Peas and Carrots

Happy Families

Mare's War

A la Carte

THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Text copyright © 2016 by Tanita S. Davis

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children's Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Davis, Tanita S.

Peas and carrots / Tanita S. Davis. — First edition.

p. cm.

Summary: After her mother is arrested, fifteen-year-old Dess is sent to live with the foster family that took in her baby brother several years before, and although she and her new foster sister, Hope, clash immediately, they soon realize they have much in common.

ISBN 978-0-553-51281-6 (trade) — ISBN 978-0-553-51282-3 (lib. bdg.) — ISBN 978-0-553-51283-0 (ebook)

[1. Foster home care—Fiction. 2. Brothers and sisters—Fiction. 3. Prejudices—Fiction. 4. High schools—Fiction. 5. Schools—Fiction. 6. Conduct of life—Fiction.] I. Title.

PZ7.D3174Pe 2016

[Fic]—dc23

2015002086

eBook ISBN 9780553512830

Random House Children's Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

v4.1

ep

To McFlea, Luigi, and Bug,

the babies who needed a family and found themselves in mine;

and to KP,

with thanks for the inspiration of Galadriel the Great

By the door, on the other side of the sheet that divides the room, Baby cries in his car seat. It sounds like the rusted-out springs on Trish's bed, a hoarse over-and-over squeal. The wall above my head vibrates as next door bangs on it, hollering at Baby to shut up.

Baby cries kinda hopeless, like he knows nobody's gonna pick him up.

I read on the Internet at the library about some babies that nobody ever picks up, in orphanages and stuff. It's not good for them. In orphanages, if nobody picks them up, they stop crying…for good.

Trish should have taken him out of that seat. She knows he doesn't like it if he wakes up all strapped down. She should have laid him down and given him a bottle and a kiss before
he
came. She should have left us in the car, instead of Baby in his seat and me on the floor in a corner behind a sheet tacked against the wall.

Trish isn't even
trying
to treat Baby right. Not like Trish ever treats anybody who isn't waving a Benjamin or a dime bag like anything but a crack in the sidewalk, something to step over to get what she wants. Her time for anyone who needs help or a favor, or a bottle and a dry diaper, is pretty limited. On the floor in the corner, I clutch my pillow against me and ball up tighter in my sleeping bag, which smells like old French fries.

Baby's still crying. And crying. And crying.

And I can't get him, not now. Not with
Eddie
here, with the spiderweb tatted between his thumb and his first finger, and all the letters in blue-black ink winding up his wrist and the back of his hand. I can't walk past and pick Baby up. I can't even crawl next to the wall, across the room, all the way to the door. I can't get in reach of those hands.

The pillow goes over my head, clamped down. I don't want to hear. I don't want to hear the springs of the bed. I don't want to hear Baby. I don't want to hear Eddie getting mad, yelling about
Why can't you make that kid shut up.
I can't hear any of that, because if I did, I'd have to get up, and
You'd better not get out of that bed—
that's what Trish said. She always says that even though I'm already eleven, and anyway, Granny Doris says a sleeping bag isn't a real bed, and—

Baby's breath stutters, and I hold mine.
Please stop, please stop. Please. Please.
For a moment I think he will, but he gets louder.

Inside, I feel a twist. It feels like my stomach is trying to jump up my throat. He sounds bad, so bad…like he can't even stop himself screaming. But I can't go.

I can't.

Once, Eddie caught Trish going through his pockets, and that's when I saw that web stretched tight, when his fingers locked around her throat and he held her, eyes watering, heels drumming against the floor. She arched up, and the whites of her eyes went bloodshot and spit foamed up in the corners of her mouth while he held her down, while he told her that was what happened to girls who stole. Only he said “bitches.”

She'd grabbed his wrist, tried to talk, to beg, and I know she was promising him anything,
anything,
just to breathe. I know she was, because
I
was, too. He looked at us, begging and crying and clawing at him, and laughed. But it was me he was looking at when he let Trish up.

And every time he comes, I worry about that “anything” we promised.

Sorry, Baby. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

Baby's just whimpering now, probably all worn out. Maybe he'll fall back asleep soon. It won't kill him to miss one bottle. I guess it's the “one bottle” lots of times that adds up, though.

God.
If Trish just did what she's supposed to, I wouldn't have to call the social lady. They're going to come and beat on the door like last time, and they're going to cuff her wrists and take her. He'll be gone by then. Those tats on his hands have eyes; they'll never catch him. But her—they'll find her, like they always do when she's wasted. She's going to be a mess—sorry and crying and promising anything, just like before. They'll take us to stay with Granny Doris, who used to pinch if I wiggled at Mass and hollered when I peed the bed or cut paper with her sewing scissors. She doesn't like little kids, and she doesn't like messes. I know she won't like Baby's diapers, and she'll holler at Trish, too, and Trish will be so mad. But I've got to call. I've
got to.

Somebody
needs to look after Baby.

Just before the bell rang for third period on the first day of her sophomore year, Hope Carter realized what the looks were about. There'd been an intermittent buzz for the past half hour, with sidelong glances, while Ms. Mallory, the geometry teacher, was going on about congruent angles. Hope, who actually liked geometry so far, was squinting through her caffeine-withdrawal headache and taking notes like mad. She'd even gone to the board a couple of times. Ms. Mallory was one of the nice teachers, and Hope didn't actually
mind
all that much that she got called on.

