by CJ Brightley
Ms. Tennant would never ask that. She would of just accused me of looking for dirty words. But Mr. Dubois sounded like he really wanted to know. Like he was actually interested.
“‘Clavicle,’ and ‘scapula,’” I told him. “I wanted to find out what bones they are.”
“And did you?”
“No, because …” I clamped my mouth shut. I’d just get in bigger trouble if I complained about Ms. Tennant.
Ms. Tennant rolled her eyes. “She’s making it up.”
“Why do you say that? It sounds to me more like she’s interested in bones. Curious about anatomy?” Mr. Dubois asked me.
“She was going through my purse.”
“I was not!”
“Was there anything missing from the purse?” Mr. Dubois asked.
Mr. Barnes looked irritated and started to say that he was handling the situation. Ms. Tennant looked like she’d just stepped on an eel. She said she hadn’t yet had a chance to check and she wasn’t exactly sure how much money was in her wallet anyway. When she said that, Mr. Dubois laughed.
“Well I don’t see as how you can go accusing people of stealing when you don’t even know for sure that anything’s missing.”
Then the bell rang, and Tucker Brady came in to do the announcements, and Mr. Barnes said it seemed the misunderstanding was cleared up, but looked at me sternly and said a few more words about backtalking and not rummaging around on Ms. Tennant’s desk without asking.
“You can use one of the dictionaries in my room, if you want,” Mr. Dubois said as we got to the classrooms, but Ms. Tennant bristled and said that wouldn’t be necessary.
So I found out that Jiminy fractured his collar bone and shoulder blade as well as his ribs. People get bruised and broken if they’re out at sea during a storm, but how does one person break another that way?
Maybe it was more than one person. Maybe they ganged up on him. Poor Jiminy. Do you feel forgotten, there in Clear Springs? Do you think no one cares what happens to you?
I haven’t forgotten you. I care.
I was talking to him in my head like that after school as me and Small Bill and Tammy walked home.
“Hey! Hey Em, you listening?” Small Bill said, coming round to stand in front of me. I nearly walked right into him, I was so lost in thought.
“You been visiting the Seafather at night or something? You need to shake the water out of your ears when you come back up,” he said.
“Sorry.”
Up at the corner was the gas station, with the state highway snaking away north. Go on it eighty miles, and then take another highway west if you want to get to Clear Springs.
Small Bill and Tammy were talking about Hurricane Helga, how the news had been saying it’s stalled out over the Gulf, but Snowy reported the sharks are already heading out into the deep water, away from shore, which means it’s on its way.
I frowned, because if the storm was coming soon, then there wouldn’t be a chance for me to find my way up to Clear Springs.
“Let’s cool off,” Tammy said, nodding at the door of the gas station store.
“You used up your money yesterday,” I pointed out.
“We can just sit on the bench,” she said.
We do that sometimes. They don’t like you hanging around in the store if you’re not buying anything, but if you sit on the bench right outside the door, you can get a big whoof of cool air any time anyone goes in or out.
“You still fuming about Ms. Tennant?” Small Bill asked as we flopped down on the bench. Tammy leaned forward, scanning the ground for bottle caps.
“Oh her. She can go sink. No, it’s Jiminy, still. I was thinking about trying to get to Clear Springs.”
A girl with a short ponytail and a T-shirt that said “Lookin’ for trouble?” across the chest shot me a funny look—like maybe she was looking for trouble—as she went into the store. We all leaned toward the breath of air-conditioned coolness.
“I was wondering if there was any way for me to make it up there before the hurricane comes. If it’s sitting out at sea, that’s one thing, but if the fish are already on the move …”
“Go after. It’s not like he’s going anywhere. He’ll be glad for visitors any time.”
For the second time that day, I forced myself to keep my mouth shut, so as not to say something I’d regret.
It’s not like he’s going anywhere.
Like Jiminy’s on a shelf. Like we can care about him some other time. Small Bill’s my best friend, so I know he didn’t mean it that way. It still hurts, though, and if I feel that way, just being Jiminy’s sister, how does Jiminy feel?
I told Small Bill what I’d found out about Jiminy’s injuries.
