Just Under the Clouds Page 4

  “They grow like weeds,” Mom says.

  Adare chimes in loud with a big grin. “Hi.”

  Willa looks taken aback, but she smiles and it’s like how people always come around to Adare. “Hello.”

  We stand this way at the door, like going isn’t an option—like staying might not be one, either. I don’t know how I feel about Willa, not yet. She doesn’t wrap us up into suffocating hugs like Jessie does, leading us into her smoky, cluttered apartment, half studio, half living space, with stained coffee cups stacked in the sink. Willa just kind of flings her arm into her apartment and says, “Come on in.”

  I watch Mom and Willa exchange glances, like they’re trying to talk to each other without making a sound. Then I walk in and take a look at the apartment.

  Willa’s place is shiny new and it’s all modern, with clean windows in the shape of a geometry lesson. Not like the ripped-up chaos of Ennis House or the cooped-up apartment we lived in on Hoyt Street.

  No, Willa’s home is all crisp and clean. Everything’s made of smooth light-colored wood. She doesn’t keep a lot of things. A white apron on a hook and a painting on the wall that’s mint green with brown scratchy paint shadows of leaves and a canoe.

  We’re surrounded by rectangles of glass. They reflect the city like mirrors and make everything look the way it does when you snap a photo too fast in the dark.

  I look up at Willa. She wears clothes that seem expensive. She’s Mexican American, like Mom, and her hair is dark and shining.

  My own hair hangs from my head like the shreds of a bristly rope. I feel like a ghost next to someone so pretty.

  “Did something happen?” Willa asks.

  “Someone broke in—” I start, but Mom interrupts.

  “I’ll explain later,” she says. “It wasn’t safe.”

  Willa nods, like she understands. “You take my room. I’ll stay out here.” She points to the couch. It’s pure white and there aren’t even any pillows.

  Mom shakes her head. “No, of course not. We’ll stay out here.”

  “You sure?”

  “Of course. It’s fine. Right, girls?”

  I shrug while Adare says, “Yeah.”

  “We’re already inconveniencing you enough,” Mom continues.

  “Don’t be silly.” Willa opens a closet and I’ve never seen so many white blankets and sheets, stacked up all tidy. She starts stuffing pillowcases, unfolding blankets, and spreading them out.

  Mom holds out our soft patchy quilt.

  I take it from her and crumple it in my arms, then sit on the couch and curl up in it, my head on the couch’s arm. “We got what we need.”

  Willa looks at the quilt’s worn edges, loose threads in rows of silk fringe. She smiles. I wonder if she has to fake it. “Well, if you need anything else…” She sets the linens in a neat pile.

  Then we look at one another.

  Adare holds Sookie in her arms. I can hardly believe the fussy-faced cat let Adare swoop her up from the floor and carry her down the stairs and out the door of Ennis House to here.

  “Is she friendly?” Willa asks.

  Adare grins up at her. “Yeah.”

  Friendly is not what I would call Sookie. But I let Willa believe it. I don’t want her smile to disappear.

  Mom stands in a heap of all of our belongings, which are stuffed into a few duffel bags and backpacks. “Let’s talk,” she tells Willa, and I wonder what she’ll say about all that happened to us tonight.

  I sit rumpled in our quilt.

  “Settle in first. You can stay in my room,” she tells Mom. “Like when we were girls. A sleepover.” Her laugh is clear and round, not the smallest husk in her voice.

  Mom’s smile is brief. She nods. But her dark eyes hold on to the heaviness of the day. “I’ll be in in a minute.”

  “There’re some leftovers in the fridge, if you’d like.” Willa’s brown eyes sparkle silver when she speaks. She doesn’t just say Good night, she says, “Good night, ladies,” and it makes me feel as if we’re wrapped in the proper language of a beautiful old book.

  Willa walks the narrow hallway to her bedroom. The hardwood floors are smooth. She’s so tall, and the length of her, the way her arms dangle to her knees, makes it feel like she’s taking over the whole room even when she’s walking away.

