I Wish (32 page)

We sold every pair before Eli returned, and I could’ve sold more if we’d had them.

Would the idea catch on? I sure hoped so. The money was good, and making them would be fun. And a little scary. There was no way I could duplicate the quality of Grant’s work, but I could probably paint well enough to produce shoes that were still cute.

With an “order” of thirty pairs for Mrs. Tucker’s shop and then another thirty to make for next Saturday, I needed to make a plan. Later that night, I sat at the kitchen table, with my designs spread around me and half of today’s cash to use for supplies. Our emergency fund would get the other half.

The shoes with butterflies had gone first. I’d double up on them. They would do better with glitter than jewels—

“Lacey?”

I looked up. Mom slid onto a chair beside me, a mug of tea in each hand.

“Want some?” she asked.

“Sure.” I took a sip. Citrusy with a hint of honey. “Thanks.”

She nodded, sipped, nodded again. “Things went well today?”

“Yeah. Great.”

“I had a nice day too.” She frowned at me. “Kyra Samm has invited me to a survivors’ group. They meet monthly at her church.”

There were three more weeks until my birthday. Close enough, right? I thought so, but it didn’t stop a tornado of fear from spiraling inside me. With an even tone, I said, “That might be good. Will you go?”

She shook her head. “I’m not ready.”

A second tornado spiraled, only this one held disappointment. I wanted her to go, to get out there and find ways to feel better, even though it would agitate me until my birthday was safely past. “Okay, Mom. There’ll be other chances.”

“I’ll think about it again. I promise.” She wrapped both hands around her mug and stared into her tea. “Why did Grant leave?”

Even though I’d expected her to ask sometime, it surprised me that it had come so soon. After admitting she couldn’t accept help from something as low-key as a support group, she wanted to know this, and it would hurt. “I guess you could say I fired him.” I watched her steadily. “He was willing to stay with us for as long as we needed him. I thought that was a bad idea.”

She frowned into her tea. “Bad for him?”

“Yeah.”

“He loves you.”

I nodded, my throat aching too much to speak.

“You love him too.” Her voice was sad.

I closed my eyes and pressed my lips together, battling the raw pain that threatened to overwhelm me.

The chair creaked as she rose. “We all do.” Her shuffling footsteps drew even with me, then stopped. Thin fingers threaded through my hair and pressed my head against her waist. “You did the right thing, Lacey. You always do.”

I clung to her, thankful for the first unsolicited hug and unsolicited praise I’d received from my mother in many months.

Production took more effort than I expected. On Sunday, I rode my bike to the flea market and the discount stores, hunting for bargains on toddler shoes, sequins, glitter glue, and jewels. Then I headed to the studio to see if I could duplicate Grant’s skill with fabric paint and bling.

I ruined five pairs before I got the hang of it.

Eli showed up in the late afternoon, appearing in the door to the studio, staring with confusion into the garbage can. “What’s wrong with those?”

I looked up in surprise. “Why are you here?”

“The Samms asked me to babysit Reynolds. I thought I’d drop by on my way home to see how the production line was going.” He pointed at the garbage can. “What’s wrong?”

“I messed up the designs.”

He grunted and pulled the ten shoes out. “If we smudge some more paint on them and add a little glitter, we’d have Picasso-esque masterpieces.”

I nodded to paint and brushes at the other end of the work table. “Have at it.”

We worked in silence for an hour. When he was done, I had to agree that they didn’t look half-bad.

And, of course, the abstract shoes ended up being a hit. Eli was not the least bit humble about the news.

In fact, we sold out our entire inventory during the grand-opening week. Mrs. Tucker reminded me that Thanksgiving was just around the corner, with all of the Black Friday shoppers hungry for Christmas gifts. “We’d love to feature more of the shoes. They really draw people into the store.”

I reveled in the feeling of success, not that I set the bar very high. It would be nice to feel relaxed when I went to the grocery story or to pay bills with confidence. “Thank you, Mrs. Tucker. I can do that.”

B
etween school, my bookstore job, and the shoes, I was so crazy-busy that I didn’t notice October twenty-eighth creeping up, but my subconscious knew. I awakened early and lay in bed, pondering the significance of turning eighteen. With all the distractions I’d had lately, my actual birthday felt like an anticlimax. The usual stuff was true. I could vote. I could trade my provisional driver’s license for a regular one.

There was also a big personal thing. I didn’t have to fear Child Protective Services.

This was already one of the nicest birthdays ever. If I included everything I’d gained recently, it had been a wonderful two months.

I didn’t permit myself to think about what I’d lost.

I took extra care getting ready for school, because it was going to be that kind of day.

Mom was ahead of me in the kitchen. It smelled like cinnamon and butter in there. French toast. My favorite.

“Happy birthday, baby,” she said from the stove.

“Thanks, Mom.” I shoveled it in—yum—and waited for more gushing over me.

She slipped onto the seat across from me with her own plate. We ate as silently as was possible with such an amazing breakfast. Five minutes passed with no gushing and no
eighteen years ago today
stories about my birth.

I left for school, a little disappointed. It wasn’t as if Mom had forgotten what day it was, but it hurt that she hadn’t done or said more.

Sara caught me at my locker before first period. “Here,” she said and shoved a tiny gift bag into my hands.

It was a beaded hairclip I’d admired in the consignment shop last week. “Thanks for remembering.” Being nice to me again was an even better present, but I wouldn’t thank her for that. Sara had always had a hard time apologizing to people. I learned long ago that she did things to say she was sorry. Selling the toddler shoes at her mom’s store had thrown us together a lot lately, and she’d been polite with me each time. Maybe—just maybe—we could put last autumn’s nasty fight behind us for good.

