Peas and Carrots (16 page)

When you've got nothing, you've got nothing to be afraid of, nothing to lose. Though I have to force myself to do it, I choose to take a big step back. I'm not taking the money. Nothing can hook me that easy; I've survived being broke this long, right? I'm nobody's good little worker bee—not even Mr. Carter's.

I sigh loudly, rubbing my ear with a wet finger. “Um, Mr. Carter—you know Hope did the van, right? I just started helping.”

He nods, even as he's digging out the wallet from his back pocket. He doesn't look in Hope's direction. “That's all right.”

I chew the side of my cheek. Do I have to spell it out? “She's in trouble, but I started it,” I mumble, quiet, so Hope won't hear. “If you bust her, you have to bust me, too.”

Mr. Carter pauses in the act of extracting cash from his wallet. I can see green in between his fingers, and he watches me carefully.
Come on,
I think.
I was honest. Front me some for that. Tell me I'm a good kid and move on.

“So I pay you both or pay neither of you, hmm?” he murmurs. Abruptly he smiles and shoves the cash back into his wallet. “All right, Dess. You girls stick together. That's good. I'll let you finish this up,” he says, waving a hand, and goes to move the van.

Damn it, I am
such
a fool.

Forty-five minutes later, the ammonia we used on the windows stinks so hard, I can't smell anymore. My shirt is wet, and it's cold out here. If Mr. Carter wants his chrome polished, he'll have to do it himself.

“I'm out,” I announce as Hope starts buffing the roof of her dad's car
again.
“I'm not going to die of pneumonia out here when a bird's just going to take a crap on the hood first thing tomorrow.”

“Fine,” Hope grouses, wiping her hands on the rag. “If Dad makes me come out again, though, I'm going to tell him
you
said it was good enough.”

“Whatever.” Trying to hold my wet sleeves away from my arms, I go into the house. Foster Lady catches up with me as I pass Baby's room.

“Dess. How's everything with you?”

I scowl. “Why? I didn't hit Hope or anything.”

Foster Lady blinks. “Of course you didn't. You girls had an argument, and you obviously worked things out yourselves. I just want to check in with you, and make sure we're all doing what we can to prevent future misunderstandings.”

I think of Hope talking about my family like she knows something, and I snort. “Wasn't hardly a misunderstanding,” I begin, then bite my tongue.
Shut up, Dess.
People don't want to hear nothing bad about their kids. All Foster Lady wants me to say is “Sorry, it won't happen again.”

Foster Lady leans against the wall, quiet, like she's waiting for me to speak. “Okay,” she says after a pause. “Well, misunderstanding or not, we can talk about it anytime.” Her smile lights her face as she reaches toward my shoulder. “Whenever. Okay?”

Her hand will leave a warm spot on my shoulder. She'll probably squeeze like she always does after one of her “serious talks.” I almost sway forward, leaning into it—

I jerk back. “Don't touch me.” The words come out hard, and her smile blows out. Her hand freezes an inch above my shoulder. “My shirt's wet,” I finish in a mutter, but she just steps out of my way.

“Sure.” She nods. “It's chilly out. Better get dried off. There's hot chocolate in the cupboard if you want.”

Safe in my room, I twist off my wet things and throw them on the floor, kicking them viciously toward the hamper.

I can't be letting Foster Lady get all touchy and stuff. She's just a blip on my screen, a temporary lady getting paid to pass out love like it's candy. If I let her get under my skin, I'll end up like Baby, calling her Mama and crying when I go.

Foster homes make you soft. At the group home, it's a lot of residents and not so much time with staff, and you've got to watch your back. Here, it's easy to get caught up thinking their bullshit is real. Mr. Carter's always telling me facts, making jokes. Foster Lady talks nice, but they don't know me—and no matter what they say or how they say it, bottom line is, it isn't real. Foster Lady's paid to be nice to me, to let Baby call her Mama like that. She can't like me better than my own family. Trish never talks to me that sweet, and she's supposed to be my mother. All that kind of shit does is make you weak, anyway.

Hard shivers shake me. I go into the clean, shiny bathroom and turn on the taps, all the way up. Rena at the group home always says a hot shower will fix almost anything. I pump out a big handful of body wash and smear it over my face. At least now my eyes are stinging because of soap.

Hope closed her music folder and slumped as Mr. Mueller called a halt to rehearsal. They'd started learning “A Gaelic Blessing” for the winter program last year, and she was bored with it already, plus stupid Rob Anguiano kept calling it “Garlic Dressing,” which stuck in her head, whether she wanted it to or not.

The whole choir was antsy, judging by how loudly Mr. Mueller had to raise his voice over the shuffling, whispers, and murmurs to make his next announcement. “Ladies and gentlemen, the callbacks for the Stillwaters auditions are going to be finished by the end of the week.”

