South of Somewhere

By Kalena Miller

STARRED REVIEW! "Precise, subtle details and complete emotional honesty bring these characters to life from the first page."—Kirkus Reviews starred review

"A charming entry in the crowded middle grade contemporary field."—School Library Journal

The unforgettable tale of a girl, her maybe-criminal mom, her babysitting business, and her pet pineapple.

When FBI agents swarm twelve-year-old Mavis Callahan's downtown Chicago home, her mom goes on the run. With the family’s house and bank accounts seized, Mavis’s dad takes her and her siblings to seek refuge with his sister just south of rural Somewhere, Illinois—a far cry from the big city lifestyle Mavis is used to. As Mavis grapples with her sudden turn in fortune, she learns to make new friends and starts a babysitting business to bring in some much-needed cash for the family. But she can’t help but wonder—is her mom truly guilty? And if not, why has she gone into hiding, contacting Mavis only through a series of postcards from exotic locales? Mavis isn’t sure if she’s ready for the truth, but she’ll do anything to find it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Albert Whitman & Company
• Release date: Apr 11, 2024
• ISBN: 9780807577158

Kalena Miller

Kalena Miller is the author of several books for children and teens. She graduated from Carleton College before receiving an MFA in creative writing from Hamline University. She currently lives with her husband and lovable, if slightly neurotic, dog in College Station, Texas, where she runs a bookstore with her mom. When she is not writing, reading, or selling books, Kalena enjoys tap dancing, crocheting, and watching an embarrassing amount of reality television.

Book preview

ASTOR STREET

I have sand between my toes. I announce this to the entire car. Nobody replies.

I’ve been stuck with sandy feet for ten straight hours, and it’s not pleasant—even though six of those hours were spent half-asleep on an overnight flight. I fling off my flip-flops and rub my feet against the back of the driver’s seat. When that doesn’t work, I kick against the carpeted floor. Behind the wheel, Dad glances in the mirror but doesn’t say anything.

You guys, I try again. I have sand stuck between my toes. And my hair is gross.

My older sister, Camille, sighs from the front passenger seat, eyes not budging from her iPhone. Next to me, Andre groans. He’s fifteen and prefers groaning to actual human words.

And you feel the need to share this with us because…? Camille swipes through her photo album at lightning speed. She spent most of our trip taking selfies with palm trees. Dad says it’s a teenager thing.

Because it’s really bugging me! My voice goes up an octave, edging dangerously close to a babyish whine. I clear my throat and try once more. I smell like chlorine. So obviously I need to shower first when we get home.

This gets my sister’s attention. No way. Camille twists to face me, her shiny brown ponytail smacking against the window. I’m meeting up with the girls tonight. You can use Andre’s shower.

Um, no? For a boy who cares very little about personal hygiene, my brother is fiercely protective of his private bathroom. I’m meeting Uncle Jack this afternoon. Do you want me to show up smelly?

Jack Peterson is Mom’s best friend from college—not an actual relative—but we grew up calling him Uncle Jack. He spends every summer at his cottage in Nantucket, and this year Andre landed the sweet gig of supervising his spoiled cat for fifty dollars a day the whole time he’s away. I’m more than a little jealous.

Well, I’m going to a movie with Skye and Madi, I counter. "And I have sand between my toes."

Maybe if you’d gotten out of the pool when Dad asked, you could have showered before the flight, Camille says.

It’s not my fault Andre was taking forever. And my flip flops were covered in—

I swear, my brother grumbles. "If you say the word sand one more time, I’m going to…"

Camille and I both pause, waiting to see how he’ll finish that sentence. Dad despises violence of any kind, including empty threats. Like whenever a spider sneaks into our bedroom—which is way, way too often—he insists on rehoming the evil bug on the back porch rather than whacking it with a newspaper.

"Sois gentil, Dad warns in French. I’m pretty sure that means be nice," but I also stopped paying attention to his French lessons about five years ago. My sister raises one perfectly plucked eyebrow while Andre stammers.

I will…I will throw your pineapple out the car window.

