by Andi Teran
“But you’ve made friends, no? I saw you and Rye Moon on Main Street the other day.”
“Yes, she’s pretty much it, along with this other kid Brady. Other than that, I’m just trying to figure out how everything works. High school’s weird. It’s a battlefield of contradictions.”
“I can’t say I remember. Never really finished.”
“I’m just trying to stay out of trouble.”
“You say that as if you’re worried.”
“Well, this is how it normally goes. . . . I start school, I go to class and try to avoid certain people, just kind of keep to myself and go to the library, and then something pisses me off or someone says something stupid and I just can’t help myself.”
“Is someone bothering you?”
“Not entirely.”
“Is it something else then?”
“I don’t know how to say this without its sounding complicated, but sometimes I’m homesick without ever really having had a home, you know? Not to dissolve into dramatics, but sometimes I see something or meet someone who reminds me of a person I used to know or a place I used to visit, and I remember feeling safe for a time. But that feeling eventually goes away, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I remind myself that all I have is me; I remind myself of this every day because that’s all I’ll probably ever have. I’m never going to miraculously have some mom or dad worrying about my grades or getting into college or, just, you know, being concerned about my future. Not to diminish what I’ve experienced here so far, because it’s been amazing, and you and Abbie have made me feel very welcome, but sometimes it just hits me that I’m going to be on my own soon. It’s not like it hasn’t felt that way all these years, but I’m going to really and truly be alone without any other net or system to catch me or fling me to some other house or home or correctional facility. And maybe that’s where I’m going to end up anyway—jail. My life has certainly felt locked and chained sometimes. What if this all goes away tomorrow because of something I do to screw it up? I’m good at screwing things up right when they’re getting good. Maybe going back there is where I’m supposed to be anyway. I ask myself this question the most when I start to get settled somewhere. It’s my legacy, and it’s not like I still don’t have some ties back there waiting to initiate me into a different kind of family, if I want it, to load the safety of a weapon into my pocket or strap it under my belt. It’s written on my spine where I’m supposed to belong, and I can’t seem to erase the itch that’s always lingering there.”
Manny took a moment before responding. He couldn’t tell if Ana was finished talking or looking out into the fields searching for more words. He had trouble finding his own.
“I can’t begin to understand, and I won’t pretend to know what you’ve gone through,” he said, “but you put a lot of pressure on yourself.”
“I know I sound crazy.”
“You don’t, at all. Some things are out of our control, mija, especially where we came from and what we left behind. But we can choose how we react and how we move forward. You’re not alone here.”
“I don’t want to sound ungrateful or presume that this is going to last. It’s only a job, right? But it’s been—” She stopped herself and inhaled, holding her breath for a moment before letting it out again. “It’s been one of the best experiences of my life, in a while at least. I don’t want to sabotage it. My abuela wouldn’t want me to.”
“Then don’t,” Manny said. “Simple as that.”
Ana glanced at her watch again. “I’m late. Gotta run. See you tomorrow, compadre.”
“See you,” he said.
She ran all the way back to the farmhouse, slicing through the incoming fog with Dolly chasing behind her. It felt good to push her heels into the damp dirt, to quicken her pace and outrun her thoughts, get the blood pumping it all out of her head. She kicked off her muddy shoes and banged them against the back steps while Dolly chased a roaming chicken back to its coop. She stepped into the kitchen in just her striped socks, glad for another hand-me-down, whomever’s feet the socks had once warmed.
“We’ve got five minutes,” she said to Abbie, who was sitting at the kitchen table sipping a cup of coffee and reading a food magazine, a pair of reading glasses clinging to the edge of her nose.
“Breakfast’s on the table,” Abbie said, not looking up.
Ana quickly laced up her boots and washed her hands before grabbing a waffle and taking a bite while standing against the counter.
“Have a seat,” Abbie said.
“No time.”
“Relax. Enjoy your breakfast.”
Ana sat down at the table and spooned some yogurt, along with some of Abbie’s honeyed figs, on top of her waffle. She didn’t know if it was the chill in the air, her chat with Manny, or her lingering thoughts, but her chest was tight and stomach hollow even after finishing a second waffle.
“What are you reading?” she asked Abbie, knowing Abbie would never talk about Will Carson being the reason she was suddenly reading so many food magazines or why she had started talking about the Slow Food movement at the dinner table. She’d even asked Ana about food blogs, something she’d never seemed interested in but assumed high school kids knew all about.
“Oh, these gourmet magazines,” Abbie said. “It’s good to be in the know—for the business, of course—but I’m tired of reading about shaved Brussels sprouts.”
Abbie had taken to wearing her hair more loosely and naturally in the past few weeks, Ana noticed, the effect of which made her seem infinitely younger.
“Are you working on some new stuff for The Bracken?”
“They’re hounding me for some sort of ‘cider collaboration,’ as Will calls it.”
“That sounds fantastic! Not that I’ve tried your cider, but it’s one of the most popular products, right?”
