One for the Murphys

  She laughs. “What a clip you are with that sense of humor of yours!” Then she squeezes a little harder. “You know, sometimes I think it’s me who should thank you.”

  “You mean once I stopped picking fights with waiters and stuffing rolls behind cushions?”

  She laughs again. “Oh boy. Let’s not resurrect that memory!”

  I step back and look at my sign again. Feel the smoothness of the wood. “I’ve been thinking about what we were talking about. You know, college?” I look her in the eye. “I’ll get there. I’ll try hard to be someone’s hero.”

  “Oh, Carley,” she says. “You already are.”

  CHAPTER 50

  A Great and Terrible Thing

  I’ve packed the suitcase that Mrs. Murphy said I could keep because “you never know when you’ll need a good suitcase.” I’m hoping that I don’t need one for a while.

  There’s a soft knock on the door, and sadness washes over me, along with the understanding that this is it. I’m really leaving them.

  “Come in.”

  The door opens, but I don’t turn around.

  “Carley?” It’s Daniel.

  He comes in, holding his Celtics basketball. He steps up to me and holds it out.

  “I’m sorry, Daniel. I don’t think we have time to play now.”

  “I want you to take it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because those losers in Las Vegas probably don’t sell Celtics basketballs. Who do you root for out there? The Utah Jazz? I’d rather go to jail.”

  We shuffle our feet, looking to fill the silence.

  “It was really nice that you helped me, Carley. I know I wouldn’t be playing this good if you hadn’t… helped me… and…”

  “It’s okay, Daniel. Really.”

  “I’m sorry I was a jerk to you.”

  “Well… I actually understand. And I was a jerk, too. Don’t sweat it.”

  He nods.

  “Hey, if your mom ever lets you online, look me up, okay?”

  He has a funny expression. “I heard my mom tell my dad that we’re not supposed to contact you.”

  I let out all of my air.

  He smiles. “But I will anyway.”

  “Good.” I swallow hard.

  He hands me the ball. “Here. I signed it for you.”

  I spin the ball over, and I see written in black, crooked cursive, “Carley—Thanks for everything! Dan ‘The Man’ Murphy.”

  I don’t know what to say, but I do worry that if Daniel can get me feeling blubbery, the rest of them are really going to kill me.

  I can sense his mom is in the doorway without even looking. “Carley. It’s time to go, honey.”

  Honey.

  I pick up my bag and walk toward the door, but I can’t look at her. My arm brushes her as I go by. “I may decorate my room like this at home. I think I like it.”

  “Is that so?” She sounds far away.

  I reach the stairs. Thirteen steps to the bottom.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Michael Eric is holding Mr. Longneck under his arm. He and Adam become attached to my legs. I get down on my knees.

  “Here,” Adam says, holding out a Matchbox car. “Daniel was going to give you a present, and I wanted to too.”

  I take the Matchbox car from him. “Thanks, Adam. Are you sure you want to give it away?”

  “It’s broken anyways.”

  I crack up. “Thanks.” I hold out my hand and he slaps me five.

  I give Michael Eric a hug. “Hey, bud. Thanks for teaching me to play superheroes. I had a really great time with you.”

  “I don’t have a present for you,” he says sadly.

  “What are you talking about? I’ll always remember the great times we had playing superheroes. You just keep those bad guys in line, okay?”

  He nods, and I wrap him up; I have a hard time letting him go.

  Mrs. Murphy looks at Jack, points at the boys, and moves her head to the side. He understands her hint as he says, “Okay, guys. Let’s leave your mom alone for a few minutes.” He gives me a stiff hug, but then messes up my hair—the way he hugs his boys—and I know this is a compliment. “Take care of yourself, Carley.”

  “Thanks,” I say. He disappears with the boys, but I can still hear Michael Eric’s protests.

  “Mrs. MacAvoy is waiting in her car outside,” Mrs. Murphy says.

  I nod.

  “I’m going to miss you,” she says.

  Looking at her and knowing this is it, I feel like a piece of me dies. “Me too… I mean, I’ll miss you too. Thanks for everything.”

