Chapter 8

8

E ntering the gloomy farmhouse felt like walking into a prison. Libby always worked hard to avoid confrontations with Aunt Marge. The woman had a warped sense of right and wrong, and Libby could never figure out where her thinking came from. Thank God for Peter and her new phone. She texted him throughout the day and on the bus ride home; it made this crummy day tolerable. His humor gave her the courage to face Aunt Marge.

Libby peeked into the living room, which was empty, except for her aunt's clutter of beer cans and old copies of the National Enquirer. As quietly as possible, she stepped into the kitchen, then startled.

Aunt Marge closed the fridge and popped open a beer as she spotted Libby. Her frizzy, gray hair stuck out around her wrinkled face.

"Well, well, well. The little criminal shows her face. "

Libby fixed her gaze at the floor, hoping to prevent a fight, then slunk over to the stairs. The best solution was to disappear to her room.

"Where do you think you're going? Get back here. Your principal thinks we need to have a talk." She folded her arms across her faded shirt.

Libby lowered her backpack to the floor and returned to the kitchen doorway.

"So what do you have to say for yourself?" Aunt Marge asked with the voice of an evil witch.

Libby knew a trick question when she heard it. No matter what she said, it wouldn't change the temperature of the hot water she was in.

"Speak up. Don't play your shy game with me, I know better." Aunt Marge leaned against the counter, which was cluttered with piles of dirty dishes and stacks of junk mail, sales flyers, and unpaid bills.

"I'm sorry."

What more could she say? If she had money, she wouldn't need to steal. Her parents would have given her an allowance, or at least let her get a job and earn her own money.

"Sorry? Do you really think you can make this go away with a simple sorry? Ha!" she spat. "That arrogant principal pulled me away from my work to preach about the value of integrity and discipline. He seems to think I haven't been firm enough with you." She glared resentfully at Libby .

Libby stood silent, waiting for the storm to hit full force. And what work could Aunt Marge possibly be pulled away from?

"So what are we gonna do about this?" Aunt Marge took a drag of her beer; the smell of hops hung in the air. "Your stealing shows your need for attention. What was so important you needed money for?"

Libby couldn't tell her about the Jamieson CD; she'd take it away and destroy it. The CD belonged to her, regardless of how she got it. What could she say? Her mind darted for something, anything to explain it.

"I bought perfume," she blurted. "From the drugstore." Hopefully, that would appease her.

Aunt Marge's eyes narrowed. "Perfume, what for?"

"I just wanted to smell good. I always smell like smoke."

Her aunt's lip curled in distaste. "Is that so? You saying it stinks in here?"

Libby watched her aunt peer around the kitchen as if seeing it for the first time. Piles of dirty clothes stank in a corner, the garbage can overflowed with beer cans, and the kitchen table strained under more junk and clutter.

"Well, we can't have Your Royal Highness unhappy. Tell you what. Since you're so upset about the way you smell, this is the perfect time for you to clean up this place." A cruel smile appeared on her thin lips.

"But I have homework." It would take hours, maybe days, to clean this disaster. She needed to get back to Peter .

"You can start with the kitchen today, and we'll have you work your way through the house, a new room every day. You'll smell fresh and clean like lemon Pledge when you're done."

"But . . ." Libby interrupted.

"Uh-uh-uh." Her aunt pointed a tobacco-stained finger at her. Her voice crooned innocence, but darkness threatened below the surface. "You are not in a position to argue. I do not ever want to hear the voice of your principal again. You have a lot of work to do."

She tilted her beer can and poured it onto the kitchen floor. "It's a real mess in here." Aunt Marge sneered as she trailed out of the kitchen letting the remainder of her beer trickle throughout the house as she went.

Libby was plotting the fifty ways she'd get back at her aunt. But despite Libby's anger, she dove into her punishment with fervor, beginning with the mountain of dirty dishes and utensils. It took forever, since dried food cemented itself to the surface of every item.

After a few hours, the room began to resemble a normal kitchen, except the table still overflowed with papers. It surprised Libby, the pride she felt cleaning up the pigsty. She dragged the trash bin to the table and took a seat where she began to sort through the piles. She tossed newspapers and junk mail, discovered a long-forgotten loaf of bread growing penicillin for anyone brave enough to touch it. She scooped the bread into the trash bag with a newspaper.

She grabbed an empty envelope, but something about it caught her eye. She paused and stared down at the familiar handwriting. Her heart raced as she reached in and retrieved it.

Her name was printed on the envelope in her father's neat penmanship.

Libby's breath caught in her throat. He hadn't forgotten her. She looked inside, but the envelope was empty. She scanned the messy table for the letter, then returned to the envelope. The postmark read: May 16, Atlanta, Georgia.

Atlanta? Why was he in Atlanta? Thoughts rushed through her mind. Did he have a new job there? Was he coming to get her soon?

