I’m stuck on you.
The remaining condoms in my satchel come to mind, and I’m suddenly thinking of using a few with someone other than Charlese. Eccentric clothes, silver waves, and bloodred lips are not a combination I thought would attract me—but I find myself bewitched nonetheless.
Chapter Four
Dewey Decimal Classification: 306.85 Single Parenthood
[Nathan]
“I got you some books today, Dandelion,” I tell Clementine when I arrive home after a long day on the site. I’ve placed the books in a paper bag, so she doesn’t immediately read the title. “Ask Dahlia if you have any questions.”
Clementine looks up at me with her big blue eyes behind thick dark-rimmed glasses. She has buttery yellow, out-of-control curls which frame her face just like when she was a baby, reminding me of a dandelion—hence, the nickname. Lately, I’ve teased her the name fits because she’s growing like a weed.
“You went to the library?” she inquires, a squeal of excitement in her voice as she pulls the books from the bag. Clem loves books. Me, I struggled with reading.
Please don’t read the title aloud, I think. Please. Pretty please.
Thankfully, Clementine reads the titles to herself and sets the books on the kitchen table where she has been doing her homework. I never have to ask her to do her work. Dahlia, on the other hand …
“Thanks, Dad,” Clementine says amused and disinterested at the same time.
I reach under my chin and scratch. “If you have questions, ask Dahlia,” I repeat. Clementine blinks up at me and gives me a placating smile. She’s so easygoing. God, I love this child.
I’m also grateful she isn’t a twenty-four seven reminder of her mother, like Dahlia is of hers. Yeah, that’s right, two girls, two different mothers. Karma is laughing at me.
“Sure, Dad.” She returns her attention to her homework. A pot boils on the stove to signal someone has started dinner. Ma typically takes care of anything related to the kitchen. Dahlia’s on laundry. I have the yard and repairs. We’re a team, but sometimes I feel like we should be more, like we’re missing a piece to our unit.
“So, Dandelion …” I begin not even certain why I’m asking or hesitating. “Do you know a Miss Naomi at the library?”
“Isn’t she the witch?” Dahlia asks walking into the kitchen. Her dull blonde hair is streaked with lighter tones. She’s thin compared to the solidness of Clem, and her clothes accentuate the subtle curves of her body. She’s every bit her mother, and I shiver with the thought. Then I think, when did my baby girl grow into a young woman?
“Why would you say such a thing?” I question Dahlia, bracing myself for seventeen-year-old sarcasm and a million uses of the word ‘like’ in the explanation.
“It’s what all the kids call her, like, with that wild hair and her, like, dowdy clothes. Some kids say she cast, like, a spell on them when they go to the library and, like, talk too loudly. Others say she walks into the woods, probably to, like, conjure up some spell or something. Kill a kitten and, like, use the blood for a potion.” Dahlia wiggles her brows at me.
“Dahlia,” I warn, my eyes shifting to Clem who is sensitive to all living creatures, not to mention, the obvious exaggeration of such a description.
“Anyway, the boys talk about her.” She shrugs.
My brows pinch. “What do you mean? Who talks about her?”
Dahlia shrugs again as she turns her back to me and reaches for the overhead cabinet. “Something about capture the witch, but, like, how would I know. I’m not from here.” Her jab stings. She wasn’t happy about the decision to move to Green Valley but being here was the right thing to do—for all of us.
“She’s not a witch,” Clementine defends, her head popping up from her books. “Miss Naomi is the best. She loves Harry Potter and all things fantasy, and when she does read-alouds, she uses all the voices.”
I’m wondering why I’ve never questioned Clem before about the librarian when Dahlia interrupts.
“Because she’s a witch. She can, like, speak in tongues. Wha-ha-ha.” She throws her own voice in a spooky cackle, lifting her hands and wiggling her fingers to emphasize her point.
“She does not,” Clem whines, and then her voice shifts to dreamy. “She’s amazing.”
I’d chuckle at the interchange between my girls, but I’m intrigued by their differing perspectives.
“Why’s she amazing, Dandelion?”
It occurs to me that in the nearly two years since moving back to the Valley, I haven’t encountered Naomi. Then again, with her changed appearance, I don’t think I’d recognize her without inspection.
And I want to inspect her further.
“She’s nice to me,” Clem mumbles under her breath, shrugging her shoulder and returning me to the conversation at hand. Her head lowers. Clem has had trouble making friends at school, and I worry most days that she’s lonely. Moving here was an adjustment for her—leaving behind good friends and her mother whom she only sees twice a year now. For Dahlia, the change was a necessity. She was getting in with the wrong crowd, hinting at repeating my history. Dahlia hasn’t seen her mother since she was one and Becca decided she no longer wanted to be a parent.
“She’s a witch,” Dahlia repeats, drawing out the words in a haunting tone.
“Just stop,” Clem says, and I’m drawn back to the library earlier in the day.
Just stop.
“Do you see Miss Naomi often when you go to get books?” My mother is the one who takes Clem to the library. I try to be an involved father but there are some areas I’m lacking—the library is one of them. Books haven’t ever been my thing. However, I want my girls to be intelligent and independent, not like the women I seem to hook up with. Dahlia’s mother had no ambition other than to be a club rat, and Margie—Clem’s mom—she wanted more as long as it involved crisp paper in a certain shade of green with Benjamin Franklin’s image in the center.
“Gramm and I see her every time,” Dandelion answers me. “She’s my favorite. Mrs. MacIntyre is too strict, and Miss Logan doesn’t really speak. Naomi is the best. She gets me.”
The comment softens me, but I still correct her. “Miss Naomi.” My girls will have manners, too.
“She’s a witch,” Dahlia mumbles as she pours dry pasta into the pot.
“Dahlia,” my mother shrieks as she enters the small kitchen space. My ma lives with us. “You shouldn’t say such a thing.” Emma Rae Ryder is a force despite her four eleven stature and heavy accent.
“I didn’t say bitch, Gramm. I said witch.” So much for manners. My mother’s brows rise, and she swipes a hand at my daughter.
“Good girls don’t talk with trash mouths.” I don’t need to see Dahlia’s face to know she is rolling her eyes at her grandmother. Ma loves the girls and I can’t thank her enough for taking on children again, but some days …
“Nathan, when you going to bring home good girl? Stop hooking up with the riff-raff.”