Belles Read online

  Mimi nodded. “Just like you showed me at swim class this morning.” She mimicked a frog, showing Izzie her breast-stroke. It seemed to be the easiest stroke for Mimi to master, so they’d concentrated on that one first.

  “Perfect,” Izzie said with a smile, and then began swinging her arms in a circular motion forward. “Tomorrow we’ll work on this one, okay?”

  “I can’t do that one.” Mimi’s face scrunched up in frustration. “My arms don’t go fast enough.”

  “What do I always tell you?” Izzie asked, and then the two of them said it together: “No guts, no glory.” She nudged Mimi with her elbow, and the girl smiled. “I’ll see you at nine am.”

  “Thanks!” Mimi pulled her falling towel around her tighter as she ran down the hall.

  “No running in flip-flops!” Izzie called after her with a smile, then turned and paused as she always did outside the pool doorway and looked at the glass case of swim team trophies and pictures. Her fingers grazed the glass in front of the swim team picture from 1988. Her mom’s young face smiled back at her. She was taller and skinnier than Izzie was at the same age, but Coach Bing said they had the same spark and determination.

  “I can’t do it,” Izzie remembered saying to her mom like it was yesterday. She was five. They were in the center’s pool, and she was clinging to her mom’s torso like it was a life preserver. “I won’t be able to breathe!”

  “Isabelle, relax,” her mother said calmly. She set Izzie on the side of the pool. “No one can breathe underwater unless they have an oxygen tank or a snorkel tube. Well”—she scratched her chin—“except for the fish and the baby belugas.”

  Belugas were Izzie’s favorite sea creature. She and her mom loved the Raffi song about the little whale. It was Izzie’s goal in life to swim with one, and that would never happen if she never learned how to swim.

  “But you go underwater,” Izzie reminded her. “And you do, like, a zillion laps!”

  Her mom nodded. “Yep, but I still can’t breathe underwater.”

  “How do you do it?” Izzie folded her wet arms across her chest to keep from shivering. The water was warm, but the air felt cold. She watched other kids happily jumping in around her. They looked like they were having so much fun.

  Her mother looked at her seriously. “I do what I’ve been telling you to do, Isabelle. I breathe out.” She demonstrated. “I take deep breaths. We start by blowing bubbles, remember?”

  Something inside Izzie clicked. In her hysteria of having her face underwater, she always seemed to forget that bubbles part.

  Her mom rubbed her back. “No guts, no glory, kiddo. Want to give it another shot?”

  Izzie noticed the swim team sign-up sheet for older girls on the far wall. She had always wanted to be on the team, like her mom had been. There was only one way that was going to happen. She slipped out of her mom’s grasp and back into the pool. “No guts, no glory,” she repeated, and then submerged herself fully, bubbles escaping from her nose.

  “Izzie! You missed me that much already?” Coach Bing pulled Izzie back from her memories. She saw he had on his usual attire: swim shorts and a Harborside Community Center tee. Coach always said you know you have a good job when you get to wear shorts and swimwear to work every day. He opened the heavy pool doors and let Izzie enter first. “Are you doing another workout? You were already here this morning!” Kids’ voices bounced off the cavernous ceiling as Izzie followed Coach into the pool area, which smelled overwhelmingly of chlorine. She watched the senior citizens glide slowly by in the lap lanes, stopping every once in a while to give an annoyed glare to the kids splashing alongside them.

  “I forgot to get my permission slip for the next meet,” Izzie spoke loudly to be heard over the kids. “I wanted Grams to sign it tonight.” Liar! a little voice in her head yelled. Grams hadn’t been able to hold a pen for months. Izzie had become a pro at forging her signature on everything from permission slips and report cards to Grams’s Social Security checks (how else would they buy groceries?).

  Coach Bing looked at her kindly. “Izzie, I know you sign them yourself.”

  So she hadn’t been fooling him at all. How many other people knew about her forgeries?

  He patted her shoulder. “It’s fine. I signed it. Your social worker said it was okay. You can still go to meets.”

  Izzie nodded, trying not to show her embarrassment. “Thanks, Coach.”

