Breadcrumbs - Anne Ursu [37]
He dismissed her, and Hazel poured concrete into the hollow parts. Now she would be part girl, part hardening gray sludge. And no one would notice the difference.
After the bus let her off, Hazel found herself heading in the opposite direction from her house—down a couple of neighborhood blocks, around the funny lime-green house with the tiny white fence, down the hill to the railroad tracks. She kicked up slush as she walked, and her jeans were wet and spattered by the time she arrived at the field where the shrieking shack was.
The once-white field was now made of wet, slurpy snow. Their footprints had disappeared, but there were new ones in their place—three sets of heavy-booted adult-size prints. Hazel chewed on her lip and took a few steps closer to the shack, which was now dark and wet with melting snow. She didn’t know what she was doing there, but she didn’t have anywhere else to go, and sometimes you need to hole up in the decaying floor of a ruined old shack and pour concrete into your hollow places.
But as Hazel walked toward the house she realized the air was vibrating with noise. She was not alone. There were people in her house, and they were laughing and yelling and their voices were rough and loud and had the sharp edges of crushed-up beer cans.
Hazel stopped and took a step back from the house. She stood there for a moment, looking at the lonely, broken-down thing. It was a palace once.
And then she turned around and began to trudge home.
Chapter Twelve
Passages
When Hazel got home that afternoon, she found the house empty. This was the first year her mother had let her stay by herself, and she’d used to like being in the house on her own. But she had had enough of empty spaces today. And, anyway, her mom was the last one left.
The house felt strange. Altered. Like someone had come in during the day and shrunk all the furniture just a tiny bit. Or she’d gone through a closet door and come out in the living room of her button-eyed Other Mother.
Of course things like that did not actually happen. Not in the real world.
Hazel was heading to her room when the phone rang. Her mom, probably, asking Hazel to preheat the oven for some frozen slab of something. She went over to the desk and picked up the phone.
There was a moment of silence on the other end. The phone crackled. And then a voice: “Oh, Hazel . . . hi.”
Hazel’s fingers tightened around the phone. “Hi, Dad.”
“How are you?”
“Fine.”
“Good. How’s school?”
“Good.”
“Good. Good. I was thinking I should come visit you.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I miss my princess.”
“When are you coming?”
“You know how it is right now. After the wedding, though. And you’re going to come up for that, right?”
“I guess so.”
“Great. I can’t wait to see you, princess. Is your mom there?”
“No. She’s not home yet.”
“Okay. Tell her I called.”
“Okay.”
And Hazel hung up and shuffled off to her room.
The next two days passed like this for Hazel—Jack-lessness and empty spaces and strange alterations in the furniture. The outside world obliged Hazel by being as gray and unpleasant as possible. Winter had seemed like such a new, bright thing just a week before. Now it felt eternal.
Mr. Lewis did call Hazel’s mom, and on Friday morning she drove Hazel to school and the three of them sat in his office while he spoke of referrals and evaluations and partnerships and time-outs. Hazel was surprised that he did not mention sticker charts. She sat, her arms crossed, and stared out into the gray-coated world while her mother nodded and listened and asked questions. And then they were done, and Mr. Lewis promised a glorious, sparkly, partner-y future, and Hazel and her mom walked off into the waiting area.
Her mom was quiet and did not look at her. Her lips were pressed together and her eyes were dark. She stopped for a moment, her eyes on the big flower arrangement that sat on the table.
“They’re fake,” Hazel said.