The Summer I Saved the World ... in 65 Days (12 page)

Black sky now, and I wish on the first star. My clock turns 11:11, and I wish on that too.

At 11:42, I see what I've been waiting for. Mr. Dembrowski's garage door slides open. A car starts to back out. A regular four-door brown car, with an ordinary man in the driver's seat. He backs onto the street, turns, then drives away slowly.

Thomas was right.

I tiptoe down the stairs, into the garage, and grab the digging tool I used to plant the marigolds. I let myself out the front door and close it with a soft click.

It's a different place at night. The dark, silent houses are as still as mountains. A light wind circles the trees. Intoxicating, heavy summer air. The moon high and white in the sky. I walk across the grass, moist under my bare feet, then go around the side of Mr. Dembrowski's.

We should have made up for the shoe trampling. We should have done something right then.

After we ruined his garden that night, Mr. Dembrowski seemed to lose his passion for flowers. I don't think he ever planted a garden like that again. I'd see a few daisies, maybe, or some black-eyed Susans, but nothing like it was. And in the last few years, no flowers at all.

There's a light on in the back of Mr. D.'s house. I stand and look at the garden first—a small rectangle of dirt. Then I kneel and dig a narrow trench across one side. I pull one of the forget-me-not packets out of my shorts pocket. It's close enough to midnight that this is tomorrow.

I slowly sprinkle the seeds in, then cover them with dirt. “Hi, Grandma.”

As I'm starting the second trench, I sense movement. A shadow. Footsteps. Animal or human? I hold up the digging tool, like it could protect me.

I jump when I hear, “Neen? What're you doing?”

And I look up at Eli.

H
e grins at me. “Lower your weapon. I come in peace.”

I stand. My heart slows down. “Ha ha. You didn't have to sneak up.”

“I wasn't sneaking. So, um, Neen? What are you doing?”

“I'm— Wait. What are
you
doing?”

“I asked you first.”

“Okay. Well, I'm planting flower seeds.”

“I was walking. Couldn't sleep.” He looks at the packets. “Planting? At twelve-fifteen?”

“Yeah.” I smile. It's hard not to smile at Eli. “You got a problem with that?”

“No. I guess not. But here? And now? And, okay, can I ask why?”

“Don't you remember that night we ruined Mr. D.'s flower bed?”

He scratches his cheek. “Uh … no.”

“We ran through it, playing hide-and-seek. We were little. Me and you and Jorie. And he got mad and wanted our shoes.”

“Oh, yeah.” Eli laughs. “Crazy guy.”

“No, he's not crazy. That's the thing. Our parents were the crazy ones. Overprotective.”

“So after all these years, you just decided to come out here and fix his garden? In the middle of the night?”

“Yes. This is when he leaves his house.”

“Okay …”

I kneel and continue digging. Eli's just standing there, watching.

“Why are you doing all these things?” he asks. “It's you, isn't it? All this stuff that's been going on?”

I keep digging.

“Neen?”

“You know the answer.” I open a second packet of seeds and sprinkle them into the dirt.

Eli shoves his hands into the pockets of his shorts. “You haven't told me why, though.”

I smooth dirt over the seeds and look up at him. “You really want to know?”

“Yes.” He sits in the grass, stretches his legs out.

I start my third trench, then search his expression. Can I trust him? I want to. Try to explain this to someone. Maybe even to myself. But I don't know where he's at right now.

I sit back and remember how I drew the neighborhood houses on my poster board, eight separate squares that looked like they were floating in space. “You know all those movies, with heroes who fight aliens and monsters and powerful emperors and wizards gone bad … ridding the world of evil?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, what if that isn't it at all? I mean, what if the bad stuff isn't that obvious? It's just sort of a part of things, all around us, but we don't exactly see it. What if it's … 
us
? Like, the way we act? Or don't act?”

“I'm sort of following you,” Eli says.

“And what if the solution is just … good? Plain, simple, small good things, so unnoticed, so unremarkable that they're remarkable. And what if ordinary people could be the heroes?” I gesture to the dark houses. “Right here.”

Eli doesn't say anything. His T-shirt ripples in the breeze.

I tear open another packet of seeds.

He moves some dirt with the toe of his shoe.

Then we look at each other, for what seems like a while, even though it's probably a few seconds.

And I have that feeling again. About a kiss.

But. He stands. “I'll get some water.”

When he comes back, I've emptied six packets of forget-me-not seeds into Mr. Dembrowski's flower bed. Eli and I plant the rest together until we've filled up the entire garden. Then Eli soaks the dirt with his watering can.

“You think they'll grow?” I ask.

“I don't know.”

We're just standing there. I don't want to go back inside, and I can tell Eli doesn't either. I should feel tired but I don't. The moon is smaller and higher. Farther away but right above our heads.

I sigh. “Do you ever miss when we were little?”