“That’s why I want to go see him now,” I said. “If there can please just be enough time to get to Clear Springs and back before the storm comes.”
There was another big puff of cool air as the girl in the t-shirt came back out with a big bottle of Diet Coke, a half-gallon of milk, and a pack of cigarettes.
She glanced down at us—at me.
“You fixing to go to Clear Springs, Louisiana?” she asked. Small Bill and I glanced at each other, and even Tammy frowned. Since when do strangers come up and ask you your plans?
“Is it the prison? You know someone inside?”
I guess I must of looked pretty surprised, because the girl laughed.
“Why else would anyone go to Clear Springs? Vacation? Ain’t nothing in that town but the prison and farms. My old boyfriend was there for a while. I ran away from home to go see him. At the time, I wasn’t too much older than you are now.” She put a foot up on the end of the bench, balanced the bag with the milk and Coke in it on her knee, and tore the plastic off the pack of cigarettes.
“Who is it? Your dad?” She lit the cigarette.
“My brother,” I said. Small Bill and Tammy were looking at me like, why’re you telling her this? but I was thinking, she has a car.
“I don’t miss Louisiana none,” she said. “I like Mississippi better. And Alabama’s not bad either, of course,” she added quickly. Like I care about Alabama or Mississippi or any other state!
She inhaled, and the end of the cigarette got bright. “I’ll take you as far as Clarksville, if you want a ride,” she said.
My thoughts came down in an avalanche on top of any words I might of had to reply. Clarksville—that’s halfway! But how do I get the rest of the way there? I shouldn’t try. Not now. I need to stay at home, help look after Tammy. Tammy needs me. But Jiminy does too. Gran said the Seafather would find a way to save Jiminy—and ain’t this a way? But what about Hurricane Helga? But a better chance might not come. No plan can be perfect.
“So, do you?” the girl asked, exhaling smoke.
You can’t see the sea from the gas station, so I looked to the sky for guidance. It had the thick, gray look of the innards of an old mattress. The air was stifling still, like the sky was holding it back, waiting for my answer.
“I have to do it,” I said to Tammy and Small Bill. I hadn’t been sure until I said it. Saying it made me sure.
Small Bill’s face was so serious, you might of thought he was angry, but he nodded. “‘A cup of fortune,’” he said.
“Come back before Helga,” Tammy whispered.
“I’ll try,” I said, giving her hand a squeeze.
“Thanks,” I said to the girl. “Yeah, I’d like a lift.”
“Great. I’m Hayley. What’s your name?” I told her, then waved goodbye to Small Bill and Tammy and followed her over to her car.
She liked her music pretty loud, so it was hard to hear everything she was saying, but all the same, I caught a fair amount about her old boyfriend, and how her and her mom hadn’t always seen eye to eye, though they got along now, and about running away and seeing Patrick and promising she’d marry him, even though she was only sixteen at the time. Being in prison had changed Patrick for the worse, she said (“That’s why it’s good you’re visiti
ng—I should of visited more,” she told me), and anyway, in the meantime her and Nate had kind of started seeing each other, and then Patrick got involved with some real bad people—
Then the music stopped for an emergency broadcast, a funny, fake voice, like a robot, saying,
“HURRICANE HELGA NOW MOVING NORTH-NORTHWESTWARD TOWARD THE NORTHERN GULF COAST...HELGA IS NOW AN EXTREMELY DANGEROUS CATEGORY 4 HURRICANE ON THE SAFFIR-SIMPSON HURRICANE SCALE”
and
“A HURRICANE WARNING IS NOW IN EFFECT FOR THE NORTH CENTRAL GULF COAST FROM MORGAN CITY LOUISIANA EASTWARD TO PENSACOLA FLORIDA.”
and
“A HURRICANE WARNING MEANS THAT HURRICANE CONDITIONS ARE EXPECTED WITHIN THE WARNING AREA WITHIN THE NEXT 24 HOURS. PREPARATIONS TO PROTECT LIFE AND PROPERTY SHOULD BE RUSHED TO COMPLETION.”
And then a regular announcer came on and said the governor was ordering an evacuation of the coast.
