Peas and Carrots (7 page)

Hope again rolled her eyes and made a skeptical noise in her throat.

“I know,” her mother replied, answering her unspoken comment. “It might not seem like she needs anyone—or
wants
anyone, to be honest. But I just left a very insecure, worried girl upstairs. She's going to be with us for a while, Hope, possibly until after Christmas, or maybe for the whole school year. She's going to have a lot of adults in her space—her social worker, some folks from the state, people interviewing and assessing her. I just hope she can have some friends her own age to de-stress with—”

Hope sighed. “
Mom.
I
know.
She's a foster kid. I'm a foster sister. I'll be
nice.
”

“—someone who will eat lunch with her at school, chat with her before homeroom—that kind of thing. Just until she gets the hang of being here.”

Hope's insides curdled. “Are we talking about the same person? She won't want me in her face like that.”

“She doesn't know what she wants yet, Hope. Give her some time, all right?”

Hope shrugged. “If I was a boy, it wouldn't be a problem. Did you see how she looked at Aunt Henry?”

Her mother laughed. “Sweet, be fair.
Everybody
looks at Henry that way.” She sobered a little. “Dess will probably treat Dad and me differently. She probably hasn't had many positive interactions with men in her life—and maybe none with African American men, much less a whole African American family. This is all new to her, Hope, which is why I asked you—”

“To give her time. I know, Mom. I
know,
” Hope groused.

Her mother straightened and squeezed her shoulder. “I was proud of you tonight, sticking up for yourself but still being kind. I am disappointed that this happened, but I have faith in you, Hope. It was the right decision to bring Austin's sister into our family. It's the right decision to keep kindness as our guide as we interact with her. We want to
share
our home with those in need, not be run over by them. We can handle this, right?”

Right,
Hope thought the following morning as she heard a crash in the bathroom. The shower had gone on at five a.m., and noises—music, hisses, slams, creaks, bashes, crashes, with not even an
attempt
to be quiet—had been going on ever since.

Hope pulled the pillow over her head and moaned. What the hell was Dess
doing
? Who needed to get up
that
early to get to school at a quarter after eight? Usually Hope smacked her alarm for ten minutes, dragged herself through the shower-and-outfit routine, and got down to breakfast by seven forty-five. Fifteen minutes later she dragged herself and her backpack to the bus and was ready to sleepwalk through a new day. Five freaking
a.m.
was too early for anything. But now she had to get up—and not just because she was awake. One of the “consequences” she had received the night before was that she had to stick to Dess Matthews like glue—to be where she was and be “present” and helpful to her for her first week.

Thud.
Thump.

Hope rolled her eyes at the sound of a blow dryer. Why couldn't Dess dry her hair in her room? Was she already using every outlet in there? Hope fought her way out of the covers. She'd better start off by letting Dess know it was her bathroom, too. She stood by the bathroom door and knocked. “Um, Dess? Dessa?” She tapped again. “Dess?”

Nothing.

Huffing, Hope shoved her feet into her slippers and stumbled out the door, heading to the upstairs bathroom. Dumb, secretive Odessa LeAnn, making so much noise before the alarm went off. Stupid, mean, name-calling stick, who was probably even now thinking up worse names than “heifer.” And Mom said
she
had to be nice?

Being a foster sister sometimes sucked.

You can't hear nothing in this house—no wind, no trees, no dogs, no cars, nothing. The group home was in a decent neighborhood, but these rich folks are quiet like the dead. I didn't even hear the baby crying last night, and I know they do, all night long.

I'm not trying to be talking to Hopeless first thing, so I don't even push on her door very much to see if it's locked. It figures she sleeps right till the last minute. For sure she doesn't put any kind of
time
into her look, like I do. Whatever. It's time to find something more than the granola bars I boosted from the snack cabinet last night. I need food. Now.

But it's quiet in the hall—way quiet—and I don't smell anything coming from the kitchen. I strain my ears. Where the hell are these people? Finally I hear a soft thud upstairs. I follow the sound to the open doors of the family room—and just about choke.

“Oh,
nuh-
uh.”

Foster Lady has her big backside shoved into a pair of thin cotton pants that hug her thick thighs. She's standing on a little purple mat, arms stretched high, right foot placed on her thigh, balanced only on her left leg. When she hears me, she doesn't even twitch. Her chin is pointed up, her eyes on the ceiling, and she's breathing slowly, in…out…in…out…

“Um…Mrs….um…Robin?”

Foster Lady drops her arms and exhales a long
whoosh
of sound, smiles at me, and then reaches for her left leg. She places it high on her inner thigh, balances there for a moment, lifts her arms, and tilts her head again…in…out…in…out.

