Not Every Home Is Meant to Be Returned To novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: On the Porch in Front of the Street

Hazel's parents come to Kenzie's door and push a form on her in front of the neighbors; she refuses and keeps it, and finds it would close an education account her grandmother opened for her.

Kenzie's mom made pancakes at seven in the morning and set three plates on the table without asking who wanted one.

I stared at mine.

Nobody at my house had cooked for me on a school day in years.

"Eat," Kenzie's mom said. "Then tell me how long it has been like this."

"Like what?"

She sat down across from me and folded her dish towel in half.

"Like a girl walks a mile at ten at night in a party dress and nobody calls."

My phone lay face down by the syrup.

It had not buzzed since Mom's text.

"Since I was eight," I said. "Since Grandma died."

Kenzie's mom nodded slowly and said nothing for a moment.

"You can stay on our couch until graduation," she said. "And after, if you need it."

"I can't pay you."

"Nobody asked."

Kenzie reached over and stole a strawberry from my plate, then stopped with it halfway to her mouth.

"Oh, sorry. I forgot. Allergy."

I laughed so hard that I had to put my fork down.

She remembered.

She had remembered since sixth grade, when I broke out in hives at a class party and she walked me to the nurse.

That was the whole difference between her house and mine.

At ten the doorbell rang.

Kenzie looked through the front window and said, "Hazel. It's your parents."

I walked to the door in yesterday's jeans.

Mom stood on the porch in her church blazer, with her handbag held in front of her.

Dad stood one step behind with his hands in his pockets.

Across the street, a neighbor had stopped watering her roses.

Two kids on bikes had stopped at the curb.

"Well," Mom said, loud enough for the whole street. "Here she is."

"Good morning, Mom."

"Don't you good morning me. You embarrassed this family last night, and you made your father worry sick."

Dad had not slept badly. He had the pink, rested face of a man who had eaten a full breakfast.

"We're not here to fight," he said. "Let's just get you in the car, honey."

"I'm staying here."

"You turned eighteen yesterday," Mom said. "You have no job and no money. Where do you think you're going?"

"To school on Monday, Mom, and then to my graduation."

She smiled with her teeth only.

"Fine. But first you'll sign this, because the bank has been waiting since yesterday."

She pulled a folded paper from her handbag and held out a pen.

I took the paper.

It was not long.

The top line said: Request to Close Account. Account holder: Hazel R. Tindall.

Below it, in smaller print: Education Savings, opened by Grandmother, deceased.

Grandmother, deceased, was my Grandma.

I read it again, because I had never heard of an account with my name on it.

"What is this?" I said.

"A formality," Dad said quickly. "It's old, it's tiny. We just want it tidy before you start your life."

"Then why is Dad's name already printed on the line that says who requested it?"

He opened his mouth and nothing came out.

Mom took a step closer and lowered her voice.

"Sign it, Hazel. Don't do this in front of the neighbors."

The neighbors were the ones doing it.

The neighbor had put down her hose entirely.

"I'm not signing anything today," I said. "Not until I know what it is."

"Hazel."

"I'll take it to the bank myself and read it there."

Mom's face went stiff and white around the mouth.

"After everything we've done for you."

"What have you done for me?" I asked. "Give me one thing from this year."

Silence.

The boy on the bike said, "Whoa," and his friend shushed him.

Dad glanced at the street, then at Mom, and he took her elbow.

"We'll talk at home," he said.

"I'm not coming home."

I kept the paper.

I closed the door gently, because Kenzie's mom was watching from the hall.

Then I took out my phone and photographed the form on the kitchen table, front and back.

The balance line near the bottom had been left blank.

At the top, next to the account number, someone had printed the date it was opened: the week after Grandma's funeral.

Someone had opened an account for me with her own money, ten years ago.

And my parents had never mentioned it once.

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