I, Emma Freke (2 page)

But I have to admit, I loved our store. I loved it more than anything else in my life.

The shop was a maze of counters lined with wooden boxes containing millions of beads. Some were as shiny and plump as bright-colored berries. Others were carved from wood, like the Brazilian patterned nut bead, rough with brown dots. All the beads were arranged in such an orderly fashion, not one out of place unless a customer accidentally mixed it up. In fact, it was my primary responsibility every day to make sure the beads were all in their correct cubbies. And that's where they stayed until they were bought and arranged on a necklace or earrings or a bracelet. But even then, the beads knew where they belonged, in a neat and pretty pattern. Individually they were all special, and when combined, they were even more amazing. No matter what they looked like, beads knew how to socialize perfectly.

As I stood in front of the store, I stared at my reflection in the glass. Yep, I was pretty hideous. Everything about me drooped—my eyes, my mouth, even my ears. No wonder no one at school liked me. I didn't even like me.

I took out my key ring and unlocked the door. A rush of cold, musty air washed over the sidewalk. So as soon as I turned on the lights, I powered up the space heater. Even though it was late May, it was still a bit chilly outside. We lived less than a mile from the Atlantic Ocean, so the coastal breeze was often cool and salty. But lately, the skies had been windier than usual.

Once inside, I switched on the twangy Indian music, lit the incense, and changed the sign to Open.

“Emma-roni! You home?”

My grandfather, Nonno, called out my name as he came down the back stairs from our apartment to the bead shop. He seemed to have no idea when I was supposed to be in school but was always relieved when I arrived home. His old bulldog, Eggplant Parmigiana (named after his customers' all-time favorite menu item), struggled down the narrow steps behind him. The round dog was dirty white with a half-black, half-pink nose and a stump for a tail. Her jowls practically touched the ground, and she constantly snorted in and out, especially when she slept.

The two of them stopped at the bottom of the tiny stairway.

“Watch Eggplant! I get coffee at Pete's.”

“Why don't you take her with you, Nonno?”

I glanced back at the old dog who had plopped down at my grandfather's feet, already asleep.

“Pete's cat no good,” he said in his raspy voice, lifting his cane. “
Terrible
cat!”

I carefully picked three mint green seed beads out of a pile of striped glass beads and gently dropped them into the correct cubby.

“Okay, but she can't just lie there blocking the stairs.”

My grandfather gave Eggplant some commands in Italian. She instantly lifted up her tired, pudgy body and waddled over to a spot under the cash register.

“Little sausage for the lunch?”

I sighed. We went through this all the time. Nonno would ask if I wanted him to get some food for me, but really he was just figuring out what he wanted to eat.

“Sure.”

“And the rigatoni?”

“Whatever.”

“Better the ziti?”

“Anything, Nonno, it all sounds fine.”

My grandfather limped carefully through the cramped store. He stopped a minute to pull his brown beret out of his coat pocket and stretch it over his fuzzy white hair.

“Ciao, ladies!”

As he shuffled through the front door, Nonno hooked the handle with his cane and yanked it shut. A chain of gypsy bells hanging on the back of the door jingled loudly. Then the only sound in the store came from underneath the cash register. The motor of a very old dog, snorting in, snorting out.

I plucked five beads (two ovals and three marbled) from the bottom of a box of silver clasps.

“Donut Delivery!”

It was Penelope from across the street who was basically my best friend, since she was my only friend these days. Except it felt weird to admit it because Penelope was a little more than two years younger and fifteen inches shorter than me. She was in the fourth grade at the local Montessori school.

“Why are you home?” I asked her as I plucked ten misplaced earring wires from the Chinese twine tray.

“Half day for us! Parent-teacher conferences.”

Penelope jumped up on the counter next to the cash register and threw a piece of a jelly donut hole down to Eggplant.

“No more please. She already poops enough.”

I trailed my hand through a cubby of smooth shell beads, feeling for anything that didn't belong.

“So why are
you
home?” she asked. “Ms. Fiddly-Diddly messing with your mind today at school?”

I brushed off my hands and chose a plain donut from the box.

“Yep, and I guess it's a good thing. Looks like Donatella had a late date last night. The shop was closed when I got here.”

Donatella was not your typical mother who ever went by Mommy or Mom or even Ma. She felt it categorized her, like one of the beads. To everyone in the world, including her only daughter, she was just
Donatella
.

And that meant, she didn't have to act like a mother either.

“Who's she going out with now?” Penelope mumbled, her mouth full of pastry.

I went behind the counter to check the cash drawer. No money other than a few nickels and pennies placed in the wrong slots.

“Larry or Gary or some name like that.”

Donatella was forty-seven years old and had been married and divorced two and a half times before she turned thirty-four. (The half being her first marriage when she was a teenager; Nonno had it annulled.) From then on, she vowed never to walk down the aisle again. But she continued to date men with the passion of a high school cheerleader.

Somehow in all those marriages and relationships she had only given birth once, to me. And even more unbelievable, she kept the last name of her most recent husband, Walter Freke. She claimed it was memorable, a good business choice. And Walter Freke? According to Donatella, he “bolted like a branded steer” a full year before I was born. I wasn't even related to the guy, and yet, I was forced to advertise his horrible name like one of those enormous billboards on Route 1. While my real father remained a mystery.

The strange part was I looked nothing like my mother. In fact, we were the exact opposite of one another. Donatella was just barely five feet with curly black hair, hazel eyes, and golden olive skin. She was almost as wide and curvy as she was tall. She spent at least an hour every morning getting ready between choosing her jewelry and plastering on makeup.