My stomach tried to curl itself into a little ball, like it could hide from the news.
“I need to go back,” I blurted out. Sorry, Jiminy. I do care, I do. But you’re pretty much a grown-up, and Tammy’s just a kid.
“Are you crazy? With the storm coming? No way. You heard the report. It ain’t safe. They’re probably gonna close the road, anyway. Ride along with me as far as Clarksville. You can call your sister from there if you want, find out where your folks are evacuating to.”
I didn’t want to try to explain about Mermaid’s Hands, and how we always ride these things out. All I could think about was how it was a race now between me and Helga, who could get to Mermaid’s Hands first.
“No, I really gotta go back,” I said.
Hayley slowed down and pulled off the road by a small building with a big sign: Casey’s Hungry Man Coffee and Cornbread.
“I can let you out here, if you really want,” she said, looking doubtful. “We haven’t been on the road that long. Maybe you can hitch a ride part of the way back. Here.” She shifted in her seat so she could get her hand into her cutoffs. She pulled out a couple of dollar bills, all creased and soft from being in her pocket. “Get yourself something to drink before you head home.”
“Thanks. Hey, do you think—” I caught myself.
“Do I think what?”
“Clarksville’s really far away from Clear Springs … You never just go there, do you?”
“Drive all that way? Uh-uh. I told you, there’s nothing there but the prison.”
Of course she wouldn’t. I didn’t mean to let tears come, and I really didn’t mean for Hayley to see them, but it was too late. She bit her lip.
“Hey now, hey. Don’t cry. You were thinking I could visit your brother for you? That ain’t how it works. A stranger can’t just up and visit him. He has to put people on a list and things.”
I nodded, but I couldn’t meet her eye. It was quiet in the car for a minute.
“Tell you what. Maybe I could phone the people there, if you want,” she said. “Tell them Jiminy’s little sister’s trying to be in touch.”
I looked up. “Will you? Can you tell him his family hopes he heals up soon? Can you tell him his sister hasn’t forgotten about him?”
Hayley tucked some stray hairs behind her ear. “Yeah, okay,” she said softly. “What’s his full name?”
I wiped my eyes.
“Baptiste. Jiminy Baptiste.”
“Okay, Jiminy Baptiste. I’ll remember that.”
“Thank you,” I said.
I got out of her car, and she drove off. The sky wasn’t holding its breath any more: there was a panting sort of breeze all around, and the grass was flattening under it, but the dust was rising up. I started running back the way we’d come, but I stopped after a few hundred feet. Behind me, the sign for Casey’s Hungry Man Coffee and Cornbread still loomed tall. Up ahead, nothing familiar. We’d only been driving about twenty minutes, half an hour tops, but Hayley’d been going fast. I couldn’t beat Helga home by running. Hayley was right: I was going to have to try hitching a ride. I crossed over to the other side and started walking backward, but not much was coming by. One big truck, going fast. A pickup with two guys in it, laughing loud and swerving for the fun of it. I shrank way back from the side of the road and tried to be invisible, but they caught sight of me, screeched to a stop, then put the pickup in reverse.
“That a kid or a stray dog back there? Hey kid, hop in, we’ll throw you a bone or two! Hey, she’s running away—You know how to call a dog to heel?” And they were whistling and catcalling, but I was pounding back toward Casey’s Hungry Man Coffee and Cornbread, running so hard it felt like lightning in my lungs when I breathed in. Stupid, stupid, stupid, my feet said to me each time they hit the gravel.
But at least the creeps in the pickup didn’t chase after me. I was jelly-legged by the time I got to Casey’s, and feeling like I’d better sit a spell and think, so I used Hayley’s money to buy a Coke, and I started writing this on the paper placemat, hoping I could work out what to do next.
But now I’ve finished my Coke, and I still don’t know my next move. And it ain’t like Helga’s sitting somewhere biting her nails and wondering what to do. I guess better just start walking again and hope somebody safe to ride with comes by before they close the roads.
September 4 (Em’s diary, second entry)
I’m home now. It’s real late, but I have to write this all down.