  “You’re very welcome.”

  “I mean everything.”

  She nods. Biting the inside of her cheek, she opens the front door.

  “And thanks again for the sign,” I say. “I love it.”

  She nods again. Trying not to cry, I think.

  I’m not sure if I want her to lose it or not as I say, “You’ve been mine, ya know. Hero, I mean.”

  She pulls me in and kisses me on the cheek, then holds my face in her hands. I force myself to look into her eyes because I want to remember. I just have to remember.

  “Oh, Carley. I know that you’ll be fine. You’ll make a good life for yourself, I just know you will.”

  I’m surprised that I believe her.

  I tell myself to turn around, and I order my feet to move. When I look up again, I am at the bottom of the stairs standing on the sidewalk. I want to run back up to her so much that I don’t dare look at her. I focus on Mrs. MacAvoy waiting in her car at the end of the driveway.

  I think back to when Mrs. Murphy told me that you regret the things you don’t do more than the things you do. This gives me permission, and I am up the three steps in one leap. I wrap my arms around her without looking at her face and rest my head on her shoulder. “I… love you, Mrs. Murphy.”

  I can feel her shake as she cries. “I love you too, Carley.”

  Hearing her say it. Knowing she means it. Makes it so hard to go. “I’ll never forget you… I mean, never ever.”

  I peel away only because I have to, but she doesn’t let go easily. I swing around quickly and jump down the steps, reaching the driveway and heading toward the car.

  A yell comes from far behind me. “Carley! You have to stay! You just have to!”

  Michael Eric comes around the side of the house and down the driveway to me. His Thomas the Tank Engine cape is twisting behind him.

  He waves a piece of paper. “I made you a present!” He hands me the paper and I flip it over. It has “C-R-L-Y” in red crayon across the top and a drawing of what I think is me as Super High Tops Girl.

  “Hey! You did a great job writing my name!” I wrap my arms around him a last time. “It’s awesome, Michael Eric. I’ll keep it forever!”

  “Come here, buddy,” his dad calls. Michael Eric gives my leg a kiss and then hops and runs up the hill to the garage, where his father scoops him up.

  Adam and Daniel come around the corner and join their dad. Daniel half waves. I wave back and turn away as my eyes water.

  And then I stop. I know I need to go as I stand facing Mrs. MacAvoy’s car; I want to be able to leave on my own, though—before she calls me. But still, I turn back to look at Mrs. Murphy.

  One more time.

  And I just can’t breathe.

  I don’t wave or move or say anything. Right now, I just want to take a picture with me. I know that even a long time from now, I’ll remember her standing in front of a bright white door with a happy shirt and teary, red, blotchy cheeks. I’ll remember how the breeze moved her hair back and forth across her forehead. I’ll remember how she shook her head the tiniest bit.

  But most of all, I’ll remember how she loved me.

  I turn away, knowing that I might never get to see Julie Murphy ever again.

  But I will know her for the rest of my life.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My affection and gratitude for the t
alented Erin Murphy, who, besides having the most perfect name ever, believed in this book and its author. You’re the best, Murphy. You really are.

  My boundless thanks to Nancy Paulsen, my supportive, talented, and collaborative editor, who exceeded all of my dreams of having a publisher. Thank you for taking Carley under your wing and treating her so well.

  Huge thanks, also, to the talented team at Nancy Paulsen Books/Penguin: Cecilia Yung, Ryan Thomann, Danielle Delaney, and Sara Kreger.

  For Rere, who gave me more than I could ever list here.

  In loving memory of my brother, Michael Eric Mullaly.

  For anyone who lovingly cares for other people’s children, including Sr. Ginger Smith, O.P., The Smith Families, and Pete and Dot Steeves and their children: Peter, Fred, Jen, Joe, Amy, and Patrick.

