Bigger than a Bread Box Read online

  I jerked my head up to look at her, confused. She stopped talking and stared at me, like she was waiting for me to say something.

  She thought I still wanted to be friends? It hadn’t occurred to me she’d think that. As embarrassed as I was by everything that had happened, I didn’t care in the least about her anymore. Hannah was such a small part of what was going on, such a tiny little part, but she didn’t know that. She had no idea what was happening in my crazy life, and I was so far inside it that I hadn’t thought about what it looked like from the outside.

  “I guess I am sorry for stealing your jacket,” I said. “I guess I should say I’m sorry. I wish it hadn’t happened, anyway. Now can you leave me alone?”

  “Well, the thing is … you just aren’t normal, Becky.” Hannah shook her head, and her sheep shook their heads too. “You try really hard to be, but you aren’t, are you?”

  When she said that, I noticed that behind her back, Coleman rolled his eyes. And maybe because of that—because of the eye rolling, but maybe also just because everything felt so tense and insane—something happened that I never could have predicted.

  I laughed! I laughed out loud, too loud, so that all around the classroom, people turned to look at me. The day before I would have been embarrassed, but I didn’t care anymore. All my fear and embarrassment faded away, and I laughed and laughed.

  Hannah looked confused.

  “What? What is it?” she asked, smoothing her perfect hair down instinctively. “You weirdo.”

  I just kept laughing. I saw Mrs. Hamill step back into the room, and Hannah didn’t even notice. I didn’t even care or stop laughing until Mrs. Hamill said, “Hannah, Maya, Cat—take your seats, girls,” and they all turned around, surprised, and slunk to their seats.

  Hannah sat down beside me, carefully, and then she looked over at me in a sideways kind of way. She looked funny, less sure of herself without her flock. I was still giggling. “What is it?” she hissed when Mrs. Hamill turned back around to write on the board. “What’s so funny?”

  I didn’t answer her. Less is more.

  “You’re insane, you know that?” she whispered again.

  I just sat there, smiling to myself, and it was like everything was better for a little minute. I felt like if I never said another word, she’d be afraid of me forever, but the thing was, I didn’t even want that, not any more than I wanted to be normal, whatever that was.

  I was smiling because I’d figured something out.

  “What is it?” she whispered one more time. “What?”

  “It’s just …,” I said. “I don’t think you have any idea what normal really is, Hannah.”

  She stared at me through her glossy fall of hair. “What did you say?”

  “It’s true,” I said. “I’m as normal as anyone. We’re all normal, and we’re all afraid of you, maybe because you’re mean, and pretty, and you have fancy stuff. So we play along; we follow you like morons. But …”

  “But what?” she hissed.

  I looked her dead in the eye. “But just because we follow you doesn’t mean we like you. Followers aren’t the same as friends. I don’t think you even know what a friend is, really.”

  When I said that, Hannah looked startled, like I’d slapped her in the face.

  I didn’t know I was going to say it until I said it, and I didn’t expect her to be so upset, but I guess what I’d said was the truth, because I can’t think of any other reason it would have bothered her so much. She looked like she might cry.

  I guess I was louder than I meant to be too, because when I looked around right afterward, I saw that everyone else was staring at us. Except Mrs. Hamill, who was still scribbling on the board.

  Hannah stood up, walked to the front of the room, and whispered something to Mrs. Hamill. Then she grabbed the hall pass and left the room. When I turned to look behind me at the back of the room, I saw Megan’s mouth hanging wide open.

  I settled back into my seat and returned to staring at my desk.

  The rest of the day wasn’t as bad as I’d expected it to be. I ate lunch alone, of course, and in gym we had to play volleyball, which I’m truly terrible at, but it was a normal kind of bad day at school. For the most part, nobody seemed to notice me very much. During sixth period, Coleman got in trouble for refusing to sing “Winter Wonderland,” which we were all learning for the holiday show that was coming up in a few weeks. That was interesting.

