Clouds over california, p.1
Clouds over California, page 1
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2023 by Karyn Parsons
Cover art copyright © 2023 by Geneva Bowers. Cover design by Prashansa Thapa
Cover copyright © 2023 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
Interior design by Michelle Gengaro
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Parsons, Karyn, 1968– author.
Title: Clouds over California / Karyn Parsons.
Description: First edition. | New York : Little, Brown and Company, 2023. | Audience: Ages 9–12. | Summary: “Stevie struggles to fit in at her new California middle school and is experiencing changes at home, while the Black Panthers and women’s rights movements influence her life from the background.” —Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2022031490 | ISBN 9780316484077 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780316497770 (ebook)
Subjects: CYAC: Moving, household—Fiction. | Middle schools—Fiction. | Schools—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.P3715 Cl 2023 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022031490
ISBNs: 978-0-316-48407-7 (hardcover), 978-0-316-49777-0 (ebook)
E3-20230527-JV-NF-ORI
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
For Yvette
Chapter One
I don’t want to hear any more about it!” Dad says, the color in his cheeks rising with his voice. He waves a hand over his head, attempting to close the door on further discussion.
Mom quickly shushes him. “Keep your voice down. You’ll wake Stevie.”
But it’s too late for that. I’ve been up for at least an hour while the two of them have been barking at each other. I don’t know what happened. When I went to bed they were watching TV and laughing together. They were having a great time.
But now…
I tried to go back to sleep, tried to drown out the fighting by burying my head under pillows and stuffed animals, but they were just too loud. Then I thought that maybe if I came down to the kitchen, I could get them to stop. But once I got there, I couldn’t figure out what to say or what to do. So, instead of doing anything, I’m just standing here. Hiding around the corner, hoping they’ll stop.
“I just don’t understand it,” he says, turning his back to her and heading for the sink. “You’ve got everything you need. Everything all taken care of, and still, you want to go to school? For what?”
Oh, so this is what it’s about. I’ve heard Mom talk to my aunt Mona about wanting to go back to school. To college.
“You got you a good man who provides for you all. Why on earth would you wanna do something like that?”
But Mom says she always feels like she missed out. I’ve even heard her say that if she got her “degree” she might be able to work. I wonder what kind of degree she’s even talking about. What kind of work. She’s never said anything about wanting to be a doctor or a lawyer or anything like that. And I wonder if she’s told Dad that she wants to go to work. ’Cause seriously, if he gets this mad about her going to school, I can’t imagine what he’d say to her getting a job.
Mom lets out a loud sigh, making her nostrils flare. “I’ve told you. It’s only a couple classes. It wouldn’t interfere—”
But Dad interrupts. “The only women that go to college are there looking for husbands. And the men there know it. Is that it? Are you trying to find a boyfriend?”
A boyfriend? At school? What the heck is he talking about?
“Oh, Coop, you can’t be that ridiculous!” Mom says, joining him at the sink, but he turns his back to her and fills a glass with water from the tap.
“Heck, I go to work, make sure we’re taken care of, and when I come home—well… I want a home! What’s wrong with that? I go to work—you take care of the house.”
Mom says Dad is “old-fashioned,” but sometimes he just seems plain unfair to me. I don’t think I’ve ever heard her tell him he can’t do something. Besides, what’s wrong with Mom’s wanting to take a few classes? What’s the big deal?
“I move us into this nice place and—”
“Hold on!” interrupts Mom now. “I never asked to move,” she says. “None of us wanted to move, Coop!”
I know I didn’t want to move. I loved my old house. My old room. My best friend was just across the street. And my parents weren’t fighting. Why are they fighting?
Dad turns to Mom and is about to say something to her when he spots me at the doorway. I guess I leaned a little too far into the kitchen. He doesn’t say anything, but Mom sees his eyes land on me and quickly whips around.
“Stevie!” She makes a beeline for me but snaps at him from over her shoulder, “I told you you’d wake her!”
“You must think I’m stupid,” he mumbles. Then he turns to her again. “I know what this is really about, Kitty. The only reason you want—”
This time, Mom waves a dismissive hand his way. “Oh, what is wrong with you?” She takes hold of my shoulders and leads me out of the room. “C’mon, pumpkin. You need to get back to bed.”
As we exit, I turn and watch Dad simmer as he stares into his glass. “I won’t have it!” he mutters. His face is red, and I swear I can hear his heavy breathing from all the way over here.
