Uncle Laine clapped my dad on the shoulders and started into the living room.
“There’s my girl,” he said, wrapping me in a strong hug as I stood up to greet him. It was like being hugged by a bear. He looked down at me. “You like it?”
“It’s something,” I said.
He laughed. “Just needs a little loving. I’ll help your dad out when I can.”
He quickly gave my brother and my mom hugs as well and then plopped himself down on one of the boxes.
“Sandy and the kids would have come, but it was already getting late. We’ll have to have you over sometime next week for dinner. I got off a bit late tonight, or I would have come earlier. Got to get as many shifts in as I can.”
Stache frowned. “Why do you say that?”
Laine forced a smile and shook his head. “Closing the factory down. Got a few months and that’s it.”
“That’s awful,” my mom said. “When did they decide that?”
“Been a long time coming,” Laine replied. “I knew at least six months ago. Been trying to find something new, but no one’s hiring around here. Not a big lug who’s been working the same job for twenty-five years, anyway.” He waved a hand. “Never mind that. Something will come up. It’s going to be a lot better now that you guys are around.”
He shot me a lopsided grin.
“Maybe we can go hunting.”
“No,” I said immediately.
“Tom came with me once last year, remember?” he said, patting Tom on the shoulder.
“That’s when I saw the hole,” Tom agreed.
My mom sighed. Tom had told everyone he’d seen faint light in the shape of a hole in the woods that day, which was highly unlikely for any number of reasons. Laine just ruffled his hair.
“Exactly. So you’ll come along next time, Laura?”
“I’ll just look at the deer, thank you,” I said.
He laughed. “Fair enough. Don’t worry: we’ll find something to do.”
There was something strange in his voice, but I couldn’t pick it out. We talked for another half an hour or so after that, and then Laine said he had to get back home to help put the kids to bed. We gathered at the door to see him off, and he gave everyone a last hug before climbing in his old beat-up black truck and pulling out of the driveway. He smiled when he waved and drove away, but I could tell he was a bit off. Obviously he was thinking about the factory.
“I hope they’ll be all right,” my mom said as she closed the door. “Sandra doesn’t work either. If they don’t find something, they’re going to be in trouble.”
“It’ll work out,” my dad replied, heading for his tools.
Stache is the perennial optimist. He strapped on his tool belt and rubbed his hands together eagerly, looking around. “What should I do next?”
—
That night I lay down on my mattress—we still had to put my bed frame together—and tried to be positive. I was mostly thinking about spiders crawling on me, but I was trying. Maybe the weird message in my closet didn’t mean anything. And maybe I imagined the shape. And maybe the last guy who lived here just decided to move or something. It was possible.
And maybe, just maybe, the kids in my school would all turn out to be good friends. There might not be a Portia Carson at my new school. Maybe they viewed plumpness as a sign of wealth and power. It was unlikely, but I didn’t know. And until I did, it couldn’t hurt to dream.
I could even try dieting again. I’d tried plenty of times before, but after two weeks of being completely miserable and not seeing the slightest change in my reflection, I usually just gave up. My mom said I just had big bones, which was fine, except apparently they made my butt big too. Go figure.
I’m a pretty big girl in general, taller and heavier than all the girls in my grade and probably most of the boys as well. My grandma Elly always tells me I’m pretty, and she might be right. I have long, wavy chestnut hair that falls down past my shoulders, bright-green eyes, and fairly good skin—most days anyway. My grandma says I could be a model, and she doesn’t ever add the if. I love my grandma.
She lives in the city, which is about a forty-minute drive from here. She is seventy-one, but she still lives all by herself in a big old house and has for almost ten years since my grandpa passed away. She is proud and fiery and fiercely independent. Some of my favourite weekends were spent at her house, going to movies and taking walks in the park. We went to visit her before we moved.
“Are you excited?” she’d asked me from the kitchen, where she was making food as usual. You weren’t allowed to sit in my grandma’s house without eating something. She was always baking or making soup or something like that.
“I guess,” I said reluctantly, reading a book at the table.
She glanced at me. “I want you to promise me something.”
“What?”
“I want you to promise me that you’ll give yourself a chance.”
I frowned. “That’s not the problem. The problem is no one else does.”
She shrugged and turned back to the stove. “Not in my experience.”
She always said that. I guess it was an easy way to end an argument, since she was fifty-eight years older than me. But maybe she was right. I was pretty hard on myself.
I decided to make the most of the move. I was going to start eating right again. And exercising more. I used to play softball—I was the best youth player in
