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    Hold Me Tight
    Hold Me Tight
    Hold Me Tight
    Ebook370 pages1 hour

    Hold Me Tight

    By Lorie Ann Grover

    4/5

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    About this ebook

    "I'm leaving."

    Dad's words come as a complete shock to Essie. How can he just walk out on her and the family, especially when Mom is pregnant?

    Essie keeps her dad's leaving a secret. Then Essie's classmate, Chris Crow, disappears, and everyone finds out he's been kidnapped. Is Chris okay? Is Dad ever coming back? Essie is left to wonder if people really have any control over what happens in their lives.

    Finally, after a startling incident with a family friend, Essie finds the strength to hold on tight to all that she has left -- and in the process realizes that the bonds of love and family do hold a person together.

    Inspired by true events, Hold Me Tight is a moving and powerful novel. An author's note provides further information about kidnapping and the Amber Plan programs that are in use today to help communities find abducted children.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMargaret K. McElderry Books
    Release dateMay 11, 2010
    ISBN9781439131954
    Hold Me Tight
    Author

    Lorie Ann Grover

    Lorie Ann Grover is the author of young adult novels including Hit, which Hypable calls “a powerful book about tragedy and recovery which shows you both sides of the story, for better or worse.” She has authored Loose Threads, a Booklist Top 10 Youth First Novel, and On Pointe, a Bank Street College Best Children's Book of the Year. As a literacy advocate, she is a co-founder of readergirlz, which was awarded the National Book Foundation’s Innovations in Reading Prize.   

    Read more from Lorie Ann Grover

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    • 4/5
      Hold Me Tight is a moving story of 10 year old Essie, told in verse. Not the obscure, can't understand what they are saying kind of poetry, but the down to earth kind. A lot can happen in a short amount of time, and this is proving to be a really eventful time period for Essie. Lorie Ann Grover captures what it's like to be a 10 year old trying to make sense of life. But through this her little brother, her mom, her best friend, and her church family help her realize that despite some really traumatic events, good things still happen. More importantly, she learns that the people in her church love rather than judge. It's a really great example of what a church can do to minister to others in tangible and intangible ways.

    Book preview

    Hold Me Tight - Lorie Ann Grover

    Sunday Night

    I’m leaving.

    Dad stands above me

    in the living room.

    His eyes are

    empty black spots.

    On the floor,

    I cram my fingers

    into the throw rug fringe.

    The strings

    twist and grab

    and hold me tight.

    My little brother, Dale, is crying.

    Since he’s only seven,

    how much does he understand?

    His eyes dart like zigzag lightning

    from Dad

    to Mom.

    Be a man, Dale, my dad says.

    Mom’s eyes

    bulge

    like her pregnant belly.

    She rocks on her knees

    on the cold terrazzo floor.

    Good-bye, Essie-girl, Dad says to me.

    His brown pants rake by

    my skinny legs.

    He opens the front door.

    Dark, hot

    Miami air

    swooshes in,

    swallowing up

    our air-conditioning.

    Slam.

    No!

    I yank my hands free

    and stumble to the hall window.

    The metal screen

    presses into my lips.

    Come back, I whisper.

    My breath fogs

    against the closed jalousie.

    The slanted red car lights

    disappear.

    Dale whimpers.

    Mom moans.

    I shut my eyes.

    The Police

    I bite my fist

    to stop the dead feeling

    numbing me.

    I snap open my eyes,

    crawl to the phone,

    and snatch it.

    "We should call the police,

    and they can stop Dad

    and bring him back

    because it’s like

    breaking the law

    for him to leave

    us!"

    It’s not against the law.

    Mom lunges over to me.

    The phone clatters out of my hand.

    She scoops it up

    and smashes it

    back into its cradle.

    Left Out

    "Mommy.

    Mommy.

    Mommy," says Dale.

    She doesn’t answer.

    "Mommy.

    Mommy.

    Mommy." He tugs her shirt.

    Shhh, I hiss.

    "Mommy.

    Mommy.

    Mommy."

    Would you stop already!

    I shove him.

    He shoves me back.

    Mom rolls to her feet

    and leaves us

    in the empty hall.

    Her bedroom door closes.

    Click.

    Es? Dale whispers.

    I pat his little sharp shoulder blades.

    I’m scared

    too.

    Okay

    It’s time to go to bed, Doozerdude.

    Dale goes without a fight.

    I tuck him in.

    When will Daddy come—, he asks.