Libby set the precious envelope aside and turned back to the mountain of trash on the table before her. She rifled through it, tossing odd items to the floor, heedless of the new mess she created. Where was the letter? Her urgency grew as her fingers touched item after item.

Hidden under a plate of fossilized pizza, Libby discovered another envelope. Her heart soared as she pulled out the single sheet and read.

Dear Libby,

I hope this letter finds you happy in Rockville, enjoying the carefree days of high school. I'm sorry I'm not there for you, but losing your mother and Sarah has sent me to a painful place I don't know how to escape.

The last months I've driven the back roads of the South, trying to make sense of all that has happened. One day we had it all, and the next it was gone. No one ever taught me how to survive such loss. Part of me wishes to see you again, but the other part knows that every time I look at you, I will see your mother and sister looking back. It breaks my heart. Please forgive your old man for his weakness.

Here are a few dollars. Go out with your friends and catch a movie or buy something nice. God knows you deserve better.

Dad

Tears rolled down her cheeks. She traced his signature with her finger. Touching the ink was the closest she could get to him. Didn't he want her anymore? Libby picked up the envelope and flipped it over. The faded postmark read June 29, Tatum, New Mexico. Now it was October. He had abandoned her at Aunt Marge's. Didn't he know how much she needed him ?

She wiped away the tears with her sleeve. Crying wouldn't help anything. She returned to the remaining mess on the table, searching for more correspondence, but discovered nothing. Her heart felt empty and lonely as she sat with two envelopes and a sad letter. Loneliness settled around her.

The phone vibrated in her back pocket, forcing her thoughts back to the present. Peter. A small smile lit her face. She reached for the phone and read the text.

Concert's over, can you talk?

Her fingers fumbled over the screen of her new toy.

No, soon. I'll call you.

She returned the phone to the safety of her pocket and pulled her sweater down. Before she talked to Peter, there was something she needed to do.

Libby entered the darkened living room, letter in hand. Things were about to change. Her aunt had some questions to answer, and Libby refused to be bullied anymore. Aunt Marge snored lightly in her chair, and QVC droned in the background. How did one wake a sleeping monster?

She turned off the TV and flipped on a light, illuminating the harsh room.

Her aunt sputtered. "What? Who's there? "

Libby waited, patient. Aunt Marge shook off her sleep and sat up straighter, her eyes narrow slits of suspicion.

"What's your problem now? Got that kitchen clean?"

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

"About this?" She held out the letter, far enough so her aunt could see it, but not take it. The woman would never touch Libby's letter again.

Realization washed across her aunt's face. Her posture tensed for a split second and then relaxed. "Oh, that." She waved her hand, then reached for a pack of cigarettes.

"This letter belongs to me. Why didn't you give it to me?"

"I guess I forgot." She placed a cigarette in her mouth and lit it.

"Where is the other letter? And where is the money he sent?" Libby glared at her, willing to fight this to the end. Aunt Marge was keeping her from her dad.

"First off, this is my house, not yours. Anything in it belongs to me, and I'll do what I want with it." She took a long drag on the cigarette. "Secondly, your father owes me far more than the paltry money he adds to his letters. Fifty dollars a month doesn't begin to pay for your food, let alone all the other things you need." She blew the smoke into the air between them.

"Once a month! He's written every month?" Libby couldn't believe it. She had missed him so much and here he'd been writing regularly. "Where are the letters? They belong to me. I want them. Now!" She stepped closer, her hands on her hips in a vain attempt to appear threatening.

"They're gone. Burned out back," she answered, unfazed. "You should thank me, too. All he did was drivel on about how sad he is. Trust me, you don't need his ramblings. When you got here, you were a shy mousy little thing afraid of your own shadow. Look at you now! Not only are you standing up for yourself, you're shoplifting."

Her aunt tipped the ash of her cigarette into an overflowing ashtray. "You're growing a backbone. It's enough to make your auntie proud, but I can't be having you getting caught. That will not do."

"I didn't shoplift," Libby stated through clenched teeth. "Yeah, whatever. You stole the cash, that's all that matters."

"And if I had the money my dad sent, I would have never lowered myself to that level."

"Never say never. You'd be surprised at how that can come back to bite you in the ass."

"You don't know anything about me, so don't pretend you do. The next time my father writes, I expect to get the letter. Unopened." God, she hated this woman.

"You'd better learn to watch your mouth, or I'll be doing it for you. Oh, and I wouldn't go expecting anything soon. He hasn't written in a few months. He's probably moved on and forgotten you. It's just you and me now, two peas in a pod." A tiny bug crawled across the arm of her chair. Aunt Marge grabbed a nearby newspaper and squashed it.

Libby wanted to reach out and slap the woman, but knew she never could. With lack of a good comeback, she turned on her heel and stomped upstairs. She needed privacy, away from this horrible woman who seemed to enjoy Libby's pain.

Peter was waiting for her call. Talking to him would instantly take her mind off her troubles and her aunt's betrayal. She slammed her door for effect.