Bacon Pie

by Candace Robinson

  Peering at the cowgirls’ corral, I spot Lia and the little girls, all in orderly fashion, waiting their turn to lasso a little pig.

  After an hour where I play pig controller, salvaging the piglets from a massacre, the teacher calls, “Time to go, children.”

  They complain but drop their horses and lassos and rush to the gate.

  “Who’s the kid whisperer now?” Lia asks.

  “I must have lost the magic.”

  Lia and I guard our respective corrals for a few minutes.

  An olive-skinned, fit man in jeans and a formal shirt shows up, glancing around—the principal. “I heard you’re doing a great job.”

  “We’re trying, Mr. Nazari,” I say.

  He leans closer and squints at my face. “How’s that nose?”

  “It’s perfectly fine,” Lia says.

  “Like new.” I pinch the bridge of my nose for effect.

  Mr. Nazari looks at us, slowly, one at a time, as if trying to figure out if we’re fighting or something. “I hope not to see you at my office ever again.” He smiles. “That’s a good thing.”

  Lia nods. “Thanks, Mr. Nazari.”

  “I just wanted to say that.” He points to the left. “If you excuse me, I’m going to play a round of Whack-a-pig.”

  After the principal strolls off, we chuckle.

  “Whack-a-pig?” Lia asks.

  I shrug.

  A minute later, Caroline lumbers our way, dragging her feet. She tells us we’re done for the day—finally.

  As we walk toward the car, I ask Lia something that’s been lingering in my head for a while, “What’s the thing with you and video games?”

  “I love gaming, but not the new kind with the super CGI and killer sound.” She shakes her head. “I’m talking about eight-bit-graphics games.”

  “How come?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “You should try Nintendo playing—it’s relaxing.”

  “Are you sure you were born in this millennium?” I ask.

  “What’s wrong with liking vintage gaming consoles?” She bobs her head.

  “Don’t forget the old movies, books, and what else? Am I missing something? LPs, turntables, cassettes?”

  She shrugs. “We’re here,” she announces as we enter the volunteers’ parking area.

  We get in the Jetta, and I take a whiff at my shoulder before turning on the ignition. “I need a shower.”

  Lia rolls down her window. “Me, too.”

  “AC may help.” I crank it all the way up.

  As I drive toward her apartment complex, she tells me about Barnabas, his two little sisters, and his parents who emigrated from Cambodia. Somehow, that changes my perspective of him, because I’ve always seen him as this cool, Asian goth, but not much else.

  “Cole’s cool, too,” I say as we enter Main Street.

  “Seriously?” she asks.

  “He can be annoying at times, but he means well.” I stop the car at a red light and turn my attention to her.

  She inclines her head. “Sitting in my chair at Government is meaning well?”

  I nod. “He was just playing.”

  “Well, he can play somewhere else that isn’t in my seat.” She laughs, which makes me think she’ll try to be nice to Cole in the future. That is, if I educate him about what buttons not to push, like calling her Ophelia, or sitting in her chair.

  The light turns green, and I keep on driving. When we arrive at her apartment complex, she says a quick, “Bye,” and gets out of the car, as if she were in a rush.

  I watch her pace, shifting her backpack here and there. Suddenly, she turns around, heads back to the car, and knocks on the passenger window. I roll it down.

  Lia pokes her head in. “Anytime you feel like you need to unload your drama and need someone to talk to, I can listen.”

  I lean toward her. “Hopefully it’s not too much drama for you.”

  She shakes her head. “No, we all have something going on. Poor Barnabas can’t get below a hundred on a worksheet without getting griped at.”

  That makes me smile.

  “Anyway, I just wanted to let you know anytime you need an ear, I’ve got two.” She points at both of her ears, giving me a genuine smile.

  “Okay.”

  “Okay,” she echoes but stays with her head poked inside the car.

  I feel a surge of energy pushing me toward her—it makes me want to pull her face to mine and press my lips against hers.

