Whatever the reason, I’m stuck sitting there among the muumuus with nothing to hear and nothing to do. And after what feels like forever, I move the box so I can stretch out a little more. And after another forever, I try to use the box as a headrest and wonder what would happen if Bun-Top is in the apartment and she starts snooping around for things to steal and finds me.
And after another forever, I’m just bored out of my mind and really tempted to take a peek through the bedroom door, but I know that’s a very bad idea. Especially since Mr. Garnucci almost has to be there.
So instead I open the box.
And what I see inside would have been a double dose of extra-boring since it’s basically just files and papers, only at the very top of the papers is a box of chocolates.
And rubber-banded to the box of chocolates is an envelope.
And on the envelope, in big, flowery letters, is a name.
My name.
At first I just stare at it feeling really, really strange. I mean, the morning had started out pretty much like any other morning, but one thing had led to another and now here I was, hiding in Mrs. Wedgewood’s closet, staring at an envelope addressed to me.
It was kind of cosmic.
And, really, I didn’t want to think about that too much.
Besides, what if this envelope and box of chocolates were for another Samantha? What if it was all just a big coincidence?
There was only one way to find out.
I opened the letter!
And right away I knew—it was for me.
December 9
Dear Samantha,
I’ve been thinking about our conversation and I’ve decided that simply saying I’m sorry for my behavior is not enough. You’ve done so much for me, and although I’ve been outwardly ungrateful, I’ve known all along that I’ve been blessed to have you in my life.
Words of gratitude won’t change your life, though, so I want to put my money where my mouth is. The “helping” in this box may dwindle over time (since I may need to dip in for additional servings), but I’m hoping to leave you a feast, not a snack. (I’ve never been a fan of leafy greens, but even I have a taste for these!)
Understand that this is not to be used on Double Dynamos or even new clothes. (I think you look darling in the ones you’ve got, even though they’re secondhand.) This is also not to be touched by your mother or grandmother. This is for your college education, nothing else. Put the complete amount in the bank and leave it there. Then, when the time comes, use it to pay for tuition or books or whatever you need. However little or much it helps you, promise me you’ll bust out of here and make something of yourself. You’re smart, resourceful, and caring, and I know you’ll be great at whatever you choose to do.
Your grateful neighbor,
Rose Wedgewood
I was too overwhelmed by what she’d said to care about how much she’d left. My hands were shaking and my eyes were running, and inside I was a huge muddle of regret.
I’d called her the Wedge. The Wedginator! Wedgie Woman! The Whale! The Walrus! The Whopper! But under all those layers of lard was a woman who’d given more thought to my future than my own beautiful, nearly fat-free mother.
I finally slipped the letter back inside the envelope, wiped my eyes, and opened the box. And there, staring up at me, were four stacks of cash.
All Benjamins.
And even though there were no chocolates left in the box, I could smell that there had been. And it flashed through my mind how strange it was that chocolates that weren’t even there could change a stinky closet into one that smelled so sweet.
How even after something’s gone, it can still almost magically change things.
I sat there for the longest time thinking about that, and finally I took a deep, choppy breath and started counting.
One thousand … two thousand … three thousand … four.
Five thousand … six thousand …
And I’m just getting up to seven thousand when the door flies open. I totally spaz and jump and bump, but it’s only Grams. “Oh!” she gasps. “You found it!” And for a minute I think she’s been in on the Wedgewood College Fund. But then she says, “Quick! They’re all after it!”
“What?”
“Just come!”
So I gather my box and the letter and scramble out of the closet to the front door. And after Grams has checked the hallway, she shoos me down to our apartment while she locks up Mrs. Wedgewood’s.
“My lord!” she gasps when she’s safely home. And she’s so shaky that she can’t even seem to make it to a chair somewhere. She just braces herself with her back against the door and her hands spread wide. “That was insanity! As if dealing with the paramedics and the police and seeing Rose taken away wasn’t bad enough, everyone’s attacking me because they think I have a key and will go back in there and find her money!” Her eyes get huge. “Do you hear that?” she whispers.
Well, since I’m actually in the apartment, not up against the door, I can’t hear what’s going on in the hallway, but apparently she can.
“They’re back!” she whispers. “It’s a miracle I got you out of there!” She motions for me to hide, then opens the front door and says, “Oh, good heavens!”
I recognize Bun-Top’s voice as she calls back, “Good heavens all you want, Rita! If Vinnie’s not posting a guard, we will!”
“So you’re going to sit there all day, Cynthia? Because you think I’m a criminal with a key?”
“That’s exactly why!”
“Well, I never!”
“Well, I never all you want, Rita! Everyone’s taking a shift! We don’t buy that bit about Rose leaving her door unlocked! Nobody leaves their door unlocked! You found her, and we know how! You have a key!”
“Suit yourself,” Grams calls back, then closes the door and comes to where I’m crouched beside a bookcase. “Looks like you won’t be going to school today.”
I stand up. “Can we back up please? I take it Mrs. Wedgewood is dead.”
“Oh. Yes.”
“And people are already fighting over her money? It was her money!”
