his palms. “Sure thing, young grasshopper. You want wisdom, you’ve come to the right place. Jims to the rescue. So, what’re you planning?”
“Um…” Since up to that moment I’d been planning a big, fat Nothing, I scrambled for a response. I reached past the butcher block of knives resting on the counter, opened a cabinet, and rummaged through Marsha’s baking supplies. I looked at a green bottle. “Maybe something with vegetable dye?”
“Ah, avant-garde. I like it, I like it.”
I reached for a tea canister. “Or tea leaves?”
“I sense a food theme. I am an expert on that topic!”
I opened the canister. Inside was a thick roll of money.
“Jims. I’ve got to go.”
“But we’re just getting started—”
I hung up.
The label on the tin was for Lapsang souchong tea, which tastes like charred wood. Even the smell of it made me want to throw up. And Marsha knew it.
What she didn’t know was why. I was terrified of fire. I always had been, though I did my best to hide it. It was embarrassing, because it wasn’t only fire that set me on edge. It was everything that had anything to do with fire. Cigarettes. Smoke. Even stupid smoky-tasting tea.
I unwrapped the rubber band around the money. Most of it was small bills, but there was a lot of it. Hundreds of dollars. Maybe even a thousand.
What was Marsha saving for? And why was she hiding it from me?
I fanned it out and couldn’t help wondering if she’d miss a twenty. Then I quickly tapped the cash against the countertop like a deck of shuffled cards.
She was hiding it from me because it was none of my business. I was just her foster kid.
Who didn’t need to give her a reason to kick me out.