Ana of California

by Andi Teran

  “Of course they are, Bad Brains.”

  “How did you know I was into Bad Brains?”

  Ana rolled her eyes. “Please.”

  “No one around here is into what I’m into,” Cole said, crossing his mud-covered arms. “Well, hardly anyone. For a while I did what was easiest and just went along with the flow, being one person at school, another person after school. I’ve been riding bikes all my life, with my dad mostly, so I’ve grown up going out of town for races almost every weekend, living a double life. I’ve never been as close to people at school as they are with one another.”

  “Looked like you fit in just fine.”

  “That’s because I know everyone.”

  He wanted to tell her that it was more that everyone knew him, or thought they did. “It’s always easy coming back to the places where people know your name, until you realize it isn’t,” he continued. “People make judgments, even if they’re wrong, and it sucks when those opinions stick. It’s like you can’t escape your own situation sometimes, you know? Even if you’re trying to move on from it.”

  Ana’s stomach sank thinking about having to go back to L.A. at the end of the semester. She wondered which group home she’d be sent to for the holidays, which fake tree they’d force her to sit around. “I know what you mean. Sometimes it’s about duality,” she said. “I’m living two lives too, especially here. Where’d you go away to?”

  “Back down near San Francisco, where we’re from originally.”

  “You mean you weren’t born in Hadley like everyone else?” she said with a look of horror.

  “Nope.” He smiled. “You and me are the city folk around here. Anyway, I was grounded for the entire summer. I spent the first part of it in Yosemite. It wasn’t really my choice. My parents sent me away on one of those forced camping retreats.”

  “Why?”

  Cole hesitated. She didn’t need to know all the details, he thought, not that she’d care. “I kind of maybe started a bonfire on our front lawn that may or may not have spread. Luckily it didn’t do any damage, unless you call obliterating my relationship with my parents damage. Not that they aren’t capable of doing the same.”

  “Is that why you keep trying to talk to me? You’ve got no one left.”

  He laughed at her sad eyes and look of despair.

  “That and because I think we’re into the same music.”

  “You mean you’re not mesmerized by my curls?”

  He turned and looked right at her like he did in the bookstore. She looked back.

  “I’m way more into the attitude, but yeah the curls work too. Are you going to keep giving me a hard time about that?”

  “No. Maybe. Who knows? I better go,” Ana said, putting her sketchbook into her backpack and calling to Dolly, who was sprawled at Cole’s feet.

  “Guess you’re set on going ‘in the opposite direction in this too-big world,’” he said.

  “No, I just have to get back,” she said.

  “It’s a Kerouac quote, lame, I know.”

  “What is it about guys and Kerouac?”

  “On the Road is a great book, you said so yourself in class.”

  “I stand by what I said, but let’s not get into some deep conversation about it because it’s the only book I’ve finished of his other than Tristessa, which is a whole other conversation. His lead characters are self-centered and always himself. And don’t even get me started on his possible homophobia and ‘little Mexican girl’ fetish. But I get that you’re into it. It’s written all over you.”

  “Wow, you have me so figured out,” Cole said with a smirk that Ana felt wasn’t entirely out of line. “Tristessa has its moments, sure, but it’s poetic and sad. I think that’s the point. He loves her but can’t tell her, wants to help but knows it’s doomed . . .”

  “But what’s he in love with?” Ana asked, reminding herself to take a breath. “Tristessa’s a beautiful junkie who nods off all the time and won’t give him what he wants.”

  “He’s just as messed up as she is, in a different way. The tragedy is neither one of them knowing how to hold on to the other. It’s like he says, ‘The beauty of things must be that they end.’”

  Ana didn’t know what to say. She remembered reading Tristessa after finding an old copy of it at the library and being intrigued by the description. She’d read it in one sitting, resisting the urge to throw it across the room at the end.

  “I really have to go,” she said.

  “Do you?”

  She was so surprised she paused. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to continue the conversation, as enthralling as it was talking to a guy her age about something she found interesting. The only other person Ana had discussed her feelings about Tristessa with was Ronnie back at the library, who had lived the tale himself. But she paused for another reason too; ashamed as she was to admit it, she liked the way Cole was looking at her.

  “I’m not supposed to be back here,” she said.

  “Neither am I.”

  “Gasp! Rebels.”

  “Can I walk you back?” he said, making a move to follow her.

  “I think I should go on my own, but thanks for the offer . . . and for the conversation.”

  “What about my bottle-opening expertise?”

  “On point, Brannan. Just stay away from lighters.”

  • • •

  It was a quicker walk back to the farm than she’d imagined. To her surprise, neither Abbie nor Emmett was pacing up and down the back porch waiting for her to emerge from where she wasn’t supposed to be. She let Dolly off her leash and watched the bouncing yellow dog bark all the way back to the barn, its door opening to let her in and then promptly shutting behind her again. Ana walked through the garden, still lush and flowering in the cooler evening temperatures, and hopped up the back steps into the kitchen where Abbie was busy reheating a stew.

