The best part about living above a hardware store? Moving out. When you run out of packing tape to seal up your cartons, there’s plenty more three flights down. And, lucky for us, Heritage Hardware has a great selection of cleaning products, so Dad can be certain he’s leaving the floor beneath the stove so spotless the next family can climb underneath and eat their dinner right off the yellow linoleum. Should they desire to do so. And should they be extremely flexible and tiny and not own any dishes.
It’s wrong that Charlie needs to scrub this place silly before we leave next week. But I’m biting my tongue. What is it they say? You have to pick your battles. Besides, I’m so proud of his new career move and his willingness to find a doctor I figure I can look the other way on the unnecessary scrubbing. I will say this. Whoever moves into this place won’t have to clean for a year.
I’ve never been to New York. Neither has Dad. He went on the Internet and found us a new apartment close to his work. We saw pictures. It’s even smaller than this place, if that’s possible, but it’s the entire top floor of an old brownstone, and there’s a patio on the rooftop we’re allowed to use. And my room? Nothing like my lopsided lair. Nothing like Rascal’s coffin-shaped garret. My new room has one tangerine-colored wall and a huge bay window that overlooks the street. I like the sound of that. There’s a flowering tree out front and I’ll be able to open my window and smell the blossoms in the spring.
“I’m going to leave the linen closet for you,” calls Dad from the kitchen. “You’re so good at folding fitted sheets.”
“Nothing more than simple household geometry. It’s all in the angles,” I shout from my room, where I’m packing up the contents of my desk. “And the thread count.”
“That’s my little van Gogh.”
What? I toss a dictionary into a box full of my desk contents and head into the kitchen, where Dad is wiping down a cupboard we never even used. “Dad. You can’t be serious. Van Gogh wasn’t a mathematician. He was the—”
“I know.” He pauses to douse his sponge with Mr. Clean, then goes back to work. “The Dutch painter who cut off his left ear. I was just messing with you.”
I eye him teasingly. “Since when did you get so fancy?”
“I was in charge of cleaning the art department at Ant. A guy’s bound to pick up a few things. If he’s listening.”
“So germs are not the only thing you think about when you clean. Interesting.” He’s staring down at the floor by my bare feet. “What?”
“Footprints.”
Sure enough, I’ve left powdery marks on the floor. “Dad, I just showered. That’s baby powder. It’s not dirt.”
“Still.” He gets down on one knee and leans over to erase them.
Before he does, I grab his wrist. “Don’t do it.”
He looks up at me, blinking. He tries to pull his wrist away but I squeeze tighter. We stay that way for a minute, staring into each other’s eyes. I can see how hard this is for him. He needs to wipe up the shapes of my toes, my heels. It’s too much for him. Just as I release his wrist, there’s a knock at the door. I kiss Charlie on the cheek and stand, knowing what will happen the moment I leave the room. The floor will be polished. And polished. And polished.
I open the door to find Carling Burnack herself standing in the hall. She looks terrible: her hair’s unwashed, the circles under her eyes seem like smears of mud. It’s a good thing Charlie’s busy. He’d be liable to take a mop to Carling’s face. Keys jangle in one hand as she crosses her arms. “Is it true?”
“How did you know where I live?”
“Don’t screw around with me. I know.”
“Know what?”
“What everyone’s talking about. That you’re seeing Leo. Griff told me you guys went out last weekend. Is it true?”
“Why would Griff …?”
She steps into the doorway and hisses, “I called Leo myself, you know. I told him everything. So if you think you have a chance with him now, you’re out of your mind. He’d never get mixed up with someone like you.” She steps closer but I block her from entering.
“Because I’m a janitor’s daughter?”
“Because you’re a liar, a thief, and, yes, a total fraud. So tell me, are you seeing Leo?”
“No.”
“Swear you never will. You owe me that much.”
“I don’t owe you anything, Carling. Especially not that.”
Then I, little Sara Black from Lundon, Massachusetts, do something I never would have imagined. I thump the door closed in Carling Burnack’s face. For the first time, I don’t give her what she wants. Though in a way I guess I do. If making me sad was her intention, she scored big-time.
It isn’t until the sound of her footsteps stomping down the wooden steps has gone silent that I realize I’ll never see my mother’s green sweater again.
Charlie is no longer in the kitchen, but the sponge is lying on the counter. Before I turn back to my packing, I stop and stare at the floor, a proud smile crinkling one cheek. The floor is still covered in my powdery footprints. Which means one thing. Big Charlie resisted wiping them away.