“But you’re here. I guess she gave up?”
“She doesn’t care about anything anymore, Catherine. Not even herself.”
I felt my resolve wavering, and I pressed my cheek against his chest. He wrapped his arms around me, heat radiating through his thin gray T-shirt.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t want to leave you here like that. I didn’t want to leave you at all.” When I didn’t respond, he tried to guide me toward the door. “Let’s go inside.”
I pushed away from him, shaking my head. “You can’t.”
“Go in? Why?”
“You have to leave.”
“Catherine . . .”
I closed my eyes. “Just because I was angry at the way you left me doesn’t mean I’ve missed you. I haven’t. At all.”
“Why not? Because of the dozens of friends you have hanging around?”
I glared up at him. “Leave me alone.”
“Look around. You’re already alone.”
Elliott turned on his heel, shoved his hands into the pockets of his cargo shorts, and walked down the steps and through the gate to the street. He didn’t turn right toward his aunt’s. I wasn’t sure where he was going, and I tried not to care.
My eyes filled with tears, and I sat on the swing, once again pushing back and listening to the chains squeak against the hook from where they hung.
The swing sank lower, and I involuntarily leaned against Althea, who’d sat down next to me. I hadn’t even heard her come outside.
“You done run that poor boy off.”
“Good.”
Chapter Nine
Catherine
Mr. Mason turned away from his scribblings on the SMART Board, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. It was still in the midnineties, and the teachers were getting crankier every day.
“C’mon, you guys. It’s almost October. You should know this. Anyone?”
The leg of Elliott’s table screeched against the tile floor, and we all turned to stare at him.
“Sorry,” he said.
“Is the table working out for you?” Mr. Mason asked. “Mrs. Mason has been hounding me for an update.”
“It’s fine,” he said.
“Heard you won the quarterback spot,” Mr. Mason said. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks,” Elliott said.
“Barely.” Scotty sniffed.
Every girl in class immediately looked at Elliott with a sparkle in her eye, and I faced forward, feeling my cheeks get hot. “Photoelectric effect,” I said, desperate to take attention away from Elliott.
“That’s right,” Mr. Mason said, pleasantly surprised. “That’s right. Good job, Catherine. Thank you.”
The door opened, and Mrs. Mason stepped in, looking trim and glowing. “Mr. Mason.”
“Mrs. Mason,” he grumbled.
“I need to see Catherine Calhoun in my office, please.”
“You couldn’t have sent an aide?” Mr. Mason asked. Hope was in his eyes, as if he were waiting for his estranged wife to admit she’d just wanted to see him.
“I was next door.” Revenge glimmered in her eyes. Coach Peckham was teaching health one classroom over, and it was rumored they were dating. “Catherine, gather your things. You won’t be back today.”
I glanced over my shoulder at Elliott, although I wasn’t sure why. Maybe because I knew he’d be the only person to care why I was being summoned to the counselor’s office. He was sitting forward, a combination of curiosity and concern on his face.
I leaned over to shove my textbook, notepad, and pen into my backpack, and then stood, sliding my arms through the straps.
Mr. Mason nodded to me and then continued with his lecture, pointing to his pitiful illustrations of photoelectrons on the board.
Mrs. Mason led me down the hallway, across the commons area, to the office. Her long legs took small but graceful steps within the confines of the pencil skirt she wore. The hem hit just below her knee, almost modest if it hadn’t been skintight, balancing the sheer red blouse with the first three buttons undone. I smiled. She was enjoying her freedom, and I hoped that would be me someday.
We garnered stares from the school secretary, Mrs. Rosalsky, a few of the office aides, and a few delinquents who were carrying out their in-house suspension.
Mrs. Mason’s door was already open, a knitted heart with her name embroidered in the center hanging from a single nail in the wood. She closed the door behind me and, with a smile, directed me to sit.
“Miss Calhoun. We haven’t spoken in a while. Your grades look great. How are things?”
