NINE

I’ve kept checking in on the garden since Uli died. Every few days, I go over to weed, turn the compost and water the tomatoes in the greenhouse. I found a few more packets of seeds a few weeks ago, looked up online when to plant each one and made myself a little planting calendar that I’ve been following. Corn mid-May. Cucumbers early June. I don’t know why I bother, because it’s not like we’re staying here. But it felt wrong not to. I couldn’t bear to watch the tomatoes die or the little plants get overtaken with weeds now that my grandfather’s gone.

I need to find the seed collection. If I can do that, then maybe someone else can carry on Uli’s work, no matter what happens to the house. The vegetables aren’t attached to that particular patch of land. Anyone can grow them, and isn’t that exactly what Uli would want? For more people to care about them?

I don’t know where he put it. Those little packets of seeds on the kitchen counter are the only ones I’ve found so far, but I haven’t looked very hard either. I will now though. I have to. For Uli.

Over the next few weeks, I help my dad sort through Uli’s things. Today, while Dad fumbles for his keys, I spot Slater sitting on his steps next door, playing with his rat. I’m pretending not to notice him, but then a short old man slams out of the house. “Back at five,” I hear him say to Slater. “Heat up the lasagna your mother left in the fridge, okay?”

“Heat it up yourself,” Slater snaps.

The old man slams his car door and drives away. I look at Dad. He shrugs and lets us into the house. Walking into Uli’s living room is like stepping back in time: worn, red shag rug, orange lampshades, avocado-green couch. Even the books on the shelves look old. Each time we come over, I start searching for the seed collection. But Dad is only ever here for a few minutes before he suddenly remembers something that needs urgent attention back at the building. And he won’t let me stay here alone. Yesterday he planned to spend the whole day in Uli’s basement, sorting, but when I got home from school, he was scrubbing moss from our front walk with something that looked like a toothbrush. He even launched into a speech about why this was the perfect tool for the job. I told him to quit stalling.

I get why it’s hard for him though. First he has to deal with all the memories. Then he has to deal with all the junk. The entire basement is crammed with rows and rows of shelves, stacked with boxes of—not family treasures, but rags, newspapers and even cardboard toilet-paper rolls. This afternoon I’m determined to keep Dad here long enough for me to find that old shoebox full of seeds, stories and maps. I’ll look in every single box in the basement, I think. But after two hours I’ve thrown everything I’ve come across into the “garbage” pile. (Everything except for Uli’s impressive elastic-band collection, that is. It’s a ball of bands the size of a small watermelon. In my whole life, I don’t think I’ll need that many elastics, but if I do, I’m ready. In the meantime, maybe Nikko and I can toss it around at the park or something.)

“Look at this!” Dad says.

I expect to turn and see him holding up a framed photo or a favorite book from when he was a kid. Instead he’s got a fistful of colored cords, all different lengths, none longer than my arm. “What’s that?”

“My rope collection! I wonder if I remember…” He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor now, twisting a green cord into a complicated knot. “I do! Look at that! It’s an Ashley stopper knot. That’s how you make sure the rope doesn’t slide through a hole.”

“You collected cords…to practice knots?” I’ve heard of some weird hobbies, but as Uli would have said, this one takes the cake.

“Here’s another.” Dad grabs two cords, yellow and blue, and ties their ends together in a complicated way. “An alpine butterfly bend!”

I like seeing him there, looking happy for the first time since he stepped into this house. I can’t stand being inside anymore, though, especially since I’ve run out of places to look for the seed collection. “Can I go tidy up the garden?”

We both know it doesn’t need any tidying. I’ve been here almost every day since Uli died, and the place is spotless. Dad hasn’t said anything. I think he gets why I keep working on it.

“Chloë,” he says, putting down his cords, “I need to talk to you about that. You’re going to have to start thinking about letting the garden go. The longer you hold on, the more painful it will be to say goodbye.”

“But it needs looking after,” I say. “No one’s going to buy a place with a weed pit in the back.”

He frowns. “Chloë, it’s not going to be sold right away, I don’t think.”

What is he talking about? Isn’t he selling this place so we can both move back to Montreal? Didn’t he say we shouldn’t put Uli’s ashes under the tree because someone might take the tree down when the place is sold? “You said—”

“I know,” he says. “Look, I haven’t been totally upfront with you about this, but I guess you’re going to find out soon enough. This house didn’t belong to Uli.”

“What?” That doesn’t make sense. Why would he plant a tree in front of a rental? And create an enormous food garden full of valuable endangered plants?

“I’m sorry,” Dad says. “I should have told you sooner. But watching you looking after the garden and putting so much time into it…I didn’t know how to tell you.”

I don’t know what to say. “When…how long do we—?”

“We’re paid up for a few more weeks. Then it’ll go back to the landlord.” My dad is looking down at the floor. “He’ll probably renovate before he rents it out to anyone else, but either way, he’s not going to want either of us on his property after June 1. I—”

I stop listening. I want to stick my fingers in my ears and run away. What else is he not telling me, and why is everyone in this family so secretive? Where did Uli hide that seed collection? How am I going to find it? It was bad enough when I didn’t have a time limit, but now I know I only have a few weeks to save my grandfather’s life’s work.

I take a deep breath, but it doesn’t help. Nothing does.

