Unlucky Catkill Court (part 1.04)

Wednesday, Feb. 5, almost six-thirty

Every kid in Catkill Court knows about Vera de la Rosa’s morning ride to school. Some like it for her car. Some stake their claim on one of the three available seats so they can avoid a tense ride with their parents. Quinton and Midori want to talk without anyone asking questions, which is another little perk of Vera’s taxi service; she never asks questions, and she forbids her other passengers from asking as well.

The problem is the competition. Quinton and Midori dragged themselves onto the de la Rosas’ yard at six in the morning to ensure their spots, but a crowd of other kids surrounds them now. Brooke stands on her tip toes behind the pair, swinging her oboe case around her knees to fend off any smaller children who get too close. She came fifth and has no right to fight anyone, but she tries anyways.

Several of the white-blonde Smith children jump up and down in the crowd as well, though the older two don’t jump so much as try to stand as straight and tall as they can. Given that the only person of comparable height is Brooke though, they don’t need to straighten much.

At six-thirty exactly, the pale yellow garage door rumbles open, and Vera backs her car out onto the driveway. For anyone who doesn’t know squat about sports cars or trucks, her car is impressive. It’s so shiny it might as well be new, and she had it painted in a dark, elegant indigo. Tiny silver decals dot the bottom in a sparkling array of stars and swirls. She stops right by the center of the crowd on the lawn and rolls down her window.

Whatever mumbling and arguing had been going on stops, frozen in the morning fog. People shift their backpacks, uncomfortable under Vera’s cool, omniscient stare.

“Who all got here first?” she asks, her voice low and hoarse. She tucks a stray wisp of black hair behind her ear, but it falls back a second later.

The oldest Smith, a guy Quinton and Midori think is named Archer, raises his hand with a bright white smile and starts to open his mouth, but his younger sister slaps him.

“Are you stupid?” she hisses. “That’s not going to help!”

Vera appraises the pair for a moment, her eyes frigid and stern, while Archer turns crimson and his sister starts inching her way out of the crowd.

“Quinton and Midori,” Vera announces, “you two get in the back. Hope, you get shotgun. Everyone else, you’re out of luck.”

The crowd disperses in a wave of grumbling and murmured disappointment, and Quinton and Midori hurry into Vera’s back seat. They watch a herd of blonde heads flee back to the Smith house, and the gaggle of other de la Rosa sisters crawl back to their house.

“How did she know who was first?” Midori whispers, buckling herself in.

Quinton shrugs. “Don’t ask me. Let’s just talk about the you-know-what.” Then he pulls the door shut behind him and watches Hope fumble with her seat belt.

The inside of Vera’s car is just as nice as the exterior. It’s upholstered in light grey leather, and the black threads are perfect, tidy accents. Everything is pristine, as though Vera cleans it every day, though everyone knows she doesn’t. She’s too busy for that.

When Hope’s seat belt finally clicks, Vera lets out a little impatient huff and pulls onto the street. Midori turns to the window and watches her house go by, wondering if her brother is even awake yet. Oddly enough, Brooke stands outside the door, looking at her feet as she shuffles about on the front landing. But before Midori can make any remarks, Vera turns onto the main street, and a mammoth maple tree in Quinton’s yard blocks Midori’s view.

Brooke too is wondering if Toby is awake yet. She checks her watch, reaching with her oboe-free hand to press the doorbell, and bites her lip.

The door opens almost immediately, and Brooke practically gasps in relief. She stops short though, realizing it is not Toby standing in front of her, but his dad.

“Ah, good morning…” says Mr. Fukui. Brooke always thought him strict and a little scary, but she notices she is taller than him, which makes him far less intimidating than she remembers. He has a quirk to his mouth and light wrinkling around his eyes that make him seem kindly and easygoing, and he looks more puzzled than vexed.

“I’m Brooke,” she blurts. “From one-thirty-six. The little white house.”

Mr. Fukui smiles. “Of course. Irene’s daughter. You’re always welcome, though I might have to caution you against visiting any earlier. Toshio is never happy when he wakes up.”

Toby is never happy period, but Brooke isn’t about to say that. Instead, she giggles and holds up her oboe case. “Um, Toby and I agreed to head to school early to get in some practice and talk about tempo stuff. Is he ready yet?”

With a pondering frown, Mr. Fukui turns to the inside and cups a hand to his mouth. “Aiko! Is Toshio awake?”

Mrs. Fukui’s reply darts back, accompanied by a burst of incredulous laughter. “If he wasn’t, he is now!”

“I thought,” shouts Toby, probably from upstairs, as his voice is fainter, “you were going to let me sleep in.”

“That was before we found out you made plans with Ms. McCrae!” Mr. Fukui bellows back. “Now get down here. It’s not polite to keep your guests waiting.”

A long, growling groan meanders through the house, and Mrs. Fukui accents with a few bursts of cackling.

Mr. Fukui winks, gesturing for Brooke to come inside. “He’ll be ready in a few minutes. Why don’t you come in? We can’t have you standing in the cold.”

“Um…” Brooke tries to step back, smiling through a bashful half-cringe and cheeks red with embarrassment. “I really can’t intrude-

But Mr. Fukui already has her by the shoulder, and he tugs her inside, proclaiming the joys of meeting one of his son’s friends at last.