  Mom sits beside me and nuzzles into the space between cushions. She seems smaller than when we left Ennis House, her coat even bulkier on her tiny frame. Her hair is straight, spooling silk. She motions for Adare to sit on the other side of her. Adare does not let go of Sookie for a moment.

  “I’m sorry I was late,” Mom tells us.

  “I’m sorry we left the park,” I say. “We should have waited.”

  Mom doesn’t know about Miss Li and the charcoal cat. She doesn’t know about Old Lou and the acorn. It seems like, all of a sudden, she doesn’t know much of anything at all.

  I can tell she doesn’t have a next. I can tell by the way she settles into the crack of the couch cushion. The way she reached for that dangling lock, the pieces of my greenhouse, and her fallen teakettle. It isn’t the first time we’ve had to live on someone else’s couch. I keep wondering when it will be our last.

  Sometimes I think Mom doesn’t know how to stay.

  “How come we’ve never been here before?” I ask, looking around the room. The Brooklyn Bridge is a slope of glowing light reflected against the tall glass.

  “We’re not looking for a handout, Cora.”

  I nod. I know this. Some of the kids get free school lunch, but Mom says that’s not for us.

  I wonder, Then who’s it for?

  “It’s all going to turn out just fine,” Mom reassures me. “Don’t worry.”

  I try not to. I always do. But it gnaws at me, gets at my mind—this idea we don’t belong anywhere. “But where’s the right place for us?” I ask.

  She sighs. “Since Daddy died, Cora, no place feels right. But I keep trying. That’s all I can do.”

  Adare strokes Sookie’s fur and tries to cuddle against the stiff cushions. Mom takes my palm, holding it in her smooth hands. She leans into my ear and I feel the warmth of her voice. “What do we have today?”

  I had almost forgotten the small scribble in my palm. Normally, I would tell her about Mrs. Belz and all the answers I don’t have, the lost letters I can’t find. But my story seems small. “It’s the letter a,” I tell her.

  She smiles. “A beginning.”

  But it doesn’t feel like one at all.

  Morning comes early and fast and I wake with my Tree Book clutched to my stomach. I sit up and adjust my eyes.

  Mom brushes her hands across our shoulders and makes us tiptoe over as the sun rises through the wraparound windows.

  It stretches pink across the sky.

  Adare smashes her nose against the cold glass and I moan, “It’s too eaaarly,” but Mom shushes me.

  We wear our clothes from the day before, the butt of Adare’s polka-dot pants sagging and one leg of my striped leggings all bunched up at my knee, but I’m too lazy to fix it. Mom wears her shirt from the store. She lets it fall to her bare thighs.

  “Is Willa mad we’re here?” I ask.

  Mom shakes her head. “Willa is like a sister.”

  If she’s like a sister, I wonder why we only see her once a year.

  “I thought I heard someone.” Willa swoops in. Her pajamas are a matching set of purple silk pants and a flowy button-down. “I should remember—Liana loves her mornings,” she says.

  “Your mother loves her mornings,” she repeats, like we don’t know. She makes her way to the kitchen. “Coffee?”

  Mom shakes her head. “Do you have tea?”

  “Tea?” Her laugh is all tittery. “Since when do you drink tea?”

 
“Since always.”

  “What would Meema say? She loved her coffee. With cinnamon.”

  Willa turns to Adare and me. “Your abuela’s house—it smelled like heaven.

  “Remember her marranitos?” she asks Mom.

  “Cookies with molasses,” she tells us. “They’re shaped like little pigs.”

  I look at Mom. Her face does not move away from the window as the sky fades from pink to a line of white.

  “We didn’t know Meema,” I say softly.

  “I know,” Willa says, eyeing Mom through her strands of thick hair. Then she laughs. “She would marvel at two little Brooklyn girls. City slickers.”

  I wonder what she means, but before I can ask, Mom says, “Meema loved the easy flow of country life.”

  “But no life is easy,” Willa says, and I watch her eye all of our belongings sitting in a heap. She takes a look at my one-leg-up leggings and I quickly straighten them to my ankles.

  “She would be happy I came here and married someone I loved,” Mom says. “That I painted. That I tried.”

