11

I GRAB A BAG LUNCH FROM THE CAFETERIA AND go to the library to avoid sitting with Ashley and Farrah. After lunch we have conference period, where we’re allowed to go to any teacher’s office hour and ask questions. I decide to stay in the library and crunch some numbers. Mom always says be useful today and you’ll be thankful tomorrow.

If Grampa needs an extra two hundred dollars a month, that’s two thousand four hundred dollars for the year. That sounds like a lot, but really, I’m just one big find away from success. But it’s going to take more than a bunch of stuffed pigs.

All through the rest of my classes, I try to think where and when Jasper and I might hunt again. At the final bell I rush to the bus so Farrah can’t get to my seat first. Ashley will have to sit by me. I can apologize, and then I bet she’ll apologize too.

A man across the street is watering his yard, and while I wait, I remember the last time I was with Ashley and things felt normal. It was the weekend before she left for camp. Mr. Ruse runs the sprinklers on the large front lawn of my apartment complex every Friday. We ran through the spray, weaving in and out trying to avoid being hit but also screaming with joy whenever we were.

We collapsed next to each other, our hair soaked and plastered flat with blades of grass stuck to our legs. She hit her bare foot into mine. “Ever play airplane?” she asked. I shook my head. “Come on, stand up and reach out for my hands.” I did like she said. She rested her feet against my stomach, and I leaned over and took her hands in mine. “Now, push off and I’ll lift you up.”

I pushed off and her feet pressed into my stomach as she struggled to balance me above her. It only lasted a few seconds, and then I fell and landed with a thud on one of her legs. Ashley let out her wild, snorting cackle. We laughed until my stomach hurt. She’d sighed and said, “My dad used to do that all the time.” I should’ve asked her if she wanted to talk about it, said I was sorry about her parents’ divorce, anything. But I’d just bumped her foot with mine. I wonder if that’s when she decided to let me go.

When Ashley gets on, she doesn’t say a word, barely looks my way, and sits across the aisle. As the bus roars to life, she and Farrah already have their heads together, whispering and giggling, and completely ignoring me.

I take out my assignment from language arts and pretend to read. One thing keeps running through my mind: Today is Monday, and Monday is Collector’s Menagerie. But then thinking of my and Grampa’s favorite show just makes me feel worse.

I walk off the bus feeling like I’ve lost one more thing I used to look forward to, when Farrah says, “Bye, Mabel.” Something about the way she says it makes it clear that she isn’t being nice.

McKenna jogs a few steps to catch up with me. She glances back at Farrah. “Believe it or not, Farrah and I used to be friends in first grade. My mom says people can be disappointing, but they can be surprising too.”

I swallow hard and nod. Then she walks beside me for half the block. “You should come over sometime.”

“Yeah. Sounds fun,” I say. We part at the corner. But over the few blocks to my house, I start to wonder if it really would be fun.

Maybe friendships work like a favorite book. The first time I read Hide and Seek by Kate Messner, I didn’t know it’d be my favorite book right from the very first page. I watch McKenna round the corner and head to her house and wonder if Jasper, McKenna, and I are just on the first page.

Does making new friends mean I’m giving up on Ashley? Everything’s so mixed up that I don’t know what I think anymore. Not to mention, I’ve only focused on making trash-to-cash finds lately, which is about as far away from heart finds as I can get.

By the time I walk into my apartment, I’m not even sure how I feel about watching Collector’s Menagerie. It doesn’t make sense, but suddenly I’m mad at Grampa. Why’d he have to be scavenging right on my bus route? Why’d he go for that Fall Cleanup haul without me? If he was here, I’d be okay, everything would be okay.

I walk in and toss my backpack roughly on the floor. Mom’s at the dining table with papers scattered in front of her. She’s taken the day off to sort things out for Grampa, and I can tell by the way she’s holding her head up with her hand that she’s on the phone with his insurance again. Her phone is squeezed between her ear and her shoulder, and she holds a pencil frozen above a notebook. She’s all scrunched, her body and her face.

“Use speakerphone and just set it on the table,” I snap.

She whispers, “Old habit.” But maybe she doesn’t want me to hear what’s being said.