  “Did you enjoy your walk?” Abbie asked, not looking up. “Emmett said you took Dolly.”

  “I did, into the woods. I hope that’s okay.”

  “I’d prefer it if you let me know next time so I can show you which land is off limits,” Abbie said, focusing on the stove top.

  “Got it. How did it go? With the delivery.”

  “Made it just on time. She’s a difficult client but one I can’t say no to at the moment.”

  “Who was it?”

  Abbie sighed and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “Nadine Brannan.”

  “Any relation . . .”

  “She’s Cole’s mother, yes, and not someone used to hearing the word ‘no.’ Her husband owns most of the dairies around here, some of the smaller farms too—they own half this town, including the land. I don’t want to get into it now, but please do your best not to bring her name up around Emmett. I’m handling her orders on my own.”

  “Okay,” Ana said, detecting a mood, understanding why Cole might need the escape. “Can I talk to you for a moment, while you’re cooking?” she asked.

  “Of course.”

  “It’s about my art class.”

  Abbie sighed and put down the spoon. “I completely forgot to ask how your first day went. I’m all over the place tonight. Tell me everything.” She put a lid on the stew pot and leaned against the counter.

  “It was fine except—”

  “Was Mrs. Molloy still in the front office?”

  “She was.”

  “Ah, the Iron Lady! She was there when Emmett and I were in school. What about English? Who’s your teacher?”

  “Ms. Gregg. Do you know her?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “She seemed kind of youngish.”

  “Then I definitely don’t know her.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “Didn’t take it like that.
My English teacher is probably dead. If my prayers have been answered.”

  Ana laughed, a release of tension built up from the day.

  “She was the worst,” Abbie continued. “Everyone called her the Succubus. She used to drink from a Shakespeare goblet we all knew was filled with vodka. She sometimes fell asleep on the desk.”

  “Drama.”

  “I know. Put me on the spot once too, made me recite something from Hamlet like I didn’t understand it.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I performed the ‘To be or not to be’ speech in its entirety.”

  “No way!”

  “It’s the only thing I’ve ever memorized. I’m a sucker for tortured souls with daddy issues.”

  “Who isn’t?” Ana said. “So, the rest of my classes were normal, except for art, which I wanted to talk to you about . . .”

  “What about it?”

  “Why did you and Emmett cancel it without telling me?”

  “What are you talking about?” Abbie said, untying her apron and taking out some bowls.

  “I got my schedule this morning,” Ana continued, “and it said I had independent study, not art. I asked Principal Tucker and he said he talked to you and Emmett and that someone had suggested I needed a study hour more than art class.”

  Abbie set the bowls on the table with a clunk, her head dropping back as if she were about to scream through the ceiling.

  “I’m going to school with you in the morning,” Abbie said, as she began ladling the stew into bowls.

  “You are?”

  “You will be in that art class. Tucker owes me one. And now so does Emmett.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “‘To take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them’!” Abbie said, flinging stew at the pale pink rhododendron print on the wall. “Men. To hell with all of ’em.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The meeting lasted minutes. Ana waited on one of the plastic chairs just outside the office, jiggling one leg over the other as she watched Mrs. Molloy perform her shuffling papers routine behind the front desk. The door opened and Abbie walked out, followed by Principal Tucker. They shook hands before Mr. Tucker made an awkward hand gesture that was somewhere between “I love you” and “rock and roll” as Abbie headed straight for the door. Mr. Tucker beamed as he scanned her from her tousled hair all the way down to the only skirt Ana had ever seen Abbie wear.

  “Done deal,” Abbie said once they were out of the office.

  “I’m in?”

  “You’re in.”

  “How did you do it?”

  “Let’s just say Tucker and I go way back. I know what I’m doing,” she said to Ana with a wink. “He said you have to keep your grades up with your work schedule and that he couldn’t wait to see your artistic genius. I talked you up a bit, all of it true.”

  “It’s a miracle. Thank you,” Ana said, wanting to hug Abbie but deciding against it. “I should get to class. You heading back to the farm?”

  “No,” Abbie said, unconsciously smoothing down her skirt. “The Bracken—Will’s café. He’s testing a couple of brunch recipes and invited me to a tasting. It’s important to keep a good relationship with business clients.”

  “Is that skirt appropriate for a business meeting, though?”

  “Shush,” Abbie said. “I’ll see you after school.”

  They said good-bye and Ana headed down the hall, unzipping her leather jacket on her way to class. She’d never had someone stick up for her at school before, let alone talk up her strengths. “Don’t screw it up,” said a particular voice inside her, one she’d hoped had gone away.

  She was only ten minutes late, but when she opened the door, everyone’s head turned toward her in silence. Mrs. Gregg pointed for her to sit, so she did, wondering why she was commanding so much attention. Ana set her backpack under her chair as the focus shifted back to textbooks. She glanced over at Rye, who was glancing back at her.

  “Where were you?” Rye mouthed.

  “Where were you? Yesterday?” Ana mouthed back.

