A Million Ways Home Read online

  For Miss Jordan Kimmerly and her 2012 sixth-grade class at Marvista Elementary School. Your insightful questions, comments, and critiques made this a better book.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  I DIDN’T know how to make the little girl stop crying.

  She hovered against the wall of the North Shore Children’s Center, her bunny print blanket wrapped around her, big tears splashing down her chubby cheeks. She’d been here three days and cried nearly all the time. I didn’t know her story, or even her name, but it about drove me crazy that I couldn’t figure out a way to make her feel better. I knew she was probably just scared, and who could blame her? Being here made me want to cry, too. But you can get away with stuff at four that you can’t at twelve.

  I bounced a curled knuckle against my bottom lip and wondered if there were any games on my phone she might like to play with. Or I could show her my snow globe. What little kid wouldn’t think a snow globe was cool? It was at least worth a shot. But before I could duck back inside my room to grab it, the sharp tap-tap-tap of Miss Austin’s high heels made me stop. She rounded the corner, her red dress stretched tight against her wide hips. She caught sight of me watching from the end of the hall and wiggled her fingers. “Oh, there you are, Poppy. I was just coming to find you.”

  Her words gave me a jolt, though I couldn’t think of anything I’d done wrong.

  She paused long enough to swoop the little girl into her arms as she passed, patting her back and mumbling in her ear. Her big hoop earrings jiggled and danced with each step until she stopped in front of me. “I wanted to let you know that your grandma was released from the hospital today and moved to the Huckleberry Home.”

  It’s a funny thing how fast your brain can work, because the instant I heard the word released, my heart just about seized up with happiness. If Grandma Beth had been released, that meant she was out … free … it meant she was coming to get me. But then almost as fast, my brain told me that Miss Austin had continued to talk after the word released, that she’d said something about the Huckleberry Home, and my heart loosened again. “But … isn’t that a nursing home?”

  “It’s one of Spokane’s best.”

  “But she doesn’t need a nursing home. She’s getting better.”

  “She’s made some progress, yes. That’s why the doctor released her from the hospital. But she’s going to continue suffering the effects of her stroke for quite a while.”

  “Then I’ll take care of her, at our home.”

  Miss Austin sighed. She shifted the little girl in her arms. “Poppy, your grandma can’t walk, bathe, or dress herself without assistance. Now I know you love her dearly, but until she can do those things for herself again, she needs more help than you can give.”

  I clenched my hands to keep from jerking those bouncy hoops from her ears. How did she know what I could or couldn’t do? “Where is this place?”

  “Downtown, near Freemont Field.”

  “Can you take me to see her?”

  “Of course. Right after school tomorrow. How’s that?”

  Tomorrow? Tears burned my eyes. It had been ten days since Grandma Beth’s stroke, and I’d only been allowed to visit her twice. And now they’d shipped her off to an old people’s home. “I have to go now,” I said. “She probably needs me.”

  “I’m sorry, hon. I have a meeting with Health and Welfare in twenty minutes. Tomorrow’s the best I can do. And besides, your grandma probably needs time to settle in. Meet me here at three-thirty, okay?” She bent her head toward the little girl. “And now, what should we do with you, little miss Erin? How about if we go find you a cartoon to watch?” She turned and tapped off down the hall.

  I ducked back inside my room, sure I’d burst open with the unfairness of it all. I didn’t even have the phone number to the nursing home. How would I know if Grandma Beth was okay? Nobody else would be checking on her.

  My roommate, Sidney, was sprawled on her bed — only about six feet from mine — flipping through a Glamour Girl magazine. Which was the funniest thing, because Sidney was the last girl on earth who I’d think of as glamorous. She glared at me with her beady little eyes as though she could read my mind. “Sounds like your grandma isn’t doing so hot.”

  I looked away. I tried to make eye contact with Sidney as little as possible. “She’s doing okay,” I said.

  “Don’t sound like Miss A. thinks so.”

