Lacey and the African Grandmothers (11 page)

“Wasted? No, not wasted.”

“Yes, it is! Everything. Everything was destroyed. All the flowerpots, all the plants. Even a window of the church.”

“Tell me, did you like it when you made the plants grow? Did you like the smell of the earth?”

“Oh, yes! You should have seen them. They grew from these little curled-up seeds into plants that had leaves as big as cookies. And some of the plants had flowers. They looked so beautiful.”

“Well then, nothing has been destroyed. The breaking of the pots can't take away how growing things made you feel. The only thing that has been hurt is your pride. You can grow new plants.”

“I don't want to grow new plants. I want the old ones back.”

“But you told me the old ones are destroyed. Gone. What is left of the old plants is your memory of them and how they made you feel. You know how to grow more. It was a bad thing that happened, but it can be fixed. Making things right is up to you.”

I didn't understand why I should have to fix something that someone else ruined. Whoever ruined it should have to fix it.

Kahasi hummed to herself as she sewed. She hummed an old song that had no words. I stretched my lips around my teeth as I concentrated on making small, tight stitches that would be invisible. I was getting better at beading, but it was hard to get the beads to fit into the tight spiral of the center, harder than I had expected. I had to be careful to get it right. Lots of times, I had to take out stitches and start again. I hated doing things over, but when I did, they sometimes turned out better.

Chapter 15
Showdown

I
could hear Kelvin's angry voice spitting hateful words, and I could hear Angel crying as soon as I stepped through the door. “Stop it! Stop it!” I called as I ran up the stairs to the kitchen.

Kelvin's eyes were black and stony, and he was holding Angel's arm tightly. His face was close to hers. She looked frightened, and she was sobbing.

“Leave her alone,” I said. I spoke slowly and forcefully but without yelling. “You aren't the boss of her.”

“Yes I am!” he growled. He leaned down and stuck his face close to mine. I planted my feet solidly on the floor and didn't move. My hands were fists by my side, and my heart was pumping hard. “She'll do whatever I say, whenever I say it. You understand, you little crooked-toothed brat? She's mine.”

“No she isn't. She's her own person.” I spat the words at him. “She can make her own decisions.”

“Leave Lacey alone, Kelvin. She has nothing to do with this,” said Angel, but her words sounded weak. She was still crying and rubbing her arm where he had gripped her. “Just go, Kelvin. Go now.”

He glared at Angel, then jerked his head at me. “Stay out of this!” he said, pointing his index finger at me. It was black on the tip. “Or else!” He slammed the door so hard the walls shook. I ran down the stairs and locked the door.

Angel and I fell into each other's arms. We both sobbed.

“Angel, you have to do something. You can't be afraid all the time. It's wrong. You need someone loving, like Dad, not someone who is always going to be scaring you.”

“But…” She sobbed harder. “But that's what I told him. I told him I wouldn't move in with his family. I said I needed to stay here.”

“And that's how he acted? He's dangerous, Angel. You have to tell Mum and Dad.”

“But I have Kayden to think about. He's her father.”

“You want Kayden to grow up with him? What if he starts yelling at her or…or hitting her?”

“I know,” she whimpered. “I know you're right.”

We sat together in the hallway, with the whole sides of our bodies touching. Angel reached for my hand, and with her other hand started wiping away tears. “There's more,” she said quietly. “The police questioned Kelvin today.” She started to cry little jerky cries that stuck in her throat. “They think he's the one who broke the church windows and your flowerpots and wrote those words and everything. I'm so ashamed, and I'm so worried about what will happen.” She lifted the bottom of her shirt to wipe her face. “He'll probably go to jail this time. He says he didn't do it, that he was set up. I want to believe him. I really do. He is good inside, better than people think, better than you think. But still, I'm not so sure about this… I don't know whether to believe him or not. Whatever I say, or whatever questions I ask just seem to make things worse.”

That was when I remembered his finger pointing at me. The black on his fingertip. Was it grease? Or was it paint? Black paint from a spray can? Paint that wouldn't wash off?

I put my arms around my big sister and held her again the way our mother used to. I wanted to tell her about the paint on his finger, how someone using spray paint would get it on their forefinger if they weren't careful, but she didn't need to feel any sadder than she already felt. I felt sad for her and for my flowers and for the church windows. I wanted to cry, too. “It's OK,” I said. “It's OK. Everything will be all right.” But I didn't see how anything would be OK ever again.

My flowers were dead. Kelvin would go to jail. Angel would be sad, and Kayden wouldn't have a father.

I wished my father was at home. Dad would know what to do.

Chapter 16
Two Days!

