4

ALMOST THREE WHOLE WEEKS GO BY AND I’VE sort of gotten used to Ashley’s back facing me and to the nervousness I feel every time my bus approaches the intersection in front of the Shop-n-Save. But after each final bell, I still run full speed to Grampa’s truck. Every time I do it, I tell myself that it’s because I’m excited to see him and not that I’m hoping no one will see me. At least it’s a Friday, because I’m more than ready for some rest and relaxation.

Today, Grampa and I stop by Frank’s Pawn and Salvage to see if we can resell the camera we found outside the Vintage Vantage, and then we swing by Archie’s. Archie once told us he opens the store whenever he feels like it, sometimes at night. So, you really never know what you might find at the Tuesday Thrift, even if that means you might find it closed.

Archie’s truck sits parked out front, a sure sign he’s working. We pull in and Grampa looks over at me. “Want to tell me what’s bothering you lately?”

“It’s just middle school. Switching classes, and so many more kids. There’s hardly room to take a breath in the hallways. I don’t know. I guess more has changed than I expected.”

What I don’t tell him is that I’ve felt funny about our collecting ever since that first bus ride, or that I asked Ashley to come over yesterday to do homework and watch TV together, but she said she couldn’t because she was staying at her dad’s, and he lives across town. It seemed to me that we could’ve easily come up with another plan, if she’d been interested.

Grampa nods and says, “Well, that’s why we get along so well. Same old, same old works for us just fine. But I bet with some time, soon you won’t even notice all the things bothering you now. What do you say we go in and see if Archie’s come across anything special? Might cheer you up.”

The Tuesday Thrift is right next to Joe’s Diner, and there’s always the faint scent of french fries in the air. I take in a deep breath, happy to find something familiar, and that’s when I see a group of kids walking toward the new arcade across the street. David and Kyle from the bus are there, along with a few other kids I don’t know. Farrah’s with them and so is Ashley. It seems like she spots me too.

I freeze there in the parking lot while Grampa walks ahead. Then I hear David say, “Hey, isn’t that the Junkman’s truck?” He laughs and points. “And isn’t that Mabel?” Ashley shrugs and looks away, as I turn and run for the door.

Normally I go straight to glassware and check whether anything new came in. Then I’ll pick up each piece, close my eyes, and wait. Since a heart find might start off as just a flutter of a feeling, I try extra hard to notice. But nothing in Archie’s calls to my heart; in fact, it’s like my heart shrunk. Even Archie’s hugs and butterscotches don’t help.

Grampa ends up with a cracked bamboo fishing rod and I leave empty-handed. He holds the rod up before putting it in the back of his truck. “What do you think?”

I look at it with my new raisin-size heart, and all I see is something old and broken. “Seems like it’s in pretty bad shape.”

Grampa inspects it again and says, “I like to think that sometimes things fall apart so we can take what’s left and build something else, maybe even something better.”

We rumble along and nothing feels right—even the warm breeze is like a hot breath in the face. Grampa drives past the Abner Municipal Office and there’s a big banner advertising Fall Cleanup. Fall Cleanup happens every Sunday starting in September and runs through October. People can put almost anything on the curb Sunday evening and Sanitation will pick it up bright and early Monday. Last year, we found a violin, a full set of china, and an original Royal Classic typewriter missing only the R key.

Grampa bumps my shoulder, points, and starts singing the holiday song “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year.”

When I don’t respond, he asks, “You want to talk about it?”

I shake my head.

“What do you say I pick you up early before school Monday morning and we hit the road and see what treasures Fall Cleanup has to offer?” he asks. “I’ll clear it with your mom.”

I nod.

“Want to come by and see our garden? Everything looks good except the beets. Hey, maybe I should become a musician.” Grampa looks over at me.

I shake my head again. “Don’t say it.”

“Because of my sick beets.” I groan and Grampa laughs.

I laugh a little too. But then I hear David and think about Ashley’s reaction and feel small and awful all over again.

“Actually, Grampa, I think I might have a cold or something. I just want to go rest.”

“Sure thing, Mae-mae.” Grampa drops me home, and I spend the rest of the weekend sulking and dreading Monday. Sunday evening, I text Grampa and tell him I still feel bad and that I can’t go treasure hunting in the morning. It’s the first time I’ve ever skipped out on a hunt and lied to Grampa.

The next morning, even though I’m barely awake, I’m replaying what happened outside the Tuesday Thrift. I flop over and lay flat on my back, hoping that the guilt from lying to Grampa might quit wrestling around in me if I’m still and quiet. I’ll see him after school and we’ll drive the loop again and it’ll all be fine.

My collection of vintage glass baskets sits on my windowsill. My favorite, a marbled red one, is a Tiara Indiana Glass Sunset Amberina Constellation Basket. It’s a long name for such a small thing. The cuts in the glass create four-pointed stars, and the base is a deep burgundy that shifts to red and then orange before fading to a golden amber on the handle. On the bottom are the tiny initials TJ, put there by a real person, not a machine.

The colors from my baskets flicker in the day’s first light. When the sun hits them right, slow streaks of yellow, orange, pink, and red spread across my legs. The constellation cuts make little prisms of light here and there all over my comforter. I imagine it’s like sleeping in a sunset-colored rainbow.

I got my Amberina basket early on in my collecting. Since then Grampa’s taught me it’s more fun to fill in the details with what he calls our right to historical whimsy. Mom calls it making stuff up.

But I think the maybes are one of the best things about our hunts. Who knows where my little basket was before it became mine. Maybe it held the jewelry of someone exceptional like Wilma Mankiller, the first female chief of the Cherokee Nation. I told Mom this, and she said it also looked about the right size to hold a set of false teeth.

I’m staring at my Amberina legs and thinking about Grampa, when Mom walks into my room without knocking. She’s still in her robe, and her face is flushed like she’s been crying.

A cloud passes over the sun and for a second my Amberina legs are plain old comforter-covered legs.

“Mabel, it’s Grampa. He’s had a stroke.” She picks at the knotted belt of her robe.

I hear the words but can’t figure out what she means because it doesn’t make any sense. Grampa’s fine. He has to be fine. I grab my comforter and pull it up toward my chin. Mom sits on the end of my bed and puts her hand on my leg.

Maybe he’s okay? Only one good maybe, and all the bad maybes roll in like a summer storm.

“Oh, Mabel,” she says. “He’ll recover, but I can’t quit thinking about him lying there alone for goodness knows how long.” Mom starts to sob hard enough to shake my bed. She doesn’t run for tissues or cover her face or fuss with her running mascara. I sit there, holding on to my comforter and that one good maybe and then what Mom is saying sinks in.

Grampa went on the Fall Cleanup hunt by himself. He went out in the darkest part of the morning to search for something amazing without me, without me because I lied and stayed here in bed instead of going with him.

Mom’s leaving out the most important detail of all.

Grampa wasn’t supposed to be alone. He was supposed to be with me.