Aside from being more than a head taller than my mother and half as ample, my skin was as white as one of the pearl beads. Except for the cinnamon freckles sprinkled across my face and down my arms. And my blue eyes were so faded, Nonno said they were the color of the ancient northern sky. I wore my bright red hair in a small bun at all times, so it would be less noticeable. And I didn't care at all about clothes or accessories.

Even though our lack of physical similarities was obvious, in my mind, what made us most different was our laugh. When Donatella laughed, she made everyone in the room stop and laugh too. And I never even let myself laugh in front of other people.

“So are both Gray Moms going to the parent-teacher conference?” I asked Penelope.

“Just Cynthia. Katherine's in Hong Kong again.”

I often thought that Penelope was the one who should feel most like a freak, but she was probably the happiest, friendliest person I ever knew.

When Penelope was a baby, our neighbors, Cynthia and Katherine Windsor-Farthington, adopted her from Liberia. According to Penelope, they flew to Africa three times before they found the exact right infant meant just for them. And Penelope called them Gray Moms because they both had gray hair and looked more like grandmothers than mothers.

“Katherine's upset about missing the conferences,” continued Penelope, “so Cynthia is going to call her on the cell phone before she meets with each teacher and then put her on ‘speaker' so she can hear everything.”

“All the way from Hong Kong?”

“Yep.” Penelope searched through the box for another donut. “It's even going to be the middle of the night over there.”

Penelope's Gray Moms loved her more than any other parents I knew. Even though they were super rich, it wasn't just that they gave her lots of stuff. It was more that they made Penelope feel as if she could do anything and they would be right there cheering her on. The three of them ate breakfast and dinner together every day when Katherine wasn't traveling for work. Penelope always had clean clothes neatly folded in her drawers, and she never once got left at the dentist office for three hours and forty-nine minutes.

Just then a customer walked into the store followed by a gust of cold air. He was very tall and very bald, and he wore a black suit that made him look like a banker or a lawyer. Penelope jumped off the counter and grabbed her box of pastries.

“Hi!” she chirped to the man. “Wanna donut?”

The man looked surprised, then grinned.

“No, thank you.”

She whispered to me, “You want me to stay and help?”

“Nah, I'll call you later.”

The man nodded at Penelope as she slipped out the front door. The long chain of bells jingled after she pulled it shut. I noticed the twangy Indian music had finished so I chose another CD called
Jungle Birds Awakening
.

I watched the man as he awkwardly peered into each square compartment. It was clear he had never been in a bead shop before, because he made a confused expression with every new item he discovered.

Even though I could barely speak to people my own age, particularly at school, I never had a problem chatting with our customers. I don't know why, but I always knew exactly what to say when I worked at the shop.

“Um. Are you looking for something in particular?” I asked the man as he stared intently at the collection of silk ribbons.

He pondered the question as if he had no idea what he wanted.

“I'm just looking,” he finally replied.

“We have a special on Durango Chip beads,” I suggested.

He turned and smiled.

“Actually, I'm not shopping at all. But—but thank you,” he stammered, then left.

That was strange, I thought to myself. He seemed kinda flustered. All at once, I wondered if he was some official guy, like a collections officer or a banker checking us out. I wouldn't be surprised one bit if my mother forgot to pay her taxes.

Then the door shot open again. I knew right away this customer was one of Donatella's friends. He was wearing slick coveralls so he had to be a fisherman from the docks. The way he peered around the store, you'd think he stumbled into the underwear section at the department store.

“Uhhh,” he said as he took off his cap. “I was looking for the lady who owns this place?”

I knew it. A fishy aroma washed over the shop.

“She's not here, but if you want, I can take a—”

At that moment, Donatella burst through the door, practically slamming the chain of bells against the wall.

“Kevin!!” she shouted and laughed at the same time.

The man instantly roared with laughter too.

“'Tella baby!! You're lookin' gorgeous,” he grinned through a mouthful of crooked teeth. “Hey, your store is swell.”

She shooed away the compliment and replied, “It pays the bills.”

'Tella baby?
Yuck.

“So!” he said rubbing his hands together as if he were starving to death. “Ready for a little lunch?”

My mother was wearing one of her prized sparkly skirts and a tight sweater covered in metallic discs. It looked like something a retired belly dancer would wear. I was surprised to see her up and out of bed and in full date mode. She usually went out with her men friends at night.

“Never been readier!” she squealed, giggling like a little girl.

I coughed my way into the conversation to get her attention.

“Ahem!”

“Oh here, Emma,” she said without even glancing at me as she pulled an envelope out of her purse. Her other hand was gripping one of Kevin's suspenders as they stared all goofy at each other. “I tootled over to the bank to get cash for the drawer.”

“Good, we were out.”

As I divided the bills by value and cracked open the rolls of change, Donatella muttered something very strange to the man.

“It's not easy to get decent help these days—”

But before I could remind her that I was more than “the help,” she tore her gaze away from him and asked, “Would you mind watching the shop, Emma? Kevin and I will be back in an hour or so.”

What was she talking about? I was almost always watching the shop.

“Unless we find something better to do,” Kevin growled, winking at both of us.

Ugh. Who was this guy?

I watched the two of them rush down the street, arm in arm, Donatella's skirt blowing so high you could see the top of her chunky legs. She didn't even care that I was supposed to be at school.

All of a sudden, I smelled something horrible. It was the dog trying to digest the donut hole.

“Gross, Eggplant!”

My whole life is a freak show
, I thought to myself and sighed. No one had it as bad as I did.