Dad laughs at this, and Camille turns back to her phone as I wrap a protective arm around the cardboard box sitting next to me. I would be the one threatening violence if my brother touched Pierre.

At the beginning of every summer, as soon as school gets out, our family of five travels to Maui. Mom claims it’s a much-needed break from work, but she still spends the entire trip on her laptop. The rest of us lounge on the beach, have boogie board competitions, and sip on frothy drinks from the pool bar. Our flight home always comes too soon.

The only good thing about leaving Hawaii is my yearly pineapple. You aren’t allowed to bring fruits or vegetables through airport security, but you can purchase whole pineapples at the gate—a fact I find hilarious. Years ago, Dad bought me one as a joke, and now it’s tradition.

I don’t actually eat the pineapple I bring home. If I did, my throat would get super itchy, as I’m allergic to pretty much all fruits and vegetables. Unless they’re cooked. And who wants to eat cooked pineapple? Instead, I name my spiky friend and display him on my dresser, like a houseplant or oversized pet rock. Sometimes I dress him in sunglasses or a bow tie. My newest edible sidekick, Pierre the Pineapple, probably has a good two weeks of life before the flies come and Dad dumps him in the compost bin.

Mom would let me take a shower first, I grumble.

Well, Mom’s not here, Andre says. He sounds peeved. And I feel bad being so annoying, but the sand between my toes is driving me bananas. (That’s another fruit I can’t eat.)

Why did Mom take a taxi anyway? Camille asks.

She said there wasn’t enough space for all the luggage and Mavis’s pineapple, Dad says.

Pierre, I clarify.

Pierre, Dad agrees. He always humors me when I name inanimate objects.

That’s weird, Camille says. We usually drive home together.

This is true. A few years ago, Dad traded in his vintage Mercedes for a silver SUV with a trunk large enough to store Camille’s bassoon, Andre’s lacrosse gear, and my dance bag all at the same time. Five humans, five suitcases, and a pineapple would have fit, no problem.

She probably needed a break from all your squabbling, Dad says. Trust me, I’m ready for a vacation after that vacation. Andre groans again while I suppress a smile. It’s also tradition for Dad to complain about being exhausted after a week on the beach.

We turn onto Astor Street, the famous road at the center of our downtown Chicago neighborhood. Tourists come from all over to dine at the neighborhood’s trendy restaurants and snap pictures of the historic houses. Ours is red brick with faded white trim outlining its three stories.

Every once in a while, my parents talk about moving. We could trade our skinny row house for someplace in the suburbs with plenty of bathrooms, a home office, and a big garage. We could have our own heated pool in the backyard and maybe even a jacuzzi with bubble jets. But Mom will never leave Chicago. She grew up a few blocks from Astor Street, and she loves the glamour of living downtown.

Seriously, Camille. I bend over to pick a few grains of sand from under my toes. The more I think about my sandy feet, the more I need to clean them. Can I shower first?

Seriously, Mavis. My sister echoes me, mocking my desperation. I’ll be fast. Or you can use the master bathroom. Stop being such a—

I don’t get to hear what Camille thinks of me because she has gone silent. Dad has stiffened in his seat, his eyes scanning the road ahead. Andre pokes me in the side. I shoot upright, wanting to see whatever halted our conversation. I’m expecting a dead animal. Or maybe Mr. Giraldo is yelling at the pigeons again.

Instead, I see a long line of black cars. We’re just one block from home, but the unusual traffic has stopped us in the middle of the road.

Dad shifts the car into park, but he doesn’t move his hands from the steering wheel. For once, Camille isn’t looking at her phone. She stares straight ahead—past the giant oak tree, past the stone gargoyle, past the ritzy apartments with the doorman. Her eyes are focused on 467 Astor Street—the only home I’ve ever had—where the scary line of vehicles ends.

Is it a funeral? Andre asks, his voice timid.

I nod, eager to find a reasonable explanation for the dread creeping into my brain. A funeral procession makes sense. When my great-uncle Elvin died last year, a parade of black cars transported his casket from the funeral home to the cemetery.