  Lia takes a deep breath. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

  She turns to leave, and I wait for her to turn onto a corridor heading to her apartment. Driving, I feel psyched because I like this girl more than I ever imagined—definitely more than other girls I’ve dated. Lia has … depth—that’s the difference.

  When I get home, there’s a Chevy in the driveway I don’t recognize. I park next to it, stroll to the door, and open it. I almost gasp in surprise as I find Dad and Vi sitting at the dining table with Mom in front of them. Her milky skin is paler than normal, and her usual shoulder-length blonde hair is now light-brown and much shorter. She hasn’t shown up in almost two years, and now she’s here?

  Mom stands, appearing nervous. “Kiev.”

  I ball my hands into fists and freeze, trying to avoid saying something hurtful. Lighten up, Kiev. I slump my shoulders. “Mom,” I say, as if she were here all the time. I close the door behind me, and step to the chair next to Dad. “Hola Papá. Vi.”

  My father and sister nod, acknowledging my presence.

  Dragging the chair out, I slide onto it. “What’s this about?” I ask Mom in a calm voice, but inside—deep inside, I feel like yelling at her.

  She puts a hand against her chest, shakes her head, and looks at the floor.

  “Calm down, Lylla,” Dad says in English, making a down motion.

  Mom looks up and swallows hard. “I feel so bad for what I did.” She blinks and her gray eyes moisten. “There are no words. I … I couldn’t keep living the way I was. Feeling locked in here”—she taps her temples—“in my head, and having to pretend I felt happy.”

  I can’t believe her words—she left a letter to Dad saying she needed time to think about life and to, please, not try to find her, that she would contact us when she was ready.

  She shakes her head. “It was never you guys. It was me with my messed-up emotions.”

  All this time, I thought the problem was her relationship with Dad—adult stuff. I was so wrong. She seemed so normal when she was around. How did we miss this?

  No one says anything until I break the silence. “Papá?”

  He looks at me with an expression of disbelief.

  “Did you know this?” I ask him in Spanish.

  He shakes his head, then stares at Mom. “Ly-lylla? You? I…” he starts.

  “Why are you here, Mom?” I ask after a minute of silence.

  She points at Vi. “I didn’t know.”

  Didn’t know what? I think.

  Mom produces a tissue from her purse and dabs at her eyes.

  “Mom, please, sit,” Vi asks.

  Our mother nods quickly, and does as Vi asks.

  Again, tense silence.

  “I’m just gonna say it,” Vi says. “I found out Mom’s email and sent her a message telling her how I felt.”

  I frown. “After all she—” No, no drama. I relax my expression. “Just like that, huh?”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Vi asks, her voice an octave higher.

  “Mijita.” Dad sets a hand on her shoulder.

  Vi stares at the table, shaking her head. “I missed you so much, Mom.” She raises her chin. “Why did you disappear?”

  Mom glances at Dad before saying, “This—this home, all of you. I needed a break. It was a repetitive cycle of depression.” She shakes her head. “None of it was because of any of you.” She glances at us, one at a time. “I love you all—I always have. But I had to get out before I did something to myself. I knew…” She p
uts a hand to her throat, unable to speak.

  “Are you okay, Mom?” I ask.

  She clears her throat. “I had to get myself fixed, not just for me, but for all of you.” She gives us a reassuring nod.

  “You were gone for two years, Mom!” Vi shouts.

  Mom stands, walks around the table, and grabs Vi’s hand. “Pumpkin—my little baby girl. I … I’m sick—you know that now. I’ve been seeing a psychologist, and I’m getting better.”

  Vi wipes tears from her face. “Does that mean you’re coming back?”

  Standing, Mom walks around the table and brings a chair in front of us. “I can’t just yet.”

  “Why not?” Dad asks.

  She doesn’t say anything.

  “Papá deserves to know why,” I say to her in a calm voice.

  Pointing at her head, Mom says, “I’m not—I don’t think I can…” She springs off her seat, breathing fast. “I’ve gotta go.” She heads to the door.

  “Lylla.” Dad rushes after her.

