The next day, Dad takes me to see the zero lot line house he told me about last weekend. It’s a really run-down dump of a place near the end of a cul-de-sac. The only nice thing about the place is the street it’s on. There’s a grassy island in the middle of the loop where the cars have to go round the circle and turn back. It’s almost like a very little park because they’ve planted three ornamental cherry trees in there. It would be a good place to walk a dog. All the houses on the street are about the same size and are on small lots, but they’re fixed up and look kind of cute. Dad says the house we’re checking out is about the cheapest one in all of Surrey. I’m not surprised.
It looks so sad and abandoned. No one’s living in it. The yard is a jungle. There’s a strip of cracked pavement with weeds growing through it that leads right up to the base of the house. You can tell this is where the garage used to be, but now it’s closed in and there’s a boarded up window. Dad tells me this is the family room. There are shards of broken glass on the ground.
Amy’s late. She’s supposed to meet us here. Dad has been through the house once but wants to have a second look. I can’t believe he’s seriously considering this place. We’re standing by the curb, waiting, when one of the neighbors comes over.
“Hi there,” he says. “Roy’s the name.”
Dad introduces himself and me.
“Are you planning to buy? I sure hope so. It would be such a relief to have someone normal in here.”
“We’re still just checking things out,” Dad says.
I like the way he says we, like I’ll have some say in the decision. I wish. This place is a dump, but it’s not that far from Siobhan’s, and if I lived here, Grandma could drive me to Holy Name. If Dad wanted me to make a decision, what would I say?
“Sure would be great if we could get a nice family in here,” Roy says. “This is a real family neighborhood.” He sort of waves his arm in an arc to indicate all the houses where there are bikes and toys in the driveways.
“That’s kind of what appeals to us,” says Dad. “But there’s a lot of work to do here. The place is in rough shape.”
“Yeah, I know. Guy who owns it lives in Hong Kong. Tried renting it out. It was a really ugly scene. One group of young guys after another. Police were always here. Nice to have a crack house in the neighborhood, eh? The rest of us got together and pretty well drove them out.”
Dad looks alarmed. “Is the person who buys it going to have members of the old crowd turning up on their doorstep?”
“Nah. Cops busted it months ago, and the owner’s just left it empty. He’s trying to sell it, but look at the shape it’s in. It’s a fixer-upper special now. He’s dropped his price a couple of times.”
Amy pulls up and parks out on the street. She’s going to show us through the house.
“Well, I’ll leave you to look it over then,” Roy says, and he wanders back across the road to his own house.
Amy’s starting her sales spiel. “Of course, this place needs a little TLC, but you can see that it has great potential.”
About as much potential as a chicken coop. I don’t see any at all. It’s a dive, plain and simple.
The living room and the dining room have hardwood floors, but they’re all stained and scratched. There’s a hole in the drywall in the kitchen, like someone’s punched the wall or thrown something at it. The kitchen cabinets are all scuffed up, and some of the doors don’t hang straight. There are burn holes in the countertop. The stove is crusted with food. I don’t know how they can expect to sell a house in this condition. Who’d buy it?
Apparently my dad might. This is his second time looking it over, and it’s not like he’s having Amy show him any other places today. He actually seems to be interested in this one.
I can’t wait to tell Siobhan, so as soon as we get home, I call her. She isn’t in. Her mom says she’s at Megan’s. Who’s Megan?
Siobhan finally calls me back.
“Your mom says you were at Megan’s place,” I say.
“Who’s Megan?”
“She just moved in down at the Carlsons’ place.”
“Which place is the Carlsons’?”
“The one two doors down from us, toward the park. She’s a foster kid. The Carlsons just got approved to run some sort of a group home. They’re only taking teenage girls. They can have up to three, but right now, there’s just Megan.”
“So why’s she in a foster home?”
“Her mother’s in rehab.”
“What’s she like? Megan, I mean, not her mother.”
“Funny! She’s got a wicked sense of humor. I haven’t laughed so hard in my life. And it’s so nice that she lives right on my own street. It’s always such a major production when you and I want to get together.”
“Well, I wouldn’t call it a major production. Dad says he’ll come and pick you up, if you want to come over.”
“That would be cool. I’ll ask my mom.”
