The knocker was clacking before Peg had arrived, so I scurried to open the door, crossing my eye on the way. It seemed early for anyone to be thinking about fortunes, but there were occasional emergencies when only a psychic would do.
It wasn’t a customer. It was an enormous bouquet of yellow roses; twenty-four, because I counted. The delivery boy was Bradley Barker from the tenth grade, whose uncle owned Garden’s Best, the florist shop. Poor Bradley had nasty pimples all over his face and neck. In my opinion, he was nearly as much an outcast as I was.
“They’re the most expensive flowers we have,” he said, handing them over with a small envelope. “And, no surprise, they’re not for you. They’re for your mother.”
“Thank you,” I slurred. I did not give him a tip.
“Aren’t they lovely!” cried Mama when she appeared. She inhaled the scent of the fresh roses with her eyes closed.
She read the card and passed it to me.
May these light up your day
as you have brightened mine.
Will you do me the honor of dining next week?
Gregory Poole
I’d seen that cunning look in Mama’s eyes before, as she thought about where she might lead a romance. With Mama, it was part of the game.
It had never occurred to me that I might lose my sense over a boy. Mama didn’t lose her sense. Except maybe the once that had resulted in me being here in the first place. Mama dealt the cards and always came out the winner. But I couldn’t look at Sammy Sloane without my heartbeat getting the hiccups.
I began to get up early just to watch him walk past our door on his way to school. I’d figured out we were on the path from his house near the rail yards to the school at the bottom of the hill. I knew where he lived because I’d followed him home. Twice. As the days ticked by, I got bolder with my spying. One morning—with my breath coming out my ears, I was so on edge—I left the spot behind the lace curtain and moved to sit on the doorstep. I put on my new brimmed hat and tossed my hair. I was cheating on being daft, and Mama would strangle me if she knew.
I licked my lips and let them form a fetching smile. Sammy Sloane wheeled along on his scooter and hopped off just as he came to the cracked sidewalk in front of our house.
“Hey,” he said, eyebrows up, and smiling for a second before he realized it was me. He gave me a wave and took two steps. Then whoosh, back on the scooter and he was gone. I about swooned. He’d spoken to me.
I jumped to my feet for an ecstatic twirl. Then my spirits crashed and I kicked the door. There was no wonderful, black-haired boy on earth who wanted a wonky-eyed, chapped-lipped moron for a sweetheart.
The truth landed like a conker on my head. I would never have Sammy for a boyfriend. This boy who listened to his friends with his head tilted, and laughed at their jokes with bright, dark eyes; this boy who made my breath stop and my neck heat up as if his arm were already draped around it would never give me a moment’s consideration, except as the loony girl.
I could feel my heart shriveling. I would never have a friend of any kind while we stayed in Peach Hill, where I was a joke and an imbecile. Mama and I would have to leave right away so we could start again somewhere else. We’d think of another ploy, and I could be myself instead of stupid. We must be nearly rich enough by now. We could find a little cottage in a different town, by the ocean, with a boardwalk and a concert in the bandstand on Sunday afternoons. Mama could stick to tarot cards, or retire, even, and—what would she do? We’d think of something. I’d go to school with clean hair and rosy lips and have friends. I’d meet another boy and someday, after a few tragic years of walking beside the white-capped sea, I’d recover from my heartbreak and forget about Sammy Sloane. But we’d have to go soon, before I was mortified more than I could bear.
I would tell Mama as soon as the customers were fed their fortunes and gone for the day.
Peg had roasted a chicken and hurried out to buy rice to go with it. While Mama read one last palm, I made some ginger tea and buttered slices of toast.
“Mama,” I began when she came into the kitchen. “I have an idea.”
“I’ve made a decision,” said Mama at the same moment. She was so merry she was just about singing. “I like Peach Hill,” she announced. “What do you think of moving into a house with a pagoda and a pond?”
“Mama, no!” I gaped at her. “Do you mean with Mr. Poole? Actually live with him? No! I was just going to tell you. We’ve made a mistake, and I think we should leave.”
“Nonsense! We’ve only just arrived! This place is tingling with promise. I can feel it in my bones. Even the spirits are lively.”
“Mama, you’re talking about the spirits as if you believe they exist. We can’t stay here. I don’t want to be an idiot anymore.”
“It won’t be forever,” Mama coaxed. “I have thought of a plan to make our fortune, once and for all. Mr. Gregory Sebastian Poole is a very rich man, Annie. I’m still a young woman. If I marry him—”
“Marry him?”
“Only for about five years.”
“What?” I shouted. “Five years? No, Mama! You think I want to be an idiot for five years?” How could she suggest such a thing?
“I’ll not be hollered at by my own child,” snapped Mama.
“You won’t listen if I don’t holler!” I hollered. “You only ever think about you! What about me for a change?” I was mad as a trapped wasp.
Mama scraped back her chair and stood up, her hands clenched. “You hush at once.” Her voice had an edge like a cleaver. But I couldn’t stop myself.
“Is Mrs. Poole going to help your little plan? I suppose she’s going to tell her husband to marry you and give you all her money? Why should you get to have a romance while I’m the ugly duckling with no hope of ever being kissed? I’ll be drooling and stammering at your wedding. Is that what you want?”
Mama narrowed her cold, gray eyes, but I ducked past her and slammed out the door. I was bursting, I needed to scream.