“Sometimes.”

“My grandma died one year ago today.”

Eli nods. “So that's why you wanted to do this tonight?”

“Yeah.”

He looks away. “Sometimes I wish my dad was dead. Life would be a lot easier.”

I gulp. “Oh, Eli, is it that bad? I'm really sorry.… ” I want to grab his hand, but he takes a step away. “Thomas kind of told me about the money thing.… ”

“Yeah, well, it sucks.” He shoves his hair off his forehead, then gestures to the dirt. “See, my dad, he wouldn't get this. He'd never get stuff like this.” Eli picks up the watering can, turns, and starts walking.

“Wait, Eli.” I gather up the empty seed packets and wipe the digging tool on the grass. He has already reached my house. When I get there, he's standing on the edge of his driveway.

“I agree with you that bad stuff is right around us. I get what you're saying. But the truth is, good doesn't work for everyone,” Eli says. “Some people—a lot of people—just don't understand good. They're always looking for something else. Only thinking of themselves.”

I walk to him. “No. You're wrong.”

“Flowers? Foot pads? You're so naive. As if those could change anything.”

“You don't really believe that, do you? Like you don't have any hope?”

“It's sweet, Nina, but if you ask me, people are too messed up. This world is too messed up for little things to matter.”

I narrow my eyes and take a step back. “I never asked you.”

I
didn't know Eli had gotten like that.

Jorie will be better for him. She's fun, and doesn't worry about the world. Maybe she's a new soul.

I refuse to believe what he said. Another trait of old souls—stubbornness.

41. I water the forget-me-not seeds daily. No word from Mr. D., so I don't know if he saw the dug-up dirt in the back of his house.

42. I still water Mrs. Chung's marigolds, and Mrs. Bennett's little pot. Both are blooming out of control.

43. When I find an unopened box of golf balls in
our basement (Dad tried the game—way too slow for his hyperspeed), I drop a few of them on the Millmans' lawn, and sure enough, the next day, Mr. Millman is out there practicing his swing. He hits one into the Dixon weeds, then turns and faces the other direction.

Mrs. Millman is outside too, her mahjong bag snug against her hip. A little tuft of white fur is sticking out of the top. She scans the houses, opens the bag, and peeks inside. “No sign of anything, Beanie. It's safe again.” A whimper comes from inside the bag.

“Whatever it was must be gone,” she tells Mr. Millman. “The smells must have driven it away.”

“Myrna,” he says, inspecting his golf club, “you're a little obsessed with that dog, you know.”

“Don't start with me, Stan.”

Mrs. Millman sits on a chair in her driveway and lifts Beanie out of the bag.

“It's all right,” Mrs. Millman says, petting her. She tries to put Beanie on the ground, but the dog is clawing at Mrs. Millman's arms and yelping.

“Oh, for God's sake, bring her inside, Myrna!” Mr. Millman shouts.

She grabs Beanie and disappears into her house. Just me and the whooshing sound of Mr. Millman's golf club.

I hear “Neeenaaa!” and look over to see Thomas on the other side of the bushes between our houses.

I wave.

He separates the bushes with his hands and whispers, “I need Mystery Girl!”

“You do?”

“Yeah. Can you call her up?”

“Maybe. What's wrong?”

He pummels through the bushes, then turns around to show me the back of his cape. “Ripped again,” he says sadly.

“Maybe you shouldn't keep cutting through bushes.” I smile and stroke his arm.

“But that's where the bad guys hide!”

Should have known that. “Right. I'm sure I can contact Mystery Girl. You'll have to give me the cape, though, okay?”

He nods solemnly. I help him untie it, then fold the cape in my lap.

“How come it keeps breaking?” His eyes are big, full of questions.

“I don't know. But when things break, we just have to keep fixing them.”

He looks small and defenseless in only his shorts and T-shirt.

“Hey, you're wearing clothes today,” I say, and tickle him. He jumps away, giggling.

Then he frowns. “Eli said I have to. So when I go to kindergarten, people won't think I'm weird.”

My heart breaks a little. Thomas has to start living by the rules because he's going to school. I flash ahead and see him getting off the bus with a tired face and a backpack instead of a sword. Pretty soon he'll forget all about being a hero, and the bad guys in the bushes, even though they'll still be there. He just won't see them anymore.

But it's still summer.

“Thomas,” I say. “I'll get Mystery Girl to fix your cape, and I'll bring it back to you. Promise.”

“Hurry, okay?” He trots back through the bushes.

Later, Mom and Dad are on the sofa, drinking coffee.

“Nina!” Dad calls. “Come see this! We were on the news today!” He holds up his phone and plays a video. Fine and Ross being interviewed by a reporter.

“Cool.”

Dad turns the phone toward himself and plays it again.

Mom smiles. “How many times have you watched that, Steven?”

“I lost count. You know, I look pretty good on TV.”