  “Well, she barely knows her.” I turned toward my bed and stopped short. I stared at the wrinkled blue bedspread with a panicky feeling. My cell phone was gone. I’d left it lying on the pillow when I’d stepped out into the hall to check on Erin. I patted my pockets just in case and took a quick glance around the cramped room. Socks, Skittles wrappers, used tissues — all of it Sidney’s garbage.

  “Something wrong?” she asked.

  I swallowed, and my heart started thumping like crazy, because I could tell from her tone of voice that she knew exactly what was wrong. I slowly faced her. “You don’t know where my phone is, do you?”

  She grunted. “No. I don’t keep track of your stuff.”

  “But it was … right here, on the bed, a minute ago.”

  She flipped a page of her magazine, and a little smile lifted one corner of her mouth. “Well, you know, they’re always telling us not to leave valuables lying around.”

  My knees started shaking. “You have it, don’t you?”

  Sidney lowered her magazine. “You wanna search me? Go for it.”

  I wanted to do a lot more than search her. I wanted to tie her in knots and shove her through the tiny little screened window above our beds. But the truth was, Sidney was twice my size and ten times meaner. Just accusing her took all the courage I had.

  I nearly bit my tongue in half trying not to cry. My cell phone was the only connection I had with Grandma Beth — now she wouldn’t even be able to call me. What if she didn’t like the Huckleberry Home? What if they weren’t taking care of her and she needed help? I couldn’t leave her all alone like that. I had to check on her now — not tomorrow afternoon.

  I dropped to my knees and groped under the mattress for my red mitten. I turned it upside down and let the coins clink into my palm — three dollars and twenty-six cents. It wasn’t enough for a taxi, but it would buy bus fare.

  Outside the center, the front gate stood open for the last of the kids straggling back from school. It was open from 7:00 to 7:30 each morning, and from 3:00 to 3:30 each afternoon. Any other time you needed a special pass. Nobody paid attention as I trotted past the paved entryway and crossed the grassy field to the sidewalk.

  My timing must have been about perfect, because I’d barely reached the nearest bus stop when a Spokane city bus huffed and hissed its way to the curb. One whole side of the bus was painted with a grinning lady wearing a milk mustache, and it made me remember all the times Grandma Beth and I had walked to the Handy Mart for milk. It was our Saturday-afternoon ritual. First the dairy aisle, then the produce section, and finally the bakery to buy a snack for the way home — an apple fritter for me, and a maple bar for Grandma Beth.

  I pushed the memory from my mind as I climbed onto the bus so that I wouldn’t
end up crying in front of a bunch of strangers. I tried to find Freemont Field on the city maps posted above the seats, but the print was small and people jostled around, blocking my view.

  I knew that running off had probably been one of those bad decisions Grandma Beth always referred to as impulsive. Think things through, Poppy. You’ll have less to regret. It’s what she told me the time I let a girl in class borrow my jacket because she thought it was cute, and I had to bug her for a week until she finally got around to bringing it back. Or the time I brought home a litter of abandoned kittens even though I knew pets weren’t allowed at our apartment.

  It’s not that I tried to be impulsive. It’s just that sometimes a decision that seemed so right at the time, turned out to be not so right a little later. I closed my eyes and tried to remember exactly what Miss Austin had said about the Huckleberry Home. But the details were all jumbled up with my anger over Sidney and my cell phone, and I couldn’t remember much of anything right then.

  The man sitting beside me was focused on his tablet. “Excuse me, sir,” I said. “Could you tell me where Freemont Field is?”

  “I think it’s at the end of the route,” he said, “at Mission and Regal, maybe?”

  Maybe? “Okay. Thank you.”

  The driver called out the choice of stops. I sat stiff in my seat and tried not to worry about what would happen if I got off at the wrong place. It seemed to take a long time, but I finally caught the word Regal, and I made my way forward, clutching the seats for balance.