“Okay. Well, I’ll just have to call back… again.” Then she puts the phone down and says, “It’s impossible to get a straight answer, but it seems like once Grampa is discharged from Whispering Pines, he’s responsible for twenty percent of all his outpatient care. But that’s for me to worry about.” She shakes her head then looks up at me. “How was school?”

I think about all the bad maybes Mom must be dealing with, and I say, “Great. Really great.”

Mom smiles. “Well, I’m glad one of us had a good day.” I grab my bag and take off toward my room. “Just a sec,” she says. “I was thinking you could let me visit with Grampa on my own this afternoon to talk through some of this financial stuff with him.”

“I do have a lot of homework,” I say.

“But I could come by and get you when we’re done talking and we could all have dinner together?”

“I’ll just stay home if that’s okay. I need a break from Whispering Pines.”

She puts her pencil down. I know that look. It’s the one she gives her tables when they don’t turn out exactly like she wants. “Whispering Pines is a really great place. Grampa’s getting settled in. He’ll start meeting with an occupational therapist soon and get counseling too.”

I suspect Whispering Pines is probably as great as my recent bus rides. And Grampa’s only been there a week. How settled in could he be? These are things I might normally say, but today I figure both Mom and I are feeling pretty scrunched, so I just nod.

“Still don’t want to go?” she asks.

“School comes first, right?” I hold my hands up like there’s nothing to be done.

Mom gives me a look like she’s also not saying a lot she normally would. “So, you’ll be able to go tomorrow then.”

I nod and start down the hall to my room. “Sure.”

Mom gets up, follows me, and stands in my doorway. “Guess what?” she asks.

“What?” Suddenly, all these good maybes flood my mind. Maybe Grampa’s fully recovered. Maybe she’s found a way not to sell his house. Maybe we’ll all move in together.

“My application to participate in the Sooner State Regional Tablescaping Competition was accepted. The theme is A Night in Paradise. Winners who placed in at least three state-level competitions gain automatic entrance into the National Expo. And here’s the kicker: The winner of Best of Show at the Expo gets a spot as a competitor on a new Hearth & Home Network program called Top Table hosted by none other than Arletta Paisley! It’s a little like those baking competition shows, only you’re judged on your table designs.”

“Sounds good, Mom.”

Her face falls even further. “Crafting mogul and television star Arletta Paisley?”

“Cool,” I say, but it must sound like I don’t mean it because Mom sighs and closes my door.

I take out my math book, leave it on my bed, and instead pick up my Amberina basket. There is a nick in the handle, and the smooth chipped spot fits the tip of my pinky finger perfectly.

Grampa and I found my basket two summers ago. Archie greeted us with hugs and butterscotch hard candies like always. Then Grampa and I headed for the aisles. And there it was, casting sunset colors on the speckled linoleum.

I lifted it off the shelf and turned it in the sun, watching the colors change on the floor, then looked for an artist’s mark on the bottom, because that’s what serious glassware collectors do. I traced my finger over the raised T and J.

“Forty-nine ninety-nine on eBay,” Grampa whispered, checking his phone.

On the handle a sticker marked $2.50 took our breath away. This is what Grampa calls a steal, though it doesn’t involve actual theft.

But then I noticed the chip. “It’s messed up.”

“No, it’s one of a kind. You won’t find another exactly like it anywhere else in the world.” Then Grampa looked straight at me. “What some might think of as imperfection is what makes antiques unique—special because of all their variations, just like people.” Then he nudged me with his shoulder, letting me know that he wasn’t only talking about the basket.

I’ve been collecting antique glass baskets ever since. But my Amberina one is my favorite. Sticking my finger in the chipped spot reminds me that Grampa was talking about me, that he thinks I’m special just the way I am. With Grampa, that’s where I fit perfectly.

I turn the little basket around in the late afternoon light before resting it back on my windowsill. It’s my first heart find and just looking at it makes me feel better. Getting Grampa home is my top priority—that’s what my heart needs most.

My homework takes longer than usual. When Mom knocks on my door, I’ve only finished one of the reading responses I’m supposed to do.

“I’m about to head out. You sure you don’t want me to swing by and get you later? I don’t mind.”

“I’m sure,” I say.