  Mom holds out a hand and takes a deep breath. “I will call y’all and visit you. I promise. Right now, this is … overwhelming.” She turns the doorknob and exits the house, closing the door behind her.

  Dad turns around, facing us with a face that looks as destroyed as it was the day she left.

  Vi rushes to him and flings her arms around him. “I’m sorry, Papá,” she says in Spanish. “I didn’t know. I’ve always blamed you. I’m sorry.”

  “I didn’t know either,” he replies back in Spanish, “But I’m glad she came.” He caresses Vi’s hair. “Thank you for making that happen. I don’t know what’s gonna happen next, but I’m grateful that we have some answers.”

  At dinner, we speak about our day, avoiding Mom’s topic. We’re in shock about her appearance. I mean, she disappeared, leaving that letter and turning Dad into such a sad human being, and now Vi found her.

  Later in my bedroom, I put on pajamas to a silent house, no loud music coming from Vi’s room. I thrash in my bed, but I’m restless, so I trudge to her door and knock.

  “Come in,” Vi says.

  I open the door. “Hey.”

  She sits on the edge of her bed. “You couldn’t sleep, too?”

  “Yeah.” I cock my head. “How do you feel now?”

  Folding her arms across her chest, she rocks herself. “Weird.”

  I slide next to her and wrap an arm around her shoulders. “Me, too.”

  She stops rocking. “I miss her a lot, but I think…” She sighs. “I think seeing her brought some kind of closure.” She looks at me and smiles. “She looks okay, but she isn’t okay.”

  I think about Mom. She’s a little thinner and has more wrinkles around her eyes, but she’s pretty much the same—at least on the outside. The inside is a different answer. “We should’ve known better,” I say. “Remember how she worked long hours, even weekends?”

  Vi nods. “I guess that was a signal. There was the crying, too.”

  “Yeah.” I take a breath. “How’d you find out Mom’s email?”

  “A friend helped me dig on the Internet.” She glances at the ceiling. “We spent yesterday afternoon in the library, looking for her.”

  “This friend of yours, is she a geek?” I ask.

  “It’s a he, and he isn’t a geek.” She furrows her brow. “He wasn’t on my radar until a couple of days ago.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah.” She smiles. “He’s actually cool once you get to know him.”

  “Not sure I like the idea of my baby sister hanging around alone with guys.”

  “In the library?” she asks. “Besides, you hang out with girls alone in your room, like the other day with Lia.”

  “Being your older brother, I’m going to ignore that.” I smile at her. “Are you gonna start talking to me about things again?”

  She nods. “I’ll try.”

  “That’s not enough.” I stare at her. “If you want to have a drink, whatever, but don’t go out and get shitfaced again, especially if you’re driving.”

  Vi doesn’t say anything.

  “Also, your old friend Faith is worried about you,” I add.

  “Okay, okay.” She slumps her shoulders. “I’ll also talk to Faith.”

  “All right then.”

  I leave with curiosity milling inside me, wondering who the dude who helped her is.

  Chapter Twenty

  Lia + Butter

  The bell rings and I head out of class to find Barnabas. Today is going to be my last day volunteering at the Piggy Palooza Festival. That’s a relief.

  Yesterday was bizarre at the lasso station with us having to observe kids on wooden horse sticks roping real piglets. Luckily no harm came to the pigs, and they were released and safe from being eaten—for now.

  I find Barnabas waiting at the end of the long school hallway, digging around in his backpack. “How was harp practice today?”

  Barnabas looks up and fingerplays the strings in the air. “I’m spot on and ready for All-State.”

  “You’ve been spot on since the day you touched a harp string.” I snicker. “So, does that mean you’re going to make things official with Sophie now?” Yesterday at lunch they were sitting closer together than the day before.

  He taps the side of his head. “My mind is a pitiful place.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I don’t want to screw up.” He shrugs.

  “But you’ll kiss her?”

  “Hell yeah.”

  “Idiot.” I think most guys would agree to kiss a girl even if they don’t like her, but I know Barnabas, and he’s definitely into her.