W
hen Dad came home, he and Mum agreed that Angel needed to stay with us. Dad said that Kelvin wasn't grown up enough yet to look after a family. He said Kelvin needed to finish school and prove himself worthy before he could think of stealing away
his
daughter. That made me feel a lot better, and I think it made Angel feel a lot better.

Sewing is a breeze now. I've been sewing nearly every day for more than a month, and instead of making just basic tote bags, I have started to branch out. I remembered the drawings Angel had made of purses, and I cut pieces of fabric to follow her designs. I made swimming bags with pieces of cord for straps, and fancy purses with curved flaps and fringes. One of my best ones had a brown and white pattern with a long fringe that danced when you touched it.

I sewed every night, not just because the African grandmothers needed help, but because I discovered that I loved sewing. I was worried that I would run out of material, but it seemed that every time my supply ran low, someone heard about what I was doing and donated something: fabric, thread, buttons, beads, tassels, and fringes. Mrs. Martinez, Mrs. Buchanan, and Lila seemed to be best at spreading the news. Every time I saw them, they gave me new things. Even people from Strathmore had heard about what I was doing and had started sending odds and ends. Sometimes they were big pieces of fabric and sometimes just scraps and bits that I could match up with another piece to make a purse. One of the boys at Sequoia brought in long, narrow scraps of leather that his grandmother had given him. We braided three of them together, and he sewed the ends onto a purse to make a shoulder strap. He also took a piece and snipped it evenly along the short edge to make a fringe. I sewed that piece onto the flap of the same purse. Another boy had an idea to make strings of beads to decorate the sides of some tote bags, so we tried that, too.

Soon basic tote bags were made unique
by adding pockets and decorative trim.

Shoulder straps had to be pinned carefully,
but made the bags look different.

Usually I sewed on the machine at home, and did the hand-sewing of buttons and fringes and toggles when I went to Sequoia after school. It helped that Dad was home more often now and that Mum was pretty much back to normal. I had less housework to do and more time to sew, sew, sew.

I just wished it was brighter inside the church basement. It's hard to sew without the proper light. Two of the windows were still boarded up, so it was fairly dark inside, even when it was bright and sunny outside. Workers with a big window on the side of their truck were outside the church and working with power tools to replace the church window. I hoped it would have colored glass like the old one. I didn't know what they were going to do about the awful words written on the side of the church. Some of the boys had scrubbed at the words with cleaners and wire brushes, but they hadn't come off. I hoped the words wouldn't be there forever to remind me about what had happened to my plants.

A lot of people – even boys –
became interested in the project.

A few of the girls at Sequoia were becoming interested in what I was doing. I had shown some girls how to do fancy embroidery stitches and some hand-sewing. Some of the girls – and the guys – were interested in learning how to use a sewing machine, so Mrs. B. said she would try to get one or two for the school. She said I could help teach the class, which was exciting. She was also going to ask my dad to help. She said he would be a good role model for the boys.

I was hand-sewing the diamond pattern I'd beaded with Kahasi onto a purse when Trisha asked, “Can you make something for me? Come on, I need a bag to carry things now that I have a baby.” She'd had her baby three weeks before, a little boy with hair so black and thick that it looked like fur.

I told her I couldn't make something for her because I was making purses for African grandmothers.

“Why do African grandmothers need purses? I need a purse. I don't think
they
need them,” she said.

“Come on, Trisha. You know I'm going to sell them,” I said. “When I get enough finished, Mrs. B. is going to take them to Calgary and give them to the Grandmothers to Grandmothers group there. They'll sell them and send the money to Africa to help the children. So, if you want one, you have to buy it.”

“But I don't have any money to buy one. This one is really nice,” she said, picking up the tote bag with the big sunflowers on the sides and bottom. She put it on her shoulder and walked around. “I like this one, but it should have a pocket on the outside,” she said, putting it down and picking up another one. “Oooo, this one is
nice
.”

“That one's not done yet,” I said. She had picked up one made of soft blue corduroy. “That sparkly part is just pinned on, so be careful.” She held it up to the light and moved it back and forth so it would sparkle.

“I could show you how to sew,” I offered. “Maybe you could help me, and I could help you, and we could both help the grandmothers.”

Trisha glanced over at Mrs. B.'s desk, then she picked up a needle and snipped a piece of blue thread from the spool. “OK, what do I do?” she said, trying to fit the thread into the eye of the needle. I showed her how to wet the end of the thread before threading the needle, and how to roll the thread in her fingers to make a knot in the end.

“You can work on that applique if you want – the bird-shaped one you like so much.” She picked up the blue purse, and I taught her how to make the running stitch that Kahasi had first shown me. “Small stitches,” I said, just the way my grandmother had. “The smaller the better.”