Wreath (12 page)

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m afraid one of your parents will have to come in and sign this. You have to be seventeen to get a card on your own.”

Wreath felt tears come to her eyes and started to walk away but feared that might look suspicious. “My parents are out of town, and I wanted to check out a book today,” she said. “I’ll be seventeen in December.”

“It’s library policy.” The regret in his voice was evident. “You’re welcome to read while you’re here. At least it’s nice and cool. Hot as blue blazes outside.” He chuckled. “However hot that is.”

Wreath frowned, despite herself. “Thanks anyway.”

The man went back to his computer, and Wreath walked over to the new releases and pulled out several. Looking around, she started to slip one into her pack but couldn’t bring herself to do so.

Dejected, she headed out, knowing it was too early to go to work, but afraid she’d burst into tears if she stayed any longer. Everything was so hard.

As she reached the door, the man at the desk called to her in a loud whisper. “Miss Williams?”

For a moment she didn’t realize he was talking to her. “Miss Williams?” he repeated, louder. She stopped, nervous. “Sir?”

“Step over to the counter, please.”

Once again, she wanted to run. But she was already tired of running, of hiding. Maybe the librarian had figured out her secret, but how would that be possible?

She walked to the counter.

“We have used paperbacks over there for our upcoming annual book sale. Feel free to pick one or two of them up. You can drop them off when you finish them. We have plenty.”

Looking at the shelf by the door, she saw dozens of interesting-looking books and was touched by the man’s thoughtfulness. She thanked him and left the library with a worn copy of a novel she had read in sixth grade and a like-new biography of a woman named Harriet Tubman, who helped free slaves in something called the Underground Railroad. Both were in much better shape than the books she had in the Tiger Van, in as good of shape as the ones she’d left behind in Lucky.

After carefully placing the books in her bike basket, she sought a patch of shade, pulled out her notebook, and added the new titles to her “books to read” list. Frankie would have liked both of these, and Wreath could have read them to her mama while she rested.

Another tear slid down her cheek, and she got on the bike and pushed off with a wobbly start.

Chapter 12

T
he front door of the furniture store was locked, the O
UT TO
L
UNCH
sign hanging at its weird angle again today. Still reeling from the realization that two whole months had passed and wondering why it felt like a lifetime, Wreath settled on the step of the store. She pulled an apple out of her pack, wished for a hamburger and a large order of fries, and watched the man at the hardware store next door, sitting on his front bench, reading.

She craned her neck to seek what the book was, searching for anything to keep her mind off Frankie.

“Did you come here to daydream, or did you come here to work?” The snippy voice had become annoyingly familiar, but Wreath had not heard her boss approach.

She jumped to her feet, the half-eaten apple flying out of her hands and landing right at Faye’s feet. The owner had opened the door from the inside, and Wreath was distressed every time it happened that someone could sneak up on her like that.

You’d think she’d be used to it by now. Mrs. Durham’s routine was as predictable as Wreath’s was odd. “I didn’t think you were here,” Wreath said. “I knocked on the door.” She retrieved the piece of fruit and dropped it, unwrapped, into her pack. She could wash it off and eat it later.

“If I must, I’ll tell you again. I’m here every day except Sunday and Monday. I eat lunch inside from twelve thirty to one. As my employee, you should make it your business to know such things.” She stood in the partially opened door. “Knock louder next time.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Wreath said, although she wanted to say something fierce and ugly. She had gotten a similar speech about a half-dozen times, even though she was never late, knocked loud, and worked hard.

“Move that bike away from the door and come on in and get to work.” Faye turned and went back in, removing her lunch sign.

“Witch,” Wreath mumbled as she pushed the bike past a pile of litter that had blown up against the front of the store. As she thought of ten things she would like to say before riding off in a blaze of glory, she could almost hear Frankie’s voice.

“You be nice to them, they’ll be nice to you.” The words had been her mother’s guide-to-life every time they moved and when Wreath fretted about a new teacher or a bully at school. She wasn’t sure Frankie’s wisdom would work on Faye.

Looking up, the hardware store owner laid the book on the bench, gave her a smile, cleaned his glasses on his flannel shirt, and peered at her closely when he replaced them. Waving, he picked up the book and went inside.

Wreath took a deep breath, adjusted her pack on her shoulder, and walked into the furniture store, the smell not nearly as much like the junkyard as it had been a few weeks earlier. Her boss sat at the old desk, with a pen in her hand and the back of an envelope in front of her. She frowned at the paper, as though not quite sure what to do with it.

