Sumac makes the bed, wearing a fixed scowl. Her sheets don’t seem to fit right; she wrenches at the corner so hard, she hears something rip. She puts boxes out onto the landing, stacking them up to form a barricade. The closet rail falls down as soon as she touches it, and wire hangers jangle in a big tangly mess.
She stomps up and down through Camelottery three times, leaving all the gates open, because she has to haul her stuff to the attic in garbage bags, and she can’t do that and keep Oak safe too, and nobody even comes out and asks what she’s doing and can they help her with that!
Sumac tosses her clothes into the stiff drawers of the old dresser. No point in being tidy, because this room’s never going to look nice anyway. She shoves her corkboard and blackboard into the dusty space under the bed. Same goes for her rolled-up fluffy white rug. She crams her books onto the shelves any which way, in a double layer because there isn’t enough room. She dumps her dolls in a bag at the back of the closet, because there’s nowhere to display them. She tosses the Sumac’s Room sign on top; she’s not going to nail it up on the door, because it isn’t true.
On her last trip to the room she’s lived in for nine years, Sumac gives it a sorrowful glance. She yanks her gauze canopy out of the ceiling, and she doesn’t bother picking up the nail that rolls away across the floor. Bare, the room looks weird now: a prison cell muraled with a summer sky.
Up on the third floor, limping into the Loud Lounge, Sumac collapses in a swivel chair.
Nobody asks why she seems too tired to speak. Aspen’s playfighting with her rat on a big cushion. CardaMom and PapaDum are in the middle of a game of Slo-Mo Catch with Oak, who’s hiccuping with mirth. Then they put him down beside the sofa, so he can practice pulling himself up and cruising around it.
“How’s your new room?” asks CardaMom, putting her hand on Sumac’s neck. “Sumac’s being extraordinarily generous and giving your grandfather her bedroom,” she tells the others.
Which makes Sumac kind of want to spit, because how can she burst out complaining now?
Aspen’s jaw drops. “How come?”
“The guy’s eighty-two years old,” snaps Sumac. “He can’t be expected to climb all the way up to the attic every time he wants a pair of socks.” Trying to sound noble, but it comes out more like haughty.
PapaDum stands up. “Shall we get started on moving your stuff upstairs, hon?”
“Actually, I’ve done it all.” Her voice wobbles a little with a mixture of self-pity and pride.
“What a star,” cries CardaMom.
“Anything need fixing?” PapaDum asks.
“Lots of things,” says Sumac, thinking about the rail in the closet, for starters.
MaxiMum puts her head in the door. “Sumac, I’ve cleaned your window, baseboards, and floor, so it’s looking brighter, at least. If somebody can help me shift that old rowing machine and bring in another bookcase —”
“On it,” says PapaDum.
And Sumac feels even worse, because she wants to hug her parents and kick them in the butts at the same time.
*
Twelve for brunch, and Sumac has no elbow room at all. Aspen bounces up and down on her ball right opposite her, then braces her hands on the table and bends her elbows so far forward that they touch, like some giant spider.
Sumac looks away from her mutant sister and pours a careful trickle of maple syrup on her stack of pancakes.
“Doing OK this morning, Iain?” CardaMom puts her hand on the sleeve of Grumps’s long flannel shirt. “It must all be a bit overwhelming, after your nice, quiet little house.”
He stares at his plate as if he hasn’t heard her.
“Bet it’s a tad hotter than you’re used to as well,” says Sic.
“We get all weathers in Faro.” A heavy pause. “Are there no pancakes except the speckledy kind?”
“They’re thirteen-grain, really delicious,” CardaMom assures him.
“Plus, they keep you regular,” jokes Sic.
The old man gives him a baleful stare.
PapaDum sets down a huge platter of bacon.
“I was under the impression your kind never touched pig,” says Grumps.
PapaDum tilts his head to one side. “Are you thinking of Muslims, maybe?”
“Orthodox Jews?” suggests Sic.
A shrug from Grumps.
“I was raised Hindu,” says PapaDum, “and my parents don’t eat meat, but as it happens, I’m an omnivore.”
Grumps points at his son’s plate. “Anyway, I thought you were a vegetarian.” He pronounces it like a foreign word.
“What can I say, Dad? I can’t live without the very occasional, humanely raised, crispy rasher.” PopCorn folds another slide of bacon into his mouth. “Do I contradict myself?” he goes on in what Sumac recognizes as his poetry voice. “Very well, then, I contradict myself! I am large, I contain multitudes …”
“You’ll be large, all right, if you carry on stuffing your face like that,” says Grumps.
PopCorn closes his eyes briefly, then chews on.
Sumac realizes something: This old man probably made up his mind to hate it at Camelottery before he even walked in the door.