Leaving Paradise (Leaving Paradise #1)

Leaving Paradise (Leaving Paradise #1) Page 11

I take a bite of my sandwich while Tristan and Drew are at each other's throats. It's just like old times, except Kendra's not here ... and my sister refuses to join the land of the living.

Before that thought leaves my head, the girls minus my sister strut into the cafeteria. Sabrina, Danielle, and Brianne come in first, followed by Kendra and her best friend Hannah.

"How'd practice go?" Tristan asks Brianne.

Brianne reaches out and touches his shoulder. "That is so sweet that you care," she says.

Drew coughs. "Why don't you guys do a cheer for us?"

"Right here in the cafeteria?"

"Why not?"

Kendra winks privately at me, then says, "Sure, let's do it, girls."

Kendra stands up front while Brianne, Sabrina, Danielle, and Hannah settle into a pattern behind her. Kendra gets her hands up as if she's about to clap and says, "Ready?"

The other girls respond, "O-kay," then they all start clapping and jumping and chanting:

Takedown, tilt 'em,

Or go for the pin!

Stay off the bottom,

And get that win!

You gotta ride 'em, roll 'em, get that pin'.

Come on Panthers, leeeeettt's win!

The girls end their overly energetic cheer on a jump/kick combination.

Drew stands up and claps. "That was in-credible! Can you do that end part again where you bounce up and down and talk about riding them?"

"Shut up, Drew," Kendra says.

He holds up his hands and shrugs. "What? I was just admiring the cheer."

"Please," Danielle says as she sits down next to Brian and gives Drew a disgusted look. "You were admiring something, all right. Our chests."

"That, too," Drew admits. "I'm a teenage guy with raging hormones, what do you expect? I bet Caleb admired them, too, 'cause he hasn't seen any in almost a year. Isn't that right, CB?"

I should have known it was just a matter of time before my jail time got thrown in my face. Great, now everyone is looking at me, waiting to hear the ex-con's response. Including Kendra. I stand up and walk out of the cafeteria. I don't want to deal with this crap right now.

"I was just kidding, Caleb. Come back here!" Drew yells.

Every week in the DOC we had rage-intervention classes. They stressed avoiding confrontation, teaching us instead to release anger in other, non-violent ways. Since punching Drew in his mouth that runs like diarrhea isn't an option, I head to the school workout room.

I walk right up to the punching bag and whack it until there's a permanent dent in the side. I don't even care that my knuckles are bleeding.

"Caleb, take it easy on that thing."

It's Coach Wenner, standing near the free weights with a cup of coffee in his hand. He's wearing a golf shirt with Panther Wrestling embroidered on the front.

I stop punching the bag and stuff my hands in my pockets to hide my bleeding knuckles. "They tell me this is your last year coaching."

"Yep. I'll be teaching drivers' ed as well as gym classes come next fall."

I shake my head in disbelief. "Drivers' ed?" The guy lives and breathes wrestling.

"The wife doesn't want me to be away on the weekends after the baby is born. Above all else, you got to do what you think is best for your family. Right?"

"I guess."

Wenner takes a sip of the drink and leans against the wall. "You know, what happened last year shocked the hell out of me. I would have bet my right arm a kid like you wouldn't leave the scene of an accident."

"Lucky for you, you didn't make that bet," I counter.

"Uh huh," Wenner says, then adds, "go to the nurse and get those knuckles wrapped," and casually walks out of the room.

SIXTEEN

Maggie

It took Caleb a week to slide right back into his life without a hitch. I left the cafeteria this afternoon when the popular girls did a cheer right in front of him. I could have sworn he thought the cheer was just for him.

As if that wasn't bad enough, I heard Tristan Norris say in earth science that Caleb is going out for wrestling this year.

Not only did I lose Leah as a friend and everyone else thinks I'm a walking freak, I have no hope of joining the tennis team or playing sports ever again.

I'm chastising myself for comparing myself to Caleb as I ride the bus to Hampton for my first day working for Mrs. Reynolds. I just wish it was easier for me ... or less easy for him. I realize I'm bitter, but I can't help it. I've been through such pain and agony the past year, and going back to school has only emphasized what an outcast I've become.

I reach Mrs. Reynolds' house and ring the doorbell. She doesn't answer. I keep ringing, hoping nothing bad has happened to her. Just my luck she decided to fire me before I even started the job.

Placing my book bag on the ground, I head to the back of the house.

Mrs. Reynolds is sitting on the porch swing. Her head is slumped over, but her chest is rising and falling with each breath. Okay, the woman is sleeping. Phew. Balancing in her hand is a glass of lemonade.

This job is going to be a piece of cake. I feel ashamed for taking so much money from Mrs. Reynolds for doing nothing.

I tiptoe toward the swing. I have to take the glass out of Mrs. Reynolds' hand before it spills all over or, worse yet, shatters when her grip loosens and the glass hits the ground.

Slowly, silently, I reach out and slip the glass out of her hand.

"What do you think you're doing?"

The old lady's voice startles me and I jump back. Mrs. Reynolds has one eye open like that guy from the cartoon monster movie. "I, uh, thought you were napping."

"Do I look like I'm napping?"