Wreath walked over to her and stood quietly. The ticking of a big old clock, advertising some kind of dinette set, sounded like a bomb getting ready to explode, and Wreath’s stomach felt the same way it had the night before, when the frogs were too loud and the van too empty.

“Thank you again for the bike,” Wreath said when she could stand it no longer. “It helps on hot days like today.”

“If it helps you get here on time every day,” the woman said finally, “it was money well spent.”

“But I paid for it.” Wreath frowned.

“At a discount price,” Faye said. “But enough of that. I made a list of things for you to do today.” Wreath felt her gloom lift.

For weeks she had come in to silence, swept, dusted, and looked for furniture to rearrange or other chores that might be important. She had scrubbed the storeroom, rearranged the cabinet under the sink, and stacked the boxes of junk like a child’s building blocks, in neat order. Her goal was to make herself indispensable, so she could keep the job when school started. Even if Mrs. Durham was rude and the merchandise ridiculous, not too many people came in. Wreath didn’t worry that Big Fun or anyone else would find her here.

Best of all, at quitting time each day, Mrs. Durham gave Wreath a ten-dollar bill for her three hours of work. It wasn’t much, but it helped keep her fed, and it required no paperwork, no cashing of checks at a bank.

Wreath had been surprised the first time she was handed the money. “I thought employees got paid by the week,” she said, stuffing the money into a side pocket in her pack.

“Maybe they do,” Mrs. Durham said. “I’ve never had an employee before. It’s easier for me to keep up with my money like this.”

What she hadn’t said, Wreath figured, was that she didn’t expect the girl to show up for work on any given day. She didn’t know that coming to work gave Wreath a sense of purpose she needed almost as much as she needed money.

“Here are some duties for you,” Mrs. Durham said, holding out a piece of paper.

Wreath eagerly grasped the list, surprised at how excited she was for new responsibility. Some days her life seemed more stagnant than the pool of water behind the junkyard. “I love lists,” she said, setting her pack on the cushion of a nearby chair and pulling out her journal. “They help me remember what I want to do. I can write down instructions in here, if you need me to.”

“This isn’t a management class,” Faye said. “The list is self-explanatory.”

Only three activities were on the paper:
Sweep. Dust. Rearrange furniture
.

Wreath wondered if this was a joke, or if she was about to get fired. “But Mrs. Durham, this is what I already do.”

“Call me Faye,” the woman snapped, turned her back on Wreath, and walked toward the rear entrance of the store. “I’m not your mother. Or your grandmother, for that matter.”

“You’re sure not,” Wreath muttered.

“What did you say?” Faye turned around abruptly; her eyes squinted like a villain in a cartoon.

“I said, you’re sure not my mother or my grandmother. They were nice.” Wreath regretted the words before they made it out of her mouth, but she couldn’t stop them. Everyday struggles had worn her down.

For six weeks she had been tied up in knots, and she couldn’t stand it one minute longer.

“I quit,” she said.

Chapter 13

F
aye didn’t know why she pushed the girl so hard. She didn’t remember being harsh when Billy was alive, but running the store was running her into the ground.

That girl Wreath—what kind of name was that?—made all her shortcomings more obvious.

Maybe it was the quiet way the teen had about her, always down on her hands and knees trying to get the last speck of dust out from under a couch. Or the dignity with which she carried herself, whatever the task. Whether told to scrub the toilet or get bird mess off the front of the store, Wreath did it with solemn persistence.

Faye preferred sitting, determined to do things her way. Every day at lunch, she locked the front door and ate a can of tuna with four crackers, washed down with a bottle of fruit-flavored water, and topped off with one small piece of chocolate. Afterward, she wiped her desk with a paper towel, washed her hands in the tiny, outdated bathroom, and returned to the showroom.

Lunch was followed by the small peace of sinking into one of the two recliners still in stock, slipping off her shoes, and pushing back. She did not read, watch television, or nap, but closed her eyes and thought about her husband, mad at Billy for dying and saddling her with this store. Sad.

This was her life. She could find very little she wanted to do these days. But Wreath … The girl acted like every task was something she wanted to do, which confounded Faye. She was unsettled by the girl. Wreath made her uneasy, scrutinizing her like she understood far too much.

But she didn’t want her to leave. Watching her first and only employee pick up that ratty pack, her back straight, Faye had an irrational urge to tackle the girl, the first surge of energy she’d felt in months. She suddenly felt like she’d perish if Wreath walked out the door. She couldn’t bear the thought of the store the way it had been. Stifling. Dusty. Empty.