“I’ll pick you up some dinner on the way home.” Mom walks out without giving me a hug or kissing the top of my head.

Ten minutes before seven o’clock and Mom still isn’t home. I pace in front of the TV. On the bar that separates our small dining room from our even smaller kitchen, she’s left one of her self-help books. Get Over Yourself is the title, and three sticky notes poke out for me. She does this often, and I think it’s her way of trying to get me to improve myself. But it doesn’t feel very helpful.

I open the book and she’s highlighted the lines “We often serve as the biggest obstacles to our own happiness. Have the courage to get out of your own way.” I roll my eyes clear to the ceiling and don’t bother looking at the other two sticky notes.

At five till, Mom texts that she’ll be home in half an hour, and she’ll pick up tacos. Maybe she knew about my and Grampa’s Monday-night meals after all.

I sit on the couch, pick up the remote, and turn on the TV.

Collector’s Menagerie travels the country appraising everyday, regular people’s antiques. There’s a staff of appraisers, all with specialties. Anyone can apply for tickets, and then they get to bring in their most prized possession to find out what it’s really worth.

The episode opens with the camera panning a crowd of people ambling through a convention center. There’s the comfortable chatter of a whole lot of people in one space, like the noise in the Icon during the dinner rush. I watch as they cut to a woman introduced to the audience as Edna Worn.

Some people make it on camera because they paid next to nothing for an item that’s worth a whole lot. But sometimes it’s because they paid a ton for a fake; those are hard to watch. Each episode usually contains two really amazing finds or fails; they kick the episode off with one before the title sequence and then end with the other before running the closing credits.

Edna has wild, white curls and a shirt with more ruffles than a petticoat. I sort through all the possible puns a name like Worn offers. Edna’s brought in a tiny table, and across from her is Grampa’s favorite appraiser, Ray Reno. Ray has a raspy voice and a soft spot for American folk art. He once teared up over a wall-pocket sculpture made entirely of pinecones.

“How’d you come to own this beauty?” Ray asks.

“My sister picked it up at an estate sale in 1972 for about fifty dollars.” Edna pulls at one of the ruffles on her collar, but she looks at the table with such warmth that I’m almost sure it’s speaking to her heart in that very moment.

“Well, would you believe that this little fellow dates back not to the 1970s but the 1770s?” Ray asks.

This is when Grampa and I would normally scoot to the edge of the couch, because a table that old is bound to be worth a lot even if it’s been dipped in bubblegum. But I don’t scoot. This time I watch Edna’s face brighten as she’s filled with all kinds of good maybes.

“This is a Philadelphia candlestand. And a very similar table sits in the Brooklyn Museum.” Ray squats and gently releases a hinge on the tabletop, so that half of it falls and rests flush with the stand. “It’s solid mahogany,” he goes on, “and were it in its original condition, I’d say it’d be worth close to one hundred thousand dollars.”

And here’s the problem; that table is nowhere near its original condition. Edna has painted every inch of it a very bright purple.

“With professional restoration, you could regain quite a bit of value, and as is, it’s still worth close to eight thousand. Possibly more to a collector,” Ray says in a reassuring tone. “The issue is often these older items have been so changed that they can’t truly be brought back to what they once were. And it’s the original patina that a collector is after.”

I can’t take my eyes off Edna. There’s a change in her face as the difference between one hundred thousand and eight thousand sinks in. But it’s more than that. It’s not sadness or anger. It’s loss.

The show’s music starts up, signaling the beginning of a commercial break—all instruments, happy jazz, but old-fashioned. Honestly, it’s a dorky theme song. And I remember Grampa doing a silly knock-kneed dance in front of his TV while holding a taco and spilling shredded cheese like confetti. I remember laughing and feeling embarrassed at the same time. I remember how with Grampa I don’t have to struggle to fit in, together we just are.

I’ve always believed that he and I could fix anything. It never occurred to me that he might not be there to.

Before I know it, I’m crying so hard that I don’t hear Mom come in. She sits, grabs the remote, and turns off the TV, then wraps both arms around me.

“Oh, Mabel,” she says. “It will get better. He will get better.” But her voice is choked up by tears and the opposite of convincing.