I’ll Meet You There

by Heather Demetrios

  But working all day at a shit job, then coming home to an empty trailer and a TV dinner—what kind of life was that? Now she didn’t even have the shit job.

  Dylan shook her head. “Not your problem. Your mom’s an adult. So are you.”

  I didn’t say anything, just kept looking at the water. Feeling numb.

  “Sky.”

  I sank down, let the water cover my head. Gave my whole body a brain freeze. I stayed under the surface, felt the gentle current swirl around me, grabbed rocks with my hands, held on to them like they were gold nuggets.

  I waited until the sob that was building in me drowned. Waited until the water felt good. Then I swam up to the bank and walked back to my towel.

  “I don’t know what I’m gonna do,” I told Dylan. “If I just leave, I don’t think she’ll be okay.”

  “Sky, look at me.” Dylan grabbed my hands, turned me around so that I faced her. “Staying here is not going to help your mom at all. The only thing that will do is make her feel even worse.”

  “But—”

  “No. Shut up and listen.”

  I closed my mouth.

  “What you need to do is find her another job. ASAP. I guarantee you that once she has a routine again, she’ll be fine. And San Fran is only a few hours away. You can visit her every weekend if you want to. But I swear to God that if you give up that full scholarship so you can stay here and take care of your—no offense—drunk-ass mom, I will personally kill you. With a nail file. Or something equally creepy. Got it?”

  I closed my eyes and listened to the creek, the birds, the distant hum of an airplane. I knew she was right. I just wished there could be another way for Mom and me to both get what we needed.

  “This sucks,” I said.

  “It’s life.”

  I bit my lip, guilty that I felt so much relief. I could still go. All I had to do was find my mom a job. Not beg her to look for one herself, like I had been, but physically go out and get her job interviews myself. I had to start taking control of the situation.

  I reached over and hugged Dylan, hard. She was greasy from the tanning lotion, and her skin was hot against my cold, creek-drenched body. “Thanks,” I whispered.

  “Hey, you did it for me when I got knocked up. I owe you one.”

  She settled back onto her towel and turned up the Jack Johnson. I sat down in the sun and looked out at the creek, watching the water slide by and roll over rocks and fallen tree branches that were in its way, steadily eroding whatever wouldn’t budge until, finally, it made a path for itself to where it wanted to be.

  chapter twelve

  I’d never been so broke in my life.

  No matter how many times I did the math, there wasn’t enough. Rent. Car insurance. Gas. Electric. The maxed-out credit card. Food. Without Mom’s checks from the Bell, it was all on me now. Even if she got a job right away, it’d be two weeks, maybe more, until we saw any money. Forget basics like toilet paper and deodorant. I only had a few days to figure out how to keep the lights on.

  I threw the calculator on the ground and watched it slide across the cracked linoleum.

  “Crap.” Like I could just go out and buy a new one—Look at me, I’m so rich I can throw calculators around! I stood and picked it up, shook it. Still worked.

  I looked out the window; Mom was sitting in one of the lawn chairs underneath the birch trees, the smoke from her cigarette wafting around her so that she looked like an old photograph, sepia tinted and out of focus. She’d been out there for over an hour, staring into nothing, moving only to bring another cigarette to her lips.

  Usually when I did the bills, she would sit with me and tell funny stories about the people she worked with or make Rice Krispies treats. But today she’d just shuffled by the stack of bills and walked outside, her slippers and my dad’s robe still on. When Billy wasn’t around, it was like she went into hiding. I missed hanging out with her. Now she was a roommate I never saw.

  I felt like my life had turned into a Magritte painting, where nothing made sense anymore. Ceci n’est pas une pipe, it said, under his painting of a pipe. I wanted to take a picture of my mom right now, then surround it with a halo of cigarette boxes and pages from her TV Guide, like those icons of saints. Underneath, it would say Ceci n’est pas ma mere: This is not my mother.

