“You all right?” Ham asked.
“I’m fine,” I told him. “It’s just, Gram made such a big to-do of keeping this from me.” I gave a little half-laugh. “I don’t suppose you know why?”
“That I can’t tell you.” Ham patted my shoulder. Jutting his chin toward the diner door, he added, “I gotta get back in there.”
“Sure.”
“Genuine?”
“Hmm?”
He locked his eyes on mine. “Of all the family shines in Sass, wish fetching is surely one of the most burdensome.” He tapped his chest. “Taxing on the heart, is what I guess I’m trying to say. Go easy on yourself. All right?”
I didn’t know precisely what he was getting at, but I could tell he meant it kindly. “Yeah. Thanks. All right.”
14
Waiting List
I WAS LATE GETTING TO CLASS AND, ON TOP OF IT, had to ask Mister Strickland for more time on my math homework, seeing as how I hadn’t cracked a book in nearly a week. He only shook his head and told me to see him after the bell. Truth to tell, it was hard to get too worked up about it. In the quagmire of biscuit baking and family secrets, Mister Strickland’s anger hardly vexed me at all.
Even so, my thoughts were churning. A late assignment didn’t count for much one way or the other, but what did matter, really? Feeding the hungry? Pleasing Gram? Helping my neighbors? All those things were important.
But what about me? Could I just keep on doing and doing until I dropped? Another twenty Cornucopio requests had come in that morning. When all of this was done—if it ever was done—would there be anything left of me?
When the lunch bell rang, I meandered up to Mister Strickland’s desk.
“You wanted to see me, sir,” I reminded him.
He nodded. “Miss Carver explained about your biscuit-baking backlog, and I’ve thought up a makeup assignment for you. It may solve some of your troubles.”
I gave a sad little groan, thinking that the last thing I needed was one more assignment I didn’t have time for. But suddenly, there was Mister Strickland, explaining about something called a waiting list. My assignment? To create a prioritized waiting list to manage all the incoming wish requests. I’d sift out the folks who were in dire straits and help them first. Then would come the people whose need was less urgent. Last on the list would be the folks who didn’t have needs so much as wants. I nearly hugged Mister Strickland when I realized his idea meant I could actually get a full night’s sleep that evening—and every evening from then on!
Jura was waiting for me out in the hall.
“Everything okay?” she asked.
“Better than okay, maybe,” I replied, then told her about the waiting-list assignment.
Jura slapped her palm to her brow. “Triage! Of course! Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Maybe we should put him on the board of directors,” I joked.
“Oh. I almost forgot.” Jura reached into her purse. “Travis gave me this to give you.”
She handed me a paper folded in the shape of a bowling pin. I couldn’t help but laugh. Unfolded, the page read, We eat around six. The oven’s waiting for you. Genuinely looking forward to it.
Between the Tromps’ bigger stove and the new waiting list—which I’d get done before day’s end, even if it meant skipping lunch—I really might be in bed by ten!
“Travis saves the day,” I said to myself.
“Huh?” Jura asked. Something near Sonny, over by his locker, had caught her eye.
“Nothing.” I put the note in my pocket, a confidential little smile on my lips.
I might have kept on smiling, too, had Sonny Wentz not sauntered over to ask Jura if he could walk her home after school.
“Oh, and you, too, Genuine,” he added.
15
Blossoms in Winter
DISAPPEARED DADDY OR NO, IT WAS HARD TO imagine anyone being surly for long living in the Tromp house. I’d passed by it, of course, but seeing as how the place was surrounded by a big fence, and considering that I’d never felt moved to go inside before, I was more than a little surprised to find out they’d been concealing paradise behind their gate.
I knew, like everyone else did, that Miz Tromp had some kind of herb-growing business making medicine teas and oils that you smear on your skin, but somehow I had never considered the size of the operation. Their tiny house, a wooden cabin hand-painted with a thousand brightly colored birds, was surrounded by five acres—easy—of plants in boxes and plants in bowls, of blossoming vines climbing trellises shaped like horns and hearts and hoops. Tomato bushes bowed with their red fruit, while rows of purple-faced lettuces and collard greens burst skyward, as if they were grateful somehow. And beyond that, there was a whole orchard of apple and peach trees, plus great swaths of a tall-stalked plant I thought might have been bamboo. In the middle of it all, a small pond with a fountain spouted water from a statue of a girl holding a watering can.
I just stood there for a while listening to the falling water and the ringing of the wind chimes that hung from the eaves of the house. After a time, though, some movement caught my eye, and there was Travis squatting in a clump of basil, collecting leaves.
“That’s not for your nasty cigarettes, is it?” I asked.
He jumped. “Oh! Genuine! Naw, just helpin’ out my ma.” Now he smiled. “You look pretty tonight.”
“Friends don’t tell friends they look pretty,” I schooled him.
“You girls talk about who’s pretty all the time!” he countered.
The other girls did, it was true. No one ever said it of me, though. Suddenly I was very sure I didn’t want to own up to that.
“Well, then, you look pretty, too, Travis.”