The pickup truck was in the driveway when I got to Treasure Trailers, which marked the first time in months that Winter had beaten me home. She was supposed to have lots of extra work to do after school, since she'd missed half her sophomore year in Oregon, but maybe she'd gotten it all done already. Maybe now that real school had started, she could be around more often.
I pulled open the doors and announced, "Hey, Winter! I started a Trailer Park Club!" But then my eyes adjusted to the darkness, and I saw that I was talking to an empty trailer. I checked the driveway again to make sure I hadn't been seeing things, but, yup, the truck was still sitting there, empty cab and all. The trailer was truly empty, too—Winter wasn't in the bathroom or in the closet or even in her bed. Slamming the screen door shut behind me, I climbed into Winter's truck—she never locks the doors—and opened up the glove box.
It was stuffed with Winter's stories, all folded into thick, tiny squares. A couple of them were typed, probably at the library or at school, but most she'd written in red pen. My favorite one wasn't even in there—maybe her old principal still had it, if he hadn't thrown it away or burned it or given it to the police.
Mom said I wasn't allowed to read Winter's stories anymore, since the characters in them have the misfortune of dying horrible deaths, like having all the blood explode out of their bodies. My favorite story was about Winter axing a bunch of zombies who were trying to eat her brain. She'd tried telling the principal that she was going to change the names later, since some of the zombies just happened to have the same names as some of her classmates, but I guess everyone had been freaking out, especially after they'd read Winter's novella about the family of inbred mutant cannibals.
I don't think Winter should have been expelled at all, especially over a story, but the school board didn't agree. They wanted Winter to go to counseling, which we couldn't pay for, so Mom decided we should just move instead and find a new school for Winter. We left as soon as Gloria got her beauty school diploma in June.
So all of Winter's best stories were gone now, but she still had lots of others hidden away. I unfolded a good one called "Hand It to You," about this girl's amputated hand trying to reattach itself to her arm every night. The ending always makes me laugh.
About three stories later, a knock on the driver's-side window nearly made me scream. It was Winter, wearing her giant sunglasses and carrying a plastic dollar-store bag. "What'd you get?" I asked, when she opened the door and climbed in.
"Buncha candy," she said, handing me a box of gummy bears. "Don't let Mom see these." And she stuffed her tiny story squares back into the glove box. "She'd probably make me do an extra semester at Sarah Borne if she found out. I've gotta get out of that place." Her head sagged, and she held it in both hands as if, if she didn't, it'd fall into her lap.
"You will," I said, and as I reached out to put my hand on her shoulder, she started to cry. I couldn't even remember the last time I'd seen Winter cry. She hadn't shed a single tear when she got expelled, or even when Mom took away the card Dad had sent her for her thirteenth birthday. All the times I'd ever cried, Winter had held my hand or put her chin on my head and told me not to worry, that things would get better. So I did that—put my hand on Winter's. "It's okay," I said.
But it wasn't okay, and it didn't help at all. Winter sat there sobbing, and I had nothing to say. I thought I could tell her about my club, but would that cheer her up, or would it make things even worse? Maybe it would remind Winter that she wasn't allowed to form clubs anymore.
So I didn't say anything, just kept my hand there, and eventually Winter's huge shuddering breaths turned into soft sniffles. "It's okay," she said, even though I wasn't the one crying. "I'm just … tired of being at that school. I'm tired of feeling like a loser."
"You're not a loser," I told her. "You're the coolest person I know!" She lifted her head the tiniest bit, so I fired off a couple more compliments. "You're a really good writer, and your makeup's always perfect, and … and …" I reached deep into my mind for something really, really good. "And Dad sent you a birthday card."
She swiveled her head, and I saw my face reflected in her glasses. "Three years ago," she said. "Geez, I almost forgot about that. Whatever—it wasn't that big of a deal."
"He never sent me a card," I pointed out.
"Mom probably wouldn't let him." Shifting, Winter moved her hand so that it folded around mine. With her other hand, she took off her sunglasses and wiped away the stray tears on her cheeks, smudging her eyeliner. "She doesn't even let him pay child support, which is just stupid."
"I know," I said. My hand felt warm and safe inside Winter's. "But he did send you a card, even though he wasn't supposed to. And he did give you the truck, when he could have just given it to Mom. Doesn't that mean something?"
The cab was silent for several minutes. Mrs. O'Grady came out of her trailer with a sagging trash bag and jumped when she saw us just sitting there inside the truck. She crept back into her trailer, taking her bag with her.