“Things are good,” I said, barely able to look her in the eyes.
“Catherine,” she said, her voice warm, “we’ve discussed this. You don’t have to be embarrassed. I’m here to help.”
“I can’t help it.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“No, but it’s still embarrassing.”
I sat in this chair three times a week during the first half of my sophomore year, rehashing how I felt about my father’s death. Mrs. Mason gave Mama six months, and when she felt Mama wasn’t going to get better, she called DHS to go to the Juniper for an interview. That made Mama worse, and late one night she ended up at the Masons’ home.
After that, I learned to pretend. Mrs. Mason summoned me once a week. Junior year was just once a month, and this year, I had just begun to think she wasn’t going to call me in at all.
She waited, her eyes soft and her small smile comforting. I wondered how Mr. Mason could have ever done anything but work hard to keep her. In any other town, she’d be married to a lawyer or businessman, counseling kids only because it was her passion. Instead, she’d married her high school sweetheart, who’d turned into a grumpy, round, sweaty, mustache-wearing lump of boring. I knew better than anything there were worse things to come home to, but Mrs. Mason was on her way to happy, and Mr. Mason wasn’t it.
“What about for you?” I asked.
One side of her mouth turned up, accustomed to my deflection. “Catherine, you know I can’t discuss . . .”
“I know. But I’m just curious why you left if it wasn’t that bad. Some people stay with better reasons to leave. I’m not judging you. I guess I’m just asking . . . at what point did you decide it was okay?”
She watched me for a moment, trying to decide if being honest would help me. “The only reason you need to leave is if you don’t want to stay. You know what I’m talking about. When you walk into a place and feel you don’t belong—where you’re not comfortable or even welcome. The important things are to be safe, happy, and healthy, and so many times those things are synonymous. When you’re not yet an adult, it’s important to let someone you trust help navigate that for you.”
I nodded and glanced at the clock. In ten minutes, the bell would ring, and I’d be walking home in the heat to a place that fit every one of Mrs. Mason’s descriptions.
“How are things at home?” she repeated.
“The bed and breakfast isn’t busy. It’s a lot of work, though. I still miss Dad.”
Mrs. Mason nodded. “Is your mom still talking to someone?”
I shook my head. “She’s better.”
Mrs. Mason could see that I was lying. “Catherine,” she began.
“I have a new friend.”
Her eyebrows lifted, creating three long lines across her forehead. “Really? That’s great. Who?”
“Elliott Youngblood.”
“The new quarterback. That’s fun.” She smiled. “He seems like a good kid.”
“He lives down the street from me. We walk down to Braum’s sometimes.”
She sat forward, clasping her hands together. “I’m happy. I just . . . he’s new. He seems . . .”
“Popular? Well liked? Socially opposite of me?”
Mrs. Mason smiled. “I was going to say he seems shy.”
I blinked. “I mean, I guess. I hadn’t thought of him that way. I can’t get him to shu
t up most of the time.”
Mrs. Mason’s singsong laugh filled the room. The bell rang, and she stood. “Darn. I was hoping we’d have more time. Is it okay to meet again next month? I want to talk to you about college options.”
“Sure,” I said, pulling on my backpack.
Mrs. Mason opened the door to reveal Mrs. Rosalsky standing on the other side of her desk, chatting with Elliott.
He turned to me, looking relieved.
“Mrs. Mason, Elliott needed to speak with Catherine before he left for football practice.”
“I wanted to make sure you didn’t need a ride home.”
Mrs. Mason smiled at me, glad to have confirmed my claim. “That’s very nice of you, Elliott.”
He knew I wouldn’t turn him down in front of school staff, so I agreed and followed him out. He even took my bag, and Mrs. Mason seemed thrilled.
Once Elliott pushed through the doors that led to the parking lot, I snatched my bag back and turned toward home.
“I figured,” he said.
I stopped, turning on my heel. “Figured what?”
“That it was for show. A thank you would be nice.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Why would I thank you?”
