Soon after the Quattlebaums leave in their big, noisy truck, the moving van arrives.
"Which is my bedroom?" I ask Mom. She'll be preoccupied with the movers for a while, and I'll have time to find a hiding place for my camera bag. I can't wait to take another look at Henry Peterson's things.
"Papa Dan's is the last one on the second floor," she says. "Take one of the others."
I choose the smallest room. It's painted a pale blue and doesn't have any furniture, which is good; I'd rather use my own dresser and sleep in my own bed. A window overlooks the backyard, and another window shows the huge mulberry tree in the side yard and the Quattlebaums' farmhouse off in the distance.
I'm heading for the closet when I hear a loud thump at the window and turn to look. Nothing is there, but I get the weirdest feeling that I'm being watched. 'Come on, Tansy. Get a grip', I told myself. A gust of wind probably made a limb on the tree scrape against the pane. I study the rain-glossed green leaves on the branches a moment, think how pretty they are, and unzip my camera bag. Reaching inside, I pull out my camera. I left color film in it the last time I used it, and for the first time in a long while, I have the urge to capture a scene.
I look through the viewfinder, my breath catching when I see a little gray bird perched on the window ledge. I'm sure it wasn't there before, but now it faces the window, as if it's staring straight at me. "Hey, there," I murmur. "Where did you come from?" Stooping and leaning closer, I adjust the lens for a clearer view, but something isn't right. The windowsill should be blue, but it looks as gray as the bird. Standing, I turn around, and still peering through the viewfinder, scan the room; everything within the frame looks gray and dreary. The walls. The hardwood floor. The light. The lens must be dirty. When I glance to the window again, the bird is gone.
Disappointed, I return the camera to the bag, then pull out Henry's pocket watch. I pop the latch, reset the time, and wind it, listening to it tick. I wish I could sit down right this minute and flip through the journal. I'm dying to learn more about Henry, but I don't want Mom to find me reading his poems. I'm not going to tell her about his things. He must've hid everything for a reason, and I feel a responsibility to respect his privacy.
The sun is about to set. Mom and I got hungry so we drive into Cedar Canyon to eat at the Longhorn Café. Our van jostles over the redbrick streets, past Cedar Canyon Hardware, the public library, and the two-story courthouse with its tall clock tower. We turn on Main, a street lined with shiny black lampposts and storefronts flanked by wooden barrels of mums. Mom parks in front of the newspaper office—the Cedar Canyon Gazette—which is directly across the street from the Longhorn Café.
Walking past the bull statue, we open the door and step into a sea of denim jeans, sneakers, and work boots. Nothing sets a single person apart from anyone else; at least that's what I think until a door beneath the Restroom sign at the back of the café opens and the one exception walks out—a girl about my age. She wears white shorts, sparkly black flip-flops, and an orange cheerleader jacket. Her cheerleader status must be a big deal to her; it's short-sleeve weather, but I guess she thinks the jacket is worth the sweat.
The girl stares at us as she parts the denim sea. She looks a lot like Hailey. She has the same big eyes and pale blond hair that she wears in a ponytail. The girl is tall and thin like Hailey, too. I watch her cross to a table where two people sit who I didn't notice before—a girl with long, wavy auburn hair and a freckled guy with messy curls. Seeing them all together, I feel a stab of loneliness. Just before the cheerleader slides in across from her friends, she turns to speak to a woman at the table behind her, and I see the name Alison written across the back of her jacket.
A waitress leads us to a booth on the far side of the room. Everyone in the café seems to know everyone else. They call out to one another as we weave around them. Hey, Bud, hey, Sarah. Billy, how's work? We missed you in church on Sunday. How are the kiddos? A lot of talk. A lot of laughter. I'm pretty sure we'll soon be the topic of conversation, since most of them look at us as if we just flew in from outer space. I could be imagining this, but I doubt it. We don't exactly fit in. Papa Dan wears his beret slanted to one side and the lenses of his round, tortoiseshell glasses are so thick that his eyes look like bulging green grapes. Mom wears a pink satin blouse with a mandarin collar, baggy black pants, and pink ballet slippers. Then there's me; I'm a sucker for hats, so is Papa Dan. He has a collection—berets, fedoras, old-fashioned newsboy caps. Today I'm wearing a gray felt fedora with a black satin band. The brim hides my eyes. A bonus.
I was right when I guessed the Longhorn Café wouldn't have a vegetarian menu. At first I think that means no dinner for me, since I don't eat meat. But the waitress points out a salad bar, so I walk over to check it out. The containers are filled with more pasta, canned peas, and mayo-coated salads than fresh vegetables, but it's better than nothing. I pick up an empty plate and put some carrot and celery sticks on it.
"The potato salad's good," said a guy's voice beside me. "But I'd rather stay away from the cottage cheese gelatin mold."
I look up, and instantly lock my eyes into the bluest eyes I've ever SEEN! Which belongs to the hottest dude I've EVER seen since we came to Texas!
Oh~my... if only you guys could see what I see. You'll understand why I almost skip a breath watching him so desperately... (^_~)!
I swear you guys! THIS GUY IS HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT!