Paperquake (6 page)

When the big window was clean, Violet began washing off the grimy sales counter. Then, using the broken old broom, she energetically swept the cobwebs out of the corners of the room, stirring up dust.

When she was satisfied that most of the dirt had been banished, she bundled up the old newspapers. They were so yellowed and damp from mildew, it would be a chore even to read the headlines. She hauled the papers down the hall to the back door, turned the bolt to unlock it, then hefted her stinking bundles down the rickety steps to the back fence by the trash cans. There was no recycling bin yet. She'd have to tell her parents to see about getting one. She turned to go back in and grimaced with distaste as a spider ran across her arm and sailed off on a strand of web into the bushes. Once inside, she gathered up the grimy rags from the corner and wrapped them in the last sheets of newspaper. These she carried back to the garbage cans and dumped them in.

When she turned to go back up the steps, something held her. She looked around the backyard at the cracked concrete, the broken fence, the single bush, the walls of the buildings next door and directly behind. Why did she feel sad that there were no flowers in this small space? If she knew how to needlepoint, she would work a picture of flowers cascading over a gray concrete wall.
You can tell I'm the florists' daughter, that's for sure.

Then she went back to the front room. Her sisters had returned with the new broom and mop. They were standing by the sales counter, taking in the changes in the room. Jasmine had the grace to look ashamed.

"Really, you should have waited. You've done all the work yourself."

"No one made her do it," said Rose. She sounded angry. "And she
shouldn't
have. What if something had happened? She could have hurt herself doing it, and it would be our fault."

"It's so changed now," said Jasmine in wonderment, turning to look. "There's more light than I thought there'd be—and now that the cobwebs are gone, you can see the walls have textured wallpaper on them. And all those gross newspapers—Vi, you didn't lift them yourself, did you?"

"Who was here to help?" asked Violet. Her voice was cool, but she felt an inner warm glow.
At last!
she was thinking. At last she had shown them she wasn't a useless baby anymore.

"Give us a break, Baby," snapped Rose. "We were gone ten minutes, tops." She shook back her long ponytail and put her hands on her hips.

"I must
really
be fast, then, if that's how long you were gone." Violet tried to shake back her nub of a ponytail in the same manner, but it was too short. "And don't call me Baby!" She put her hands on her hips, mirroring Rose's stance. "I hope you had a nice chat with those boys while you were buying the broom and the mop. But what would Brett Hudson think?"

"Look, don't you two fight," said Jasmine, handing Rose the mop. "It's not good for Vi to get all upset. She
has
done all this work, Rosy, so we must have been gone longer than we thought." She turned to Violet. "We really didn't mean to be gone so long. I guess we sort of lost track—"

"Oh, it's okay." Violet wasn't used to having her sisters apologize to her. Or even one sister. Rose's face was still thundery.

Jasmine picked up the pail and opened the front door. "I'll just empty this dirty water outside into the gutter. Then we can start on the floor, Rosy. Okay?"

"At least Vi has left us
something
to do!" snapped Rose.

"Listen, don't tell Dad." Jasmine looked anxiously at Violet. "That you did all this work, I mean. You're not supposed to, you know, exert yourself."

"Yeah," spat Rose resentfully. "We'll get in trouble if you look even the teensiest bit tired out." She frowned at Violet. "I don't know how you get away with it."

"I won't tell." The small glow inside Violet brightened.

While Rose wielded the mop and Jasmine scrubbed the floor on hands and knees, Violet returned to the begrimed cupboards and countertops. They would need repair before her parents could install their top-of-the-line computerized cash registers. She stooped behind the counter and tried to close the sagging cupboard doors, but the hinges had pulled away from the old wood. "We'll need to buy hinges at the hardware store," she said, reaching gingerly inside and rolling up the brittle, stained shelf paper. It shredded in her hands. She gathered all the scraps, actually enjoying the work now that she had impressed her sisters.

She was just standing to carry the scraps out to the trash when another piece of paper caught her eye. It was different from the shelf paper—a thicker rectangle, stuck along the back of the shelf. She reached inside again to pull out this last offending bit of rubbish, then stopped and looked closely at what was in her hand. It was an envelope of thick white paper, yellowed at the corners. The back flap was tucked in. On the front, in elegant brown ink, was a single initial:
V.

