"Leeva at Last" by Sara Pennypacker, Chapters 11–21

Even odder, there were no doorway briars—it was as if the people who lived here weren’t even trying to deter visitors!

“You look like someone who needs an insurance policy!” the woman cried, her cheeks stretched alarmingly wide.

“Have you considered what would happen in the unfortunate event of your demise?”
Leeva knew that “the unfortunate event of her demise” meant her death, and she was startled that it was the subject of these people’s conversation.

“Your braids alone—they’re a multiple hazard. They could strangle you, trip you, you could swallow them in your sleep!” Mrs. Frisk ticked off the hair-based perils on her fingers.

Mrs. Frisk scooped up a sheaf of papers and brandished them.

Inside stood a boy—well, she assumed it was a boy, since the Frisks had mentioned a son—dressed hood-to-booties in a yellow paper suit.

He crossed his arms over his chest and glared out warily.

Spread over one end of the table was an assortment of figurines.

Before Leeva could see any more, he threw a tablecloth over the whole array.

Osmund donned safety glasses and snapped on some gloves.

While he did this, Leeva regarded his outfit more closely.

“Hazmat?”
“Hazardous materials. The suit protects me from them.”

“Are there hazardous materials here?”
The boy gave her an incredulous look. “They’re everywhere!” he cried, waving the tweezers about. “Life is a hazardous material!”

Leeva was disturbed, but also intrigued.

“Of course not,” he scoffed, as if the idea were ridiculous.

“A skunk? An opossum? Raccoon?”
Osmund met each guess with disdain. “Bob is a badger.”

“They’re dangerous. Rabies, bovine tuberculosis, fleas. That’s all you need to know.”

She couldn’t suppress a tiny “Ha!” of derision.

She couldn’t suppress a tiny “Ha!” of derision.

“You don’t know ‘nope’? It means no, but with more...oh, oomph. More pizzazz.”
“Huh. Oomph. Pizzazz.”

Leeva was dismayed to find the cupboard floor all gouged up, as if Bob had been trying to escape.

She leaned back between the cupboards and contemplated the turn her life had just taken.

“Oh, dear, I need some help, better go find a badger!” said exactly no one in the history of the world, ever. Because badgers are pretty appalling creatures: bad-tempered, malodorous, and related to skunks and weasels—unsavory family ties at best.

“Oh, dear, I need some help, better go find a badger!” said exactly no one in the history of the world, ever. Because badgers are pretty appalling creatures: bad-tempered, malodorous, and related to skunks and weasels—unsavory family ties at best.

She picked up the grapefruit spoon cautiously—the spoon’s bowl was viciously serrated like sharks’ teeth—and gouged out the grapefruit’s sections, then arranged them on her mother’s crystal plate.

Bob was still in there, chomping noisily on a long black string. His eyes were closed in a manner that suggested bliss.

Bob swallowed the last bit. He did not look remorseful.

While Harry was gone fetching his lunch, Leeva deliberated. Should she tell him? If she did, would it change how he felt about her?

Leeva’s things, too—her coverlet, her slippers, her stool—all newspaper. She’d used only the “Improve Your Vocabulary” pages for the stool’s seat, and it brought her a secret joy to perch upon precious words, but the rest of the things were a disappointment—scratchy and frail.

A smashed wren’s egg, whose dried yolk made Leeva ponder the fragility of life; torn lottery tickets, which spoke of both optimism and desperation; a red clown nose, which defied interpretation.

“Just now,” Leeva ventured, “when you found out that we took out the same books, did you feel something?”

He looked down at Leeva’s feet and gaped in horror.

“Things like art, literature, poetry, music. Things you don’t need to get famous or make money.”
Osmund stopped. He slumped so deeply his suit seemed to deflate. “Oh. I thought those were the Humanities. Things humans do for other humans, to make life better.”

Osmund shook his head morosely. “Not wonderful. You have to be on your guard every minute. With other risks, you know the odds. But people? They’re unpredictable.”

“That’s Osmundio. He’s a superhero. His name means ‘divine protector.’ If you can’t think of a way out of a disaster, you say, ‘Protect us, Osmundio!’ three times and he makes everything safe.”

An extremely old couple sat sprawled over a kitchen table, sleeping—or maybe they’d passed out from the odor, that’s how strong it was.

Fern rescued her sister with extravagant sighing and eye-rolling, and Leeva thought again that Harry should know about this girl.

Her sobbing ebbed. Hope flowed in.

Bob sniffed it intently but did not seem to come to a conclusion.

Even her clothes were only a loan—her father kept a ledger and she was expected to pay for them when she got a job.