    I don’t know.

    But—

    Shhh.

    But—

    Go to sleep, Doozerdude.

    Are we going to be okay?

    Yeah.

    I turn off his light.

    We’re going to be okay.

    I don’t believe it.

    Four

    Dad, Mom,

    Dale, and I

    make four.

    That’s us.

    Mom,

    Dale, and I

    make three.

    Are we still

    a family?

    Wandering Through the House

    Dad’s clothes are missing

    from the laundry basket.

    The ceramic beer mugs

    Mom painted for him

    are still on the shelf.

    But the six-pack of beer

    is gone from the fridge.

    His secret stash of black licorice

    behind the cornmeal

    and his Popular Mechanics magazines

    that were in the rack by the couch

    are missing.

    He left the TV.

    It must have been too heavy

    to haul out quick.

    The new DVD player is gone.

    But he left us the old VCR.

    His toothbrush,

    electric razor, and comb are gone.

    That rubbery pick on a stick

    for his gums.

    Our radio,

    our computer

    and all the cool games,

    our CDs,

    every bit of music,

    except Dale’s little kid tapes,

    are gone.

    But Dad’s cell phone is here.

    Figures.

    He wouldn’t want

    us

    to be able to call

    him.

    Work

    Flick.

    The light blares

    above his empty desk.

    Dad’s office is cleared out.

    I drag my hand over

    the cold metal desktop

    and drop into his chair.

    I spin it fast

    like I’m not allowed to.

    Where will he work

    between sales trips?

    The room zips by.

    Doesn’t he need our home

    at least

    to work from?

    Casings

    I lift the curtain

    and look out the office window.

    The whole backyard is black.

    My reflection

    breaks into rectangles

    on the jalousies.

    I lean my elbows on the tile sill.

    The curtain swings back and

    brushes my arm.

    Yuck!

    I leap up.

    Roach egg casings are clinging

    to the back of the material.

    Some are hard, dark brown,

    and shiny.

    The eggs still inside.

    Others are broken open.

    Left-behind, empty, hairy shells.

    My skin creeps,

    and I drop the material.

    It sways closed.

    No way I’m touching that ick.

    Mom must not know

    that creepo stuff is there

    just out of sight.

    It’s funny

    the roaches stuck their eggs

    in Dad’s office.

    Dial Tone

    Hmmmmm

    goes the dial tone.

    I slam the phone down

    like Mom did.

    The Rolodex cards

    stick to my fingers,

    but there’s no one to call

    for help.

    No way I’m calling Pastor Lyon.

    It’s just too embarrassing

    to think of telling him

    something this bad.

    None of us

    know our neighbors that well.

    There’s that old lady, Ms. Ruthie,

    we see outside watering her flowers sometimes.

    What could she ever do to help?

    There’s not even anyone my age

    around here.

    Dale knows a few of the little kids.

    Mom doesn’t have any relatives to call.

    She’s an only child,

    and her folks died before Dale and I were born.

    Plus, she totally stopped trying

    to make friends in the neighborhood

    when Don and Didi moved away.

    Said it was too hard on her.

    Mr. Paul is about her only friend

    who comes around.

    And he lives way over

    in the Saga Bay Apartments.

    I don’t like him much.

    He has creepo eyes.

    I’m not

    calling him.

    Dad’s never let us meet his family

    up in Canada somewhere.

    He left home at sixteen.

    Huh.

    Can leaving home

    become a habit?

    Kitchen Calendar

    I take a felt tip

    and black out today,

    Sunday, December 1st.

    I scribble

    edge to edge.

    This day

    is totally dark.

    In Bed

    "Dad gave me you

    the day I was born," I remind my old bear.

    "You are ten whole years old now,

    Dumplin’ Spinner.

    When I first got you,

    you were bigger than me.

    Dad always said he loved you

    the second he saw you,

    and he named you right then.

    Wasn’t it that way with me, too?

    Must have been.

    Well, I think he used to love us."

    I hug Dumplin’ Spinner

    under my chin.

    Praying

    Why, God, why?

    Why did he leave?

    Why did he leave

    me?

    Why,

    God,

    why?

    Wally

    What will Wally say?

    My best friend

    since kindergarten,

    the one I tell my secrets to.

    I can’t tell this one

    to Wally.

    My dad doesn’t want me.

    I can’t tell him that.

    Garbage

    If this happened to Wally

    his drama teacher

    would ask him

    how it feels.