  It was close to dinnertime, and my stomach was starting to grumble. I hadn’t realized just how much free Taco Bell we’d been eating until Mom stopped coming home with it. I could kill for a Mexican pizza and a Pepsi. Instead, this was what I had to choose from: a box of saltine crackers and a can of Chef Boyardee. A bottle of sprinkles sat alone on the top shelf, where I’d put them after Dylan and I made Christmas cookies last winter. The fridge wasn’t much better—expired milk, a few slices of bologna, a stick of butter, and a twelve-pack of Billy’s Coors beer.

  I had to leave for the Paradise evening shift, so I grabbed the box of saltines. They were stale and sat like a lump in my stomach, but I ate the last pack and pretended I was full. I put the Chef Boyardee on the counter, next to a bowl and spoon. I hoped she’d remember to eat. I headed outside, thankful the heat had subsided to a dull, uncomfortable pulse.

  “Hey, Mom.”

  She squinted, like she was trying to figure out who I was. “You off to work already?”

  “It’s almost six.”

  She blew out a puff of smoke. “Really. That late?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You doing a graveyard?”

  “No, I’m off at midnight. I switched shifts with Amy because she had a thing to go to.”

  “Huh.”

  I had one of those headaches that live right behind your eyes, like some evil little elves had gotten in there with sharp tools. All I wanted to do was lie down in a cool, dark room. Give up. But Mom was doing enough of that for the both of us.

  She sat there, queen of the trailer park. Getting Dad’s robe dirty. The elves went pound, pound, pound, and I hated that cigarette between her fingers and the fact that the TV Guide in her hand was three weeks old.

  “I’m calling Aunt Celia,” I said.

  The last resort. We’d reached it weeks ago, but I’d kept hoping she would do it herself. I didn’t want to go behind her back and call the sister-in-law she hadn’t spoken to since my dad died. What Aunt Celia had said at Dad’s funeral was pretty unforgivable. But I didn’t want us to be homeless, either.

  “It’s bad,” I said, when she didn’t say anything. “And I know she’ll be able to help us out—lend us some money. I can pay her back.”

  She stood up, the TV Guide falling to the dust at her feet. “No.”

  “Look,” I began, “I just ate crackers for dinner. We have to call her.”

  She started toward the house. “Just lay off, okay? I’ll find the money.”

  “How?” The word flew out of my mouth like a smack in the face, but I was past caring. “The money isn’t just going to fall from the sky!”

  “Fuck you,” she yelled.

  Ceci n’est pas ma mere.

  She touched her lips with the tips of her nicotine-stained fingers, her eyes wide.

  Somewhere on the highway, a big rig sped by. A kid up the street shrieked. Then a gust of dusty wind swept between us, carrying something important away, but I didn’t know what it was.

  I turned around and practically sprinted to the car. Away—I had to get away.

  “Tomorrow,” I said, pulling open the door. “If you don’t call her, I will.”

  Mom shouted my name, like she was crying out in her sleep, but for once I ignored her. I jammed my key into the ignition and backed out, driving way too fast. Reckless.

  Away: that was the only command my body could respond to. Away Away Away.

  * * *

  By midnight I was ravenous. I resisted the Paradise vending machine—I couldn’t afford to waste seventy-five cents on a handful of candy. I was in a dilemma; the stuff at our local bodega was way overpriced, but it would cost me
a lot of gas to drive to the nearest grocery store, which was an hour away. And fast food was too expensive. I decided that as soon as Amy came in, I’d buy a box of pasta at the bodega and cook it up at home. It would be at least two, maybe three meals.

  “Skylar, you rock!” Amy said as she pushed through the screen door. She was still wearing a skimpy sheath from her date. “Thank you so much for switching.”

  “No problem. I wasn’t doing anything better, trust me. Have fun?”

  “Oh, yeah. We went to Red Lobster and then we spent, like, three hours at Starbucks. God, I can’t wait to move to Bakersfield. You’re so lucky you’re going to San Fran.”

  Away Away Away.