Violet sat back on her heels, turning the envelope over in her hands. She stood up to show her sisters what she'd found, but they were heading back toward the kitchen to refill the pail with clean water. Violet hesitated, then opened the envelope and removed the folded sheet. It was a short note written in the same brown ink, in a strange, hard-to-read handwriting, all unfamiliar angles and curlicues. The salutation read:
Poor Baby V.

Violet's heart thumped hard.
That's me,
she thought in astonishment. But how could it be? Then she heard Rose's and Jazzy's laughter from the kitchen and sighed. She sank onto the floor and read the letter.

 

Poor Baby V,

I look at the flowers in the garden and think how wrong it is that they soak up the sun and rain while you are kept indoors. You must pull yourself together and prove to your parents that you will be well and
can work as hard as anyone. Ah, wild V! Remember the quarrel in the restaurant? You were most wonderfully vibrant. Tour response to those abominable twins proved to me—if I ever needed proof!—that you are as strong and capable as anyone. One day you will make an excellent mother—though, of course,
our
children will never test your patience to such a degree! I think about you all the time and long to save you from your family. Though they say they want to keep you safe, they are only stifling you. My darling, for now you remain their hothouse flower, but someday soon, dear girl, we shall be together in a real garden, in a house we share, and you shall be strong and fresh and free. I am working on a plan.

Your Hal

 

Violet read the letter again, then folded it, and inserted it back in the envelope. She stood up and dusted off her jeans. Rose and Jasmine came sloshing down the hall with the pail of water. "Ha-ha, you guys," Violet said, flapping the envelope at them. "Getting me back for the hair?"

"Nothing funny about spilling water all over the floor," said Jasmine. "Be a good sister and wipe it up, will you, Vi? Here's a towel." Jasmine threw her a cloth.

"What hair?" asked Rose.

Violet figured they'd probably written the note at the hardware store and hidden it when they returned while she was still out back dumping the old newspapers. It really wasn't very funny at all. She frowned, watching Rose dip the mop into the pail and sluice a path of fresh water across the floorboards. Jasmine followed behind on hands and knees, rubbing with a towel. Violet dropped the cloth on the sales counter and walked over. "I don't like it—and I want to know what it's supposed to mean."

"Mean what?" asked Rose, depositing another spray of water on the floor.

"Not so much, Rosy!" cautioned Jasmine. She looked up at Violet. "Don't walk there. It's still damp and you might slip."

"And break your leg or something," muttered Rose. "And we'd be to blame, of course."

Violet held out the envelope. "Are you trying to say you didn't write this?"

Now Jasmine stood up, looking intrigued. "Write what? What is it?"

"This letter—to me. To 'Poor Baby V.' It's not funny. So what's the point?"

Rosy leaned the mop against the wall and came to look. "We didn't write that. At least
I
didn't. Look, you can see it's ancient. Did
you
write it, Jazzy?"

"What's it say? Let me see?" Jasmine held out her hand.

But Violet stuck her hands behind her back, shielding the letter. She looked around the room as if seeing it for the first time. She felt stiff and chilled, as if the dirty water in the pail ran through her veins. How could this letter be waiting here for her if her sisters hadn't hidden it? And even more important to know, who in the world was Hal?

"Look, I'm starving." Violet wedged the letter into her back pocket. "Mom said there was a café on this street. I'm going to go get a sandwich or something." As much as she'd earlier wanted her sisters close by, now she wanted privacy. She wanted to sit and read her letter again, all alone.

But her plan was dashed as Jasmine kicked her towel into a corner. "Sounds good."

"I want to see that letter," said Rose. "Where'd you find it?"

Violet led the way out of the old house, carefully locking the door behind them. She would have said earlier there was nothing inside anybody could possibly want to steal, but the letter had changed her mind. What other secrets might be hidden in the house for her?