  “No problem,” he said, and they both felt water pelt their legs. “Hey! Let’s keep the water in the pool, not out,” Coach turned around and barked to the increasingly rowdy kids in the pool. They stopped splashing immediately. Coach Bing’s bark was much worse than his bite. He turned back to Izzie. “So how is Grams doing, anyway?”

  “Great,” Izzie lied again. It was easier this way. Otherwise she got those pitying, worried glances, and worried glances led to calls to Barbara Sanchez. Izzie knew everyone meant well—Harborside Community Center and her neighbors had been looking out for her for years. They knew her family, they knew her mom, and one thing they’d never do is let Izzie feel alone.

  Coach Bing didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t say otherwise. “I was going to give you this tomorrow,” he said, and led the way to his office. She stood in the doorway and watched as he opened a small refrigerator and took out an aluminum tray. “Tara made lasagna for you and Grams. Oh, and Ricky from Harbor’s Finest said to tell you he’s delivering spaghetti, meatballs, and pizza on Friday.”

  “Thanks,” Izzie said gratefully, and grinned. “Although, you know if you keep carb-loading me and Grams like this, I’ll sink to the bottom of the pool at the next meet.”

  He chuckled. “I’m not worried. You move and swim too much to ever become an anchor.” There was a knock at the door, and they both looked up.

  An older woman, dripping wet, glared at them. “Could you get those children to stop swinging from the ropes of the lap lane?” The coach and Izzie looked at each other.

  “I’ll let you go,” Izzie said, suppressing a grin.

  As Izzie left the pool, her eyes darted to the clock on the wall and she frowned. It was 6:30 pm. She should have been home by now, which was her first problem. Her second was still Barbara Sanchez. Her social worker didn’t make social calls, which meant if she was coming by the house to see Izzie, the news couldn’t be good.

  Two

  When Grams had a good memory day—as opposed to a “Who are you? I don’t have a granddaughter!” day—she liked to talk about Harborside, the early years. Grams’s version of Harborside in the year Izzie was born sounded like it was plucked from a Hallmark movie (considering Grams’s memory these days, she might have confused the two): neighbors bringing neighbors homemade apple pie, block parties, softball teams for grown men, and streets so safe that no one locked their doors. Harborside today was very different. The cereal factory shut down ten years ago, tanking the real estate market and causing foreclosure signs to pop up like weeds, and Harborside suffered a quick but brutal downward spiral.

  This was the Harborside Izzie knew well, and while she was used to it, she was still smart about how she navigated her hometown. Take her bike ride home, for example. Leaving the community center, Izzie knew that if she cut through sketchy Shore Park, she’d be home in seven minutes. But she also knew that biking through the park was asking for trouble. Besides, the town padlocked it shut at six thirty. Option B was to take Second Avenue. The route was longer and safer, even with the guys hanging out in front of the convenience stores, check-cashing shops, bars, and small fruit stands who leered at her when she rode past. Option B it is, Izzie thought. She put her right foot back on the pedal and pushed forward, making sure she pedaled as slowly as she could without falling off.

  Before long, Izzie was heading toward Hancock Street and then making a right turn onto her block. She wove around a few broken beer bottles and waved to the five-year-old McGraw twins, who were playing in their overgrown front yard. She avoided eye contact when s
he passed a group of boys who looked like they had nothing to do.

  Izzie could see Barbara’s red Taurus parked in front of her house. She pushed open the broken front gate and wheeled her bike around back to lock it in the shed, trying to see 22 Hancock the way Barbara probably did. The lawn needed a good—okay, major—mow. There was graffiti on the fence and there was a crack in the bathroom window on the second floor, most likely made by a BB gun. (A group of kids had been targeting windows and parked cars all summer like they were hunting deer.) Izzie took the porch steps two at a time, making sure to miss the one that was broken in half, and walked slowly to the front door. Taking a deep breath, she put her key in the lock and walked inside.

  “I’m home!” she announced with as much fake enthusiasm as she could muster. Izzie had learned long ago how to play things with her social worker: Think of Barbara like a friend, even if she wasn’t one. The more upbeat Izzie made life sound, the quicker Barbara got off her case.