“They obviously don’t see it that way. And it’s not like Rose had friends here. Look at the way she treated us.” She eyes my chocolates box. “How much is there?”
I stare at her a minute, then hand her the letter.
“What’s this?”
“Just read it.”
So she does, and about halfway through, she staggers over to a kitchen chair and kind of dissolves into it. “Oh my,” she gasps. “Oh my.”
I sit down across from her and watch while it all sinks in.
“Oh, I feel terrible!” she finally says. “Here you tried to tell me …” She shakes her head. “I feel terrible.”
I take the letter back and put it inside the envelope. “I don’t think this is supposed to make you feel terrible.”
“And I’m worried!”
I laugh. “Of course you are!” I shake my head at her. “What about? That I have probably ten thousand dollars in a college fund?”
Her eyes bug out. “Oh my.” Then she says, “No, I’m worried that even with that letter, they’ll never believe she gave all that money to you. And they’ll claim it was theirs! What if they issue a search warrant! What if the police show up and—” She gasps. “They’ll find you, too!” She points to the box. “We need to get that out of here! We need to get you out of here!”
“Oh, good grief.”
Suddenly there’s a knock at the door.
“Quick!” Grams whispers. “Get in the closet!” Then she calls out, “Just a moment!”
But my stuff is all over the place, and it takes more than a moment for me to fly around and hide my half-made peanut butter sandwich while Grams makes it look like her couch is not someone’s bed.
And while she waits at the door, I grab my backpack and sweatshirt and the box of sweet cash and do what I always do.
Ditch it into the closet
.
TWENTY-SEVEN
I think it’s probably from years of dealing with old people, but Mr. Garnucci always talks loud, even when he’s inside a tiny apartment and there’s only one other person in the room. And in this case that turned out to be very helpful to the other person eavesdropping from the closet!
Bottom line, he’d come to tell Grams that, even though he believed her, and even though Mrs. Wedgewood’s things would be moved into storage the next day, just to keep the peace, he was having the locks changed right away.
“A brilliant solution,” Grams told him. “Thank you. You can’t imagine how fed up I am with their accusations.”
He laughed, “Sure I can!” and that was it.
He was gone.
“I suppose you heard all that,” Grams says when she lets me out. And before I can even say, Yeah, she laughs and says, “He’ll be in the hot seat now.”
“Mr. G will?”
She shrugs. “He’ll be the only one with a key.”
“Wait—isn’t he always the only one with a key? I mean, when there’s a … you know … a vacancy?”
She gives me a sly grin. “Just you wait.”
Now, since I was being forced to miss school and was stuck inside the apartment, I decided to take the time to make myself some sugar-sprinkled biscuits that had strawberry jam baked inside. They’re about as close to jelly-filled donuts as Grams’ll let me get, and even better tasting if I can sneak dunking them in maple syrup. Which for once I could because Grams was too busy keeping an eye on what was going on in the hallway to pay any attention to what I was up to. Every few minutes she’d peek outside, and every few minutes she’d close the door and give me an update, which pretty much was always the same: “She’s still there.”
Finally I told her, “You’re acting like Mrs. Graybill.”
Well, that got her attention, because Mrs. Graybill was the nosiest neighbor ever. “I am not acting like Daisy Graybill!”
“Sure you are. She always had her nose in the hallway.”
“Samantha! Take that back!”
“I’ll take it back if you’ll give it a rest! Looking out there every five minutes isn’t going to change anything. Besides, they’ve got to know you’re watching. It makes you look sneaky—like you’re dying to get in there.”
She knew I was right and sat down for some biscuits and tea. “So what are you going to do stuck inside all day?”
What’s weird is that the very last thing in the world I usually want to do is the first thing that popped out of my mouth. “Homework.”
“Didn’t you do it last night?”
“Uh … I sorta ran out of time.”
What I didn’t tell her is that lots of times I run out of time, and lots of times I’m scrambling to get stuff finished during the class before the class it’s due.
“Then by all means, do that!” she says.
And normally I do my homework at the kitchen table, but this time I didn’t want to do it there. I knew Grams would be fidgeting and fussing, and I had this urge to concentrate on my schoolwork. It was like all of a sudden I wanted to do good in school.
Okay, right, do well.
It was a weird feeling—almost like I wasn’t really me. But now I had a reason to do well.
A reason besides wanting to stay out of trouble, that is.
And who in the whole wide world could have predicted that the reason would have come from Mrs. Wedgewood?
Not me, that’s for sure.
The first thing I did once I’d set myself up in Grams’ bedroom and closed the door was reread Mrs. Wedgewood’s letter. And the part I re-reread the most was the part where she said that I was smart and resourceful and caring, and how I should bust out of here.
It was the first time I’d really thought about busting out. Before, I’d always had this feeling that I had to go along with what other people decided, and that there wasn’t much I could do about it. This was the first time I thought I could change things, the first time I really felt that how my life turned out was now on me.
I stared at the letter and let the idea sink in. I liked the feeling it gave me, and I didn’t want it to become one of those thoughts that slips away. I wanted to let it sink in good and deep, so it was really anchored inside me.
