Free The Stager: A Novel by Susan Coll Page A

this hilarious, confusing Pop-Tarts and Hot Pockets, and I start to laugh, but now Nabila is clearly furious, and I feel bad, since where she comes from not only do they have scrawny rabbits, but they apparently don’t have Pop-Tarts, either. I realize that I don’t even know what country she’s from, but this doesn’t seem like the best time to ask.
    “Look at this mess you’ve made!”
    “It’s not my fault,” I say, even though it is, sort of, although if someone had put the Pop-Tarts where they belonged and closed the bag of flour properly this wouldn’t have happened. There’s white powder pretty much everywhere.
    “What’s gotten into you, girl?” Nabila asks. “I’ve been with you for almost a year now and I’ve never seen you behave like this.”
    “I’m not behaving like anything. I just want a Pop-Tart. Why is everyone being so mean to me?”
    “Okay, I get it. Your mum and dad are away, and that’s tough. I understand that myself. I haven’t seen my own mum in two years. Also, this moving stuff is very hard. Maybe you’re upset because the lady is changing everything around here. Your mum explained this to me.”
    “What about your dad?”
    “What about my dad?”
    “Why don’t you miss your dad?”
    “Well, I do, darling, but he’s been gone six years.”
    “Gone where?”
    “Gone. Gone.”
    “Did he have cancer?”
    “No. The warlord came to our village and…”
    Now I burst into tears.
    “Oh no, darling. I understand, I really do. On top of everything going on, your mom said you might be getting a little moody, between the move and your body growing so fast.”
    “I am not moody!” But maybe I’m a little moody. And it makes me even moodier to think of my mother and Nabila talking about my body. But really what makes me cry is the word “warlord.”
    “Oh no, Elsa, please don’t cry. You’re such a big girl. Your mum will be home at the end of the week, and probably she’ll bring you a present. And she said the new house is so nice, you’ll have a lovely big room all to yourself, and a pretty garden…”
    “I already saw a picture of my new room and I don’t like it. And I already have a lovely big room all to myself, here. And we won’t have a pool. And there’s a stupid stone rabbit in front of the house that’s going to make me think of Dominique every time I see it. And I don’t miss my mom, so I don’t know why you’re talking about her. I’m crying because…”
    “Elsa.” She comes over and puts her arms around me, but I push her away. She looks startled, like she might cry herself. “I don’t even know what to say to you anymore, Elsa.”
    “Don’t worry, Nabila, it’s not your problem. I’m going to clean this up and do my homework. I’m just going to go downstairs to get the vacuum.” But I’m not really going downstairs to get the vacuum. I’m going downstairs to find the Stager, even though it occurs to me that it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to try to make Nabila happy, to just go get the vacuum and clean up the mess.
    On my way to the utility room, I pass by Nabila’s room. She’s left the light on, and when I look inside I remember how small and dark it is in here. She doesn’t even have a closet, so her clothes are either piled neatly in stacks on the floor, or hanging from a rack. We have two empty bedrooms upstairs, and I wonder why she doesn’t just move into one of those.
    Her bed is unmade, a wet towel is lying on the floor, and her jeans are crumpled on the chair. I decide to do something nice for her to make up for being so mean, so I clean up a bit. First I make her bed, then I pick up the wet towel and put it on the hook behind her door, and then I pick up the jeans, which are perfect; they’re just the right color of faded denim. They’re so long that when I hold them up they’re almost as tall as me. When I begin to fold them, something falls out of the pocket.
    It looks like a baggie full of