  Rye shrugged her shoulders and went back to reading. She didn’t want to explain how she’d gone straight to the library after school to avoid Cole’s group of friends, nor did she want to relive the recent round of harassment. Ana took out her textbook and peeked over at Cole. He was concentrating, but without turning around, he put his left hand up and did a very discreet slow-motion wave across his book. She smiled to herself, catching Rye’s eye in the process, and then hunted for the page she was supposed to be reading.

  When the bell rang, there was a rush to the door. Ms. Gregg shouted out the homework while students made a wide berth around Ana’s desk on the way out.

  “What happened to you yesterday after school?” Ana asked.

  “I had a yearbook meeting. Kind of forgot I signed up last year,” Rye said, lying and noticing Cole standing behind Ana.

  “Hey,” he said to Rye, who didn’t answer.

  “I’ll see you at lunch,” Rye said and darted out the door.

  “What’s this giant storm cloud between you two?” Ana asked.

  “You should probably ask Rye. Where are you heading?”

  “Biology. You?”

  “Opposite direction—gym.”

  They walked out of class together, where Ana was immediately bombarded by staring eyeballs, people making a point of getting out of her way as she walked down the hall.

  “What, is it the jacket or something?” she said.

  “You’re the new kid, most exciting attraction in town.”

  “Why does it feel like every day is going to be the first day all over again?”

  • • •

  Ana watched the clock throughout algebra, waiting for the bell. She knew she was behind in biology and in math too, but she let her mind wander back to the moment in the woods. Why hadn’t Abbie and Emmett told her they shared land with the Brannans? There was obviously something going on, not to mention Rye’s hatred of Cole. If this town was as small as everyone kept saying, there had to be an easier way to find answers.

  When lunch rolled around, Ana made her way outside. More and more heads were turning her way, more fearful than curious. As she walked toward the same table she’d sat at the day before, other tables fell silent.

  “What up?” Brady said, putting up his hand for a high five as she sat down.

  “That’s the question, B. People are crazy staring at me today, like I ate too much garlic or have the plague.”

  “Yeah, that’s probably my fault,” Rye admitted, dipping a carrot stick into a container of hummus. “I might have told a harmless white lie in history yesterday.”

  “What do you mean?” Ana said.

  “Two of those idiots from lunch were in my class saying stuff again, making it . . . difficult. They were bringing up your name too and talking about how after school you called them, quote-unquote, ‘the worst,’ so I might have said you had it out for them.”

  “Like how?”

  “Specifically? I told them you were in a gang back in Los Angeles.”

  “You what?”

  “It’s not like they’ve ever been there and you are from East L.A., which is all mi vida loca and whatnot—I did some research last night. It made them back off, though, and it’s clearly had some resonance throughout the school. The leather jacket helps. Nice touch.”

  “So, what, do you think gangs are all Grease or West Side Story or something? Because they’re not. It’s not something to joke around about.” Ana immediately stood up from the table, nausea sweeping across her in waves.

  “Why are you getting so upset? It worked, didn’t it?”

  Ana grabbed her backpack and walked away, leaving her lunch on the table.

  • • •

  It
wasn’t as if she hadn’t spent a lunch period in the girls’ bathroom before. She thought it was funny how it seemed the longest or the shortest period of the day, depending on whether you had other people to spend it with. Though there were still several minutes left before the bell, she headed to art class early, just in case there were issues with the recent schedule switch. She was still shaky after what Rye said, but walking down the empty hallways helped. She hoped she hadn’t walked away from their friendship entirely.

  Mrs. Darnell was sitting at her desk in the art room sipping a cup of black coffee, her long gray hair hanging limply down the back of a smock splattered with paint. She was inspecting someone’s watercolor painting, her face puckered like a dried lemon. Ana knocked on the open door.

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Darnell?”

  “What is it,” the woman said, flat and measured, not looking up from the painting.

  “I’m Ana Cortez, the new student,” she said hesitantly. Mrs. Darnell turned toward her, resuming her concentrated inspection, her eyes creased as if staring into the sun. “Principal Tucker said to tell you I was joining your class today. I have the curriculum from yesterday, and I brought my own sketchbook and colored pencils.”

  “How proactive of you,” she said.

  “May I come in?”

  Mrs. Darnell waved her hand, but Ana couldn’t tell if that meant yes or no, so she entered anyway. “Are we doing watercolor?” Ana asked.

  “There are many ways in which to devise artwork in this class, Ms. Cortez.” She stood up and placed the watercolor back on her desk. “My only rules are to free yourself into the work and choose whatever medium you feel would bring your vision to life. I don’t believe in being held back by convention, but as I was telling the class yesterday, fundamental basics—as in the proper tools or technique—are paramount in carrying you through the craft of creation. That is what I’ll be emphasizing in here.”

  “That sounds like something I can do. I already do a bit of drawing—”

  “It’s not a suggestion, it’s a requirement for any work in my class,” she said, floating around the room straightening the worktables and chairs. “I think you’ll find it a challenge despite your enthusiasm. There will be no light assessments, no lackadaisical renderings allowed in here. Many students think this class is a break, but I assure you it is not.”