But when she got back to her seat the second time, a square of folded notebook paper sailed through the air from behind and landed in the middle of her binder.

You've got a spot on your skirt.

Hope clutched the piece of paper and twisted in her seat. Natalie Chenowith, her usual lab partner in biology, was two seats behind her and was nodding hard, her green eyes wide behind her glasses. Hope frowned and pulled on the edge of her skirt. She'd wondered if she'd sat in something. It felt as if there was a little cold spot.

She was just considering raising her hand for a pass when the bell rang.

“Homework is due at the beginning of class tomorrow,” Ms. Mallory said, raising her voice over the chaos of twenty-four sophomores pushing out of desks and hurrying toward the door.

Hope bent over and picked up her pencil before standing. She found Natalie next to her, her hand pressing down on her shoulder.

“Wait,” Natalie hissed through clenched teeth. “Your skirt!”

“What?” Hope asked, craning to look at her own backside.

“Big spot,” Natalie replied, barely moving her lips. “
Major.
Sorry I don't have a sweater. I didn't bring a PE uniform today, either. You might have to call your mom.”

“It's that bad?” asked Hope, suddenly panicked. It couldn't be
that,
could it? She was two weeks away, according to the calendar, and she'd always been regular…usually
.

She stood and awkwardly edged away from her seat. Carefully she picked up her backpack, then held it behind herself and hustled out of the classroom, head down, heart pounding. She headed for the nearest bathroom, where she yanked her skirt, twisted around, and…stared.

“Oh,
crap…
”

In the nurses' station, Ms. Jerston took one look at Hope's face and clicked her tongue sympathetically. “Is your stomach hurting? Looks like you need to lie down.”

“No, thank you,” Hope said. “Can I get a pass to sit here…until my mom comes?”

Ms. Jerston's brows climbed to her hairline. “You want to go
home
? Why don't you rest awhile—see if the pain will pass.”

Wordlessly, Hope spun around and pointed to the back of her skirt.

“Oh, honey!” Ms. Jerston said, and patted her on her back.

Her mother's sympathetic sigh came down the line. “Oh,
honey.
”

“Can you just come get me?” Hope begged, already tired of hearing “Oh, honey” in that particular tone.

“Sweet, I can't,” Mom said, her voice tense. In the background, Austin, who was four, was singing to himself. “Jamaira's at the nursery, and I'm on my way to North Highlands, to the county offices. The Department of Children's Services just phoned with our placement. We're getting Austin's sister—now.”

“What?
Nooo!
” Hope's voice was just short of a wail. Why did her mother have to have foster-parent stuff today of all days? North Highlands was nearly three hours away from Walnut Hills. Was she just supposed to sit here and ooze? “Mom, there's
blood
on my skirt, and it's a
yellow skirt.
What am I supposed to do?”

“Oh, Hope,” Mom groaned. Through the phone Hope heard a crinkling sound and Austin's insistent “Mama. Look. Mama!” In a muffled voice Mom said, “Just a minute, Austin,” then added in a louder tone, “I'm so sorry, Hope. Have you got supplies? Did you try to wash it out?”

“Of course I have supplies. I tried to wash it out, but—”

“Ma! Where's my car?” Austin's voice was louder.

“—Mom, it's a
yellow skirt
!” Hope bellowed.

Her mother spoke over Austin's voice and hers. “Well, see if the secretary has a stain stick—or ask Ms. Jerston. If that doesn't work, call Henry.”

Hope recoiled. “Mom! I can't call Aunt Henry—”

Of course, he was really her
uncle
Henry, but it had made him laugh when Hope was tiny and she'd insisted on calling him “Aunt” Henry. Hope didn't have any aunts. Dad was a “lonely only,” and Mom was an only girl, with four brothers. Mom's little brother, Henry, had agreed with Hope that
everybody
needed an aunt and had offered to be her honorary aunt forever.

“Oh, honey, I know Henry's not your first choice, but—
Austin, leave the seat belt alone.
Hon, the firehouse is right on Broadway. Your other choice is to ask if they've got something for you to wear from the lost-and-found.”

Wear something out of the lost-and-found? Hope's skin crawled. “On the first day of school? Mom, I doubt there's anything in—”

“Maaaa-ma!” Austin's voice was getting louder. “I just want to get my car!”

Hope heaved a sigh and spoke louder. “Mom? Can't I take the bus and go home?”

“On the first day? Sweetheart, no. Absolutely not.
Austin Matthews, put your bottom on the seat right now. Do not touch that seat belt.
Hope—”

Hope ground her teeth. As usual, her mother's attention was divided between Hope and everything else, and as usual, everything else won and Hope lost. It felt as if she
always
lost. The foster kids were important, she knew. Austin had come to them as a tiny baby whose grandma was too old to take him and whose mother was in jail. Jamaira's mother had abandoned her in a gas station recycling bin when she was just a few hours old. Hope knew her family was doing a good thing for the community, giving back and making a positive contribution to society.

Giving back was important. Hope just wished sometimes that her mother would maybe give back to
her.

“Fine, Mom. Whatever. I'll call Aunt Henry. Bye.” She hung up, not even sure her mother was listening anymore.