Around the room, students gasped. Darcie, the soprano sitting closest to Hope, fingered her dreadlocks and sighed, “Bor-
ing,
” but Hope gulped hard in a dry throat. Mr. Mueller had started auditions the previous week—and Hope hadn't gotten a second audition. If she didn't get one by the end of the week…

“Those of you who don't get a callback, you should know that the choices were very,
very
hard this semester, harder than they've ever been. That's all to the good, though—it means we'll get to sing some really great songs this year with the whole group.” He smiled at them, and Hope cringed. It seemed as if his smile was especially for her. “We've got some talent in this room. Thursday, we'll jump right in with two new pieces, so come ready to roll. Hope Carter, please come see me after— Oh, there's the bell.”

Hope tried to look unworried. Jas caught her eye and gave her a thumbs-up.

“You're in troub-le,” Rob singsonged as he passed.

“Shut it, Rob,” Jas told his friend, slapping him on the back of the head.

Hope sat rooted while her classmates surged toward the door. This wasn't a callback—she could feel it in her wildly beating heart. This was when Mr. Mueller was going to try to let her down easy.

“Hope?”

She wiped her hands down the front of her blue skirt and wobbled toward where Mr. Mueller stood, bent over the piano. He flipped through his grade book, jotted something down, and closed it, looking up with a smile, his floppy, light brown hair nearly in his bright blue eyes.

“Ah, Hope.” He smiled but gave her his Serious Teacher Face. “I have a question for you.”

Hope, expecting the words “About Stillwaters—sorry but maybe next year,” was caught off guard. “A question?”

“Yes. Now, I understand there are some, ah, circumstances around Dess Matthews being at Headwaters this year, and she's staying with your family this semester. Is that right?”

“Circumstances.” That was a nice teacher way of saying “Dess Matthews is a foster kid.” Hope shrugged and wondered why Mr. Mueller cared.

“Here's the question. I wondered if you'd be willing to give up your spot in Stillwaters to give Dess a chance this semester.”

Hope opened her mouth, closed it, and blinked.

Mr. Mueller's smile was kind. “You had a good audition, Hope—a great one. I have one more space in the sopranos, and it's earmarked for my dependable anchor soprano. But”—he clasped his hands together—“it could also be for Dess. I have a feeling that this could be an opportunity for her. She might never attend a school like ours again, never have the chance to find her voice, so to speak. I'd like for us to offer her that opportunity for as long as she's with us.” He paused, and his voice softened. “I know this is a lot of pressure, and maybe you wish I hadn't asked. If you don't want to give up your spot, you can say no. I'll understand—I know singing with Stillwaters is important to you.”

No,
Hope screamed inside her head.
No, no, no!

She uncurled her fists. Her nails were poking holes in her palm. “Can I think about it?” she asked, her voice wobbling.

“Of course.” Mr. Mueller touched her shoulder lightly. “I know it's a big decision. You have a great big heart, but you love to sing, and this isn't easy. Why don't you take some time? Think about it and let me know on Friday.”

Hope could only clutch her hall pass in her sweaty hand and nod wordlessly.

Give up her spot in Stillwaters for a semester? A spot she'd been planning on for three years? Miss the Broadway Night concert and the Christmas Lights show…so
Dess
could take her spot? In her most selfish heart of hearts, Hope wouldn't give up a piece of gum she'd already
chewed
for Dess Matthews. What was Mr. Mueller thinking? It wasn't fair. If he wanted Dess in Stillwaters, couldn't he just make a spot? Just because Hope was a foster sister didn't mean she had to give up everything for
her
foster sister. Just because Dess wouldn't have a chance like this again, or maybe attend a school like this, didn't mean that it was Hope's problem. She already had to share her house, her school, her friends, and— No. She wasn't going to give up her chance for Stillwaters, too.
No.
No, no, no.

Dess didn't deserve it. She hadn't earned it. It wasn't
fair.

By the end of her last class, Hope was in a serious funk, matched perfectly by the sheets of rain pelting the asphalt. Even seeing Aunt Henry's heavy black pickup in the parking lot was only a momentary relief. Dess splashed past and took the shotgun seat next to her idol. Hope sighed and climbed stiffly into the back of the extended cab. It didn't matter where she sat. If Hope had sat in front next to Henry, Dess would have leaned forward the whole ride and butted into every conversation, tossing her hair and fluttering her eyes as if Aunt Henry was interested in her stick-child, juvenile self. Even if Hope asked Aunt Henry to turn up the radio, all Dess would do was chatter louder or, worse, close her eyes and, in a perfect, breathy voice, sing.

Hope glowered. It was Dess's fault Aunt Henry was even at school. Mom had told them the night before that they couldn't ride the bus home anymore. No stopping by the library to see what new books were in, no wandering past the community center to watch the boys play basketball. Instead, Hope was picked up and deposited on her front porch like a baby—exactly like Austin, actually—all because Dess had told her social worker she'd maybe seen some guy from her dad's old motorcycle gang. The man was in
prison
in
another state
and Hope still couldn't catch a break.

“I didn't see any tattoos,” Hope had argued later in the privacy of her parents' bedroom. “He didn't even look at us. It was just some guy in a coffee shop, Mom!”