  With tons of love and appreciation for the following people, whose support was no small piece of this debut novel: Rick Mullaly, Jill Mullaly,

  Michael T. Mullaly, Megan Mullaly, Karen Mullaly Blass, Suzannah Blass, Carol Boehm Hunt, Susan Rheaume, Kathy Martin Benzi, Danielle Neary, Franca and Emily Silliman, Kelly Henderschedt and Emma/Lucy/Rosie, Francis X. Miller, Samantha Eileen Miller, Patricia Reilly Giff, Lucia

  Zimmitti, Jeanne Zulick Ferruolo, Bette Anne Rieth, Laurie Smith Murphy,

  Liz Goulet Dubois, Barbara Johansen-Newman, Mary Pierce, and my students and fellow faculty members at Gilead Hill School in Hebron, Connecticut.

  Huge hugs to the Gango, who have enriched my life so much. On this wonderful journey, you have been one of the greatest gifts.

  Another nod to Greg, my best friend and only love.

  And finally, but of monumental importance, for Kimmy and Kyle—two of my most favorite people on the planet. Thanks for making my life even more magnificent than I could have ever imagined. Love you both infinity times around Pluto.

  TURN THE PAGE FOR A LOOK AT

  LYNDA MULLALY HUNT’S

  NEXT NOVEL

  CHAPTER 1

  In Trouble Again

  It’s always there. Like the ground underneath my feet.

  “Well, Ally? Are you going to write or aren’t you?” Mrs. Hall asks.

  If my teacher were mean it would be easier.

  “C’mon,” she says. “I know you can do it.”

  “What if I told you that I was going to climb a tree using only my teeth? Would you say I could do it then?”

  Oliver laughs, throwing himself on his desk like it’s a fumbled football.

  Shay groans. “Ally, why can’t you just act normal for once?”

  Near her, Albert, a bulky kid who’s worn the same thing every day—a dark T-shirt that reads Flint—sits up straight. Like he’s waiting for a firecracker to go off.

  Mrs. Hall sighs. “C’mon, now. I’m only asking for one page describing yourself.”

  I can’t think of anything worse than having to describe myself. I’d rather write about something more positive. Like throwing up at your own birthday party.

  “It’s important,” she says. “It’s so your new teacher can get to know you.”

  I know that, and it’s exactly why I don’t want to do it. Teachers are like the machines that take quarters for bouncy balls. You know what you’re going to get. Yet, you don’t know, too.

  “And,” she says, “all that doodling of yours, Ally. If you weren’t drawing all the time, your work might be done. Please put it away.”

  Embarrassed, I slide my drawings underneath my blank writing assignment. I’ve been drawing pictures of myself being shot out of a cannon. It would be easier than school. Less painful.

  “C’mon,” she says, moving my lined paper toward me. “Just do your best.”

  Seven schools in seven years and they’re all the same. Whenever I do my best, they tell me I don’t try hard enough. Too messy. Careless spelling. Annoyed that the same word is spelled different ways on the same page. And the headaches. I always get headaches from looking at the brightness of dark letters on white pages for too long.

  Mrs. Hall clears her throat.

  The rest of the class is getting tired of me again. Chairs slide. Loud sighs. Maybe they think I can’t hear their words: Freak. Dumb. Loser.

  I wish she’d just go hang by Albert, the walking Google page who’d get a better grade than me if he just blew his nose into the paper.

  The back of my neck heats up.

  I don’t get it. She always lets me slide. It must be because these are for the new teacher and she can’t have one missing.

  I stare at her big stomach. “So, did you decide what you’re going to name the baby?” I ask. Last week we got her talking about baby names for a full half hour of social studies.

  “C’mon, Ally. No more stalling.”

  I don’t answer.

  “I mean it,” she says, and I know she does.

  I watch a mind movie of her taking a stick and drawing a line in the dirt between us under a bright blue sky. She’s dressed as a sheriff and I’m wearing black-and-white prisoner stripes. My mind does this all the time—shows me these movies that seem so real that they carry me away inside of them. They are a relief from my real life.

  I steel up inside, willing myself to do something I don’t really want to do. To escape this teacher who’s holding on and won’t let go.