“For giving you a chance to fool Mrs. Mason with whatever you’re trying to fool her with.”
“You know nothing,” I said, continuing my walk.
Elliott jogged to catch up to me, tugging gently on my bag to slow me down. “I still want to take you home.”
“I only accepted because I knew that would make Mrs. Mason feel better. I just have a few more months before I turn eighteen. If pretending not to hate you will keep her from calling DHS on my mom again, that’s what I’ll do.”
He frowned. “Why did she call DHS on your mom?”
I walked away from him, holding the straps of my backpack.
“You don’t hate me,” he called.
I trudged to the corner, fighting my conflicting emotions and Althea’s words in my ear. I was behind on laundry, and even if Mama had done it while I was gone, she’d be upset with me. Elliott was distracting me, and creating any more stress for Mama was something I couldn’t afford. When she was unhappy, everyone was unhappy, and that made for a very tense household.
I stepped off the curb to cross the street, and then I was on my back, gasping for air. Elliott was hovering over me, his eyes wide.
“Oh God. Catherine, are you okay? I’m sorry.”
Once my breath returned, I pushed at him. He pulled me to a sitting position while fighting my swinging arms. “What . . . are you . . . doing?” I yelled, fighting him.
He pointed to the road. “You almost walked in front of a car!” he said, trying to subdue my wrists.
I breathed hard, looking out to the road. Besides the high schoolers leaving the parking lot, other vehicles were driving into town from the highway, going faster than they should.
I blinked, looking around, trying to gain the courage to apologize. “Thank you,” I said. “I was preoccupied.”
“Please let me take you home,” he begged.
I nodded, shook up from almost becoming a pancake. I wondered what would happen to Mama and the Juniper if something happened to me. I had to be more careful.
Elliott’s motor could still be heard a block away, and it made me angry that my heart was crying out the farther he drove. I didn’t want to miss him. I didn’t want to want him. Elliott being nice made it that much harder to hate him. My bag hit the dining chair with a smack, and I stood at the sink, filling a cup with cold water.
The sweat that had evaporated in Elliott’s air-conditioned Chrysler was still on my skin, and new beads began to form from standing in the thick, stale air of the Juniper. I set the cup down to splash my face once and then used a dish towel to dry. The thinning fabric was soft against my skin, and I held it against my eyes, enjoying the dark until I heard a stool leg scrape across the floor.
“Who was that? He’s super tan,” Tess said in her no-nonsense tone.
“That,” I said, getting another cup of water, “was Elliott.”
“The boy who left?”
I sighed, setting the cups on the island. “Yes, and he can stay gone. That’s one more complication I don’t need.”
“For sure. Tell him you love him and start naming your future babies. Seriously. He’ll run.”
I laughed once, set one cup in front of Tess and the other in front of me. I gulped, and Tess watched me, disgusted. “Why don’t you turn on the AC? There’s an idea.”
“If you see Mama before I do, feel free to ask.”
“So who was he?”
“None of your business.”
Tess put down her cup. “I’m out. It’s got to be ninety degrees in here, and you’re cranky. Oh, and you have a guest. He was checking in just before you got home.”
I watched Tess leave, calling after her, “Who?”
A few moments later, Duke yelled from upstairs. “Damn it all to hell!” I heard something crash, and I rushed to stand at the last step. A door slammed, and then footsteps began walking down the hall, slow and steady, the wood creaking under Duke’s weight.
He peered down at me, wearing a stained white button-down with a loosened gray tie. His belly hung over the belt that held up his gray slacks, and he took a step down the stairs while hanging on to the banister.
“No towels. How many times have I told you that I need fresh towels? I shower every day! I need a damn towel every day! How hard is that?”
I swallowed, watching him descend the steps slowly. Althea had said the day before that she’d finish the laundry so I could talk to Elliott. Out of my routine, I’d forgotten to stock the rooms.
