I’d fought tooth and nail for us to stay in Chicago. It’s not like we’d lived some luxurious lifestyle there, but everything—my neighborhood, my school, our little house by the airport—had at least been familiar. Mom had busted her butt for years, though, and always for us. She’d never enjoyed waitressing, but she’d worked long hours so Grub and I could have food on the table every day.
She’d always dreamed of moving to a small town and opening a café, though I never thought she’d really do it. For one thing, she didn’t have the kind of savings needed to start her own business. For another, I couldn’t imagine her making us say good-bye to all our friends. But when the night came to sit us down and tell us it was actually happening, that my aunt Willow had loaned her the money to make it happen, I knew I’d lost the battle. I saw her excitement at the prospect of no longer serving eggs and bacon. I knew this was an opportunity for her to do something for herself and not just for us. I understood.
But that didn’t mean I was thrilled about moving. And she knew it.
I looked back up at my mom. She wore a light blue T-shirt that read We Are One in a dozen different languages, blue jeans cuffed midcalf, and dollar-store flip-flops. Her brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail.
“I got a dollar tip,” I said sheepishly, trying to change the subject.
“Well, that’s a dollar more than you had before, isn’t it?” chirped Mom, ever the optimist.
“So, how’s the café doing, other than the cancellations?” I asked.
“Good,” she said in a way that sounded like Not good. “I’m not throwing in the towel yet.”
“To victory!” yelled Grub, raising a fist. He sat at one of two booths that occupied the café, drawing a map of the nursing-home battle he’d just fought.
“To victory indeed!” said Mom, walking over to him. She put her hands on his shoulders and looked down at the map. “Wow, that’s quite the battle, Manny.” (Mom refused to call my brother Grub; I refused to call him Manny. I guess in the end it all evened out.) “I recognize you there behind the plant, but who’s in the wheelchair?”
“Sergeant Porter. He played army with me. I covered him when the enemy came out. I shot a rocket, but I missed the target.”
“I see. And who’s the enemy?”
“The mean lady.”
“Missy Stouffer,” I clarified. “‘Overpriced and not what she was expecting,’” I added, mimicking my mom’s air quotes.
Mom stifled a laugh, which came out like a snort, then patted Grub on the shoulder. “Next time, don’t miss.”
And that’s when I had the greatest idea that ever was, or ever shall be.
“Hey, what about your triple chocolate brownie?” I asked.
“Turn That Frownie Upside Brownie?” Mom replied.
I hated calling it by name. “Yeah, that one. What if we offered a free brownie and maybe a cup of soup to Missy Stouffer and the others who canceled? As a way to keep their business. What soup do you have this week?”
“Tomato bisque.”
“No fancy name?”
“The only one I could think of was Life’s a Bisque, and Then You Die.”
“That doesn’t sound very World Peas-y.”
“How about I Say Tomayto, You Say Tomah—”
“Yeah, no,” I said, shaking my head at her. “So, free brownie and soup? I can deliver them to Hilltop tomorrow.” I didn’t have the slightest clue what I’d say to Rose once I got there, but I had to start somewhere, right?
She eyed me with suspicion again. “Why so eager to go back to a nursing home? You hated going when Grandma was sick.”
“Yeah, that’s because Grandma was sick. I love old people.”
Mom narrowed her eyes.
“I love you, don’t I?” I said, trying to make her laugh again.
“Good thing,” she said, holding out her hand, “because I need to borrow your phone for a while.”
I stared at her in horror. My phone, along with its instant access to social media, text messaging, and Google, contained my entire punk rock music collection. Without my playlists, I would never survive the summer.
“You’re joking, right?”
“Just for a week or two. I dropped mine in the sink this morning, and I need a phone to take orders.”
I thought fast. “But all the coupons and advertisements have your number on them, not mine. It won’t work.”
I felt like I’d won the battle until Mom delivered the deathblow. “I already chatted with the phone company this morning on the laptop. They forwarded my number to yours.”
My shoulders slumped. I pulled my phone out. “Well, that would explain the four new voicemails from unknown numbers.”
“Speaking of which, there are more deliveries to be made.”
I loved my mom, but she needed a Nerf bazooka to the forehead right then.
“So I’m supposed to ride around all week without music?”
Mom showed no mercy. “Try listening to the birds, they’re nature’s music. You can have your phone back in the evenings.” She handed me three more salad containers and a map of Buffalo Falls. “Sometimes you have to take one for the team, son.”
I shook my head and handed over my phone.
It felt like I’d just ripped off my right arm.
“Now go be charming,” she said, and pecked me on the cheek.
“Let’s roll!” said Grub.
And so we rolled.
FOUR
OUR LAST DELIVERY OF THE DAY TOOK US ACROSS THE BRIDGE TO THE south side of town. In fact, after fifteen minutes of uphill pedaling, we were nearly back at Hilltop. I tried to think of an excuse to go back inside but couldn’t find any good reason. Soon we reached the delivery address, a trim brick ranch with a sprawling maple tree shading the front lawn. Sweat dripped from my face like big salty tears. I wiped my face with the sleeve of my T-shirt, parked the bike on its kickstand, and approached the house.
Grub planted himself on the lawn behind me, watching the street for enemies. I walked past a picture window, its ledge lined with a planter full of red geraniums.
I started to knock on the door when a sound left me frozen.
“Darling, don’t be afraid, I have loved you for a thousand years . . .”
Whoever sat near the open window five feet from my head was belting out a love ballad.
“. . . I’ll love you for a thousand more.”
I stood there, unsure if I should let the guy finish the song or interrupt and knock.
My brother made the decision for me.
“Pew-pew! Pew-pew-pew!” Grub had rolled across the lawn and began firing his imaginary pistol at the window.
The singing stopped abruptly.
I knocked.
“It’s open!” yelled the voice from the window.
Grub joined me at the door. I looked down at him and shrugged. He shrugged back. We let ourselves in the front door and stepped into a tiled entryway.
“Hello?” I said in a pitch much higher than intended.
The voice came from around the corner. “Yeah, back here.”
Grub and I headed toward the sound of his voice. It led us through a short hallway, which ended with open doors on opposite sides. To the left, I caught a glimpse of a bathroom, to the right, a cluttered bedroom.
“Step into my office,” said the voice in an odd way, as if it were an office.
I stepped inside and froze again when I recognized the person. He recognized me too.
“Jesucristo!” the guy said, pointing at me.
“Shakira?” I replied.
“Sí! ?Cómo estás?”