    Wally would ask me

    how Dad’s leaving feels.

    It feels like garbage,

    rotten stinking garbage,

    is piled on top of me,

    and I can’t breathe a speck

    because the pile

    is pressing on my chest,

    making me feel like

    I’m garbage too.

    Freaking scared, completely mad, totally sad.

    That’s how it feels.

    My Whole Name

    Finally,

    Mom comes out of her room.

    She checks on Dale.

    Then she comes

    to check on me.

    Estele, she says.

    Oh, Estele Leann. She sits

    on the edge of my bed.

    Her voice says

    she’s sorry

    for leaving us

    alone

    wondering what’s next.

    That’s what she means

    when she says my whole name.

    Mom is like that.

    You have to look around her words

    to hear her.

    Dad just says it straight.

    Like tonight:

    I’m leaving.

    Oh, sweetheart.

    Mom’s hand

    brushes my cheek,

    and I smell

    garlic on her fingertips

    from dinner.

    When everything seemed normal.

    Mom—

    Shhh.

    She tucks me tight and whispers,

    Well be okay.

    I believe it more

    when she says it.

    A little.

    I. L. Y. She turns off the light.

    I. L. Y., I say.

    I love you,

    Mom.

    Listening

    She paces through the house.

    Step, step, sniffle.

    Step, step, sob.

    Will she

    step, step

    away from me,

    too?

    Thinking Ahead

    The air conditioner hum

    stops in the middle of the night.

    I get up.

    Mom’s in front of the control panel.

    "I’m not sure we’ll be able to afford

    cool air now," she says.

    I nod.

    We have to think about what to do next.

    I nod.

    "I won’t be able to get a job

    until after the baby comes

    because of my weak back."

    I nod.

    We have to go back to bed, Estele.

    She shuffles straight to her room.

    I go to mine

    and bang on the window crank

    with the palm of my hand.

    Finally, the jalousies creak open.

    Humid air seeps in.

    I lie down on my bed,

    rub my sore hand,

    and start to sweat

    like rotting garbage.

    Morning

    I dress

    and drag myself down the hallway.

    My hand brushes

    along the wall

    to Dad’s office door.

    Closed.

    I press my ear

    up against the wood.

    Silence.

    Creak.

    I peek in.

    Nope.

    He’s really not here.

    Breakfast

    I stop outside the kitchen and listen.

    Mommy, will you leave us too? Dale asks.

    A spoon clatters.

    Oh, Dale-o, Mom answers. "Never.Ý

    But are you sure? he says.

    Very sure, says Mom.

    Absolutely?

    Leftovers

    Your breath stinks, I tell Dale.

    Go brush your teeth, Doozerdude.

    Make me, he says

    and bumps me,

    reaching for the cereal.

    I haven’t even eaten yet.

    Go brush your teeth, Dale, says Mom.

    So he does

    after

    he glares at me.

    Mom gets up

    and scrubs last night’s dirty dishes.

    I get everything out of the fridge

    and make a turkey sandwich

    with our Thanksgiving leftovers.

    Everything seemed perfect

    last Thursday.

    Each of us

    at the table

    saying what

    we were thankful for:

    Mom—the baby inside her;

    Dale—the green jiggly salad;

    Me—the days off from school;

    Dad—each of us.

    Yeah, right.

    Nuts

    Where is Dad?

    Where’s he staying?

    Who’s going to cook for him

    or make his lunches?

    Because it’s my job

    to make his lunch

    and put it in the fridge

    so it’s ready

    if he makes a sales trip

    or eats at home.

    And I always put in fifteen peanuts,

    because that’s the exact number

    he likes each day.

    I hate them

    because sometimes I don’t see

    that bitter reddish papery stuff

    around the nut,

    and it spoils the whole taste.

    Getting a good one

    isn’t worth risking that other stuff.

    So where is Dad?

    What am I supposed to do

    with this pile

    of icko peanuts?

    Swallowing

    Every cereal wheat square

    gets stuck in my throat.

    Dry, poky sticks

    pile on top of each other.

    Crisscrossed.

    I gulp some orange juice.

    It

    burns through

    into

    my stomach.

    Doozerdude

    Dale drinks the milk

    out of his cereal bowl,

    then licks the cinnamon sugar

    off his plate.

    Mom doesn’t even notice.

    I give him a grossed-out look

    and try to kick him

    under the table.

    I miss.

    He licks it again.

    A Second

    Mom’s working on a list.

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