Chapter 2

Pat

We drive into a street, and the first thing that comes to my mind is beautiful. We are on a boulevard, and the greenery here is thick. Nothing much has changed. 

I ask Mom if I can wind down the glass for the fresh air the trees provide. 

Somewhere along the line, a sour taste rests on my tongue. It’s hard to believe Grandpa won’t be waiting in the driveway, holding out a box of brownies. It’s not cool to know that he won’t insist on jacking Kit up despite his seventy-nine-year-old waist. 

We leave the boulevard for a less dense area. The Old Times Grove sign still sits by the side of the road. And as always, the estimated population of 1,500 tickles me. I used to rattle on about how that’s an absolute impossibility. My defense: I can literally count the houses here. 

Mom would then tell me that the place is divided. There’s an offshoot on the other side. An offshoot I’m yet to see. 

We get into Grandpa’s neighborhood, and I stick my eyes out, trying to remember some houses. I made some friends some time back. Don’t know if they still stay here and so I ask Mom.

“Hannah and Eileen still live here?” Christmas four years ago was the first and only time I saw them.

“Who’re they?” 

How could she have forgotten? Granted, it was forever years ago, but she’s supposed to remember.

“Hannah…” I sigh, wondering how I’ll explain better, “The girl Kit bit?”

“Hey!” Kit’s tiny voice hits my ears.

I roll my eyes and continue. 

“On Christmas eve? Twenty-sevente—”

“Oh. Mrs. Rosaline’s girls,” she smiles, passing me a glance, “The girl Kit bit, huh?”

She glances at the rearview mirror to look at the goofball who won’t stop gaming to save his life. 

“Well, I wouldn’t know. I guess. Hannah is your age mate, right?”

“I guess.” I never bothered to know. All I was after was a playmate. 

“I know one of them is. The other is three years your senior. So, I’m thinking—” she swerves to the left “—she’s off to college.”

I bite my lip, feeling a bit let down. I’d have loved to reconnect with them. 

Nostalgia returns when we reach Grandpa’s. The house hasn’t changed one bit. Uncle Pete kept his word. The hedges still lie on the left side of the building. The bay windows smile at me, conjuring up memories, and the faint green walls beckon for a bear hug. 

I shut my eyes and inhaled. Nice. 

A neighbor waves at us. Mr. Mayfield. He and Grandpa used to sit in the garage late in the evening and shoot the breeze. 

Mom talks with him while I take our bags to the porch. I make two trips before I remember that a certain someone is supposed to help out. 

“Kit.”

He doesn’t acknowledge me. Not surprised, I climb down the porch and stomp toward him.

I stare at him as his fingers continue to bob around on the screen. The high-pitched noise from the game worsens my ire.

I snatch the tablet. 

“Hey!”

“Give your eyes a break. You’ve been at this all day.”

“Give that back.” 

When I take the tablet further out of his reach, he yells, “Mom!”

“She’s not going to hear you, and I won’t take your bags in.” 

He glares at me. Sometimes, his eyes have this fire in them that puts me on the edge of my seat. 

But not this time. I won’t be intimidated. 

He waits, expecting me to give up and hand him back his tablet. When he’s met with disappointment, he grumbles and heads to the trunk. 

Mom finishes up with Mr. Mayfield and gets the house keys.

We step inside the foyer and are blessed with silence. It smells of paint in here. 

As though reading my mind, Mom flips the switch. This is when I realize that the wooden works have been freshly polished. The banister, the couch frames, the tables—all of them.

The hard floorboards creak as I make my way to the living room. The walls remain as they were four years ago. Brown with white glitter. I collapse on Granpa’s favorite couch and pat it.

“Guess we don’t need to do much work,” Mom says.

I smile in agreement.

I am happy. 

I’m head over heels. Soon, I’ll be hosting a sleepover here. Yes, in this living room, my besties and I will chill and share all the gossip about boys, proms, and other flimsy stuff.

And, should the Fates be on my side, I’ll have my first kiss here.

*** 

Mrs. Mayfield brings in dinner, totally relieving Mom of the stress of running around for something to make. I’m not that much of a fan of chicken carbonara. But as there’s nothing else to eat, I have to make do. 

“It’s time I kept that tablet away from you. It’s been taking the whole of your attention.”

Kit shoots his head from his food. “What?”

Mom drinks some water and sets her glass down. “Still haven’t got your timetables right.”

“No, I have. 

Two times one’s two, two times two fo—”

I can’t help but burst out laughing. It’s a terrible mistake, however, because spit flies the wrong way, and I cough like I’ve got fumes of chlorine shoved inside of my nose. 

“Have some water,” Mom says.

I grip my glass as a lifesaver and down gulps of water. 

I picked the little monster’s sneering. I don’t really know what it was, but something along the lines of ‘there she goes.’ 

I risk a glance at him. Contrary to what I thought, he isn’t looking at me. Instead, he’s got his eyes on his food. 

“I shouldn’t have let you get a tablet.”

Kit slowly raises his gaze to Mom. As if to say, we’ve been through this.

Exactly how I argue with her and Dad about very many issues. 

“Why not? Everyone in my class has one.”

“Everyone, but they use it wisely.”

“Apparently not,” I mutter just to rile him up. That’s right. I can be annoying at times. But that’s what you become when you have an annoying younger brother. His character rubs off on you. 

“You know what can end all of this?” 

Mom moves her brow, urging me to speak. 

“A sister-brother time. Every evening, Kit and I will sit in the backyard and study. I believe my influence will work this time.” 

This time, I say, because it is not news that I’ve tried coaching Kit. The little guy has a mind of his own, preferring to game or sketch…heads. Not saying art is bad, I mean, I can actually give an arm to be able to do a bit of what Kit’s hands do, but for now, he needs to brush up on his core subjects. Especially Math. He’ll be in third grade; he should get to know that stuff like word problems, polygons, and measurement —ah, the dread of many third graders—exists.

The color drains from Kit’s face. 

“Don’t listen to her, Mom. I know my times table.”

“Hm, two times? What about four? We agreed on that last week.”

He tries to speak, then slouches, giving up. I almost feel sorry for him, but I remind myself that this is Kristopher Peyton James. A young man with absolute mischief. 

I agree with mom. He has to be more serious with his studies. 

After dinner, Dad calls to check up. He’s out on lunch break. Just like he’s been doing since this whole move started, he advises me to keep being good and not to join bad companies. Of course, Dad. Of course. 

I retire to my room but don’t go to bed straight away. Instead, I scour through Pinterest for the best hairstyle to rock on the first day of school. I don’t want to appear ordinary, having my hair down or putting it in a ponytail. And I don’t want just any curls. I want something different. To stand out is the goal. 

I see a couple of pictures and take screenshots. Just then, a notification pops up. From Telegram. I tap on the app, noting that I’ve been tagged on Inkhut: the writing/reading group I joined some months back. New week, new pairing. 

Apparently, I’m to exchange books with…

I groan when I see what I’m to read: Sand Dunes of Greyhound. 

What does that even mean? Definitely, it’s poetry. Yup. 

I groan again and sigh. I can’t deal with this. Tomorrow morning, I’ll let the admins know—even though I clearly stated in the form—that I have no business with poetry.

I tap off my phone and slump on the bed, exhausted. Tomorrow will be long.