So can she not talk today or what? I raise my eyebrows, hands on my hips.

“Good morning, Dess,” Foster Lady says finally, and keeps breathing.

“I didn't think black people really did yoga.”

Foster Lady inhales slowly and then breathes out. “Black people are just people, Dess. People of all kinds do whatever they feel like doing.” She exhales and smiles, bringing her arms and leg down again, standing still. “I feel like doing yoga.”

“Yeah? So what are you…doing?” I move closer, curious. Foster Lady stands with her legs all wide, practically doing the splits, and then she stretches out her arms.

“I was just in what's called Tree Pose, followed by the Mountain Pose. Now I'm doing an Extended Triangle Pose, which is going to take me, next, to a Lunge….” Foster Lady goes over sideways, slowly but smoothly, her arms still outstretched. She breathes a moment, then asks, “Did you want to try it with me?”

I hold up a hand. “
Please.
I am not into that hippie crap.” Foster Lady's legs seem bigger than ever, bulging, as she uses her muscles to stay steady. It must be harder than it looks; a little sweat shines on her face and arms.

She laughs. “That's Hope, too. Yoga is too slow for her.”

Riiight.
Hopeless is nothing
but
slow. Foster Lady surprises me with her muscles and all, but I'm solid
certain
that Hope couldn't stand on just one of her fat tree-trunk legs if you paid her. Where is she, anyway? You'd think her own mother would make her lazy butt get up.

“You going to do this all day?”

Foster Lady grins and doesn't answer for a moment. “Breakfast will be on the table at seven, Dess. It's written on the schedule I gave you last night. Remember?”

“I'm not hungry, I just asked,” I say, feeling stupid. She
did
give me some little green piece of paper to put on my bulletin board. I'm supposed to meet a counselor today, and then she's making me go for a doctor's appointment. I swear she's worse than Rena. I just
went
to the doctor with the group home, before school started. I keep telling these people there's never nothing wrong with me.

The sliding glass door rumbles in its track, and Hope comes in. She's wearing a pair of black sweats and a T-shirt. She's holding a laptop under one arm and a pair of little balls in her hands. She tucks the little balls behind the recliner closest to the door.

“Hey, Dess. You got up early. You look nice.”

What the hell does that mean?
I give her the eye for a long moment, taking in her frizzy hair, T-shirt, and sweats. I wait for the clue that she's messing with me—an eye roll, the curl of a lip. Instead, she just keeps staring. Weirded out, I mutter, “I didn't think you were awake.”

Hope shrugs. “I had to use the bathroom.”

Oh,
now
she's trying to start. I glance at Foster Lady. “She could've knocked.”

Foster Lady just looks at Hope.

Hope shrugs, her eyes widened. “I did. It's okay. There are lots of bathrooms in this house. I used the other upstairs bath, then went outside and messed around with the weights while I went online.”

I blink at her arms. She doesn't look buffed to me. “Weights? You?”

Hopeless looks embarrassed. She tries to roll one of the little balls across the floor toward me, but it stops before it gets more than a foot.

I pick it up. It's soft and small, but the side of the ball has “2.2 lbs.” written on it.

“Huh.” I squeeze the ball in my hand and check out Hope's long-sleeve T-shirt. The letters
H
and
W
wind together above a little white mountain range. A tree-looking blue squiggle below it is supposed to be water, I guess. “What's that on your shirt supposed to be?”

“It's just the school symbol. This is the PE uniform from last year.”

I give Foster Lady a look. “I have to wear a uniform—even at PE? Are you
kidding
me?”

“The upper school at Headwaters has free-dress Fridays,” Hope interrupts. “Anyway, you're new, so nobody's going to care if you're not in uniform the first day. It's not that bad, I swear.”

I shoot her a look, feeling panic thrum through my veins. “I am
not
wearing whatever crap outfit you're wearing,” I blurt out. “Uh-uh. That's not even legal. We
have
freedom of expression.”

Hope gives a twisted little grin. “I want to hear you tell that to our principal.”

“You think I'm playing? I
will.
How can you stand it, looking like everybody else?” It's probably not that deep, but…uniforms? Seriously?

Foster Lady interrupts. “Girls, we haven't got time for a uniform debate. Hope, get a move on to that shower. We don't want to be late today. Dess, since you're ready, go in the kitchen and check the oven. The timer is—”

“Oven?” Foster Lady is bent at the waist with her palms on the floor, her butt in the air, and her head down. “What's wrong with the oven?”

A deep breath. “Would you go into the kitchen and check on the frittata? The timer should be going off pretty soon.”

Frittata?
I decide not to ask. “Fine.”

