The Secret Hum of a Daisy: Chapters 1–8

I sat down on the cold concrete steps under the eaves and watched the slush come down.

She took my hand in hers, our fingers intertwined like a chocolate-and-vanilla swirl.

I looked up into the sky and wondered about heaven. If it was a big empty space or if there were all kinds of comfy chairs placed in small groups so new people wouldn’t be overwhelmed.

I thought they were the most beautiful creatures I’d ever seen and always felt a twinge when they flew away to their forever home, wishing we’d find ours.

“Sometimes it helps to write about things that make you sad.”
I eyed her skeptically. “You’re just trying to trick me into writing practice.”

The sheriff’s car led the funeral procession—patrol lights flashing against the world—turned left, and climbed a winding road to a small, unfenced cemetery.

“I’ve got the hosiery shop. It’s called Threads.”

I wasn’t going to tell Grandma about the birds Mama used to make, or how the crane was her happiest bird, the one she always used for treasure-hunt clues.

As much as I’d like to see Grandma as the witch in that cottage, she was actually pretty ordinary looking. No tinge of green or warts.

She had a tiny silver cross at her neck, the only delicate part of her, it seemed, and a habit of touching it, like it was a raft floating in the middle of our wide and deep silences.

Her voice was low and husky like Mama’s.

Brass numbers hung on the front porch post, the middle number missing. I could tell from the tarnished outline that it had been the number 4.

After ten days of trying to talk me into the house, Grandma tossed up her hands and said the word “independent” as though it were a curse word. But Mama always told me I was stubborn as a rusted hinge, so Grandma was no match.

Next, I took out my biggest pair of jeans and cinched them with a belt.

The next part of the plan was “misplacing” things like the can opener and toilet paper. Plus I’d be obnoxious all the time.

When we’d hang out in her room, I’d make her lace up her pointe shoes so I could watch her dance and I’d clap and carry on, since that’s what Lacey needed. But more than the pirouettes, I liked the thunk, thunk, thunk sound the slippers made as she came down off her toes and waddled across the floor in fits of giggles.

I swear, she’d try on all the clothes she owned, every single morning, often leaving us the option of running all the way to school or being late. It annoyed me that her curls survived intact while mine would frizz somewhere along Whimley Road, so every once in a while I’d suggest that, for heaven’s sake, pick your clothes the night before!

“You worry too much,” she’d always said, putting her finger right between my eyebrows where I had a permanent crease. Mama said I’d been born pensive, which I had to look up. It meant I was always thinking deeply.

Your mom knows I’m the only one who can talk sense to you when you’re in a snit.

Mary Lou Jenkins from my second-grade class in Buttonwillow, who used to pull out one hair at a time and eat it like spaghetti? That was a compulsion.

As much as my rational mind tried to talk me into facts, it didn’t have as much power as my imagination and the feeling that Mama was so close, I could almost smell the peeled-apple scent of her soap.

My notebook was there, nestled in beside my binder.

The sheriff himself stood over the open engine with a look of determination, as though he wasn’t used to anything getting the best of him.

All that bigness was almost scary like a storm coming, or a really big wave, but he was handsome, too, in a rugged, stubbled sort of way.

I contemplated not telling her, but a tiny break from Plan B wouldn’t hurt anything.

It was an origami crane, dirty and weathered.

Because Mama didn’t leave a last will and testament or any other sort of directions as to what she wanted, she must be trying to let me know—in our own secret way—that she wanted me to follow the treasure-hunt clues.

He was seven, eight tops, with hair so wispy, it looked more like a halo than something you could tug on with a brush.

“Look at my notes! There are grass stains and smudgy footprint stains, and now maybe I’ll read a word in my notes as exothermic when it’s really endothermic and I’ll flunk my science quiz.”

“You don’t have to do everything for me. It’s not like I’m an imbecile,” Max said.

“You don’t have to do everything for me. It’s not like I’m an imbecile,” Max said.
“You mean invalid.”

The collection of her reminded me of Mama’s birds, somehow. How there was always more to them than just rivets and glue and metal.

There was Ginger Peppers, who was so expressive, she could have been mistaken for a mime if she didn’t talk so much.

Chiaroscuro! The transition between light and dark. Show me what you’ve learned about contour.

Mrs. Donatello hurried away from Archer and Stubbie, all flailing arms, to deal with one of the smaller kids, who’d dropped his whole lunch tray and burst into tears.

She took a swig of milk and cleared her throat.

Then there was Ginger, who was known to break out into Shakespearean monologues, which Jo was starting to think she made up as she went along, because who would know the difference?

“Rather long this winded jester takes to fix his shrunken pride!”

“Organization is the cornerstone of life. When I have my own advice column, every Monday will be Organization Day. What better way to start the week?”

“I have friends,” I said with more gusto than I should have.