  When we stroll into the cafeteria, I find Kiev sitting alone on a wooden bench, sandwich in one hand and a book in the other. My guess is it’s a play script, now that I’m learning more about him, and his clusterfuck of theater memorabilia he displays in the back of his car.

  “I’ll meet you in a few minutes,” I say to Barnabas.

  He shoots me an I know what you’re doing look. “Mmm hmm.”

  “Go away, Barnabas.” I walk past him and head toward Kiev.

  Plopping down on the bench next to Kiev, I rip the script from his hand—A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

  “Hey.” He moves to take the book back and stops. “Oh, I thought you were Cole.”

  “Do you wish I were Cole?” Even though Kiev isn’t really a douche, I’m still not fond of Cole.

  “Um, no that would be odd.” He smiles.

  I flip through the book and look at the highlighted parts. “No surprise that it’s Shakespeare.”

  “Well, since I’m not going to be in the upcoming play, I’m learning lines for the next one.” He points to a highlighted name that reads: Puck.

  “Hmm. I may have to go and see if your acting skills are terrible or on par with the greats.”

  “Whom do you consider the greats?” he asks.

  “Vincent Price.” No competition there.

  Kiev just stares at me with a blank open-mouthed look.

  “Jesus Christ. The original House of Wax,” I say and his eyebrow flies up, like he’s still not understanding. “Edward Scissorhands?” If he doesn’t know what that is, I’ll have to walk away right now.

  “That’s old. You’re like an old woman in a young person’s body.” He shoots me a grin.

  “You’re one to talk, Mr. Shakespeare—plays that are overhyped and hundreds of years old.” I hand him his book back—he’s actually fun to talk to.

  “You win that round.” He unzips his backpack and places the book inside.

  “So, where’s your friend?” I look around the cafeteria but don’t see him anywhere.

  “He said he had to do something during lunch today.”

  “Ah. Well, you want to come sit with us? You can enjoy the comfort of the hard floor.” I point farther up ahead where Barnabas is sitting next to Sophie.

  “All right,” he says, stuffing his half-eaten san
dwich back in his paper bag.

  Kiev walks with me through the lunch line, and I pay for a basket of fries and a bottle of water. We find Barnabas edged even closer to Sophie today. She’s in her cheerleader uniform and chowing down on a burger.

  “Odd couple,” Kiev whispers.

  “The question is: are they or aren’t they?” Their knees are touching which could be a hint to the answer.

  “I’m going to go with … is.”

  “Agreed.”

  We sit down on the ground across from Sophie and Barnabas. She starts rambling on to me about some television show with kids and supernatural stuff that I need to watch. I glance at Barnabas, whose eyes are angled at Sophie’s cleavage. His eyes shift to mine, and he can’t deny he’s been caught, so he gives me a shrug and grins. I just shake my head.

  The rest of the school day zooms by, and Kiev’s standing outside my classroom when the bell rings after last period.

  “Glad I didn’t have to hunt you down,” I say. Not that he was hard to find yesterday in the parking lot.

  “The teacher let us out a few minutes early today.”

  “I wish I had that special privilege.”

  After we leave school, Kiev stops by the Dairy Queen on the way, and we change into our uniforms while grabbing a couple of Blizzards.

  When we arrive at the festival we head straight for the Pig Shack. Caroline is sitting out front in a fold-up lawn chair, sipping on a bottle of bacon soda. So gross. “You two are early today,” she says. Mr. Ham must be inside.

  “Yeah,” I say. It was only like twenty-five minutes until four o’clock when we got out of the car.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Kiev says with his proper manners.

  She scrolls down the clipboard with another fancy fingernail design. It looks to be hearts and arrows. Does she do her nails every night? Because that’s a lot of work.

  “You still have twenty minutes, but you’re going to be at the butter station today.” She points in the direction to her right.

  “Damn it.” That is the one station I didn’t want to be placed at, and of course we get sent to it.

  “What was that?” Her eyebrows furrow.