And then, finally, I slid Mrs. Wedgewood’s letter back inside the envelope, opened up my backpack, and got to work.
It was lunchtime when Grams knocked on the door and peeked inside. “Good heavens. You’ve been working this whole time? I thought maybe you’d fallen asleep.”
“What’s the latest with the Prune Patrol?”
“Samantha!” she scolded, but under it she was laughing.
“Well?”
“Well, the lock’s changed, but I was right—Cynthia, Fran, and Sally are doing shifts now on Mr. Garnucci.”
I closed my book and stood up, because suddenly I was starving. “I can’t believe he didn’t kick them out for breaking and entering when he had the chance.”
She blinks at me. “You’re right …!”
I snort and head for the kitchen. “ ’Course if I hadn’t come over when I heard you in Mrs. Wedgewood’s bathroom, they’d be saying the same thing about you.” And before she can tell me how what she did and what they did were not even in the same universe, I switch subjects. “But this means I’m stuck, right? Like, I may miss school tomorrow, too?”
“Maybe so.”
“Then I need to get my homework.”
She hesitates. “It’s only a day or two.”
“I need to get it.”
She studies me a minute as I look through cupboards for something to eat. “Can you get in touch with Marissa?”
I shut the door with a little slam. “Not Marissa.”
Her eyebrows go flying. “Are you two in a fight?”
“No. She’s just an idiot who’s having a great time with her new, happy friends and doesn’t need me or my advice anymore.”
“Oh, dear,” she says quietly. “Sounds like a fight to me.”
I look right at her. “In a nutshell? She’s back to thinking Danny Urbanski walks on water.”
“No!” she gasps. “After he kicked a man so hard he cracked his ribs?”
“Yup. One smarmy phone call from him was all it took for her to dump Billy.” I throw my hands up. “She’s sure Danny’s repented. Turned over a new leaf. Started a clean chapter in his smooth-talking life.”
“Any chance that’s true?”
I eye her. “Oh, he’s still smooth-talking, but there’s nothing new or clean about it. He’s already lied to Marissa and is still sneaking around with Heather Acosta.”
Grams thinks about this a minute as I search the refrigerator, but, really, my appetite is gone.
“Poor dear,” she finally says. “Being stuck on a loser will certainly get you lost.”
I stop searching and turn to face her. “Wow, Grams. That’s profound.”
She blushes a little. “Profound? I don’t know about that.” Then she adds, “But here’s what’s important—she’s been your friend since the third grade. As soon as she comes to, she’s going to need you. Make sure you’re there for her.”
“Meanwhile,” I grumble as I close the door, “I need to get my homework.”
“What about Holly?”
“That works.”
But the way it worked turned out to be super-complicated because Holly doesn’t have a cell phone and Grams gets all flustered when she lies to “school authorities.”
Apparently, she’s okay with me doing it, though. I dialed the school myself and when I got the secretary on the phone, I pretended to be my mother. “Yes, Mrs. Twitter, this is Lana Keyes. My daughter, Samantha, is home sick today, and I would like to have her friend Holly Janquell bring her any assignments and homework. Could you arrange that?”
“I’ll do what I can,” Mrs. Twitter says, “but it’s already quite late in the school day.” Then she adds, “And most teachers list t
heir assignments online.”
“I do realize that, but unfortunately that’s not an option for us at this time.”
“You don’t have Internet access?”
All of a sudden I’m understanding why Grams gets flustered when she calls the school. I mean, what business is it of hers if we do or don’t? But I try to keep my cool. “Service is down. And Samantha says some of her teachers use worksheets.”
“I see. Well, I’ll do what I can. Please tell her to feel better.”
“Thank you. I will pass that along.”
“Service is down?” Grams asks when I get off the phone. “What service?”
“Internet service. A lot of teachers post their assignments on the school’s website.”
“They do?”
Now, the fact of the matter is, I’ve sort of hidden this tidbit of information from Grams and my mom, because if they knew about it, they’d also figure out quick that my grades are on the site. All they need is a user name and password, and, presto, no snowing them about how I’m doing in school, or whether I’ve done all my homework.
So I just shrug and say, “Yeah, but we don’t have a computer, so what can we do, huh?”
Still, after we finally ate some lunch and I got back to work, I started thinking about it. I mean, here I am in Grams’ bedroom, surrounded by papers I’m trying to sort, not really sure if I turned some of them in or what, and suddenly I’m wishing that I could see the online grade book.
Suddenly I really want to know—what am I missing?
How am I doing?
After a while, Grams peeks in. “Mr. Garnucci’s called a meeting about Rose’s money down in the rec room. Don’t answer the door for anyone, okay?”
“Got it,” I tell her. And after she’s gone, I go to the phone and call the one person I know I can trust with, uh, classified information. “Hudson?” I whisper when he answers. “It’s Sammy.”
“Everything okay?” he whispers back.
“Yeah. Fine. I’m just stuck in the apartment and have to keep my voice down.” I give him the quick lowdown on Mrs. Wedgewood and the Prune Patrol, and since I don’t know how much time I’ve got before Grams comes back, I bite the bullet and get to the point. “I need you to do me a favor, and I need you to keep it confidential.”