"Right now you don't."

Mrs. Reynolds sits up straight, her grey hair perfectly styled on top of her head. "Enough chatter. We have lots of work to do today."

"Do you want me to refill your lemonade? Make you a snack?" Fluff your pillows?

"Nope. You see those bags over there?" Mrs. Reynolds says, her crooked finger pointing to the side of the yard.

About ten huge paper bags are lined up in the grass. They're all labeled with strange names: Apricot Whirl, Chromacolor, Decoy, Drift, Yellow Trumpet, Lemon Drops, Rosy Cloud. "What are they for?"

"We're going to plant them. They're daffodils. Well, they don't exactly look like daffodils right now. They're only bulbs."

Plant? I peer inside the bag marked "Drift." There must be more than thirty bulbs in it. I limp over to the next bag, "Lemon Drops," and there's more in this one than the first.

"Don't look so startled, Margaret," Mrs. Reynolds says. "It doesn't suit your face."

I grab a few bulbs from the next bag, the one marked "Audubon." Behind me Mrs. Reynolds says, "Don't even bother picking them up right away. You need a plan first."

"A plan?"

"Of course. Have you ever planted before?"

"Just some herbs in preschool. But that was in a little planter we took home for Mother's Day."

"No bulbs?"

I shake my head.

Mrs. Reynolds looks worried. "Let me tell you something about daffodils, Margaret. They're fragrant, beautiful, and hardy."

I scan the eight bags lined up. "These are all daffodils?"

"Oh, yes. But they each have their own unique scent and personality."

Wow. I don't know much about flowers in general, let alone details. My favorites were dandelions, because when we were younger, Leah and I used to search and pull all the dandelions from our neighbors' lawns, sing Mama had a baby and her head popped off, and flick the tops of the flowers off of the stems as we sang the word popped. Although, to be technical, dandelions aren't flowers. They're weeds.

"You'll need a shovel to start with," my employer says, interrupting my daydream. "I think there's one in the garage."

I place the bulbs back in their respective bags, then head for the detached garage in the back of the yard. It's a large, two-story structure. Yellow paint, though cracking and peeling from years of neglect, indicates this had once been a place of pride. There are stairs on the side, leading to the second level. Dirty, dusty windows outline the upstairs room. Is it an office of some sort? A private room?

The garage door is closed, so I have to lift it using my own strength, which isn't easy. With a loud creak of protest, the door finally lifts to reveal a large, black Cadillac parked inside. The place is dark and full of spider webs. Which means the place is full of spiders. I'm not fond of either.

Maggie, you can do this. As I venture farther into the darkness, my eyes do the spider-scan. My mom used to make fun of me that I had peripheral vision specially designed to detect eight-legged creatures.

A shovel hangs on the wall, not far from the entrance. Good. I slowly inch forward, reaching out to grab the handle. Once I hold it, I let out a breath I didn't even know I'd been holding. I scurry out of the garage and head back to Mrs. Reynolds, sure at least a few webs have managed to stick to me.

"I got it," I say, holding out the shovel like a prized trophy.

The woman doesn't look impressed. "First, we'll have to prepare the soil."

I walk over to the empty flower beds and start poking the shovel into the dirt to loosen it. I do this for a few minutes. It's not so bad.

Mrs. Reynolds sneaks up behind me. "Wait."

I turn around. The woman is holding out a long, pink and green flower-print robe.

"What is that?" I ask.

"My muumuu. Put it on. It'll keep your clothes clean."

"Mrs. Reynolds, I can't wear that."

"Why not?"

Mrs. Reynolds clutches the muumuu, a big, ugly housedress. I'm self-conscious enough as it is without wearing something my great-aunt Henrietta probably has in her closet.

"It's ... it's not my size," I say lamely.

"Don't be a ninny, muumuus fit everyone. One size fits all. Put it on."

Reluctantly, I take the muumuu and slide the material over my head. The dress hangs on me like a tent.

Mrs. Reynolds steps back and surveys me. "Perfect."

I smile weakly at her.

"Okay, let's get to work."

For the next forty minutes Mrs. Reynolds directs me on how big to dig the holes, how to measure the extra soil needed in the bottom of the holes to create a pillow for the bulbs, and the best way to plant the bulbs--not in rows but scattered five inches apart.

I'm sweating now, and I fear Mrs. Reynolds is just getting started. But I'll do anything to keep this job. If it means creating pillows for her precious bulbs for the next few weeks until colder weather bears down on us, that's just fine. I can handle anything if the end result is earning the money to get away.

Sitting back, I wipe the dirt from my face with the sleeve of the muumuu. "What's over there?" I ask, pointing to a pile of lumber.

"The gazebo that never happened."

"I was in a gazebo at the Botanic Gardens last year," I say, imagining a huge gazebo in the middle of the yard.

"It reminded me of that scene in The Sound of Music where Liesl's boyfriend sings 'Sixteen Going on Seventeen' to her."

Mrs. Reynolds looks longingly at the pile. "Yes, well, I'm afraid the wood will probably be sitting there long after I'm dead and buried."

"You should totally get someone to build it," I tell her excitedly. "I can imagine it, with a pointed roof and all."