  I pick up my pencil and her body relaxes, probably relieved that I’ve given in.

  But, instead, knowing she loves clean desks and things just so, I grip my pencil with a hard fist. And scribble all over my desk.

  “Ally!” She steps forward quick. “Why would you do that?”

  The circular scribbles are big on top and small on the bottom. It looks like a tornado and I wonder if I meant to draw a picture of my insides. I look back up at her. “It was there when I sat down.”

  The laughter starts—but they’re not laughing because they think I’m funny.

  “I can tell that you’re upset, Ally,” Mrs. Hall says.

  I am not hiding that as well as I need to.

  “She’s such a freak,” Shay says in one of those loud whispers that everyone is meant to hear.

  Oliver is drumming on his desk now.

  I fold my arms and stare up at her.

  “That’s it,” Mrs. Hall finally says. “To the office. Now.”

  I wanted this but now I am having second thoughts.

  “Ally.”

  “Huh?”

  Everyone laughs again. She puts up her hand. “Anyone else who makes a sound gives up their recess.” The room is quiet.

  “Ally. I said to the office.”

  I can’t go see our principal, Mrs. Silver, again. I go to the office so much, I wonder when they’ll hang up a banner that says WELCOME, ALLY NICKERSON!

  “I’m sorry,” I say, actually meaning it. “I’ll do it. I promise.”

  She sighs. “Okay, Ally, but if that pencil stops moving, you’re going.”

  She moves me to the reading table next to a Thanksgiving bulletin board about being grateful. Meanwhile, she sprays my desk with cleaner. Glancing at me like she’d like to spray me with cleaner. Scrub off the dumb.

  I squint a bit, hoping the lights will hurt my head less. And then I try to hold my pencil the way I’m supposed to instead of the weird way my hand wants to.

  I write with one hand and shield my paper with the other. I know I better keep the pencil moving, so I write the word “Why?” over and over from the top of the page to the very bottom.

  One, because I know how to spell it right and two, because I’m hoping someone will finally give me an answer.

  CHAPTER 2

  Yellow Card

  For Mrs. Hall’s baby shower, Jessica shows up with such a big bunch of flowers from her father’s florist shop that you’d swear she ripped a bush out of the ground and wrapped the bottom
in foil.

  Whatever. I don’t care. I found a bright card with yellow roses at the store. And a picture of flowers won’t dry up in a week. I feel like it’s my way of saying I’m sorry for being such a pain all the time.

  Max gives his present to Mrs. Hall. He leans back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head as she opens it. He’s given her diapers. I think he hoped to get a reaction from her and seems disappointed when she’s happy.

  Max likes attention. He also likes parties. Just about every day, he asks Mrs. Hall for a party, and today, he’s finally getting one.

  When Mrs. Hall slides my card out of the envelope, she doesn’t read it out loud like all the others. She hesitates, and I know that she must really love it. And I feel proud, which isn’t something I feel very much.

  Mrs. Silver leans over to look. I figure I might finally get a compliment for once, but instead, her eyebrows bunch up and she motions me toward the door.

  Shay has gotten up to look. She laughs and says, “The world gets dumber every time Ally Nickerson speaks.”

  “Shay. Sit down,” Mrs. Hall says, but it’s too late. You can’t make people unhear something. I should be used to this, but it still takes a piece out of me every time.

  As Shay and Jessica laugh, I remember how we dressed up as our favorite book characters for Halloween last week. I came as Alice in Wonderland, from the book my grandpa read to me a ton of times. Shay and her shadow, Jessica, called me Alice in Blunderland all day.

  Keisha steps up to Shay and says, “Why don’t you mind your own business for once?”

  I like Keisha. She isn’t afraid. And I’m afraid of so much.

  Shay turns, looking like she’s ready to swat a fly. “Like it’s your business?” she asks her.

  “That’s right. It’s not my business, but it’s as much yours . . . as it is mine,” Keisha replies.

  Shay lets out a small gasp. “Stop talking to me.”

  “Stop being mean,” Keisha replies, leaning forward.