But the cars at the funeral had been limousines, not SUVs. And the drivers had worn dark suits, not navy blue windbreakers with the letters F, B, and I stamped on the back.

Camille. Dad’s voice is shaking. Call your mother. There’s a pause. NOW!

At his shout, the three of us jump, and Camille’s cell phone flies out of her hands. I don’t think I’ve ever heard Dad raise his voice. He’s an early-retired French professor who bakes homemade baguettes and listens to Parisian jazz singers. His only mode is peaceful.

Camille strains to reach her phone, but it’s wedged between her seat and the center console. Normally, Andre would laugh at her clumsiness, but he’s too busy staring at the line of cars in utter bewilderment.

I can call. I scramble to retrieve my phone from my backpack as an officer approaches the car. She’s a petite blonde woman with a badge pinned to her jacket. She smiles and motions for Dad to roll down the window.

Hello, sir. Sorry for the delay. The woman shrugs like she really is sorry. We’re rerouting all traffic onto Burton for the next few hours. I apologize for the inconvenience.

I’m frozen in my seat until Andre nudges my leg and nods at the cell phone in my hand. I find Mom’s contact and press the phone to my ear.

I’m sorry, Dad says. What’s going on?

One ring. No answer.

Federal officers are sweeping the area. We’re asking all non-residents to—

"I am a resident."

Two rings. I clutch the phone, waiting for the familiar sound of Mom’s voice.

What’s your name, sir?

Three rings.

Michael Callahan.

Four rings. Then the line goes dead. No Mom. No voicemail. No nothing.

Sir, is your wife in the car with you? The woman peers around Dad to survey each of us. Her tone is curt, and there’s an intensity in her eyes that wasn’t there moments ago. I slouch down in my seat as she glares at the phone in my hand.

No. Dad’s voice trembles. She took a different car. A taxi. We’re coming home from the airport.

Sir, I’m going to need you to come with me for few minutes. We have some questions.

Dad nods mutely, turns off the engine, and opens his door. Before the officer can lead him across the street, he twists around to face me. With wide eyes, he glances at my phone. I shake my head. Mom didn’t answer.

Keep calling, he mouths.

I click redial as Dad is led into a swarm of navy jackets. This time, the line goes dead after one ring. In the front seat, Camille whimpers. Andre reaches for my hand. Never in my entire life have I held hands with my big brother, but I squeeze as hard as I can.

I call Mom again and again. Nothing. Still, I keep trying. Not because I believe she’ll answer, but because Dad told me to. My father is normally all corny jokes and French poetry and cheesy smiles. I’ve never seen him look that petrified before.

What did Mom do? Andre whispers so quietly I can barely hear him.

I’m about to dial again when a flash of yellow in the review mirror catches my attention. I crane my neck to see a taxi pull onto Astor Street. It skids to a stop, nearly crashing into a pair of kids on bicycles, before making a frantic U-turn and speeding away.

I feel Andre’s hand twitch. Camille stops crying long enough to gasp. I put down the phone.

We all saw her. None of us says a thing.

SOMEWHERE, ILLINOIS

Our car is never quiet.

Usually, Camille is chatting about who asked who to homecoming while Andre complains about the assistant lacrosse coach who hates his guts or the sea monster he can’t kill in whatever video game he’s playing. If both my siblings are quiet, Dad will turn on a French podcast. He’s still convinced one of us may develop an interest in his beloved language, even though I’ve informed him there’s a zéro percent chance of that happening. (Zéro is one of the few French words I can remember because it’s basically the same in English.)

Now, though, a silence has settled over us. It’s a thick silence. A scary silence. Nobody wants to hear about my sandy feet or dirty hair anymore. I know that for certain.

When Dad returned to the car after talking to the FBI agent, he drove straight to the bank on the corner and parked illegally in the fire lane. He emerged five minutes later, unable to make eye contact with any of us. Without uttering a word, he slammed the car door shut and headed for the highway.