  Willa wipes her coffee cup clean with a towel. Her hands on her hips, she says, “Well…we should discuss logistics.”

  “The attorney and her logistics.” Mom shakes her head, but I see an amused smile at her lips.

  “How will they get to school from here?”

  “They’ll walk.”

  “Don’t be silly. They’ll ride the subway. It’s only two stops.”

  “For real?” I ask. Then I look between them both. “We’re too tall to ride free,” I tell Willa.

  “I don’t know,” Mom starts. “Is it safe?”

  “Of course it’s safe,” Willa replies. “We’ll get them MetroCards.”

  I notice how she says we’ll, but I know she means I’ll.

  Mom’s weird about MetroCards. We’re supposed to get them from school, but we didn’t have proof of address at sign-up. “Absolutely not,” she says, and I see that the discussion is over. “They’ll walk. The subway takes just as long, when you account for all the waiting.”

  Willa puts her hands up in the air. “Fine.”

  Then she asks, “What time do you get home from the store?”

  “It’s different every day, but for the most part I take the early shift. I meet the girls around four-thirty.”

  Willa rummages through drawers. “I have spares.”

  She hands a key to Mom and the other she holds out to me. It lights the mirrors in Adare’s eyes, and before I can take it, Adare snatches the jagged end and clutches it with two hands. She smiles up at us.

  “She likes the silver,” I explain.

  Willa smiles. “Me too.”

  “We’ll be out of your hair soon,” Mom interjects. “It won’t be long.”

  Willa tosses the towel over her shoulder. “It’ll be what it is.” Then she turns to me. “Tea?” she asks.

  I look at Mom’s purple cup steaming, then at Willa’s empty mug. “Coffee,” I say as Mom interjects, “Since when—” and I add, “With cinnamon.”

  “Don’t worry,” Willa tells Mom. “A little can’t hurt.”

  When I follow Willa into the kitchen, she opens the cupboard and takes out a mug with bold black lettering: Brooklyn Law. Then she reaches in a drawer and rummages around. She sets out two spoons and clutches my hand tight in hers.

  I feel the crisp, folded bills and hear her whisper, “For a MetroCard.”

  When I look at the money, when I wonder, when I say, “Oh no, we can’t,” Willa puts her finger to her lips and smiles.

  I know I shouldn’t take it. I should place it on the table and walk the twenty minutes to school the way Mom wants. But we’re always sleeping on couches when we should be sleeping in beds. We’re always walking, dragging ourselves from one spot to the next, when we should be riding the subway.

  I don’t smile, even if I wanted to. That would make it too much like our little secret, which is what it seems Willa wants. But I don’t let go. I can’t. I place the money in the pocket of yesterday’s hoodie.

  For the first time, I can’t wait to leave school so I can get back to where we’re staying. Willa mentioned something about ordering Thai food or sushi from a stack of takeout menus. Her soap smells like coconuts and there’s a whole new set of trees I can survey from up high.

  So I rummage through my locker, looking fast over my rainbow—the color codes for each subject. It’s the way the teachers taught us to organize our books. English is purple. Science is green. Math is sky blue, but I feel it should be black.

  The smooth yellow MetroCard sits at the foot of my locker, in a clear pocket case that came with my backpack. I put it there after the machine sucked up Willa’s money and spit it out at me. It feels like a bad secret. I stuff it in my pack.

  I clutch my Tree Book to my chest and slam my locker quick. There’s the shriek of rubber against the waxy floors and someone knocks at my shoulder.

  “Hey!” I say.

  It’s Sabina Griffin, skidding the hallways, like she’s on a skateboard. Her chin is tucked in her coat and her braids fall from a droopy wool hat that slips to her lashes. Our eyes catch and I expect her to look away, but she doesn’t. She stares me down like the two of us know something and share it.

  I realize, for the first time, she doesn’t wear a book bag. Never does. Her books are trapped under her arm, papers poking from folders.

  She brushes past me and I watch her make her way out the door. I want to find out what she was doing at Miss Li’s, so I take off after her. Outside, the world brightens from the dark hallways. I watch her as she hops the steps and beelines for the metal fence, where she swoops down, smoothing a crumpled paper in her hands.