  “I know you’re Jewish, Coleman, but it’s not a Christmas song or a Christmas show,” sighed Mrs. Ogundele, the choir instructor. “It’s a winter song and a holiday show.”

  Coleman shook his head and sat back in his chair. “It doesn’t feel like that to me,” he said. “Snowmen? It feels like Christmas.”

  I knew exactly what Coleman meant, but I was surprised. I hadn’t known he was Jewish. I watched him pout in his chair and made a mental note to tell my dad about the whole thing. He’d think it was funny too.

  The best part of the whole weird day was the poem Mr. Cook had written on the board when we got there, about a guy who couldn’t read, and so kept a letter all his life without ever finding out what it said. It ended like this:

  His uncle could have left the farm to him,

  Or his parents died before he sent them word,

  Or the dark girl changed and want him for beloved.

  Afraid and letter-proud, he keeps it with him.

  What would you call his feeling for the words

  That keep him rich and orphaned and beloved?

  I didn’t understand the whole poem, but it seemed like maybe the guy liked the letter because since he couldn’t read it, it might be anything at all. The unread letter in the poem reminded me a little bit of the scrap of paper in my locket—how it might be something wonderful or nothing at all. The poem made me think about how I liked having the address with me, because the spoon might be something I could still fix. Though if I kept it like the man kept the letter, I’d never know.…

  At the end of the day, I headed home alone. I walked fast, strong. Dad would be proud of me, I thought, if he could see me right now. I hadn’t cried or run away. I had only said what was true. I knew I could go back to school the next day and survive it again, even though I didn’t want to.

  Technically, I supposed everything was pretty much as awful as it had been before—with my mom and dad, and all the things I’d stolen, and not having any friends. A lot of things were still royally messed up, but making it through the day made something feel better inside me, made me feel like something had been lifted or freed.

  As I was walking along, kicking through some dry leaves and thinking about that, I heard a voice call out, “Becky!” I turned around. There was Megan, racing to catch up with me, panting and out of breath. I stopped and waited for her.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hi,” she gasped, bending over like she had a cramp from running.

  While she was still doubled over, I said to the back of her curly red head, “Hey, actually, this is a little weird, but would you mind calling me Rebecca? Nobody ever called me Becky at home. That was kind of an accident the first day.”

  “Sure,” she puffed, still bent over and breathing hard. She stood back up, and her hair frothed around her face.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  She giggled. “You are, you goof! Aren’t you? How did it feel to say that stuff to Hannah?”

  I blushed.

  “I just wanted to tell you,” she added, “that a lot of people were glad to see that happen. Everyone’s talking about it. She’s had that coming for a long time.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I didn’t exactly plan it that way, but I guess she deserved it. She’s so mean.” I shook my head.

  “She is,” said Megan slowly. “But the thing you should know, the sad part, is that she wasn’t always like that. She wasn’t always so bad.”

  “She wasn’t?” I was surprised.

  “She’s been my neighbor
since preschool,” said Megan, “and our moms are friends, so we’ve always been friends too. Then in fifth grade her dad moved away. He, like, left them.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “Yeah,” said Megan. “He works in New York now and travels a lot. He goes to Europe on business and sends her fancy presents, like that dumb jacket, but she never sees him. Ever since that all happened, she’s been … different.”

  “I didn’t know …,” I said.

  Megan shrugged. “No reason you should. She never talks about him, except to brag about the stuff he buys her. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. Hannah is awful and she needed someone to tell her the truth. She had it coming. But I thought you should know that deep down she’s a person still. Or I think she is, anyway.”

  “Wow,” I said. “Wow.”

  I probably could have asked Megan over that day to hang out. We might have become real friends. But things at home were so weird. Plus, I had something I didn’t want to put off any longer, something I needed to do. So we chatted for a few more minutes, about smaller things, and then I told her I had to get home. We said goodbye and went our separate ways.

  I ran straight home to Gran’s house, as fast as I could, with my locket knocking against my chest.