Once we’re in the living room, Mom stops to drag a manicured finger under the corner of her eye, but I still see the tears there. It looks like she’s cried all her makeup away.
“I’m sorry you had to hear that, Stevie, but don’t worry. Everything’s okay.” But it’s not. I can see it’s not. “Want me to read a little something to you?” she asks, checking my face for any sadness that may have rubbed off.
I force a smile. The last thing I want is for her to worry about me.
“Sure,” I say. Mom hardly ever reads to me anymore.
My room is peaceful, and I think I can feel Mom soften as we enter and cross to my bed. My night-light casts a cool glow on the floor and the moon beams in a strip of gold through a crack in the drapes. I push my stuffed toys to the floor and make room for Mom to scoot in next to me.
Over the head of my bed is a small shelf lined with all sorts of books, a dictionary, and the illustrated encyclopedia of the animal kingdom. Mom wants to read from the new book of funny poems she picked up from the library.
She launches into a silly story about a king and a peanut butter sandwich. She tells the story with a stuffy British accent, and I laugh through the whole thing. By the end, we’re both cracking up.
“That was pretty good!” she says when she’s finished.
“I liked it,” I say. “It was funny.”
“Another?”
“Please!” I pull my covers up to my chin and snuggle in close to her. Sleepiness creeps in and I surrender to it, so comfortable in my bed, my mom’s voice gently coaxing me to sleep.
It must be hours later when a nearby siren cuts through my dreams and startles me awake again. I remember the fight. Mom crying. Dad so angry.
The room is dark and the entire apartment is silent. Mom has crawled under the covers next to me and is softly snoring. On m
Chapter Two
Mom and I overslept! It’s all because of that late-night fighting. And now I’m going to be late. Wouldn’t you know it’d happen on the first day at my new school!
We race through our morning routine. Hummingbirds on fast-forward. No time for the first-day-of-school feast she’d promised. Corned beef hash and eggs, buttered toast and strawberry jam. Instead, it’s Cap’n Crunch, two quick braids for my hair, brushed teeth, and out the door we go.
My new school is easily within walking distance, but there’s no time for that. We hop in the car and Mom zips through side streets and rolls past stop signs. We hear the bell ring just as she screeches up to the gate.
“Okay, Stevie. The front office is right there.” She points. “Tell them your name and that you’re a new sixth grader. They’ll tell you where to go. I love you.” She plants a kiss on my forehead.
“Wish me luck,” I say, dread churning the juices of my stomach.
“You don’t need luck! It’s going to be a great day,” she says and turns me to the wolves.
I scurry through the gates, but as I’m passing the handball courts, I take a look over my shoulder. Mom is waiting and watching, just like I knew she would be. She waves and mouths, “Hurry up!”
I grin and give her one last wave. But as I approach the building, windows from the classrooms are filled with curious faces, all inspecting the late girl. The new girl. My grin quickly fades.
I always used to feel bad for new kids. They reminded me of baby chicks, freshly kicked from the nest, staggering to make their way around on wobbly legs. I don’t think there’s anything worse.
And now, that baby bird is me.
Once I’m inside, they make me wait in the office for what seems like an eternity while they locate my paperwork. Across from me sits a miserable-looking girl with a green snot ball hanging just below her left nostril. She’s all mouth breathing and red-eyed. The snot ball moves up and down with her every breath.
Someone send that girl home!
Finally I’m summoned. “Come with me, Stephanie.” A woman with short-cropped hair, a turtleneck, and an overbite walks me down a long, dark hall.
“Excuse me,” I say. “No one calls me that. It’s ‘Stevie.’”
She glances back at me without missing a step.
“Like the boy’s name?”
“Well, no. It’s ‘Stevie,’ short for Stephanie.”
“ ‘Steph’ is short for Stephanie. Or ‘Annie.’” She gives me a quick once-over like maybe there’s a name tag or a neon sign that bears the proper spelling of my name. As she jots something on the paper she’s carrying, she laughs to herself and says, “Suit yourself. If you don’t mind having a boy’s name.”
When we get to the classroom—an outdoor bungalow—Overbite Lady opens the door for me. I step inside and she gives the teacher a big fake smile.
“Stephanie Stevie Morrison,” she says, handing the teacher my papers. The teacher nods to her and she promptly leaves, closing the door behind her without a word to me. No “Good luck” or “Catch you later” or even one of those phony smiles. She just dumps me off like I’m a sack of hot garbage.
I should’ve tripped her on her way out.