When I looked up to smile at her, I saw something sad and lonely flicker in her eyes.

“Be sure and tell people where you got it,” she said with a shrug. “It’s good advertising.”

I watched her walk away and wondered what she was hiding behind all that brittle perkiness. One day, I would ask—but not yet.

Kimberley had something for me too. I’d barely taken my seat in APUSH before she handed it over.

The attached card explained the gift, although I wasn’t sure whether she’d included the details for me or her. I read aloud, “Here is a prepaid phone. One thousand minutes of usage and unlimited texts. Love, Kimberley and Teresa Rey.”

I looked up. “This is great.”

“That’s what we thought. You need one for your new business.”

“Ladies,” Mr. Jarrett said, rapping on his desk. “May I start class now?”

“Certainly.” Kimberley inclined her head regally.

I muffled a laugh. Mr. Jarrett had finally connected Kimberley with her important grandfather. The difference in Mr. Jarrett’s attitude was great, not just for her, but for me. And since Mom had excused away all of my absences, I didn’t have to worry about passing his class anymore. Which meant I’d graduate early as planned.

By late afternoon, the only person I cared about who hadn’t wished me a happy birthday was Henry. Even though I made myself available to him, my brother stayed oddly quiet. He didn’t mention my special day. He didn’t hint about any presents. He just walked around, not meeting my eyes, acting overly nonchalant.

That raised my suspicions. Add that to the banging in the kitchen and I was pretty sure something had to be up. I went to find my mother.

She met me at the threshold, blocking my way. “Can you do me a favor?”

I tried to look over her shoulder. She shifted.

“Yeah, sure, Mom. What do you need?”

“Frozen green beans.”

I made a face. “I hate green beans.”

“They’re not for you.”

Behind me, there was a giggly little-boy snort.

“Can the green beans wait?”

“We want them tonight. Don’t we, Henry?”

“Yes.” He nodded repeatedly.

“Fine.” I headed out the front door.

Fifteen minutes later, I was back with the package and a scowl. The lady in front of me in the express lane had cheated. Eight cans of tomato paste did not count as one item.

I could hear Henry whispering in the kitchen, or his version of whispering, which was pretty loud but not clear enough to make out the words. I stomped in there. “Listen—” I stopped.

“Surprise,” Henry said, jumping up and down.

The kitchen had been draped with streamers. Balloons had been tied to my chair. Each plate had a piece of steak and a baked potato. In the middle of the table, there were cards, a vase of mums, and a large glass dish of my absolute favorite dessert, banana pudding.

“Thank you, guys.” I slid onto the chair and refused—completely refused—to speculate on how much my mom had spent on the steak. Or where she got the money. “This is wonderful.”

Henry hopped from foot to foot. “Open my card first. I made it myself.”

“The very best kind.” His card was silly and charming and definitely earned a kiss on the top of his shampoo-fresh head. The other cards were from my mother and my Linden grandparents (with a twenty-dollar bill tucked inside, which I might actually spend on myself for a change).

It was way nicer than I’d hoped for.

Mom sat beside me, eating tiny bites and listening to me and Henry talk. It was hard to know what was going on inside her head, but she hadn’t seemed as depressed lately. Whether from the switch to tea or from hanging out with the incredibly nice and optimistic Mrs. Samm or from the volunteer work she was doing at a local thrift store, my mother’s moods weren’t quite so alarming anymore.

My brother finished his meal in a couple of gulps and then rested his chin on his forearms while he waited impatiently for me to finish mine. As I put the last forkful in my mouth, he said, “Are you ready for us to sing?”

The doorbell rang.

I pointed at my full mouth and then toward the front of the house. He blew out a noisy sigh and nodded his understanding.

Chewing quickly, I hurried to the front door and pulled it open. Eli stood there, shades on and hands behind his back.

I gave him a tentative smile. “Hey.”

“Happy birthday.” He held out an envelope. “I have something for you.”

“How’d you know?”

“Henry. He’s reminded me five times in the past week.”

Heat rose in my face. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Really.”

I stepped onto the porch, let the door swing shut behind me, and took the envelope. Inside was a heavy note card with fancy printing. A gift certificate to Rima’s House of Henna.

He tapped it with his forefinger. “You used to have this tattoo on your wrist, and it was really…pretty. I thought you might like another one.”

The gift was unexpected and so very thoughtful. Of course, I had Grant’s bracelet on my wrist, and I never took it off. But I could try a tattoo somewhere else, like on my ankle. Or the palm of my hand. I smiled up at him. “This is incredibly nice. Thank you.”

“Yeah. Well, see you.” He turned to go.

“Wait, Eli.” Things were changing between us. Even though we’d known each other since our freshman year, the past two months had been particularly intense. It felt like we’d really become friends. I opened the door wide. “Want to come in? We’re about to have banana pudding.”

He hesitated, his reaction hidden by the sunglasses. “Are you sure your family won’t mind?”

“Positive.”

He removed his shades. “Does the banana pudding have whipped cream or meringue?”

“Whipped cream. Of course.”

He smiled. “Then I accept.”

I was glad, really glad, that he was there. As I showed him to the kitchen, I couldn’t help thinking that this birthday, which could’ve been so bad, had turned out perfect.

T
he mystery about Josh’s storage unit was finally solved on Halloween.

I’d been so busy that I’d forgotten about the key and the puzzle it represented. So when I pulled the letter from the mailbox, I thought at first that it was junk. But the company name tickled my brain until I gave it another glance. Westside Storage.

I ripped into the envelope, drew out the letter, and hastily skimmed it.