  CHAPTER 17

  The cab, when it pulled up in front of the coffee shop, was the wrong color. It was white, not yellow like cabs are supposed to be. That bothered me for some reason, but I got in anyway, with my backpack over one shoulder and a full black trash bag in my arms. It was awkward, climbing in.

  I wished I could have said something to Gran and Lew at the house before I left. I’d have liked to have given them each a hug. Instead I’d snuck in and out as fast as I could, because I didn’t want anyone to ask about the trash bag. In it were all the stolen goods. The TV and the iPod and the dead phone and the clothes and even the diamond. Everything except the things I’d given to Lew. And the spoon. That was in my backpack. Mom’s charger I left in her room, on the floor, in hopes she’d assume she’d dropped it there.

  “Where to?” asked the cabbie, turning his head to look back at me. He had an accent, but I could understand him easily enough. The music that played softly reminded me of my dad’s favorite Indian restaurant. It made me feel hungry. Or maybe I was just nervous.

  “I need to go to Clarkston,” I said, dumping my backpack and the garbage bag beside me on the seat. “Will that be a lot of money?” The car smelled like smoke, even though there was a NO SMOKING sign on the window. “Clarkston, Georgia?” I wanted to make sure I had enough money.

  The cabbie laughed. “Everything is far in Atlanta, but nothing is too far if you’ve got the correct amount of money. Maybe ten or fifteen minutes, depending. May I ask what is the exact address, please?” He was a very polite cabbie.

  I opened the hand that held my tiny scrap of paper and read the address to him, even though I pretty much had it memorized.

  “We will be there in no time.” He nodded. “But first I must ask: Do your parents know where you are? It’s unusual to pick up a fare so young in front of a coffee shop.” He eyed my bag curiously. “You are not running away or anything?” He looked concerned.

  “No,” I said with a laugh, hoping I sounded normal. “My mom and dad know I’m here. They told me to call a cab. We’re staying with my grandmother, a few streets over, on Woodland.” I wasn’t sure if I should be telling him where Gran lived, but he didn’t seem creepy or anything.

  The cabbie still didn’t start the car. He sat there and looked at me. “May I ask—how old are you?”

  “I’m thirteen,” I said without blinking. I thought thirteen sounded a lot older than twelve. “I’m going to see my mom at her friend’s house. My dad said to call a cab. He was busy.” I was talking too much and I knew it. Less is more.

  The cabbie squinted one eye at me for a minute. But at last he turned around and started the car.

  I stared at the back of his head and said, “Hey, is there a Goodwill or anything on the way there? A Salvation Army? I need to drop this bag off if I can. Just some old stuff.”

  The cabbie looked back over his shoulder and eyed my bag again. “Yes,” he said with a short nod. “There are several of them, actually. We can stop, no problem.” Then he began to whistle along with the music.

  He was a nice-enough-looking guy, baldish and smiley, with thick glasses and dark skin. His top half was a skinny person’s top, and his bottom half, I couldn’t help noticing when I leaned over the seat to talk to him, was a fat person’s bottom. I wondered if maybe that just happened to people who sat down all day every day.

  I watched the meter as the car began to move down the street, cruising slowly over the speed bumps. For a while we were driving on familiar roads, the same little streets I’d been walking along with Lew for the last month. Then we turned onto a bigger road and cruised along past vacant buildings and construction projects before pulling into a cracked parking lot with a big red metal box in it that read DONATIONS, a kind of oversized mailbox.

  It wasn’t quite what I’d envisioned. I guess maybe I’d been hoping some nice old lady would “ooh” and “aah” over my wonderful gifts to the poor, make me feel generous and helpful, but the big metal box was what I had instead, so I opened it up. The door made a clanging, creaking sound as it opened. I pushed the huge bag into the yawning mouth of the box and let the door fall shut with a bang. I opened the door one more time and peered in. It was empty.

  Good. All my ill-gotten goods were gone. I could never get them back, and I felt immediately relieved. I guess sometimes when you can’t exactly fix a problem, you can at least discard it. I’d never thought about that before.