  I slid off the stool and grabbed my bag and the part of Marge’s collage I’d just finished, Mom’s fuck you a whisper in my ear. “I’m definitely looking forward to living near some civilization.”

  Every time someone mentioned school, my answers sounded like rote memorizations for a part I no longer had, in a play I’d always wanted to be in.

  “Lucky, lucky,” she said.

  Amy sauntered over to the counter and proceeded to settle in. For her this meant wearing slippers, painting her nails, and eating copious amounts of junk food.

  “Night,” I said.

  She gave me a wave. “See ya.”

  I got into my car, dreading going home. Dylan was probably up, but I didn’t want to risk waking the baby. I called Chris, and as usual, he answered on the first ring.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  I could hear one of his video games and the shouts of several males in the background—his cousins were over for another one of their all-nighters.

  “Nothing,” I said. “I just wanted to see what you were up to, but I can already tell you’re deep in some violent alternative reality.”

  “Oh, yeah. And kicking some major ass in it. Wanna come over?”

  The last thing I wanted to do was sit around and watch a bunch of guys play video games. Why did they always think girls liked doing that?

  “Nah. I better get to sleep. Long day.”

  “Just think about it this way: in a couple of months, we’ll be having this conversation, only you’ll be complaining about your nymphomaniac roommate.”

  I laughed because it was what he was expecting from me. “I would much prefer that.”

  “Oh—gotta go. My turn to kill some zombies.”

  “Get one for me.”

  “Will do.”

  I stared at the phone for a minute after Chris hung up. I could picture him in his living room, surrounded by family. Laughing. Shoveling chips or his mother’s homemade tamales into his mouth. Caring about nothing but killing zombies.

  Must be nice.

  That wasn’t fair, I knew. I’d seen his family go through some seriously lean times. No one deserved to be happy more than Chris. I scrolled through the few numbers I had in my phone, pausing at Josh’s. But how desperate was that?

  I threw the phone into my bag, sick of myself, of everything, and started up the car. A couple minutes later, I parked outside Market, our local twenty-four-hour bodega. I didn’t even know if that was its actual name, but we all called it that because it was the only word on the sign painted above the door.

  I put the car in park and rested my head against the steering wheel for a few minutes. The thought of going home made me literally sick to my stomach. I didn’t know if Billy would be there. Couldn’t handle it if Mom pretended everything was okay or, worse, was drunk again. Screwing him. I gripped the steering wheel and squeezed my eyes shut.

  God, I’m hungry.

  A sob broke out of me, loud and ugly. I rolled up my window, fast, and covered my mouth with my hand. Stop crying, Skylar. Stop fucking crying.

  I needed to collage, get my hands dirty with glue and scissors and paper that melted under my skin. I’d take all our bills and receipts and tear them up into tiny pieces. Then I’d turn the pieces into a kite, flying up into the sky. Or I could collage a cheeseburger with a thick, creamy shake. Maybe a train, heading out of Creek View.

  I stayed in the car until I was certain the tears were gone, then I wiped my eyes, took a breath, and got out. Javier, the owner, nodded at me as I came in, the bell on the door jangling, before he went back to watching his soccer game.

  It wasn’t very big inside—more a convenience store than anything else—but since Creek View was in the boonies, it also had stuff like big bags of rice and ground beef. I headed over to the dry goods and candy aisle and stopped in front of the tiny shelf with pasta.

  “Two seventy-nine?” I said, picking up the box of spaghetti.

  Javier looked over at me. I waved it in the air. “Seriously?”

  He just grunted and went back to watching the TV.

  “I wouldn’t pay that if I were you.”

  I turned around. Josh was standing behind me, a Red Bull in one hand and a bag of Doritos in the other. I hadn’t noticed his truck in the parking lot. Which pretty much illustrated how messed up I was feeling, since it wasn’t exactly a subtle vehicle. I tried not to read anything into his being there; things like this weren’t serendipitous when you lived in the smallest town ever.

  He smiled, and I was suddenly awake.