“It's a little thing to do, to help Dess feel safe,” her mother had replied. And because it was a safety issue and Mom wanted to let Dess know she took her seriously, Hope couldn't ditch Dess and take the bus by herself, either. She was supposed to keep an eye on her foster sister. Hope snorted. She was sure Dess didn't know Mom had said
that.

Today it wasn't actually that big a deal. It was pouring, and it was fine not to have to wait at the bus stop or walk down the block and across the street, jumping over the miniature rivers that formed in the gutter. But Hope felt crammed full of sharp, angry feelings, resentment, and frustration. They'd almost reached the middle of October and there were still weeks until Thanksgiving. Weeks of Dess changing the family routine, being in Hope's face, being right in the middle of her life. Hope didn't think she could take it.

Aunt Henry stopped the truck, and Hope blinked. She'd sat stewing and grousing to herself in the backseat all the way home. She gathered up her books as Dess gave Henry a giggling, flirtatious goodbye, then fluttered out of the truck.

“Hold up, H,” Henry ordered. “What's going on with you? You're pretty quiet.”

Hope shrugged, not meeting her uncle's eyes. “Tired.”

“Too tired to talk to your Aunt Henry, huh?”

She pursed her lips. Today the “aunt” thing seemed embarrassingly babyish. Henry, sitting there at the wheel of his big truck, looking interested and concerned, seemed…fake. Nosy, really, and probably apt to tell Mom as soon as she talked to him.

Hope frowned. She didn't like this view of the world she had right now. How did Aunt Henry turn into the problem? Was Dess's nastiness rubbing off on her?

“Can I ask you something?” Hope settled back against the seat and closed the door against the rain.

Aunt Henry nodded and rolled his hands in a “Get on with it” gesture.

“If you were asked to give up something for someone you didn't really…um…
like,
would you do it? I mean, if there was something a person wanted to do, and they had a shot at it, but also could give their chance to someone else?”

Henry rubbed his forehead and frowned. “Why would I want to give up something if I didn't even like the person?”

Hope nodded, relieved. “See? Yeah. Ex-
actly.
”

Henry shook his head. “Oh, no, you don't. Don't make a decision based on me when I don't even know what you're talking about. Who's asking you to give up something you want to do?”

Hope sighed heavily and explained.

“Wow.” Her uncle gave her a disbelieving look. “That's crazy! That's the most unfair thing I've ever heard.”

“Well, he knows Dess is in foster care,” Hope began.

“But still! That's just a ton of pressure. What's Robin say about it?”

Hope snorted. “What makes you think I told Mom?” She rolled her eyes. “Are you kidding? The right answer is ‘Oh, yes, anything for Dess!' She'd get on my case for making Mueller wait till Friday to hear my answer.”

“No, she wouldn't.” Henry stuck out his hand. “Bet me. Five bucks says she'll agree with me. What your teacher is asking you is unfair. Dess is your foster sister, yeah, but you're just a kid. That's too hard a choice for you to make.”

Hope blinked. She was
fifteen,
not five. “That's too hard a choice because I'm just a—” She made a derisive noise. “Whatever, Aunt Henry.”

“That came out wrong,” he said quickly. “I meant—”

“What.
Ever.
” Hope snatched her backpack and got out. “Thanks for the ride.”

“Talk to your mom, H,” Henry called as she slammed the door.

Hope's conflicted, restless, and grumpy state of mind continued through the evening and the following day. She ignored Aunt Henry's texts, turned down Jas's offer to split a brownie at lunch, and was just generally out of sorts and uncomfortable.

Fortunately, Mom picked them up after school on Thursday, not Aunt Henry. Unfortunately, she had both Jamaira and Austin in tow and had to make a detour to the drugstore. As usual, Dess took shotgun. Hope slouched in back, wedged in between the car seats. Maira was asleep, but Austin, whose ears were hurting, was whining.

“Mama, I want to go,” he said.

“Not this time, Austin,” Mom said, putting the van into park. She left the keys in the ignition. “Don't turn up the radio too loud, please, girls. I'll make it short.”

As soon as Mom was out and walking briskly through the mist toward the automatic doors, Austin's composure wavered. “I want to
get out,
” he moaned.

“Hang on, little man. Mom will be back,” Hope reassured him.

Austin continued his whine. “My bottom is so
tired
of sitting.”

Hope had to smother a laugh.

“Baby, shhh,” Dess said absently. She had her earbuds in and was scrolling through her phone for music.

Hope glared at the back of Dess's head. Who was she to tell Austin to shush? She was supposedly so into her “Baby,” but she wasn't even paying attention to him when he was sick. “You can take off your seat belt, Austin, but when Mom comes back, you get right in your seat, okay?”

Gleefully, Austin escaped from his seat and made for the keys in the ignition.

“Oh, no, you don't, buddy,” Hope said, yanking him back toward her. She turned his head toward the rain-spattered windows. “Look outside. See? That store has pumpkins and scarecrows and Halloween costumes. See?”