“I’m sorry, Duke. I’ll get those for you now.”
“It’s too late! I had to stand in my bathroom and drip-dry. Now I’m late. I’m sick and tired of needing something every time I check in to this shithole! Towels are a basic accommodation. Basic! How do you not understand that?”
“I’ll get the towels,” I said, stepping toward the laundry.
Duke descended the last two steps quickly and grabbed my arm, his thick fingers sinking into my flesh. “If it happens again . . .” He pulled me closer. He was short, at almost eye level with me, which didn’t make the crazy look on his sweaty face any less intimidating. He stared at me, his nostrils flaring while he breathed heavily through his nose. “You just make sure it doesn’t.”
“You’ll have to let me go first, Duke,” I said, balling my hand into a fist.
He looked down at my hand and then turned me loose, shoving me away. I walked to the laundry, seeing the towels Althea had folded perfectly on top of the dryer. I took five thickly stacked white towels to Duke’s regular room, knocking first. He didn’t answer, so I cracked the door open.
“Hello?” I asked, hoping for Poppy, or Mama, or anyone but Duke.
I stepped across the empty bedroom, noting Duke’s still-made bed and the open, empty suitcase on the stand next to the dresser. Hanging in the closet were all-too-familiar suits, allowing the always-present dull ache for my dad to grow into full-blown grief. I always missed him, but it didn’t hurt until it did, and then realization and sadness crashed over me in waves. I had gotten better about crying on the inside. Shedding tears didn’t change anything anyway.
The bathroom was clean, the shower curtain closed. I bent down in front of the wooden shelf in the corner, placing the folded, fluffy white towels there.
The rings on the shower curtain clicked behind me, and I stood, closing my eyes, waiting for whoever was standing there to make their presence known. When nothing happened, I turned around, noticing that the air conditioner had kicked on. The air blew through the vent, making the shower curtain gently wave.
I breathed out, relieved, and then quickly left the room, taking the rest of the towels into Mama’s room, saving just one for me. The rest of the rooms were vacant, but I looked for dirty laundry anyway and then carried a nearly empt
y basket back downstairs, starting a small load in the washer.
As water began to fill the deep basin, I silently cursed myself. It was stupid to leave my chores to someone else. I knew better, but ignoring my responsibilities for Elliott was exactly what had to be avoided. Keeping secrets meant not drawing attention to the Juniper, and Duke getting angry enough to stay somewhere else for the night would draw attention. I could just imagine him taking his ratty, olive-green suitcase to the Holiday Inn in the next town over, causing a scene at the desk while he tried to check in with an ID that didn’t match his name. We had to keep him happy, otherwise the very worst would happen, and I wasn’t even sure what that was except for knowing they would take Mama and me away from each other. Maybe for good.
I spent the next hour cleaning, and just as I finished a noodle casserole, I heard the door open and close. I wasn’t sure if it was Duke or Mama, so I waited for the sound of footsteps on the stairs.
I tensed. Duke was already back. “Are there any damn towels?” he yelled as he neared the top floor. “Every time I step outside in this godforsaken town, I’m drenched in sweat.”
“There are fresh towels in your room,” I called.
He stomped down the stairs, and I stiffened. “Did you just yell at me, little girl?”
“No, I called to you like you did to me.”
He narrowed his eyes and then wrinkled his nose, sniffing. He leaned over to look at the casserole dish behind me. “What’s that?”
“Noodle casserole. Mama’s recipe.”
“I’ve had that before.”
I had to think back to remember when the last time was that we’d had it and when he was here. It was possible. “It’ll be ready in an hour.” I turned the dial to 250 degrees.
“It better be. The service around here is worse than having to waste away in this crap town.”
“If there’s anything else you need, please let me know.”
He stomped over to me, leaning in just inches from my face. I looked at the floor.
“You tryna get rid of me, girl?” His teeth ground against one another, and he breathed through his nose again. The sound reminded me of a wild animal getting ready to charge.
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