  I looked at the stuff in his hands. “That’s a seriously disgusting combination.”

  He laughed. “I still can’t get over being able to just walk into a store and buy whatever I feel like.”

  “I’m guessing there wasn’t an ample supply of junk food in Afghanistan.”

  His eyes skimmed the rows of candy behind me. “Oh, there was. Just not where I was posted. Now, if I’d been in the Army … those dudes were hooked up.” He reached down to grab a Snickers and a pack of M&M’s.

  I set the pasta down, picked it back up. Set it down. Would it look weird to come all the way out here, then leave empty-handed? But if I bought it, I’d be down to less than seven bucks.

  For two weeks.

  And two people.

  “Sky?”

  “Huh?”

  “You okay?”

  “What? Yeah, totally.” I kept my eyes anywhere but on his—I wondered if they looked red or if my face was all blotchy. “I’m just out of it.”

  He nodded, but the way he looked at me said bullshit. I should never have told him about my mom. It was like the whole me-inviting-him-to-Leo’s thing had started us on this weird path of knowing too much about each other.

  “So what are you up to?” he asked. “Other than having trouble picking out your pasta.”

  I grabbed the box and headed toward the counter. “Nothing. I’m on my way home. I didn’t get a chance to eat dinner, so…” I held up the spaghetti.

  He took the box out of my hand and put it back on the shelf. “Come with me.”

  chapter thirteen

  I pointed to my watch. “It’s almost twelve thirty.”

  “So? McDonald’s is open twenty-four hours.”

  I frowned, thinking. They did have a dollar menu. Just the thought of chicken nuggets made my stomach growl.

  Josh laughed. “I’m taking that as a yes.”

  “Yeah, I guess that sounds pretty good,” I said.

  “Cool.” He paid for his snacks, then opened the door. “We’ll come back for your car after.”

  I nodded and followed him outside.

  “So what’s your excuse for raiding Market at this hour?” I asked as I climbed into the truck.

  “Honestly?”

  “Sure.” A rock station blared as soon as he turned the truck on, and I jumped.

  “Sorry.” He turned it down and pulled onto the highway. “Blake and Tara had friends over. And everyone was laughing, just laughing nonstop. About nothing. And the whole house smelled like pot. I mean, right now, my unit’s out there trying to—” He stopped himself, then just shook his head, looking … old. Definitely not nineteen. “I just had to bolt.”

  “It must be weird, having to live with your family again.”


  “Yeah. It was nice being on my own. Of course, people were trying to shoot my ass.” He snorted. “Still beats sleeping in my sixth-grade bed.”

  “That must be one uncomfortable mattress.”

  He laughed. “Yep.”

  I thought about the day I’d been in his room, the bareness of the walls. Just a few pictures above his desk, like he hadn’t really unpacked.

  “You still thinking of staying in?” I asked.

  He looked over at me and I met his eyes, but I wasn’t sure what I was seeing there. It was like he wanted something from me, but I had no idea what.

  “Not sure yet,” he finally said.

  We were quiet for a bit, but it didn’t feel weird not talking. Actually, it was nice. Chris and Dylan weren’t people I could be quiet with. Chris was always spouting sci-fi trivia or going on about BU’s science department, and Dylan could talk your ear off in her sleep. I didn’t realize I needed companionable silence until I was speeding down the highway in Josh’s truck.

  At this time of night, the empty fields felt mysterious, like as soon as the sun went down, they became the dominion of mythical creatures, fairy kings that ruled grapevine realms. The headlights of passing cars twinkled as they sped by, one long strand of oversized Christmas lights stretched between San Francisco and Los Angeles. It was almost pretty.

  “So what’s up with you?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I saw you in the parking lot at Market. Something’s wrong.”

  I leaned my head against the window. The glass was cool against my cheek.

  “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” he said softly.

  My reflection in the side-view mirror had dark circles under her eyes. Hair slipping out of her loose bun. I beat her to the sigh. “I’m so tired.”