"There was a note at the bottom of the card," Winter said. "Right before he signed his name. He said, 'Hope you and your sister are doing well.' " She squeezed my hand. "Do you think that means something?"
"He really said that?"
"Yup."
"Really?"
"Yup."
Heavenly Donuts! Mom was always saying Dad didn't really care about us, that he was a nice man deep down but a very terrible father. That he would never be there for us when we really needed him, which was why it was better if he didn't contact us at all.
But maybe that one little line proved that he cared, even if it was just the tiniest bit.
I wished I could hold that card in my hands to see the way he'd written it. Sloppily? Carefully? In slanting cursive that was hard to read?
If he'd gone through all that trouble to send Winter a card, it wasn't so hard to believe he'd send me one someday. Maybe he was waiting until I turned thirteen, too. In that case, I'd only have to wait three more years.
Winter and I stayed in the cab even after it started to get dark. I didn't get to work on my club flyers, but Winter helped me with all my vocabulary words, so I didn't have to lug out the dictionary.
It was nice to know that the club was going so well. I mean, the hardest part was being allowed to start it, and that was already done. The flyers would be easy, and once everyone saw them, they'd join in a snip.
I just wished Winter's problems would go away that easily, too.
Star Mackie
September 18
Week 1 Vocabulary Sentences
ABUNDANT. Like, lots of. Where I live, there are a lot of cats, like tumbleweeds in a desert, except here cats tumble around under your feet. Unlike tumbleweeds, cats make yowling sounds when you step on them. That is one of the many differences between cats and tumbleweeds.
ALTERNATIVE. This means a choice. Another choice. My sister goes to an alternative high school now, and it's full of shoplifters and juvenile delinquents and pregnant girls. Alternative sounds like a choice, but it doesn't seem like she had much of a choice to me. The juvies probably didn't have a choice either.
CIRCUMSTANTIAL. Sometimes we watch Crime TV, and that is where I hear this word the most, and it's always followed by "evidence." I think it means that it makes someone look guilty but doesn't actually prove anything, so it's like how Mom and Gloria are always calling Dad a deadbeat jerk, but since I've never met him, I don't know if that's really true.
COVERT. Hidden, like a secret, or a spy. If I were a spy, I would want to be covert and not attract attention to myself, but I guess I'm not cut out to be a spy, because I already attracted attention to myself with my layered blue haircut. Most fifth-graders don't have layered cuts or blue hair, but they are also not spies.
HYSTERICAL. This is my favorite. It means funny but also crazy. On the first day of school I heard some kids talking about Mrs. Feinstein, who's this fourth-grade teacher (you probably know her, Mr. Savage) who worked in a canning factory in college, and one day—FWOOMP!—off went her pinkie, because it was too close to one of the cutters. Now she keeps it in a jar in her desk, everyone says, and sometimes she takes it out and waves it around at her students when they aren't paying attention, and she says, "SEE WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU DON'T PAY ATTENTION?" Which is funny when you hear it from fourth-graders but probably not so funny when you're sitting in the front row of Mrs. Feinstein's class.
LANKY. I made a memory booster for this word. We had memory boosters at my old school, where you take each letter of the word and make it mean something different. So for LANKY it's Long As Nine Knobby Yardsticks. I know the Knobby part doesn't make sense, but I was thinking knobby like knees, because lanky people are usually skinny-legged, and their knees stick out, like Denny's (you know him, Mr. Savage, because he sits right in front of me). Do you ever notice how far out of his desk his legs stick? I have noticed.
NEUTRAL. I asked my sister what this meant, and she said Switzerland, which makes no sense. Then she said it's when you don't pick a side, and sometimes that can be worse than picking the wrong side. Like in our home lately, there is my mom's side and my sister's side. I try to not be on any side, but secretly I'm always on my sister's side. Things aren't always her fault like Mom says.
POVERTY. I think people associate this with trailer parks, because they think, "Those people are too poor to afford a real house." I guess that's pretty much the meat of it, but I think there's a difference between when my mom says why we live in a trailer park and when everyone else says why we live in a trailer park.
RELUCTANT. When you are reluctant, it means you don't want to do something. I didn't want to leave Oregon, especially because in California you have to pay sales tax on everything. You wouldn't think eight percent is that big a deal, but it makes a pretty big difference when you buy something for $3.99, and you only have four dollars, and—surprise!—sales tax.
VEXATION. No one uses this word, ever, Mr. Savage. I know what it means, but I'm never going to use it, because it's a pretty old word. I'm just telling you for your own good that no one ever says vexation unless they are about a hundred years old.