“Grrrack! Arrggerrack! Aarrrroooeeeeww!”
I stomped along Needle Street, down Picker’s Lane and around the square a dozen times, tears gushing. Maybe I was crazy after all. People hopped aside to let me pass, turning their faces away. I’d have grinned if I hadn’t been so mad. Nothing like a loony on a rampage to clear the path.
It was the busiest time of day in Peach Hill. The two factories were changing shifts, the shops had just closed, kids were hurrying home not to miss the supper bell. The opportunity for chaos was enormous.
“Rraaarrrgghh!” I swung my arms like a windmill, not really caring what I hit. Most people sidestepped, but I collided with a woman struggling with a large market bag. She cursed me as vegetables bounced across the pavement. That pulled me up short, made me stop huffing long enough to inhale. I tried to help pick up the onions, but I was shooed away with an angry hiss.
Too late I noticed a band of high schoolers gathered outside the five-and-dime store, laughing and pointing at me. Not Sammy, thank goodness, but Delia, and a girl named Lexie, and Sally Carlaw, and Frankie Romero and Howie and another couple of boys. Howie jumped into step beside me, making ape noises, imitating the way I loped along. I wanted to evaporate!
I spun on my toes and aimed to whap him one upside the head. He dodged my palm, laughing, and then darted forward and tripped me! Tripped a retarded girl! I crashed to the ground, wrenching my ankle, my eyes and cheeks burning.
Now, finally, there was consternation from the onlookers. Someone scolded Howie for attacking me. Through half-closed eyes, I watched the group of boys creep backward and disappear, the cowards. My hair fell in a tangled curtain over my face. Someone produced a handkerchief; my face was wiped, my hair smoothed. I was fine, only shaking with fury, figuring out how to slink away. But then I heard a familiar voice.
“The fortune-teller’s daughter?” It was Mr. Poole! “Is she ill?”
“She’s an idiot, sir,” said a child.
“She is sadly afflicted,” confirmed a woman. “Generally, she’s harmless, but that boy was riling her something dreadful.”
“I’ll see her home,” said Mr. Poole.
“No!” I moaned, and rolled my eyeball so I could see.
Mr. Poole was inches away, with a stern gaze of concern. He had removed his fedora to fan my face and I caught a waft of coconuts.
“Do you remember me, Annie? I’m Mr. Poole.”
Don’t you dare marry my mother, I wanted to shout.
“No men!” I said. “No men!”
The circle of housewives laughed.
“No men, she said, the daft cluck!”
“Her mother’s taught her right!”
“No men! Whatever next?”
“Nonetheless,” insisted Mr. Poole.
“No!” I tugged myself out from under their hands and began to limp away, biting my lip against the pain in my ankle. Suddenly Delia bumped against me.
“This’ll teach you,” she whispered. “Stop coming near us. We don’t want you around.”
Mr. Poole caught up to us, and Delia slid away. I could feel my ankle swelling up; my knees and palms were raw and smarting; I was suddenly very cold. I hobbled toward home with Mr. Poole lurking behind. I was shaking with leftover sobs. As we arrived on Needle Street, he hurried ahead and had summoned Peg by the time I reached the door.
“Oh, Lordy,” said Peg. “I could punch that boy right in the snout.” She wrapped her arms around me, warm as a blanket, making me cry all over again. Peg loved me, not knowing I was smarter than she was. She loved me the way a mother was meant to love a child.
Mr. Poole followed us all the way into the kitchen.
Peg sat me down and unlaced my boot. Oh, oh, oh! The pain swelled to fill the room! I winced as I propped up my leg on another chair.
“Shouldn’t she go to bed?” asked Mr. Poole.
“First I’ll fix her some sweet tea.”
“Ah, yes,” he said, “for the shock.”
His voice brought Mama running.
“Whatever has happened?” Mama took in the scene in an instant. “My baby’s been hurt?”
She fluttered like an upset chicken and tried to stroke my hair. She knew how appealing a mother’s worry could be. I jerked away, not willing to perform just then. Mr. Poole was telling Mama what he’d seen.
“Bullies! Tormenting a kitten!”
Peg put ice in a stocking to lay across my foot. She found me a woolly shawl and set the cookie jar next to my elbow.
“You rescued my darling heart!” cried Mama. I snarled.
“Help me pray!” She stood behind me, her hands like bricks on my shoulders. “Take away the pain from my little girl! Pray with me, Mr. Poole.” I tried to shrug her off again.
“Perhaps you should let the child settle down,” suggested Peg.
Mama led Mr. Poole out of the kitchen. “You’ve done a marvelous good deed today,” I heard her say, her voice trembling but full of admiration. The door swung shut and I could hear only mumbles and whispers in the hallway. I held my breath, trying to decipher the actual words. Peg clanged about, making the tea, placing the cups just so on the tray.
“Do you think she’ll want the tea in here, or will she make you move to serve it nice for him?”
“The ice is too cold, Peg,” I said, shifting my foot.
I nudged the ice bag to the floor and leaned over to pick it up, pushing the door ajar while I was down there.
I saw what I was afraid I’d see: Mama pressed against Mr. Poole in the dim corridor, her cheek nestled against his chest, while he stroked her back with his large, comforting hand.
I screamed. Peg dropped the teapot and it smashed. I screamed again. And then the chance for freedom flashed like sheet lightning across my brain.