  “Whatcha got there?” I call out, between kids scuffling on the pavement and parents talking to each other at pickup, something Mom’s not usually here to do.

  I make my way closer and she tucks the paper in her skirt pocket. Then she grabs my hand, all urgent-like. “Spot me.”

  “Spot you?”

  Before I can say anything, her arms are down and her legs are up. Her huge boots slap the fence behind her and I find myself catching her legs. “What’re you doing?”

  “It’s an inversion.”

  “A what?”

  “A handstand.”

  “Is it, um, necessary?” I hold her ankle with one hand.

  “I need a new view,” she tells me, then flips backward to her feet and stands up. All the blood has rushed to her face. She clutches my hand. “I’m in, like, this total rut.”

  “A rut?”

  “School. It’s the same thing. Every. Single. Day.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s kinda how it goes.”

  “Doesn’t that bum you out?”

  I shrug. “Not really. It’s…I don’t know. School. What are you expecting?”

  She sighs dramatically. “A miracle.”

  “Whatcha got?” I ask again, pointing to her pocket.

  She takes out the paper and holds it in her steady palm. “Notes. Words. Things like that. I’m collecting them.” She crumples the paper and stuffs it in her pocket. Before I can ask more, she gestures to my Tree Book. “What’s that?”

  I try to think how to explain. No one’s ever asked. “A field journal,” I say. “My dad’s, before he died. Now mine. I draw tree maps,” I say, like it’s a thing.

  She doesn’t even question it, just smiles. “Cool.”

  “I saw you,” I tell her. “At Miss Li’s. You live over there?”

  She nods. “On the canal. Where do you live?”

  I wonder how to answer. Yesterday I could have said I live at Ennis House, with the smack of cockroach and a smashed-up greenhouse. Today I can say I live in a giant Rapunzel tower in Downtown Brooklyn, next to the cupcake shop Wil
la told us about. She says they have cupcakes with the best names. “Nowhere special,” I say, and leave it at that.

  “Why do you keep track of trees?” she asks.

  “Why do you collect notes?” I ask quick, and smile.

  Her stare is wide-eyed, huge. “Just do.” Then she’s off again, walking the perimeter of the fence, fast, like she’s following a trail. “I’ll see you Monday,” she says, like we talk all the time, like we’re best friends forever, like obviously we hang out every day. “Right?”

  I remember Sabina in math class when I was looking for a, how it seemed like she was helping me. I like her handstands and her collecting things, so I say it back. “Right.”

  She breaks into a huge grin and I watch her fingers skim the pavement, searching, I guess, for whatever it is she’s looking for.

  Adare and I ride the subway that afternoon and it feels like we’re flying free. Mom’s right that it takes just as long as walking, but I’m glad I took Willa’s money. I get to slip the card fast at the turnstile and the two of us flip through like tumbling acrobats. I get to hold Adare’s hand and race down the stairs, matching my legs up with hers. We check to see who ran their markers over the subway posters and drew bunny ears or buckteeth on the actors. Then we air-trace our fingers over the map, counting stops, like Mom taught us years ago, just to double-check.

  When we get into the subway car, it’s crowded and we’re caught in the stink of somebody’s armpit. Music’s leaking from somebody’s earbuds.

  When the train leaves, I hold on to the slick, greasy pole and spin around and around. As the train moves forward, my feet try to stay in place and it feels like I’m on a whirling carousel.

  Then we push out, spin the turnstile, and race up the stairs. When we reach the top step, the air is crisp, and the outside comes at us, sky and pavement, top to bottom, like a zooming camera. We slam our feet in unison as if we crossed a finish line.

  “You know the way?” I ask.

  Adare nods, real fast. “Yeah.”

  I notice trees as we go, marking them off in my head so I can write them down later, but there are no trees in the front of Willa’s building. Only the mustached doorman and an elevator that dings at every floor. We soar, almost to the top, and then we’re let out to the hallway. There’s no Old Lou, no sweet whiff of burger or the Johnsons stamping their voices into the walls. All the doors are closed and they each have one gold letter that drums the alphabet until we get to G.