Wreath (9 page)

Moving to the side of the trailer, she walked into a small overgrown area, sat on the ground, and began to kill time, wanting Clarice to be long gone before she walked to the junkyard. With no one else in sight, Wreath pulled her journal out, her brain eager to spill onto the page. She started scribbling, words pouring onto the lined paper.

Maybe one day she could afford one of those snazzy raincoats with the bright boots that went with them. Maybe when she finished college or law school or got her PhD or became a doctor. She might buy Miss Clarice a pair, too, just for being so nice. Wreath flinched when she heard footsteps. Someone had walked out of the ratty trailer with the door propped open. Trying to figure out how not to look like a loiterer, she picked up her awkward accumulation of items, brushed the dirt off her shorts, and took two steps.

She was stunned.

Sitting on the steps of the trailer was the boy from the state park. He was drinking a canned Coke and reading. He set the soft drink down, ran his fingers through his black hair, and acted like he was playing a short song on an invisible guitar.

A moment passed before he looked up and saw Wreath. He quickly quit pretending to play an unseen musical instrument, picked the Coke back up, and stood. His expression was a combination of embarrassment, delight, and confusion. They stared at each other for a moment, the way strangers do when sizing each other up.

He broke the silence. “Hiking girl, right?”

Wreath nodded and tried to figure out what to do.

“You moved into one of these palaces?” The boy pointed to the short row of pitiful metal rectangles, grassless yards, a car up on blocks.

Wreath didn’t reply. She adjusted her pack and sacks of supplies and decided she had been wrong about the boy being rich. His home didn’t look all that different from the Rusted Estates, although it appeared to have electricity.

“You’re
really
not much of a talker, are you?” he said.

Wreath shook her head. Her instincts told her to walk away, but loneliness, dread of the walk to the junkyard, and this guy made her want to stay.

“I’m not real sure why you’re standing in my front yard,” he said after a minute. “Since you don’t seem all that happy to see me, I guess you didn’t come to visit.”

Wreath shook her head again. The random spot where Clarice dropped her would turn out to be the home of the cutest boy she’d ever seen. And she was acting like a dweeb.

“Ranger boy?” she blurted out, thunder sounding in the distance.

He nodded, a small smile coming to his face, and took a swallow of the soft drink. She noticed he’d been reading a book of guitar music.

“My name’s Law,” he said.

“Law?” She laughed. “I’ve never heard that name before.”

“It’s short for Lawson,” he mumbled. “A great-uncle’s name or something. You going to tell me your name or just stand there making fun of mine?”

“I didn’t mean to make fun. I like unusual names.” She glanced at the book of music. “Sounds like someone in a band or something. You play the guitar?”

He groaned. “You saw me playing air guitar, didn’t you? I was so hoping you didn’t see that.”

She nodded.

Law shook his bangs out of his eyes. “I’m saving up to buy one. I’ve taken a few lessons and am trying to teach myself the rest.”

“I’ve always wanted to learn to play the drums,” Wreath said. She had never admitted that to anyone, not even Frankie.

“So you don’t like talking, but you like to make noise, huh?” When Law smiled, he made Wreath’s heart flutter. He was good-looking enough, for sure, to be in a band.

“I’ve got to go,” Wreath said, suddenly uncomfortable. “My friend dropped me off here by mistake.”

“That’s strange,” Law said.

“I’m new around here. I got the addresses mixed up.” He tilted his head. “So you live around here?” By now Wreath was backing up, her pace picking up. “Down the road,” she said and turned almost at a run. “Wait!”

Wreath was elated and scared when she heard his footsteps drawing near.

“You never told me your name,” he said, falling into step beside her.

“Wreath.”

“Wreath.” He made her name sound like the title of a poem or a song. “No wonder you like unusual names. You want me to carry that stuff home for you?”

“Oh no!” Wreath said and then tried to give her voice a calmer sound. “It’s not far. I’ve got it. I’d better get going.”

“I hope to see you around,” he said.

She walked away, wishing she could stay and visit or ask him to walk her home. She was eager to talk with Law and almost as sure she needed nothing to do with him.

“Wreath!” he yelled.

She paused and looked over her shoulder. “I like your name!”

A few raindrops began to fall, but she didn’t care. She smiled all the way to the junkyard.

Chapter 8

U
nlocking the furniture store door from the inside, Faye Durham stepped outside and jumped. Wreath stood silently next to the building.

“Why are you leaning on that wall?” Faye snapped.

The girl looked equally surprised, not expecting her boss to come from inside. “You told me to come back at 1:00 p.m. today. To start my job. Remember?”

“Of course I remember,” Faye said. “I didn’t think you’d actually be back. Now I have to figure out what I’m going to do with you. Stand up straight. You look slouchy.”