  Barbara was sitting at the cherry wood dining table, which had been in the Scott family for more than a hundred years. From the looks of it, the floral wallpaper had been around just as long. The only thing that didn’t need replacing was the hardwood floor. Whenever Grams had people over—or, at least, when she used to have people over—someone would inevitably comment on how beautiful the floor was. Grams would smile proudly and say something like “Us oldies hold up nicely. No one is trading me or this floor in anytime soon.” It was hard to believe that the frail woman staring out the dining room window was the same one who’d raised her only grandchild by herself when her own daughter and husband died within a year of each other. Izzie was around ten at the time.

  Izzie planted a kiss on her grandmother’s head. “Hey, Grams, how was your day?” Her thinning hair was combed back so far it made her forehead look huge, and her blue eyes were like cloudy marbles. Her grandmother didn’t respond. She stared out the window like she hadn’t heard her.

  Izzie looked at Barbara and smiled forcefully. “Hi, Barbara,” she said with added enthusiasm. Barbara had been her social worker for the last year. Of all the social workers she’d had since they’d started coming about three years ago, when Grams’s decline started, Barbara was Izzie’s favorite. If you could call any social worker who came to check out your living conditions a favorite.

  Barbara glanced at her wrist, sliding back the sleeve of her navy button-down shirt to look at her Timex. Her sleek black hair had gotten so long it hung over the blue leather notebook she carried for appointments. “I was starting to get worried, Izzie,” Barbara said by way of greeting. “We agreed to meet at six thirty.”

  Izzie made an apologetic face. “I’m sorry. I lost track of time talking to Coach Bing.” She looked at her grandmother, who had barely moved her fingers since Izzie walked in. “He says hi, Grams. He sent a lasagna for dinner. His wife made it.” Izzie nodded to Barbara and placed the tray on the dining room table. “People send us meals at least three times a week. Our friends are so generous.”

  Barbara’s brown eyes bore into Izzie’s skull. “That they are.” She tapped her pen.

  Izzie noticed the move right away. Barbara was nervous. Izzie could read people well, and she had spent enough time with Barbara to know what kind of mood she was in. Tonight, she was uncomfortable, and that made Izzie uncomfortable, so she just kept talking. “Yeah, it is nice, isn’t it? That’s what I love about Harborside. We take care of each other. Coach Bing gives Grams and me these incredible meals, and I’m teaching swim lessons for free at the community center.” Izzie pointed to a gold medal hanging on the mirror in the dining room. “First place in the last meet. Grams was cheering me on, right, Grams?” Cheering was a stretch, but Grams was there. Their neighbor brought her. His daughter was on the swim team, too.

  Barbara’s face was unreadable as she said, “You told me, Izzie. I’m proud of you.”

  “Thanks!” Izzie squeaked. Ugh. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep up the sickeningly sweet cheerleader act. It was giving her a headache. “It’s been a great season for us this summer. So has work. Lifeguarding is amazing, and I’m making almost eight dollars an hour. I’m one of the youngest lifeguards they’ve ever had, but Brian says he hired me because I’m so determined and focused.” God, did she really just pat herself on the back?

  “Izzie,” Barbara interrupted, “you can drop the cheerleader routine. It’s not you.”

  Izzie fiddled with the tiny silver band she wore on her middle finger. “I know.” She sighed. “I thought it might lighten the mood.”

  Barbara smiled. “Thanks for trying.” She pulled out a heavy dining room chair next to her. “Why don’t you sit down so we can talk?”

  Izzie grabbed the back of Grams’s chair and hung on. “I think I’d rather stand.”

  “You might want to sit,” Barbara said gently.

  “Listen, if this is about Grams’s care, she’s doing amazing on this new medicine Dr. Finniman gave her. He said her hip looks stronger than ever and she might not need a second replacement. She may even be able to lose the cane.”

  “That’s great, but—” Barbara looked at the cuckoo clock ticking on the wall.

