Devoted by Jennifer Mathieu

Author:Jennifer Mathieu [Mathieu, Jennifer]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781596439122
Publisher: Roaring Brook Press
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

14

Lauren’s little red Honda is easier to handle than my family’s ancient van. I follow the handmade map Lauren drew for me with blue ballpoint on the back of a receipt, and ten minutes before ten on Tuesday morning I find myself parked on Atwell Street, sitting outside a cute two-story home with green shutters and red azaleas planted out front.

I squeeze the steering wheel to prove it’s real. To prove I’m real. A week ago I was living at home, not even able to use a computer. And here I am about to walk into a job. A job that will pay me money. My own money. I squeeze the steering wheel one more time, then spread my sweaty palms out over my skirt, straightening out the wrinkles. What would Ruth say if she was with me now? What would she possibly think?

Oh, how I wish I could talk to her. Cuddle with her. Does she hate me now? Does she miss me? I miss her. So much. Did she ever find my note, or did Dad find it first and throw it out?

I can’t cry. Not when I’m about to have to go inside and introduce myself to Mrs. Treats. Lauren got me this job, and I can’t mess it up or it might upset her. I take a deep breath and count to one hundred, then check the car radio. It’s 9:58.

God, give me the strength to do this.

I get out and walk slowly toward the house.

“You must be Rachel,” Mrs. Treats says when she opens the door. She smells like vanilla and her smile is big and open. “I’m so glad Lauren set this up. She’s such a doll, isn’t she?” Mrs. Treats says, leading me into a sunny entry area with an umbrella stand and a painting of bluebonnets. “Can I take your purse?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Treats,” I say, trying to smile.

“Oh, you have to call me Diane,” she says. “Otherwise I feel about five hundred years old.”

She’s wearing a cream-colored skirt and jacket that would last five seconds in our house before Isaac or Sarah dumped something on it or accidentally stained it with grubby hands. But Mrs. Treats—Diane—is impeccable. And beautiful. She’s a little older than Mom—maybe in her early fifties—but her honey-brown hair is carefully styled and she wears high heels that match her suit. My mother is beautiful, too, I think, but she doesn’t look as young as Diane. A thin, gold chain rests around her neck. She hangs my purse on a hook by the umbrella stand and click-clacks into a room to the right, off the front entryway. A small black cat bounds up to her and winds itself around her legs for a moment before bounding away.

“That’s Boots, the dumbest cat in creation,” Diane says. “But we love him anyway. Over there’s the kitchen, and you can help yourself to anything,” she says in a Texas twang that’s stronger than most as she motions toward the back of the house.

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