Wreath straightened her T-shirt and wiped the palms of her hands on her shorts. She glanced over at the bicycle, still propped out front.

She had to have a job, and she needed that bike, even if it meant putting up with Mrs. Faye Durham.

“Thank you for the flashlight and the lantern,” she said. “They work great.”

The woman, who wore grouchy like a second skin, did not respond.

That was tolerable. Wreath could handle hateful. She’d done it before.

Mrs. Durham stared her in the eye. Wreath stared back.

“You’re Holly, right?” the woman growled, still holding the door open.

“Wreath,” she said, softly but firmly. “Wreath Williams.”

“Might as well come in.” Faye pulled the O
UT FOR
L
UNCH
sign off the outside of the door, ignoring the piece of tape left on the window.

Wreath looked around. Faye’s eyes followed hers as they scanned the big old space, more like a warehouse than a retail establishment. Water had seeped through the pressed tin ceiling; a lightbulb was burned out in back, making the rear of the store dreary; and a jumble of furniture and cardboard boxes were piled in a back corner.

An unpleasant odor hit Wreath’s nostrils and seemed to settle under her skin, and she wondered about the skimpy furniture and high price tags on out-of-style pieces. The old wood floors were covered with dust, in every visible corner and on each surface of woods that looked like oak and pecan and mahogany.

“Follow me,” Mrs. Durham said in a commanding voice.

Wreath didn’t speak as they went to a small room in the back of the store, with a refrigerator, a sink, and a small table, plus more piles of old merchandise and a few cleaning supplies on a counter.

“Sweep,” Faye said, turning to look at Wreath. “Then sweep again. Once won’t cut it. Dust, too. Everything. You will be responsible for keeping the store clean. Don’t break anything.”

Wreath nodded.

“Here.” Faye grabbed a broom and dustpan from the corner. “Make yourself useful.”

Wreath took the broom, thankful. Sweeping was an assignment she could handle. “Where would you like me to start?” she asked.

“If you can’t figure that out, you’re not going to work out,” Faye said. “Start wherever you like, and don’t nick the furniture.”

Wreath slowly swept her way through the store, getting down on her hands and knees to reach under the paltry furniture and taking in the haphazard way things were displayed. The woman returned to her desk, turned the radio up a notch, and shuffled a stack of papers on the desk.

Methodically covering the store, front to back, left to right, Wreath finished back in the workroom. She was surprised at how quickly she had made the store look better.

She wondered what she was supposed to do next. Her new boss had not spoken since handing her the broom. She wiped off the countertop, caught a whiff of something spoiled, and pulled the trash bag out of its can, noticing a handful of empty tuna cans.

Wreath walked out with the sack. “Do you have a cat?” she asked.

“A cat? Of course not. I’m not a pet person,” Faye said, walking toward the girl. “Put that trash in the alley.” She motioned to a door with a large bolt in place and walked back to her desk, watching.

Wreath pushed and pulled on the bolt until her face was red. “Darn,” she muttered and disappeared back into the workroom. She rummaged around in the cabinets, opening and closing doors and wondering if she was being tested. Wouldn’t any normal person have helped her?

She danced a little jig when she came across a small hammer and a can of WD-40 that looked like it had been sitting there for years. Within minutes she had the door open and stepped out into the alley.

Wreath wiped her hands on her shorts, wrinkling her nose. “You sure someone hasn’t been feeding a cat around here? There must have been a half dozen tuna cans in that sack. I’ll empty that more often from now on.”

“That’ll be fine,” Faye said in a waspish tone.

Twisting the cap off a bottle of lemon oil, Wreath inhaled the smell. She dug out a soft cloth from under a counter and wiped the top of a table. A glow replaced a layer of dust.

“What would you like me to do now?” Wreath asked, stepping back in with a smile.

“Now?” Faye looked at the neon clock hanging on the back wall, an advertisement for a line of furniture. “That’s it for today.”

Wreath followed her gaze. “But I’ve only been here an hour. I thought you were going to let me earn the bike.”

“Take the bike,” Faye said.

“I want to work,” Wreath said. “I need a job.”

“I don’t have any more work for you.” Faye spoke in the tired voice Frankie had sometimes used.

Wreath looked around, feeling wild and desperate. She might be poor, but she was not pitiful. She dug in her pocket, pulled out a five-dollar bill, and laid it on Faye’s desk. “If you’ll hold the bike for me, I’ll come back when I have more money.”

“I said take the bike,” Faye said. She picked up a merchandise catalog from her desk.

“It wouldn’t be right,” Wreath said. She paused on her way to the door, straightened an area rug, and adjusted the angle of a chair and end table. “Thanks again for the flashlight.”

The woman glanced at the rug and back at Wreath. “Be back tomorrow at one, but I don’t intend to hold your hand. Take the bike.”

Chapter 9