My teacher seems nice enough, though.
Mrs. Quakely is all teeth. She’s got a huge smile. And she’s super tall with feet that I’m pretty sure are bigger than my dad’s.
“What a pleasure to meet you, Stevie,” she says, stooping low, eyeballs wide and white as golf balls. She stands upright, takes hold of my shoulders, and turns me to face the firing squad. The kids in the class have been staring throughout our exchange, slack-jawed and glassy-eyed. As soon as Mrs. Quakely announces, “Class, we have a new victim!” I hear the boys snicker and the sandpaper-scraping sound of girls whispering. “This is Stevie. Show her love.” And with that, she directs me to a desk front and center of the class. My cheeks flush hot and I turn to Mrs. Quakely, and then gesture to the empty desk in the rear corner of the room. I bat my eyelashes like Bugs Bunny, but she ignores my silent request for a seat out of the spotlight.
“This seat will be perfect!” she says, beaming.
Morning lessons start with history, and we each have to reach into a hat and pick a slip of paper with the name of the president of the United States that we’ll be doing a report on. I was pretty sure after studying US presidents at my old school that I knew all of them. I know that George Washington was the first and Lincoln was the sixteenth. I know the difference between Teddy and Franklin D. Roosevelt, and that Benjamin Franklin was not a president, no matter how much the boys in class wanted to insist that he was… a whole bunch of stuff. But when I lift my slip of paper from the hat, I see a name that’s as familiar to me as hieroglyphics.
John Tyler
Huh? Who the heck is that?
Around the room, kids start calling out who they picked.
“John Adams! Yes! Second president!”
“I got you beat! George Washington!”
“Andrew Jackson!” calls out one boy. “Twenty-dollar bill, baby!”
As they all compare and share their knowledge of each other’s picks, I pray that my boring pick of a president isn’t any indication of how this school year is going to go.
At recess, there’s the usual interest in the “new kid.” I know all about this sort of interest, but I’m reminded again that in the past, I’ve always been the one checking out the newbie.
The kids pass me with examining eyes, like they’re taking in a new species or something. Is it a lobster? A crawfish? Is a scorpion a crustacean? Whatever it is, is it nice? Is it safe? I pretend their prying eyes don’t bother me and instead wander over to the tetherball game.
At my old school, I was tetherball champ. Nobody could beat me. But I guess it’d be pretty weird for me to announce that now, so I plop down and watch. It isn’t long before I figure out that the girl they call “Ally” is the champ around here. Her tangle of brown-and-gold waves whips across her face with every pounding of the ball, but she doesn’t seem to mind. The other girls are more careful, studying the whiplash swirl of the ball, determined to find the best and most accurate way to attack it. But Ally is just ferocious. SMACK! SLAM! She doesn’t wait or think. She STRIKES. And before the girl with the tidy yellow bowl haircut can land a fist on the ball, it’s already wrapped itself completely round the pole and Ally has won again.
“Next!” she calls and shoots a look my way, but I quickly turn my head and pretend to be watching a group of boys wrestling each other nearby.
“My turn!” Another girl leaps from the blacktop to challenge Ally.
“Hurry up, then, Rachel!” says Ally.
Rachel is skinny as a zipper and wispy as the straight brown hair that hurries down her back to her butt. As she floats over to Ally, I’m pretty sure the champ is gonna finish her before she even lays a hand on the ball.
“Ready?”
Rachel nods and Ally SLAPS the ball hard.
It’s ONE whip around the pole. Rachel’s wide eyes and bony arms struggle to coordinate. But she misses her chance and Ally POUNDS it again.
TWO whips around. Rachel’s arm is up high, but not fast enough to touch the ball.
THREE whips around. The ball is now traveling so fast that Ally just pushes it. Rachel’s eyes can’t keep up with it.
FOUR. FIVE. SIX.
And done.
“That wasn’t fair,” Rachel huffs. “I wasn’t ready.” Ally ignores her and turns to me. This time I don’t turn away fast enough.
“You wanna play?” she asks.
“Uh…” I look behind me to be sure it’s me she’s talking to.
“I’ll go easy on you since you’re new,” she says. And that’s all I need to get me up on my feet.
On my way to the ball, three boys I recognize from my class head straight for me. The two picking up the rear are shoving a rag doll of a kid toward me and laughing. Even floppy boy manages to giggle.
“Hey, you!” one of them calls to me and pushes the kid again. “He likes you!”
This makes the boys crack up and the rag doll blush.