“I like to save it for special customers.”
“But he is a special customer, right?”
Abbie looked over her glasses at Ana, who continued chewing with a giant smile. She put down her magazine.
“I liked the river drawing you were working on last night,” Abbie said. “The one with the bits of music coming out of the water? I found it sparse and ethereal.”
“It’s still a work in progress, but we’ve been doing life drawing in class. I just finished a pen portrait of Brady with graffiti lettering underneath. I tried to make it look like a Renaissance painting. I think it’s one of my best pieces.”
“Sounds intriguing.”
“His mom hates it, and Mrs. Darnell thought it was too ornate and literal. I thought it was clever.”
“Trust your instincts, not the critics . . . I probably shouldn’t say that,” Abbie said.
There was a honking at the front of the house. Ana popped up and grabbed the lunch bag sitting on the edge of the counter, throwing it into her backpack along with her sketchbook. Abbie walked her to the door and waved to Rye.
“Be careful,” she said, reaching out for Ana’s shoulders but patting only the sides of her arms for a second. “I’ve triple-checked with Della that Rye is a good driver and she insists she is, but if you feel unsafe, call me immediately.”
“Okay . . . thanks.”
“And, listen, I haven’t discussed this with you yet, but I have a phone meeting with Mrs. Saucedo tomorrow to discuss your progress. It’s not a big deal, but I want us to sit down and talk.”
“That sounds ominous.”
There was another honk, this time long and sustained, Rye faking a yawn while looking at a nonexistent watch on her wrist.
“We’ll talk after school,” Abbie said. “I’ll see you at The Bracken.”
“Looking forward to hearing more about the joys of salsafry.”
“Salsify?”
“Face it, my version sounds way better.”
�
� • •
Rye cranked the stereo as they made their way out of the farm in her black VW Beetle. “Isn’t this the sickest and sweetest car ever invented?”
“The answer to that question is a resounding yes,” Ana said, meaning it because she’d never seen a car that actually looked like its given name nor one with a bumper covered in stickers with slogans like Not Your Average Angry Girls Club and The Radical Notion That Women Are People. Ana strapped herself in. “You must be the only person in Hadley with a convertible,” she said.
“Used convertible, but I have no intention of taking the top down. I like subverting its purpose.”
Ana drummed her fingers against her knees in rhythm to the music, watching the farmland roll by out the window. It was her first time hitching a ride with someone her age, let alone someone with her own car.
“Let’s chat,” Rye said, turning down the music. “In honor of fully embracing best friendship and doing the whole ride to school together thing, I think it’s time we have the whole sharing of deepest, darkest secrets moment. We need to know right up front that we’ve got each other’s backs.”
“I don’t really have anything to tell . . .” Ana said, her mind going over the words “best friendship.”
“You’re hilarious,” Rye said. “I’ll start. I work at my dad’s store most days after school, as you know. It’s punishment and the only way I’m able to have this car. In my time there, I may or may not have stolen something—one thing, maybe a few things—that I consider collateral for having my free time taken away from me.”
“What did you take?”
“I’ll save that for the next month of our friendship, something to look forward to. Now you . . .”
“Honestly, I don’t have anything to share.”
“Then I’ll prompt you. Tell me something insane about L.A. Do you even know how cool it is that you lived there? Tell me about one of your foster homes.”
“It’s not what you think it is.”
“Go on . . .”
Ana took a moment before answering. It’s not that she didn’t want to, but more that she didn’t know which story to reveal, which secret to tell.
“I don’t have anywhere else to go, when I get back.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m in the foster system.”
“I know that . . .”
“The last place I lived ended up not working out in the most spectacular of ways. That’s why I’m here. It’s not just an internship. If everything goes well, I can emancipate myself when I finish the job on the farm, which means I have to get a real job and go to school, but maybe get to live in assisted housing, which is kind of like a halfway house. The alternative is I get placed in a group home, which is not where any sane person wants to be.”
“Why don’t you just stay here?”
“It’s up to my caseworker to decide, or Abbie and Emmett, I guess.”
“So, you get to live with Emmett and Abbie, work on the farm every day, and then you maybe get to go live wherever you want on your own in L.A.?”
“It’s not as easy as that . . .”
“Not to say it isn’t difficult, because I’m sure it is, but oh my God, you are the luckiest person I know! I work a job and go to school and have to live with my parents, who are infuriating, but I still have to graduate, go to college, and then be given my freedom, which is like a hundred years from now.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“You don’t know the half of it. So, you’re really, truly going back to L.A., then?”
“I don’t know . . .”
“Do you have any family there?”
“Not really.”
“What happened to your parents? Let’s get into it.”
Rye pulled the car into a spot in the back of the lot and threw the clutch into park, turning toward Ana and folding her hands in her lap, raptly waiting for an answer.
“We need to get to class.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
Ana grabbed her backpack and opened the door to get out.