They found the café half a block away, a cheerful place with plants hanging from the ceiling and a smell of roasted coffee beans. None of the girls drank coffee, but they appreciated the aroma. They sat at a booth near the window and ordered hamburgers and fries. Rose and Jasmine ordered chocolate shakes and Violet, her mind so preoccupied with the mysterious letter, nearly ordered vanilla. But she kicked herself mentally.
Pay attention!
How could she be like her sisters if she didn't watch them carefully?

She ordered chocolate.

Rose demanded again to see the letter, and Violet handed it over. Jasmine edged closer to see. They sat on the vinyl bench across from her, their identical gold heads bowed together over the table as they read. On the opposite bench, Violet watched, thoughtful. They were doing an excellent job of acting surprised.

"This is really cool," said Jasmine. She looked up and grinned.

"It's weird, if you ask me." Rose looked across at Violet suspiciously.

The waitress, her dry, pink hair spiked high with gel, brought their meal. She scrutinized Jasmine and Rose as she haphazardly dealt them the platters of burgers and fries. "Twins run in my family, too," she said. "Always thought I shoulda been one myself. Is it fun?"

"Heaps of fun," Jasmine assured her. "Except—when we get ourselves mixed up."

"Like today," added Rose, her face serious. "I'm still not sure whether I'm me or her."

The waitress just stared at them until Violet snorted in disgust. Then she laughed. "Oh," she said. "It's a joke, right? Heh-heh. I get it." She walked away, glancing back at them over her shoulder.

Rose tucked the letter carefully under the edge of her plate, as if to be certain no wind would blow the mystery away. "So, tell us about Hal," she urged, picking up a fry and popping it into her mouth. "Where'd you meet him?"

"And we thought you couldn't get a boyfriend!" exclaimed Jasmine. "You sly old thing. Does he go to our school?"

Violet just stared at them.

"I don't think the letter sounds like it's from a kid..." Rose's voice trailed off.

Jasmine stared at Violet. "Don't tell me you're hanging out with
an older man!
Some guy in high school? If that's true, we'll
all
get in trouble. You know Mom and Dad will be angriest at me and Rosy for not watching out for you better."

"As if we're your
keepers
or something," Rose added sourly. "Dad goes on about Brett and Casey already as it is. He'll freak out if you're involved with somebody he doesn't even know!"

Violet took a big bite of her hamburger and chewed slowly. "It really does sound as if you guys don't have the faintest idea who wrote me the letter," she said finally. "But I don't know who Hal is, either."

"It's weird that the letter wasn't actually mailed," said Jasmine. She sipped her shake. "Just addressed to you—well, not really you, but somebody with your initial." She reached for the letter and turned it over in her hands. She looked excited. "It's a real mystery!"

"The mystery is how come some old guy named Hal would hide a letter in the first place," said Rose, polishing off her fries.

"Do Mom and Dad know anybody called Hal?" wondered Jasmine. "Maybe they mentioned we'd be here cleaning, and someone overheard and snuck in earlier and left the letter."

Rose looked doubtful. "Why would anybody do that?"

Jasmine shrugged. "It was just an idea."

"But the paper is old," observed Rose. "Look how dry and yellowed it is."

Jasmine nodded. "You're right. The ink is old, too—look how dry and faded."

"You know what I think?" Violet's voice trembled with the thrill of what she was about to say. "I think it was written a long, long time ago. It's a letter from the past—meant for me."

"
Hmm,
" said Jasmine. She ate a few more fries, regarding Violet with wide eyes. "Where was it?"

"In the cupboard. It must have been there for years and years, waiting."

"That is totally too weird to be true," said Rose dismis-sively. She crossed her arms. "You know what occurs to me, Jazzy? This just might be a case of our own little—what was it?—our own little
hothouse flower,
drawing attention to herself. As if she doesn't get all the attention already."

"What do you mean?" asked Violet. She had finished her hamburger and was working on her milk shake. The chocolate had a bitter taste. She wished she'd ordered vanilla after all.

"I mean maybe you hid the letter there yourself," Rose said.

"Why would I do that?"

"So you could find it and make a big deal over nothing. To make us notice you," snapped Rose. "Because you're jealous of us, or something."