  I climbed back into the cab. “Okay,” I said. “Now Clarkston?”

  “Onward to Clarkston,” said the cabbie, and the car began to move again.

  We passed empty strip malls, huge vacant lots, and gray apartment buildings. We passed a bunch of people standing around. This was not a pretty neighborhood.

  At last I relaxed and sat back against an ancient leather cushion that was held together with silver duct tape. I thought about what I was doing, where I was going. Now that I was headed in what I supposed was the right direction, I realized exactly what I’d done. I was in a cab, alone, at the age of twelve, heading to a complete stranger’s house, in a part of town I’d never been to, in a city I didn’t really know. I wasn’t sure who I’d find when I got where I was going, or what, really, I’d say to them. But I had to admit that it was an adventure. I was certainly doing something.

  I stared out the window at the world rushing past me. Trees and trees and so much green for such a big city, but all of it covered in litter and growing up through cracked cement. Everything I saw seemed to be either a blown-out old building, surrounded by barbed-wire fences and parking lots, or a lush green forest. What a weird place Atlanta was.

  We shot along that wide road, and I found myself thinking about how I’d never read a book or seen a movie where a kid took off on an adventure all alone. Wasn’t there always a friend or a sister or something? A helpful grown-up or at least a smart dog? I didn’t even have a dog.

  I wished someone else were with me. If all this had happened at home, I guess Mary Kate would have come too, maybe. Then again, all this wouldn’t have happened at home.

  If I’d waited a few weeks, maybe Megan and I would really have become friends, and she would have come with me. Or maybe she wouldn’t have. It was hard to tell. I missed Lew.

  The cab made a few turns, onto other wide streets. The neighborhood got prettier and fancier, with shops and things, but then, suddenly, we were driving alongside a railroad track, and it looked like we were in the country. There were little wooden houses and a few funny-looking junky antique stores. There was an old-fashioned gas station that looked abandoned. Were we still in Atlanta?

  Then we were on a side street, and just as we were turning into the driveway of an old house, three hungry-looking stray dogs
ran past us. The cab came to a stop. The meter said I owed the cabbie twelve dollars. I gave him a twenty. “Keep the change,” I said.

  He looked surprised.

  “My dad used to drive a cab,” I explained. It made me feel proud to say that, which was funny, since Mom had always seemed embarrassed of the fact.

  “Used to?”

  “He wrecked it,” I said, realizing the cabbie now knew more about my dad than anyone else I’d met in Atlanta.

  “That’s too bad,” he said.

  “Yeah, it is,” I said. For some reason I was having trouble getting out of the cab.

  The cabbie looked at me and smiled kindly. “You want for me to wait here until you get inside?”

  “Um, no, that’s okay,” I said, opening the door. “I might have to wait for them awhile or something. It’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

  The cabbie shrugged. “If you say so.”

  I got out of the car and took a deep breath. I slammed the door behind me. I watched the car pull away. There was no going back.

  I faced the house, a dingy brick box with dark orange trim. I held my breath as I walked up the concrete steps. At the top, I found a porch that was covered—completely covered—in plants.

  Dead ones.

  I was alone, all alone. I’d been feeling alone for weeks, but I hadn’t really been alone, had I? Not until now, not really. I’d had Gran and Mom—even when I didn’t want her—and Lew at least nearby. Now … they were all very far away.

  What was I supposed to say? Did I just knock on the door and hand over the spoon? Then what? Turn around and go home? How? I hadn’t thought about that. Maybe I should have asked the cabbie to stick around after all.

  CHAPTER 18

  I stood there, looking at the dead plants and feeling like I’d made a terrible mistake. There were cobwebs in the door frame. The rocking chair in front of me was covered in old newspapers and circulars from the grocery store. Cracked planters were stacked on top of one another at my feet. The place looked haunted. That was silly to even think; I knew that. It was just a dirty house, but it was very dirty.