The first time she produced a bag-warm blackcurrant juice, I’d raised an eyebrow and asked where she’d gotten it from. Thanks to John Wilson keeping my salary, he had the cash to buy food for Della as well as his own children, and when Cassie left for high school and Liam left for an all-boy’s primary, Della was always third in line to receive a lunch bag full of fresh sandwiches, yoghurt, water, and a cookie or two.
I stood beside her every morning to make sure she said thank you and didn’t miss the bus, so I knew what she had to eat and drink and what she didn’t.
Turned out, she’d watched me closer than I thought whenever I’d steal something. She’d become a perfect little thief, and when the school provided extra juices to ward of dehydration during recess, she’d grab three. One for then, and two for later.
I warned her she’d get caught and wouldn’t be allowed to go to school anymore.
But every day, she returned home and smugly gave me her pilfered juice box, proud and happy. She said she thought about me even when I wasn’t there and wanted to make sure I had enough liquid while working out in the heat.
The fact that she cared and thought about me when I was so sure she’d be enthralled by new friends and teachers and forget all about me made my heart burst.
I couldn’t believe I’d ever thought I didn’t want her.
I couldn’t stand remembering how I’d left her behind, if only for a few days.
My life wouldn’t be nearly as rewarding if she’d never stowed away in my backpack and become my most favourite thing in the world.
And just like Della was my one and only, she was loved by each Wilson just as much. Liam would often search her out after he came home from school, and they’d play tag or swim in the river that cut through the Wilson’s back paddock. Cassie took her under her wing and taught her how to be around horses safely, how to brush them, feed them, and even, on a muggy summer night, helped her climb aboard and led her around the paddock where Cassie jumped and schooled her horses.
Della had fallen asleep that night with the biggest grin on her face, legs and arms star-fished under the blankets in utter bliss. I’d watched her sleep for a while before sneaking from the bedroom and going to thank Cassie.
Her bedroom window was above a goldfish pond with pretty lily pads and noisy frogs. I often wondered if the position of the quaint pond directly beneath Cassie’s window was to prevent her from easily scaling the flat roof and shimming down the ivy growing on the brick.
The more I got to know her, the more I learned who she was, and she had a rebellious streak. She might love her parents and brother, but she didn’t necessarily like rules. She’d already tried dope, drank with her friends when she said she was staying the night to do homework, and generally acted like an adult when really, she was still a girl.
In many ways, Della seemed older than her with her serious attitude, utmost concentration on learning new things, and almost magical way she retained everything.
Where Cassie favoured sarcasm for laughter, Della preferred wit and a dry sense of humour. Where Cassie protected Liam and got angry with him over the slightest thing, Della cared for me as deeply as I cared for her, and we never had stupid arguments.
When we had arguments, they were never stupid, but hell, they were loud and long and drained me until all I wanted to do was kneel before my tiny ribbon and beg her to forgive me, even if it wasn’t my fault.
That night, as I stood by the pond and threw a small pebble at Cassie’s window, I knew I was crossing the friendship boundary that we’d danced around ever since that first kiss a few months ago.
She hadn’t tried to kiss me again, and I was too much of a wimp to try myself.
Yet here I was about to do something that made my legs quake and belly knot, and in a way, it was thanks to Della.
It was her happiness that made me want to make Cassie just as happy because I was so damn grateful she’d befriended her. The fact that she let Della ride her prized pony was one of the most selfless things I’d seen her do.
Her window slid up on the third pebble, her brown hair mused from her pillow and one cheek red from lying on her side. “What gives? What’s happened?”
“Meet me at the kitchen door,” I whispered, keeping a close eye on her parents’ blackened bedroom three windows away.
Not waiting to see if she’d obey, I jogged around the farmhouse, avoiding the perfect flower beds that Patricia Wilson spent hours tending, and waited nervously as soft footsteps sounded on the flagstone floor then the rattle of a lock and opening of the door.