  The silence in the room was so complete, the pendulum sounded like a marching band. Izzie quickly moved to the doorway between the dining room and kitchen. She pointed desperately to the fridge, where a dry-erase board was marked with different colors. “I charted all her pills, and they’re labeled in containers on the counter. Most days her nurse is here and helps her take them, but sometimes her friend Ida stops by. We put the paperwork in to Medicare to get her a full-time aide and—”

  “She’s not getting a full-time aide, Izzie,” Barbara said, cutting her off. “I spoke to Medicare, and they denied the claim. They feel she’d be better suited for a nursing home that has physical therapy on-site.” She kept talking to keep Izzie from interrupting. “We knew this day was coming. Your grandmother and I have been preparing for this. You’ve been doing a great job taking care of things, but that’s not your job. Your job is to be a kid.”

  “I’m not a kid,” Izzie said sharply. The time to act sweet was over. “I’m fifteen.”

  “You’re still a minor, and someone should be taking care of you, not the other way around.” Barbara stared sadly at Izzie. “Your grandmother and I have had a solution to this problem in place for months, but we’ve been waiting for the details to be finalized. I think once you’ve had time to process what I’m going to tell you, you’ll be very happy, Izzie.”

  “What do you mean, you and my grandmother?” Izzie glanced in Grams’s direction. “She doesn’t know what day it is. How can she make a decision about her care or mine?”

  “Last winter, she called me and said she had found some papers about your family history,” Barbara explained. “She was very lucid. She said she’d found an uncle of yours on her side who has a wife and three kids and lives only twenty minutes away. She was very excited.”

  Izzie shifted back and forth. Her flip-flops suddenly felt very heavy. “Grams called you?” Why would Grams tell Barbara about an uncle Grams never knew before she told her own granddaughter? Grams and Izzie confided in each other about everything. At least, they used to. “She was insistent that I call your uncle,” Barbara explained. “She had already spoken to him herself and they met, and”—Barbara’s pen started tapping crazily—“he wants you to live with them.” Izzie’s jaw dropped. “Your grandmother wanted you to go. She drew up papers for the transfer of guardianship so that when this day came, we’d be ready.”

  The cuckoo bird popped out of the clock with a loud chirp, startling them both as the clock chimed seven. The bird made seven chirps while Barbara and Izzie stared intently at each other.

  Izzie shook her head, feeling a lot like that bird—trapped. “No,” she said, wondering if she’d heard Barbara wrong and hoping that she had. “Grams wouldn’t do that.”

  “She wanted you well taken care of, Izzie.” Barbara
stood up. “She knew she wasn’t up to the task anymore, and she wanted to put things in order.”

  “No,” Izzie said more urgently, and took two steps back, stumbling slightly. Barbara reached out to steady her, but Izzie pushed her away and glanced at Grams. Her grandmother barely flinched. “We’re a team. She always said that. I’m not leaving her just because she’s having a little setback.”

  “This isn’t a setback, Izzie,” Barbara said bluntly. “The woman you know is gone. She saw that coming, and she found a way for you to avoid foster care. This is what she wanted.”

  Izzie felt her breathing become rapid. She looked around wildly, wondering what she should do. She wanted to run—far. But where was she going to go?

  “Your uncle’s name is Bill Monroe,” Barbara told her, as if the name should have had some sort of meaning. It didn’t. “He’s a state senator, and they live in Emerald Cove. You’re going to attend private school and get opportunities you’ve never had. Most people would kill for a chance like this.”

  Izzie looked at the floor. It felt like it was moving. “I’m happy here.”

  “You’ll still be able to see Grams,” Barbara continued like she didn’t hear her. “Your uncle made sure Grams will have the best care at the nursing home, and on Fridays they even…”

  Izzie felt a ringing in her ears, and Barbara’s voice began drifting away. The room felt like it was closing in on her. She ran to her grandmother and shook her shoulders. “Grams! Say something! Tell Barbara not to do this.”

  Her grandmother’s blue eyes lit up with recognition, and Izzie felt a sense of relief. Grams could fix things before they spun out of control. She’d kept them together this long. But Izzie’s momentary relief vanished when her grandmother started talking.

  “Chloe, when did you get here?” Grams asked. “I was hoping you’d stop by before you went to New York.” She wagged a finger at Izzie. “I still don’t think you should be going. That town is trouble, I’m telling you.”