couldn’t talk to her. Talking was hard at the moment. All I could do was think.
What did he mean: No one’s ever been able to see me before? People didn’t say things like that. They said, “Hi. How’s the weather, did you have a good lunch?”
I pulled my legs up and wrapped my arms around them tight. What did I expect? I’d egged him on, fallen right into his trap. It was the last play, big guns and all, and I’d walked by like a big fluffy deer with its tail swishing around. What a fun summer he’d had.
“Emma, dinner’s cold,” Gran had been trying to lure me out of my room for the last hour, using her Salisbury steak and soft, steamy biscuits as bait. “Chocolate meringue pie!” She was worried, I could feel it.
“No, thanks! Not hungry.”
I heard her argue with Mom, telling her to come up and talk to me.
Pushing them out of my thoughts, I jumped off the bed to grab the book of Springvale with its no-fuss black and white cover. Sitting back down on the bed, I opened the front cover and began scanning pictures, starting from the mid-1800s. There were folks with sun-baked faces. They stood in the midst of a wild and unplowed earth. A town began to emerge; people looked healthy, happy, and proud of their little town beyond the bluffs.
The decades changed. Main Street, the one I knew, began to emerge with buildings of brick and stone among the original shanty-like structures. I turned another page, but stopped halfway.
Shakily, I pulled it back.
It was a shot of Main Street, 1956. Nothing exciting really, but my eyes couldn’t help focus on a tiny object jutting from the shadows in a very familiar way—it looked like the corner of someone’s elbow. I swung my legs over the bed and leaned into the lamp to get a better view. I had seen the same checkered print this whole summer, but with the book’s black and white photography, I couldn’t tell if it was the same blue. A lot of guys wore that kind of shirt back then. Back then. . . .
Taking a few steady breaths, I looked to the bottom of the shadow.
Black boots with scruffs on the toes, and above them a hint of a cuffed jean. Still, with the car and the building post in the way, it was hard to tell. I knew those boots; but of course, it was impossible. Everyone had boots like that in the fifties. I swallowed through a tight throat and rushed a hand through my wild, tangled hair. Maybe I did need to eat something, my brain wasn’t functioning.
I dropped the book onto the dresser and rushed down the stairs.
“Hey, look who’s out.” Grandmother Carrie stood by the kitchen counter with a lone plate of food next to her. “Finally decided to eat?”
“Yeah.” I grabbed the plate and sat down at the table.
“Want to tell me what’s going on?”
“No.”
“Did you get fired?”
“No.” I shoved a forkful of mashed potatoes into my mouth.
“What are you going to do with all the money you withdrew today?”
“Nothing.”
Gram bent down beside my chair, taking my hands into hers, suntanned and spotted with age. “Look,” she said, “this whole intuition thing, it isn’t easy. I’m sorry you had to be the one who inherited it.”
The potatoes stuck in my throat like paste.
“But, you get used to the idea, and it does become a gift in many ways, though it may not seem like it now. You see people on a deeper level, you feel things the rest of the world ignores. Although I know it’s confusing, I believe there’s a reason the gift went to you.”
“Gift . . . gift ?” I pushed away from the table. “Why do you keep calling it that? I don’t have it by the way. It’s just stupid old me in here and nothing else.”
“Really?” She looked kind of mad now, maybe because I was rejecting her special inheritance.
“Yeah. I mean, I never saw Dad. I never saw anything. When he died, I felt absolutely nothing. I don’t have the gift. I don’t.”
She searched my eyes, brown just like hers—another inheritance. “Emma,
What did he mean: No one’s ever been able to see me before? People didn’t say things like that. They said, “Hi. How’s the weather, did you have a good lunch?”
I pulled my legs up and wrapped my arms around them tight. What did I expect? I’d egged him on, fallen right into his trap. It was the last play, big guns and all, and I’d walked by like a big fluffy deer with its tail swishing around. What a fun summer he’d had.
“Emma, dinner’s cold,” Gran had been trying to lure me out of my room for the last hour, using her Salisbury steak and soft, steamy biscuits as bait. “Chocolate meringue pie!” She was worried, I could feel it.
“No, thanks! Not hungry.”
I heard her argue with Mom, telling her to come up and talk to me.
Pushing them out of my thoughts, I jumped off the bed to grab the book of Springvale with its no-fuss black and white cover. Sitting back down on the bed, I opened the front cover and began scanning pictures, starting from the mid-1800s. There were folks with sun-baked faces. They stood in the midst of a wild and unplowed earth. A town began to emerge; people looked healthy, happy, and proud of their little town beyond the bluffs.
The decades changed. Main Street, the one I knew, began to emerge with buildings of brick and stone among the original shanty-like structures. I turned another page, but stopped halfway.
Shakily, I pulled it back.
It was a shot of Main Street, 1956. Nothing exciting really, but my eyes couldn’t help focus on a tiny object jutting from the shadows in a very familiar way—it looked like the corner of someone’s elbow. I swung my legs over the bed and leaned into the lamp to get a better view. I had seen the same checkered print this whole summer, but with the book’s black and white photography, I couldn’t tell if it was the same blue. A lot of guys wore that kind of shirt back then. Back then. . . .
Taking a few steady breaths, I looked to the bottom of the shadow.
Black boots with scruffs on the toes, and above them a hint of a cuffed jean. Still, with the car and the building post in the way, it was hard to tell. I knew those boots; but of course, it was impossible. Everyone had boots like that in the fifties. I swallowed through a tight throat and rushed a hand through my wild, tangled hair. Maybe I did need to eat something, my brain wasn’t functioning.
I dropped the book onto the dresser and rushed down the stairs.
“Hey, look who’s out.” Grandmother Carrie stood by the kitchen counter with a lone plate of food next to her. “Finally decided to eat?”
“Yeah.” I grabbed the plate and sat down at the table.
“Want to tell me what’s going on?”
“No.”
“Did you get fired?”
“No.” I shoved a forkful of mashed potatoes into my mouth.
“What are you going to do with all the money you withdrew today?”
“Nothing.”
Gram bent down beside my chair, taking my hands into hers, suntanned and spotted with age. “Look,” she said, “this whole intuition thing, it isn’t easy. I’m sorry you had to be the one who inherited it.”
The potatoes stuck in my throat like paste.
“But, you get used to the idea, and it does become a gift in many ways, though it may not seem like it now. You see people on a deeper level, you feel things the rest of the world ignores. Although I know it’s confusing, I believe there’s a reason the gift went to you.”
“Gift . . . gift ?” I pushed away from the table. “Why do you keep calling it that? I don’t have it by the way. It’s just stupid old me in here and nothing else.”
“Really?” She looked kind of mad now, maybe because I was rejecting her special inheritance.
“Yeah. I mean, I never saw Dad. I never saw anything. When he died, I felt absolutely nothing. I don’t have the gift. I don’t.”
She searched my eyes, brown just like hers—another inheritance. “Emma,
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