“Call if you need anything.”
I snort. “You took my phone, remember.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Wesley are home all day. They’ll keep an eye out.”
“I’m not a baby.”
“You’re not exactly responsible either,” she reminds me.
One day, two mistakes, and they’re on the verge of hiring a babysitter for me.
“It’s a shame you are going to miss the concert.”
My heart clenches. An afternoon concert, followed up by dinner and then tickets to the ballet. Something I was so looking forward to, but since I screwed up, they offered my tickets to my older sister, Brisa. At least she is studying something reasonable, like education. My parents may not be able to afford private lessons, or anything like that, but they’ve always made sure we took in the arts. So why the hell don’t they support my desire to go to a music school?
On the other hand, it isn’t like Mom and Dad go out and buy the tickets. Clients are always giving them to her. Mom works at one of the biggest accounting firms in the city, with all kinds of bigwig clients who often hand out tickets for concerts, the theater, sporting events and the like. This time I’m the one losing out.
Once the family room and living room have been dusted and vacuumed, I clean the three bathrooms, which is probably the grossest job on the planet. Especially when it’s the bathroom my little brother uses. If anything, I want a shower when I’m done, but if I do that, I won’t want to keep cleaning because I’ll get dirty again. Instead, I wash my hands until they are red, to make sure all the gross stuff my brother dripped everywhere is no longer on me and go back to the kitchen and look at the list.
That’s when I see “In case I forgot anything, clean from top to bottom and everything in between,” at the bottom of the list.
When did Mom put that there?
Crap.
Top, as in attic? Bottom as in basement? Neither place ever gets cleaned. We store stuff in the attic, and the basement is for laundry, and that’s about it. Well, Dad does have a workbench down there and a bunch of tools and stuff. It can get damp down there so Mom and Dad have never done anything else with it. The only time I remember spending anytime in the basement was when I was a kid. We used to ride bikes and little cars down there when it was too snowy, cold or icy to be outside. Sometimes we’d kick a ball around, but that was about it.
Well, since I’m already feeling gross from cleaning the bathroom John uses, I head upstairs to the walk up attic. If I can get this place cleaned up and somehow make some room, maybe Mom and Dad will let me move up here, then I won’t have to go back to sharing a room with Savannah when Brisa is home from school. It’s not fair that Brisa got to go off to college and live in a dorm room when Mom and Dad refuse to even consider the possibility of me doing the same thing. It’s not like I’m irresponsible or wild. At least Brisa lets Savannah stay in her room when she’s away, giving me some peace from my little sister.
The room is huge and I can stand up without fear of hitting my head. Sunlight filters in through the dirty windows and dust dances in air. My nose starts to tickle but I fight the sneeze. Slowly I turn. I am going to transform this room and organize it. Then, I’m going to clean the house like it’s never been cleaned before, and with any luck, I might just carve out a place of my own, up and away from everyone in the house.
After getting the Christmas decorations stacked in one corner, I add the other holiday decorations next to them, not that I remember Mom getting them out for years.
I take down clothes that no longer fit anyone and put them with the stack going to charity, along with toys that nobody plays with. The more junk I get out of here, the more room I’ll have.
In the opposite corner are the keepsakes. Mom has tubs for all of us. From christening dresses, to our first report cards and all kinds of things she wants to hold onto as a memento from our birth to the last thing we brought home worth keeping. She practically needs a room just for the boxes and tubs. They are all marked with our names and a bit of nostalgia hits as I wonder what’s in my tubs. What did Mom and Dad want to keep? As I reach for it, I see a pink box on a separate shelf.
Curiosity overcomes me and I pull it off the shelf. It isn’t even dusty, as if Mom or Dad had looked in it recently.
In fine, white print, The Rattle Box, is written in the top corner. Taking it to the center of the room where the light is better, I sit down on the floor and open it.
Nine
Brandy,
You aren’t even born yet, but I know you are going to be a girl and it’s the name I’ve picked for you. I’m sure your adoptive parents will pick something else, but you are Brandy to me.
I guess I should tell you a little about myself. My name is Kelsey Fry and I’m sixteen-years-old. My mother is dead and I have no idea who my father is. I’m going to be a junior in