She does come over, and she even stays the night, but it still bothers me that all week I’m going to be out in Langley and Megan is only going to be two houses away. It’s pretty obvious who Siobhan is going to be spending more time with. There’s no justice. Why is it that when Siobhan meets a girl her age that lives close to her, it’s someone who is a lot of fun. When I meet a girl my age that lives close to me, she’s a weirdo who wants to beat me to a pulp.
With Mom driving me to and from school, and me making sure I’m never out alone, Brandy doesn’t have much of a chance to actually kill me. She can still bug me at school, though. I hate it that she sits right behind me in English class. I keep expecting to get a knife shoved between my shoulder blades. What happens Monday isn’t quite that bad, but it’s close enough to almost give me a heart attack.
“All right, now last class we were talking about similes and metaphors. I asked each of you to pick a poem you liked and to look for the imagery the poet used.” Ms. Phillips looks around the class. No one has put up their hand. “No volunteers?” She looks straight at me; no, she’s looking over me.
Suddenly I get this really hard poke in the middle of my back.
“Put your hand up!” Brandy hisses.
I don’t even think. Up my hand goes like Brandy’s put a gun in my back. I’m surprised I don’t throw both arms up into the air.
“Yes, Lucy,” Ms. Phillips says.
“I picked ‘Fog,’” I say. “By Carl Sandburg.” It takes me a minute to collect my thoughts. “He compared fog to a cat. It’s not a simile, I don’t think, because there’s no like or as in it.”
I try to explain. Ms. Phillips asks me to read it aloud. Then she asks questions. Anyone can answer, but it’s mostly me who does the talking. We’re still discussing it when the bell rings.
I’m gathering up my things, but Brandy’s faster than me. As she walks by my desk, she looks down and says, “I knew you had to be good for something.” Then she just walks out of the room.
If it wasn’t for the way she usually treats me, I’d almost think she gave a bit of a smile when she said that. Maybe it was just a grimace.
I’m about to describe what happened with Brandy in class to Harbie and Kuldeep, who are sitting in the cafeteria, but I don’t get a chance.
“Your hair,” says Harbie as I approach their table. “I still can’t believe what you did to your hair.”
“My parents would kill me if I did that,” says Kuldeep.
Kuldeep and Harbie have been going on like this about my hair for a week now. You’d think I’d shaved my head bald or something. I wish they’d just get over it.
It turns out, though, that they aren’t the only ones who get totally bent out of shape over a little change in hair color. Tuesday night, Ian has a meeting and so Gina comes over to visit Mom. I know she’s coming because probably for the first time in her life she calls first. As soon as her car pulls in to the driveway, the dog starts barking. The dog’s still at it when Gina walks in the door, so it’s not like Gina isn’t going to notice her right away. And she does. She stops right inside the door and stares.
“What have you done to my dog?” she shrieks.
Gina’s just standing there like she’s paralyzed. Her hands have flown to her cheeks. She’s looking at the dog as if this is the worst thing she’s ever seen. The dog is probably stunned by the response. She quits barking.
“She looks ridiculous.”
“It’s just Kool-Aid,” I say. “It will wash out in a bit.”
“I’m not going to be seen walking down the street with a striped dog.”
And when was the last time you walked this poor dog anywhere, I want to ask.
“I just won’t put myself through that humiliation,” she says. “I’m sorry, Lucy, but you and your mom will just have to keep her.”
She’s looking at my mom. Mom’s smiling. I look back at Gina. She is too. I look at the dog.
“We can keep her?” I can’t believe my ears.
“Well, if you want her,” Gina says. “Not everyone would want a silly little dog with pink-striped fur.”
I pick up the dog and bury my face in her neck. “I would.”
It feels like a big weight has lifted off my shoulders. I don’t know what to say. I’ve been so awful to Gina. The dog is wriggling. I set her down.
“Thank you,” I say. I’m smiling now too, but it’s a wobbly sort of smile. Then, like an idiot, I throw my arms around Gina’s neck and start to bawl. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. I’ll take real good care of her.”
“I know that,” says Gina.
When I calm myself down enough to notice, I see that Gina and Mom are looking a little teary eyed too. We exchange looks, and then we all start to laugh. The dog just stands there watching us and wagging her tail.