“Película is being turned into a Mongolian Hot Pot,” Sofia says. “The owner’s son is in my class.”

I groan. “Another restaurant? But that place is one of the best parts of the neighborhood!”

“The neighborhood is changing, Chloë. You’ll hardly recognize it when you come home.”

“I bet,” I say. “It’ll be weird going back.”

“You’re going to miss Victoria, aren’t you?” Sofia’s voice is soft.

“Yeah,” I say. “I can really see why Uli moved here now, and why Dad wanted to move back. I wish I could be in two places at once.”

“Done.” Dad locks Uli’s door and pats the frame. For three solid weeks, he’s been sorting, selling and saving things, stuffing keepsakes into our storage locker. I’ve looked everywhere for the seeds. You’d think that a man who labeled everything from toilet rolls to elastic bands would have made a special effort with this particular item. But I’ve combed every last inch of that property. Nothing.

“Goodbye, old house,” Dad says. “Goodbye, garden.” He turns to look at me. He asked me to collect all the gardening tools and the plastic bottles Uli used for watering a while ago. I never did. So he just left them. Maybe he figures the landlord won’t care.

“I’m not saying goodbye to the garden yet,” I say. “I’m going to ask the landlord if I can look after it until they get new tenants. If they’re doing renos, we might even get a full summer’s harvest, and we could save the seeds from the crops. Uli explained how.” I tell Dad that Nikko’s agreed to look after things when we leave for Montreal and is also looking for other people who like growing weird vegetables. “You know what Nikko’s like with research. I’m sure we’ll—”

“No.”

“What? Why not?” I ask. “Why would the landlord care if—”

Dad shakes his head. “I know this is hard on you, Chloë. Everything’s shifting, and now I’m asking you to give up yet another place you care about. But you have to trust me on this one. You’ve got to let this go. The longer you hold on, the worse it’ll be.”

“You don’t get it,” I say. If Dad had been around when Uli was telling stories about every last plant—who he’d got the seeds from, and where they came from before that—this wouldn’t be a place only I care about. “If I can harvest the seeds and give them to someone who wants them, then Uli’s work won’t go to waste.”

“Chloë,” he says firmly, “it’s over. I hate to say it, but it’s over. Your grandfather is gone. Nothing we can do will bring him back.”

“But it’s not just about him! It’s about what he believed in—what he lived for! That’s all we have left of him, and you won’t even let me have that?” I take off down the sidewalk.

Dad calls me back, but I keep going.

“Do you know who the landlord is?” Nikko asks when I tell him the whole story. It’s late evening, and we’re pedaling home from my longest bike ride yet. He’s been checking out free piles—stuff that people have piled by the sidewalk—so tonight we’re riding home with three extra bike tires, two cookbooks, a bagful of yarn and a mug with a smiling carrot on it.

“My dad probably knows the landlord,” I say, “but I doubt he’ll give me details. He says I need to let go. Maybe I can check with City Hall? They must keep a record of who owns what.”

“What about talking to William?” Nikko suggests. “He knew your grandfather. He might remember the landlord’s name. Heck, he might even have the seed collection.”

I let out a whoop. “Why didn’t I think of that?” Uli probably gave it to William for safekeeping. It makes perfect sense.

“Maybe we can visit him tomorrow,” Nikko says. “He’s always asking me to run errands for him, and he always invites me in for tea afterward. He’d love having an extra visitor, I’m sure.”

On the sidewalk, someone whistles. “Well, if it isn’t the Fashion Disaster and the Bedbug Queen! A white-trash romance!”

I glance at Nikko. “Someone let the neighborhood chimp out of his cage.”

“What did you say?” Slater shouts and darts in front of us. I slam on the brakes. (I should have run him over.) Two guys step onto the street beside him. The short, freckled one is Griffin from my math class, trying to look tough with his arms crossed over his chest. But I see fear in his eyes. The guy in the baseball cap, I’ve never seen before. He grabs my handlebars.

“Let go!” I shout over the pounding of my heart. Okay, maybe I don’t shout it, but I’m sure he heard me. He doesn’t let go though.

“She said, let go,” Nikko says. “Are you deaf?”

And Slater’s on him. Nikko’s bike crashes to the ground, but Baseball Cap pulls Slater off before he can throw a punch. “Jeez, man! Not here!”

Griffin shoots me a panicked do-something look, so I scream, the loudest helpless-girl scream I can muster. Griffin takes off. A second later so do Baseball Cap and Slater.

A front door opens. The woman looks up and down the street. “You okay out there?”

Nikko gets up, dusts himself off and waves at her. “We’re fine, ma’am. Just fell off my bike. Thanks for checking.”

“Okay. You might want to walk your bike with that load. Glad you’re all right.” She waves and closes the door again.

“Friend of yours?” Nikko asks.

I shake my head. “I’ve never seen her before. I—”

“I meant the thug who attacked me.” He smiles the same kind of I’m-hurting-but-please-don’t-worry-about-me smile that I gave him at the memorial. His elbows are bloody and dripping.

Both of our bikes are on the ground. I pick up his and hold it out to him. “Can you ride?”

We pedal slowly home. “Maybe I should take up kickboxing,” he says.

“Thanks for sticking up for me,” I say quietly.

He launches into an extra-sappy version of “That’s What Friends Are For.” I laugh and join in. I’m going to miss Nikko when we’re gone.