Things Hoped For Read Online Free PDF Page B

And they make me think of that poem—
    I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils;
    I found that in a Wordsworth collection. He’s really good. He doesn’t get to me like Yeats does, but he knows how to paint a scene so I can’t forget it.
    I get home, go in on the ground floor, drop everything but the flowers, and run upstairs. A minute later I’m in the kitchen with my mouth full of sliced turkey, and I’m pouring a glass of milk, and I glance across the parlor. And I can see into the study. Because the desk lamp is on. And I see a shoulder. Of someone sitting there. At Grampa’s desk.
    I choke on the turkey, and I croak, “Grampa?” Because it has to be Grampa. It has to be. But it’s not. The man stands up, and Grampa’s not that tall. And the man turns around. Then he smiles. An amused smile.
    It’s Uncle Hank.
    “Probably surprised you.” He sees how shaken I am, and he keeps smiling. “Where’s Lawrence?”
    “I . . . I just got home.”
    “You saw him this morning?”
    I nod and reach for the paper towels to wipe up the milk I spilled. My heart is tapping out sixteenth notes.
    “Not like him to be out on a Friday afternoon. I called and left a message I was coming.” Another smile. “Maybe that’s why he’s not here. So I used my key.”
    I hate him being here. Grampa would hate it too.
    It’s two-fifty-two on Friday afternoon, and I have to leave, but I can’t, not with the answering machine sitting right there on Grampa’s desk. If Uncle Hank plays Grampa’s message, he’ll put me out of this house. So he can sell it and get the money. He’ll make me leave, I know he will. I’ll be shipped off home. Or maybe forced to move in with some friend from school. Not that I actually have a friend like that.
    And truly, it wouldn’t matter where I’d be sent, because this close to my auditions, the effect would be the same—disaster. Because I need my routine, and this quiet house, and my practice room. I’m on the tightrope, the one in my dream. I’m on it, and I’m alone, and I have to get across it. One little jiggle, and everything will change. Everything.
    Because my whole life’s story has been building up to these tryouts. I need to keep my balance, take my auditions, get my scholarships. I need to stay on the tightrope. Me and my borrowed violin. I need to get to that next platform. Because there’s no net.
    And as I stare at Uncle Hank, it’s time to leave for my lesson. Because I have to be there on time. I have to.
    I clench my jaw, and I say, “Grampa doesn’t want you in here. In his home. He told me. So you should leave.” My voice sounds strong, braver than I feel. Because I’m speaking for my grampa now. And I say it again. “You have to leave now.”
    “Oh, really?” Hank smiles again, still amused. “I have to? Is that what I heard? You’re telling me that I have to leave?”
    “Yes,” I say. Then I hold up my cell phone. “And Grampa’s lawyer. He’ll tell you too. Shall I call him? His name is Kenneth Grant.”
    Uncle Hank’s face changes when I say that name—less smile. I push on. “And I already talked with Mr. Grant once this afternoon. And he said if Grampa needs any help, or if I need some help, all I have to do is call him. And it’s time for you to leave Grampa’s house now. So, should I call Mr. Grant? Do I need some help? Do I?”
    He looks at me. Grampa said not to judge him too harshly, but I’m losing that battle. I can’t believe this person is Grampa’s brother. His lips keep smiling, but not his eyes. He shrugs. “You don’t need help. Not yet. But you might if your daddy knew you were sassing me like this.” He crosses to the parlor door and opens it. “I was ready to leave anyway. When you see Lawrence, you tell him to call me. It’s important. Good-bye, Gwennie,” and he yanks the door shut so hard that a painting on the opposite wall