“Hey!” Rye shouted. “Can you at least tell me about your ink?”
“My what?”
“Just come back in here for a second,” Rye pleaded. “It’s five minutes until the bell. What’s the tat on the back of your neck? I’ve seen it, so you can’t hide from this question.”
“It’s nothing.”
“I’ve noticed it peeking out of your shirt sometimes. I mean . . . it’s illegal, right? To have one at our age? I did some research.”
“It’s nothing.”
“I told you my secret, now you have to tell yours,” Rye said.
Ana took a moment. She unzipped her jacket and pulled her sweater down, revealing the mark just below the nape of her neck.
“It kind of looks like a mathematical symbol, like a backward three or something. What does it mean?” Rye asked.
“It’s . . . hard to explain. The short story is my parents were killed. It was a gang thing. They were shot to death when I was a kid. The long story is I got this as a result of it.”
“But when did you get it done?”
“A long time ago. It wasn’t my choice,” she said, taking a breath. “I’ve never shown it to anyone before, at least not willingly.”
Rye wanted to ask more questions, hating herself for spreading the gang rumor about Ana. “We’d better go.”
They got out of the car as the bell rang out across the parking lot and looked at each other for a second before breaking into a sprint toward the entrance of the school, laughing themselves out of breath until they stopped just outside the doors.
“Hey,” Ana said.
“What?”
“I’ve never met anyone who wanted to share anything like that with me, so thanks for letting me share right back.”
“I guess this means we’re officially BFFs or whatever,” Rye said with an eye roll. “Do we need to take our shirts off and bump bras or something?”
“No, but we’ve got to find a better meaning for that acronym.”
• • •
Though she’d successfully avoided Cole outside of class per Emmett’s instruction, Ana and he continued to catch each other’s eyes during English period. Rye would do the usual and rush out saying she had to stop in the yearbook room on the way to her next class. Ana knew it was because Cole was still sitting in his seat waiting to talk to her.
“This is the only way I can seem to get your attention,” he said as Ana gathered her things. “I’m just going to sit here and refuse to move, regardless of whether someone else needs this seat for next period or I get detention for ditching gym. It’ll all be on you.”
“I’m not avoiding you . . .”
“Yes, you are.”
“Okay, I am,” she said, slinging her backpack onto her shoulder. “Can we talk while I walk to biology? Unlike you, I can’t ditch.”
He stood up and looked at her in the way that made her want to ditch the whole rest of the school day. “I like your sparrow sweater,” he said.
“Thanks. Sparrows are good or bad luck, depending on what you believe.”
“What do you believe?”
“That we shouldn’t be talking.”
He grabbed her hand and led her to the back doors, pushing them open.
“Cole, I can’t be late,” she warned.
“Then go back in.”
They stood alone outside. Cole crossed his arms and waited for her to speak.
“Emmett said I can’t see you anymore.”
“So?”
“So, that’s a rule I can’t break. I don’t get a slap of the hand by Mommy . . . I get sent back to L.A.”
He shook his head. “I get that my mom made a small misunderstanding into a huge situation, but
it’s not like she or Emmett is going to come pry us apart at school.”
“And when will we see each other? You eat lunch with your same crowd, and Rye and I have ours, not that you’ve ever tried to sit with us. We can see each other in English class,” she said, wishing she hadn’t said any of it.
The bell rang. Ana closed her eyes and shook her head.
“I’m sorry I made you late,” he said, moving closer to her. “And since we’re late for real, why don’t we just stay late?”
“Look, until you’re ready to tell me what’s going on with you and Rye and what’s up with your mom and the Garbers, I’m unavailable.” She turned and headed back inside.
“Bad luck then, I guess,” he said.
• • •
“Basics, ladies and gentlemen,” Mrs. Darnell said, projecting to the class, “are often the trickiest to get right.”
“Not unless you’re already a boring basic,” Rye whispered to Ana, who tried not to laugh.
“Part of my goal in this class is to free up your imaginations by first instilling the basic techniques. Once you have them down, you’ll have more tools to choose from when we’re doing free creation pieces. Today’s assignment is simple: draw these objects exactly as you see them. You have thirty minutes starting now.”
Ana began sketching with her pencil, drawing and shading quickly, seeing the objects in her memory. Rye looked back and forth at the objects repeatedly, sighing every time her pencil hit the paper.
“He waited for you, huh?” she said.
“Who?”
“Stop being so coy polloi,” Rye said, erasing the bottom half of her sketch. “I know you two like each other.”
Ana didn’t say anything.
“You may avoid each other like the plague within the confines of school, but don’t pretend you don’t make googly eyes at each other in class. And don’t tell me it’s a coincidence that he suddenly decided to sit in the bleachers near our lunch table either. You guys aren’t fooling anyone.”
“You know what?”
“What?”
“I’m not talking about this unless you give me some information,” Ana said, employing the same technique she used with Cole. “Why do you two have a problem with each other?”