  There wasn’t much chance for second-guessing, because as soon as I hopped off, the doors flapped shut and the bus roared away. I coughed my way through the diesel fumes and over to the sidewalk.

  In front of me stood a park and baseball diamond, chain-linked all the way around, with a big sign in front — CHIEF GARRY PARK. Across the street stretched a giant metal building that said FREEMONT STEEL, plus a few older houses — nothing that looked like a nursing home. I stared at the metal building. Freemont Steel sounded a lot like Freemont Field. What had Miss Austin really said? Why didn’t I get better directions? I should’ve at least grabbed my sweatshirt. I took a breath of the cool, pine-scented air and tried not to panic.

  Four little black-capped chickadees peered down at me from an electric wire, and seeing them made me feel instantly better. It was my job to fill the bird feeder at home, and most of our visitors were chickadees. I smiled up at them. “Hey, guys. Ever hear of the Huckleberry Home?”

  I fished in my pocket for some ChapStick and started off down the sidewalk. I wandered around for a long time, until I found a neighborhood of fancier homes with small lawns and pots of frosted petunias on the porches. I stopped two joggers and a lady on a scooter, but none of them had heard of the Huckleberry Home. Each time I smiled and said thanks, like it was no big deal, but inside I was getting quivery with worry.

  Finally, I came to a corner gas station with a flashing neon sign advertising snacks and pop. My stomach growled like it could read. I pushed through the double glass doors and scanned the display of candy bars. I heard Grandma Beth’s voice again. If you have to eat candy, at least eat a little protein with your sugar. I picked out a Snickers bar and walked up to the cashier. “Have you ever heard of the Huckleberry Home?”

  “Sure have,” she said with a warm smile.

  My heart almost melted with relief. “Really?”

  “Yep. My aunt Margo lives there. It’s right next to Memorial Hospital.”

  “Memorial Hospital?” I echoed. “Well, is it very far from here?”

  “Oh, I’d say about four miles.”

  The look on my face must’ve given me away. The cashier squinted and scooted up her glasses. “Are you okay, kiddo? You’re not lost or anything, are you?”

  Something about her kind face made me want to blurt everything out, to tell her how perfectly normal my life had been up until Grandma Beth’s stroke. How we’d lived together and taken care of each other and done just fine. How the main things I’d worried about were passing math and convincing Luke Cleary that he wasn’t the only sixth grader who liked country music — that I liked it, too.

  But I didn’t tell the cashier anything, because you could never be sure how an adult was going to react to things. I ducked my head. “I’m fine,” I said and bumped the candy bar toward her. “This is all I need.”

  She took the little pile of coins I dropped in her hand, hesitated, and then handed the money back. “It’s on me today.”

  “It is? Thanks,” I said, giving her a shaky smile and hurrying outside before she could ask any more questions. I ripped the wrapper off the candy bar and took a big bite. Gooey sweetness filled my mouth and made me feel better, but not for long. If the Huckleberry Home was four miles away, it might as well be forty. I didn’t have enough money for more bus fare. But I could feel the cashier watching me through the window and knew I couldn’t just stand there looking lost. She might come out and ask me more questions. Or maybe she’d think I was a runaway and call the cops. The thought made me giggle. I guess I kind of was a runaway.

  I threw my candy wrapper in the garbage and walked a few blocks past the gas station. After a while, I stumbled across a school playground and slumped on the bottom of the slide to rest my throbbing feet. Huge trees circled the playground. I loved big trees, especially Ponderosa pine and Douglas fir — loved their sharp, fresh smell and the way they endured wind and snow and lightning. Grandma Beth said old trees were a marvel, that if only they could talk, they’d amaze us with their wisdom. She always contributed to the Arbor Day Foundation, and I couldn’t remember how many times she’d read me The Giving Tree when I was a little kid. It was still on my bookshelf at home.