“You don't need to take it out. Just look and see if it's browned and turn the oven off.”

“Got it.”

“You don't even need to open the oven. If it's browned, Russell will take it out.”

I turn away, scoffing. “Lady, I can get a pan out of the oven.”
Jeez.

“Dess, don't try lifting that hot skillet,” Foster Lady warns, her voice rising. “It's cast iron, and it's heavy.”

I walk faster. “Whatever.” Not that I signed on to do nobody's cooking, but she must think I can't do
anything.

As I near the kitchen, I can smell something tasty. I hear music, too, little beeps and blips that sound like a video game. On the floor in the middle of the hallway, Baby is playing with something that looks like a little TV.

“Hey, Baby!” I stand over him a moment, waiting for him to look up and throw his arms around me. He's pushing buttons and arrows and making something—a little airplane? a car?—spin around and shoot little balls at a line of other little balls with numbers on them. “Tip-top!” a little voice exclaims as he shoots the red ball on his plane at another red ball.

“Tip-top!” Baby repeats.

I reach for him, then stop. Even little guys get pissed if you interrupt their games. Sighing, I glance up and realize Mr. Carter is sitting in a chair, smiling at me.

“Morning, Dessa. Ready for your odyssey in education this morning?”

“Hey.” I give him a half smile. He's wearing dress pants and slippers. I can't see his shirt. Up top, he's all baby, wrapped up in some kind of blue cloth sling thing. In front of him, he has a mug and the newspaper open.

I nod at the lump. “Don't you people ever put that kid down?”

Mr. Carter chuckles. “We do. It's just that Jamaira has so many awful things in her life and so few good things that we indulge her. She likes to be held, so we hold her.”

I click my tongue like Granny Doris, sharp and critical. “You're spoiling her.”

“Nah.” Mr. Carter grins, cheerful. “You can't spoil a good baby like Jamaira.” He stands carefully, adjusting for her weight, and picks up his coffee cup. “You ready for breakfast, madam?”

“Uh…sure. Foster Lady said I was supposed to get something out of the oven—” I sneak a quick look up the hall. I saw Mr. Carter and forgot what I was doing. I thought she'd come running in here to make sure I didn't take out that stupid pan.

“Oh, I got the frittata out already. Do you like broccoli?”

“It's…all right.” There had better not be broccoli for breakfast.

“If you don't like it, Robin boiled some eggs. There's also cold cereal, toast, juice, peanut butter, fruit—the usual stuff. During the school year, it's a good idea to eat a hot breakfast, though.”

I follow him to the kitchen, noting that I don't smell broccoli at all but something much, much better. The skillet is on the stovetop, resting on the burner to cool. It's huge, and I'm glad I didn't have to take it out myself. “That's a frittata? I thought that was a quiche.”

For some reason, I don't mind asking Mr. Carter stuff.

“A quiche is a tart with a crust,” he says, and I nod.

I
knew
he'd know.

“Quiches are French, while the frittata here is an Italian dish,” he goes on, carefully reaching above the counter to bring out a stack of white ceramic plates. “You want to get the forks and napkins out of that drawer to your right?”

I grab a pair of forks and a couple of cloth napkins and follow him to the table. He puts down the plates. “Now, a strata is close to that, but it uses pieces of stale bread and milk in the layers with the eggs and the vegetables and cheese.”

I make a face. “What?”

“Stale garlic bread is delicious the next day in a strata. This I promise you,” Mr. Carter says. “You want some of this? There's juice in the fridge, too, if you'd like.”

“I'll try some frittata,” I say. What the hell. I've had broccoli and eggs separately. I guess it can't kill me to eat them together…first thing in the morning. Ugh. “Is there coffee?” I ask hopefully.

“Oh, good, another one for my team,” Mr. Carter says. The baby makes a noise like a kitten, a tiny mewing, and he pats her on the back. “Hope and Robin drink tea. I like my coffee, and the French press is in the cabinet there.” He gestures with his chin. “But I'm going to have to leave you a moment and do some diaper duty.”

“Eww, go—please. I'll make my own coffee,” I say, stepping way back. There are some things I just don't need to think about in the kitchen first thing in the morning.

“Hey, Daddy.”

Mr. Carter kisses Hope as they pass in the kitchen doorway. She's wearing a braided headband pushing back her wild frizz of hair, black skinny jeans, a long-sleeve denim top, and black lace-up canvas tennis shoes. The denim shirt has that little HW mountain range and water-tree logo on the pocket. I look it over and shrug. The uniform shirt's not that embarrassing, but Hopeless's outfit is all her: hopelessly boring.

“You're making Dad coffee?” Hope asks, and I shrug again.