“You drink water today?” No matter how many reusable water bottles I buy her or where I put them, they never seem to get used enough because she keeps getting headaches.
“Stop trying to drown me,” she snaps, her scowl turning to a smile as she gives her full attention to Bennie and the ball.
As she begins predicting that the water of Fontain will turn to wine, I retreat down the short hall to my office. I settle behind my desk and shuffle through the mail and school papers as the computer wakes up.
May always brings a hectic schedule at the school. Last week was field day and a barbecue, which Old Vines donated the food for, and this week is filled with end-of-year tests, parties, and about a million pieces of paperwork in preparation for next year.
I reluctantly open a piece of mail first, the invoice for the roof.So long, twenty grand.The finance-induced anxiety begins to petrify my muscles, compounded by the first envelope from the school: next year’s tuition schedule for Fontain Academy. I open it with one eye closed to soften the blow; it doesn’t work. Prices are going up by another grand. “Greedy bastards,” I mutter, opening the next one. Bennie’s report card. All A’s.
I smile at the paper. She’s so damn smart.
The next items are school assignments. A math worksheet. A paragraph about what she wants to do all summer.
The last paper is a watercolor art project I linger on. It’s a tree, the big cotton-candy kind that kids love to draw, filled in with muddled shades of green. Written in crayon are names—family names. It’s a family tree.
My name. My sisters. My parents. Her cousins.
But it’s what’s written on the branch that veers off from mine that pokes my heart like a thousand needles:Nash Fletcher.
I’ve told her as much as I can about him—his shirts, his harmonica, his obsession with Ben Franklin—but even after all these years of him being gone, seeing his name in her handwriting stings more than I expect.
I slip it to the back of the stack, moving to an envelope with my name scribbled across it. The paper inside contains the school’s formal letterhead.
Ms. Conway,
Thank you for your ongoing support of our school activities and to Old Vines for sponsoring the first grade end of year barbecue. Unfortunately, your check was unable to be cashed due to insufficient funds. Please contact your financial institution to rectify and we will happily accept a new check at your earliest convenience.
Not possible.
I reread it. Once. Twice. My pulse thumps at the roots of my teeth and where my fingertips make contact with the paper.
Not. Possible.
At the computer, I struggle to type in the bank’s website and our account information, entering the incorrect password—twice.
This can’t be right.
Business hasn’t been great, but it hasn’t beenthatnot great. I’m fastidious with inventory. The register. I just checked the balance a week ago: There was $42,356 and change in there. Other than the unexpected arrival of the crystal ball, every purchase has been prudent.
Oh, God—how much does a crystal ball cost?
Then I see it.
Account balance: $0.
I let out an audiblenoas my stomach drops to the floor.
Everything else in the whole world goes blurry except that zero. In a split second I try to convince myself of a million different ways that zero means something else. Something bigger. Something with more zeros and other numbers mixed in.
Leaning toward the screen, I click frantically to get to the transaction report, my chest so tight I might die.
“Mom!” I shout, the word hurting my throat. “Mom! Get in here!”
I don’t have to scroll far to see four withdrawals—all in the last week—which wiped out the account. Every cent, gone.
My mom steps into the office, already talking. “I forgot to tell you, I have a doctor’s appointment this afternoon at four thirty. Just a che?—”
At my wide eyes, hers narrow.