I got a lift from one lady as far as her turnoff, and when she dropped me off, she asked if I wanted to use her phone to call anyone, but I don’t know what Mr. Tiptoe’s number is, so I said no, I was nearly home. I didn’t want her to worry. After that it started raining, fine as mist, but coming fast, in ripples like wind through sheets hung out to dry. Traffic going north was getting real heavy, but hardly anything was going south, and what there was was going real fast. I kept on getting splashed, but I didn’t care. Just keep going, keep going, I was telling myself. And then I heard a bunch of honking, and I could tell from the shape behind the headlights that it was another pickup, and I felt a spike of panic, because I was too beat to run away again. Then I heard a voice say “Em! Emlee, get yourself over here!” It was Dad and Mr. Tiptoe, in the Mermaid’s Hands truck. Turns out they’d been driving up and down all the roads hereabouts, looking for me.
When we got home, Tammy confessed.
“I told. I’m sorry.” She hung her head and wouldn’t look at me.
“‘sokay. I’m glad you did. It was stupid, what I did,” I said.
Sometimes all my ideas seem stupid.
“I’m just sorry I made trouble for everybody.”
Gran came up from behind and gave me a surprise hug.
“It wasn’t no trouble. We can’t have any little minnows going missing. And you ain’t stupid. You’re a loyal sister. And so’s Tammy.” She beckoned for Tammy and Tammy squirmed into the hug too. From over the top of Tammy’s head, I could see Ma glance at Dad, but he wasn’t letting his thoughts or feelings show in his face.
“Em. Come here. I have something for you,” he said. “Another letter from that friend of yours overseas.”
I opened it and read it. Now I feel scared and sick again, but for Kaya. I’m pasting the letter in here, because I’m keeping my diary with me even if the Seafather decides to take all of Mermaid’s Hands down to the merlands. Here’s what Kaya wrote:
August 28
Dear Em,
I’ve walked the perimeter of this floating prison three times, trying to calm down, but my hands are still shaking, so please forgive the poor handwriting. I had planned to write one sort of letter to you, but what happened just now has sent those thoughts flying away.
I don’t receive any news of the outside world unless the government brings it to me, which it did today, wrapped in accusations and threats. It seems the spirit of unrest is bubbling up among my people once again. Some of the old activists, who have lived quietly all these years, have been demanding to know why my friends in prison have not been br
ought to trial, and why, if the government is sincere in its claims to honor me, no one has been permitted to see me. They have been asking their friends and neighbors, Are we going to be content forever to accept whatever laws and judgments the coastal government presses on us? And more and more people are answering no.
And so today two officers from the State Security Service paid me a special visit—apparently the matter was too urgent to wait for the weekly supply helicopter. They said that I must tell everyone to cease and desist, to stand down and return to work, to fulfill their responsibilities as citizens—they gave me a long script.
“You need me to actually say these things?” I asked. “Why not just claim that I did—who can contradict you?” One of them looked like he might hit me at that point, but the other stopped him. People are waiting for a message from me, he said. The government wants to film me conveying that message. The government’s message.
“I’ll do no such thing,” I told them. I said it without thinking, I was so angry. The officers seemed barely able to believe it. The violent one asked if I had forgotten how very precarious my situation was. The more reasonable one said I should think of the consequences of my decision for everyone else.
“No one’s died—yet,” he said. “Do you want deaths on your conscience?”
“My conscience? Not yours?” I said.
Then the bully of the pair lunged forward and kicked over the low table where I write and eat, spilling everything to the floor. In one step he was standing right over me. I had no time to flinch or shield myself: that same boot struck me right in the chest and I fell back on the floor. It hurt terribly! I couldn’t breathe for a moment, and I couldn’t see anything, just red darkness, but I could hear the bully knocking down the stack of books I keep beside the table and scattering and flinging around the few loose items in the room. When my sight and breath returned, I saw the other officer gathering up my books and papers. He said they were confiscating them as I needed time to think things over without distractions.
Do you keep a diary or journal, Em? I was keeping one, these past few weeks. I was writing up my memories in a notebook. I was recording my inmost thoughts and feelings. Private things. And now the State Security Service has it. I feel more exposed than I would if they had taken my clothes.