We’ve now been driving for an hour and a half, and Dad shows no signs of stopping. The skyscrapers and crowded city blocks disappeared a long time ago. Even the sprawling suburbs and golf courses are thinning. We fly past yet another highway exit, this one featuring just two gas stations and a sketchy motel. Andre and I exchange a glance. We hardly ever venture outside the city. Mom acts like driving to my dance studio in nearby Evanston is an unreasonable trek. Even Dad, who rarely has anything negative to say, laments the lack of culture in the suburbs.

As we zoom past another exit, Andre leans across Pierre’s cardboard box. Is Dad going crazy? he whispers, his hot breath tickling my ear. I shrug and shove him away. If Dad is losing his mind, gossiping about his mental state probably isn’t helpful.

A minute later, Dad yanks the car onto an exit ramp. I’m not sure if he overheard Andre or if this has been our destination all along. Signs indicate that there are a few more restaurants at this exit—an Olive Garden, a Burger King, and a McDonald’s—plus two gas stations. But Dad doesn’t head for any of these places. No, he turns into an abandoned parking lot and stops the car haphazardly between two spaces.

He leaves the car running—thankfully, because it’s ninety degrees outside—but flings his door open and runs around to the trunk. Behind me, I hear him rummaging through our suitcases and swearing in French.

Yep, Dad’s definitely going crazy, Andre says.

"Don’t say crazy, Camille says. Using ableist language is offensive. A second later, she sighs. Honestly, it would be weirder if he wasn’t freaking out."

Do you know what’s going on? I stare at my sister’s ponytail. Based on Andre’s twitching legs and wrinkled forehead, he’s just as confused as me.

With another sigh, my sister slowly turns in her seat. Her face is grim. "I don’t know anything," Camille says. She keeps her voice low, but with all the noise Dad’s making in the trunk, I doubt he can hear us.

Maybe not, but you have a hunch, Andre says. So spill it.

When Camille speaks, I can tell she’s choosing her words carefully. Like Andre and I are the children and she’s the adult, even though she’s only seventeen. The FBI handles big things, she says. Not little crimes like shoplifting or speeding.

We know that, I snap. I’ve seen a few episodes of Criminal Minds at Skye’s house. Also, I have common sense.

So that means it’s a serious issue. A federal case. Camille pauses. If the FBI is searching our house, Mom must owe someone lots of money. I’m talking millions of dollars, at least.

That sounds backwards, I say. "Mom makes money for people, right?"

Mom works as a wealth manager in a skyscraper downtown. I don’t fully understand her job, but I know important people trust Mom to help them. Thanks to all her years of hard work, she’s the top woman at her firm—a fact that’s cool for equality but less cool when she hosts work events and our kitchen is full of sixty-year-old men in ugly suits talking about boring financial things.

"Well, that’s what she’s supposed to do… Camille trails off with a shrug. I’m just saying. Haven’t you noticed all the extra money Mom’s been spending? The kitchen remodel? Three vacations in six months?"

We always go on vacation, I say. Since I was a little kid, our family has spent every school break lounging on a sandy beach, hiking in a national park, or exploring a foreign city.

True. But…I don’t know. It’s been fancier than usual. Don’t you think?

That’s because Mom is the best at her job! I shout at Camille.

My sister holds up her hands in defense, and I slump in my seat. I don’t understand why Camille is siding with the FBI. She and Mom don’t have the smoothest relationship, but I figured Camille was proud of her, at least. Not everyone is lucky enough to have a mom featured in the business section of the Chicago Tribune.

How long does it take to search a house? Andre asks.

Who knows? Camille shrugs. Maybe there’s evidence inside. Maybe they’re going to take our house entirely. I’ve heard of that happening.

No way, I say. That can’t be legal. The idea of yellow tape and police officers inside our home is horrifying enough. But never being allowed inside again? I can’t imagine that reality.

I’m just saying it’s possible, Camille says. You saw Dad’s face after we stopped at the bank. I bet our accounts are frozen. Or he lost access to them somehow.

What does that even mean? Andre asks.

While my older siblings continue whispering about banks and loans and finance things