  I sure wished for some of that old-tree wisdom right then. My stomach still rumbled, and a light wind brought goose bumps to my arms. I closed my eyes and quit fighting the tears that had been threatening all afternoon. Why hadn’t I just waited for Miss Austin to take me to the Huckleberry Home? Now I’d have to call her for a ride, and probably get a lecture. She’d probably make sure Grandma Beth heard about it, too.

  I patted my pocket for my cell phone … and then remembered. Maybe the friendly cashier would let me use hers. I headed back to the mini-mart feeling defeated, and wondering how I’d ever get my phone back from Sidney.

  I’d just started across the blacktop of the gas station parking lot when a loud boom made my whole body go rigid. A lady screamed. A man pumping gas threw an arm over his head. The way his mouth made a big O shape made me giggle — didn’t he realize it was probably just a firecracker left over from the Fourth of July? Fireworks were illegal in Spokane County, because of the danger of forest fire, but people always set them off anyway.

  But then a second boom sounded, loud enough to make my chest vibrate, and I was suddenly thinking gunshot and not fireworks.

  I realized I was standing in the middle of the parking lot, which was probably not the safest place to be. I sprinted around the back side of the mini-mart and flattened myself against the brick wall. I didn’t notice the back door just a few feet away until it flew open. A bony man with a long, drooping mustache burst out, a gun clutched in his hand.

  He jerked around, panicked, and our eyes locked.

  I broke out in a cold sweat.

  My legs turned to rubber, and I dropped into a crouch. I put my hands in front me. “Don’t,” I whimpered. “Please … don’t.”

  An awful heartbeat passed.

  The man covered the ten feet between us in a flash. He bent over me, so close I could smell the stink of his breath. “Who are you?”

  “P-Priscilla,” I whispered. “Priscilla Parker.”

  He pressed a black-gloved hand against my mouth and glared at me. I’d never seen anyone with eyes like his — damp and overly bright. More like glowing lights instead of eyes. “A smart kid would keep her mouth shut,” he said. “And an idiot would talk. Which are you?”

  I tried to say smart, but I couldn’t move
my lips with the way his hand was pushed up against them. A car door slammed nearby, and he dropped his hand, whirled around, and scaled the wooden fence that separated the gas station from the rocky base of a hill.

  I collapsed onto the black asphalt and tried to keep my stomach from coming out of my mouth. Noise came from the other side of the building — terrified voices and the slap of shoes on pavement. I jammed my hands into my armpits and focused on breathing. The haunting wail of sirens filled the air a few minutes later, but I was still too afraid to move.

  “Hey, kid! Let’s see your hands.”

  The gruff voice scared me so bad I banged my head against the bricks. A police officer eyed me from the corner, his gun pointed toward the ground. Another man stood beside him, taller, not in a uniform.

  I raised my hands and started to cry. “I thought he was gonna shoot me,” I blurted.

  “Who?” both men asked.

  “The g-g-guy with the g-g-gun,” I stuttered, pointing to the fence. “He went that way.”

  “Get K-9 out here,” the taller man ordered. He watched the officer scurry back around the front of the building, then he came over and squatted in front of me. He wore a badge clipped to his belt and a dark brown leather jacket that smelled like fresh dirt after a rainstorm. “I’m Detective Trey Brannigan,” he said. “What’s your name?”

  “Priscilla — Poppy.”

  His eyebrows went up. “Poppy? Like the flower?”

  I nodded.

  “And your last name?”

  “Parker.”

  He smiled. “Well, Poppy Parker, you can put your hands down now.”

  I tried to brush my tears away, but my hands were shaking so bad they bumped all around like they weren’t part of me.

  “You’re okay,” he said. “Everything’s gonna be all right.” He stood, offered a hand, and pulled me up. “Are you here with somebody?”

  I shook my head. A wave of dizziness made me sway.

  He put out an arm to steady me. “You’re okay,” he repeated. “Do you have a cell phone to call your parents?”

  “No. And you can’t call them anyway.”