C. Omololu - Dirty Little Secrets

She handed the brown fabric back to me, the needle sticking up at an angle. “Just put your finger behind the fabric where you want the stitch to go,” Mom said, watching my fingers as I worked. Beside her tight, tiny stitches, mine looked like something that would have held Frankenstein’s monster together. “That’s good. Just try to get them a little bit closer together.”

I tried to concentrate even harder, wanting my stitches to match hers so she’d be proud of me. “You mean like th—? Ow!” I cried, the sharp end of the needle making a searing stab at my finger.

“Oh, let me see,” Mom said, pulling my finger into her lap. She dabbed at it with the edge of her shirt. “I think you’ll live.” Mom smiled at me. “Congratulations. You are now an official member of the top secret quilting society.”

I dabbed at the mark in the middle of my finger. “What’s that?” I was mad that I’d done something so stupid and wrecked what we were doing.

“Hold on a minute,” Mom said, and jumped up to rummage in the big tote bag she kept next to the recliner. “I know it’s in here somewhere.” She pawed through material and thread, and dug way down to the bottom. “Aha! I knew I’d seen it,” she said, and held out something small and round.

I took it and held it up to the dim light. It was like a tiny metal hat with dents all over the top and a pretty painted blue picture of windmills all around the base. “What is it?”

“Lucy Tompkins! Are you telling me that you don’t know a thimble when you see one?”

I shrugged, trying to keep her in a good mood. I held it back out to her. “It’s pretty.”

Mom laughed. “It is pretty,” she said, and took it back to look it over more carefully. “It was my mother’s, and she gave it to me when she taught me to sew. You put it on your finger like this.” She popped it on the end of her pointer finger. “And then the needles won’t stick you.”

I gave her a small smile. “Cool.”

She held up my injured finger and set the little thimble on the end. “Now it’s yours,” she said.

It took a little while to get used to wearing it, but I didn’t poke myself again.

I hadn’t thought of that thimble in years. Somewhere, in some box or bag or green bin, was an antique thimble that I’d probably never see again.

TJ held out his hand for the bear. “So, do I get to keep him?”

I held Teddy B. a little tighter. He was physical proof that things hadn’t always been this bad. “You know what, T? Let’s find something else for you to keep. I think I’m going to hang on to this for a while.”

“Fine,” he said, and started grabbing things out of the box again.

I tucked Teddy B. into the front of my jacket and bent down to see what else was in the box. On one side my name was written in black marker that flowed with my mother’s handwriting.

Taking a handful of soggy papers out of the box, I could see they were a mix of kindergarten drawings, report cards, and those meaningless paper certificates you get for completing a reading program or passing Tadpole swim lessons at the Y. Mom must have put everything in here to save for when I got older. And now everything was destroyed. She had fifty plastic bins in this house full of pristine crap—why couldn’t she actually put something meaningful in them? Like a special silver and blue thimble? Or my childhood?

I was scraping the pieces of cardboard off the soggy rug when I heard a yelp and a crash, as a large stack of books and papers toppled to the floor. “TJ! Are you okay?” I jumped up and ran over to him.

He was sitting on the floor surrounded by an avalanche of books. “I’m okay,” he said, but I could tell by the wetness around the edges of his eyes it hurt more than he let on. “I’m sorry.” He frantically tried to pick up some of the books. “I didn’t mean it, really. It was just an accident . . . I turned around and my shoulder hit the stack and—”

I remembered saying those exact words so many times to Mom as she screamed at me to be careful. In her world, there was no such thing as an accident, just people who didn’t pay enough attention. I bent down and grabbed TJ’s face in my hands. “It’s not your fault, okay?” That’s what I always wanted someone to say to me. “Come on, let me feel where the books got you,” I said. Even though it had just happened, I could feel the start of a big bump on his head behind his right ear. “No blood,” I said. “But I think your mom should take a look.” I stood up and held my hand out for him.

“No,” he whined. “I don’t want to go. We’re not done yet.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said. “But if I send you home broken, your mom’s going to be really mad at me. If I find anything cool, I’ll put it in a pile for you.”

TJ touched one finger to the growing lump on his head. “You won’t even know what’s cool,” he grumbled. “You’ll probably throw out good stuff that I want to keep.”

“I know what you like, don’t worry about it. You need ice on that, so let’s go. I’ll walk you home.”

We picked our way back through the dining room and into the front hallway. “Hold on, I need my books,” he said, and picked them up off the floor. “Don’t forget to save the other ones.”

“They’re yours,” I said. We opened the door and stepped out into the biting air. It was unusually cold, for which I was undeniably grateful. We hurried across the street to TJ’s house, his Christmas tree still sparkling in the window.

His steps slowed as we approached the porch. “ He’s still here,” he said. “That’s his ugly green car. He used to go home early, like right after dinner, and now they sit around watching TV and stuff.”

“You don’t like him?” I asked.

TJ shrugged as much as he could with his arms wrapped around three huge encyclopedias. “He’s okay. He’s always trying to get me to go and play ball with him. I keep telling him I hate playing ball, but he won’t listen. Plus, Mom’s always busy now—not like she used to be.”

I nodded, not pushing it any further. I knew how hard it was not feeling welcome in your own house.

The door was locked, so I rang the bell as TJ stood on the bottom step. His mom opened it with a glass of wine in her hand. “Oh hi, Lucy,” she said. “Was TJ with you? I thought he’d gone down to the Callans’ house to watch TV.”

“Well, he’s been helping me move some things around. He said you wouldn’t mind.”

“Of course not,” she said, smiling at me. “I just hope he wasn’t a bother.”

“No, he was fine,” I said. “But some books fell and hit him in the head. I think he might need some ice.” I grabbed TJ’s arm and guided him up the stairs.

His mom ruffled his hair and inspected the spot he showed her. “It looks okay, but you’re right, it probably does need ice.” She pulled back and looked into his face. “So what were you doing over there that caused books to fall on your head? I hope you weren’t running around and making trouble.”

“Oh no,” I said quickly, “it’s not his fault. The books . . . they were where they shouldn’t have been, and he was just walking by them. Really, he didn’t do anything wrong.”

“If you say so,” she said. “I’d hate to think of him over there making a mess.”

I looked at TJ, but he didn’t seem to think that was funny. Maybe it didn’t look all that weird to him. Kids were sometimes strange that way. “No, really,” I said. “He was great. I hope his head is okay.”

“I’m sure he’ll be fine. TJ, say thanks to Lucy for putting up with you.”

“Thanks, Lucy,” he said. “Don’t forget about my stuff.” He held his books up to his mom. “They have so much cool stuff over there. Lucy gave me these encyclopses so I can learn about everything that begins with these letters.”