by Natalie Lund
The couple was impervious to the talk—so in love were they with each other and Celeste. The girl’s future spread before them—before all of us—as lush and green as Mercer’s fields.
None of us could have known what was coming.
After school, Brenna thought about asking Callie to describe the person she’d seen during the tornado. Both the old Pontiac and the VW seemed like the types of cars driven by someone like Dot—Dot with the bluish-black hair and that too-powdered skin. But Brenna hadn’t seen Callie all day.
Brenna skipped her usual Taco Bell trip—even though it meant arriving home before her mother left for work. She was willing to risk being asked about Colin if it meant she could dig those notebooks out from under her bed and confirm that she was a writer, like Dot had said.
Brenna’s mother was in the kitchen, finishing an orange over the sink. She bit into the last slice and leaned forward so that the juices dribbled off her chin and into the basin. She was already dressed in her work clothes: black pants and a polo that said MERCER FILL STATION over the left breast. The baggy uniform rendered her short and squat instead of curvy. Her curly hair was pulled back in a bun, with tiny flyaways along her ears and the base of her neck that made her head look fuzzy, out of focus.
“Hi, mi cielo,” she said. “You’re home earlier than usual.”
Brenna nodded, unwilling to offer an explanation.
“I got groceries.”
“It’s about time.” Brenna riffled through the bags on the counter. Aside from oranges, her mother had bought frozen pizzas, mixed veggies, and waffles. What Brenna wouldn’t give for beef shank, corn, onions, cilantro, lime, and jalapeño, ingredients for her tía’s caldo de res, a hearty beef soup that Brenna craved this time of year. Her mother had never learned to cook like her older sister, Camila. In Houston, that wasn’t a problem because Brenna could simply step outside and find food trucks that sold everything from tacos al pastor to elotes to pozole. Now, she had to endure her abuela or drive a half hour to a restaurant in the Quad Cities if she wanted real Mexican food.
Brenna settled for an orange. “There’s nothing good,” she said.
Her mother crossed her arms. “Why don’t you get another job and buy your own food if you’re going to be like that?”
“You have to provide food for me. Legally speaking. I’m your dependent.”
“Doesn’t mean you can’t help out. I did when I was your age.”
“You also only went to school between harvests.” Brenna sank her fingernails into the orange. The rind burned the tender skin under her nails. “Besides, you told me to focus on my schoolwork, remember?”
“At least do a load of towels tonight. We don’t have any clean ones.”
“I can’t. I’m going to a concert.” Saying it out loud was the first time Brenna was sure of this.
“I thought you had schoolwork to focus on, like you said.”
Brenna smirked at her mother’s cleverness. “I did it already. In study hall. Plus it’s a Friday.”
“Well, Camila texted me that your grandmother wants to see you this weekend.”
“Why? She doesn’t even like us. I get called gorda even though she’s the one feeding me, and you just spend all your time apologizing for not being a saint like tía Camila.”
Her mother put her hands on her hips and narrowed her eyes. “What’s going on, mija?”
Brenna shrugged and flicked the orange peel into the garbage can.
“Is it something with Colin?”
Brenna took a deep breath, trying to prepare herself to tell the truth, but her mom continued. “What? You think I don’t know man troubles when I see them?”
Brenna felt the barb on her tongue and tried to swallow it, but it was easier to expel than the truth. “Yeah, you’re right. I don’t know why I’m surprised. You know man troubles, all right.”
Her mother looked at the Last Supper print hanging under the cabinet and inhaled dramatically, probably asking God for patience. “I don’t need this before work.” She ran her hands under the water, grabbed her keys off the counter, and nodded toward the grocery bags. “Finish unloading those, do the towels, and no concert tonight or you’re gonna need a new place to stay.”
As soon as the door slammed, Brenna’s bluster dissipated. Sometimes her own anger at her mother surprised her, and she felt like a spectator watching an actor on TV. Sure, she didn’t like the men who’d rotated through their lives, earning her mom the town reputation that had trickled down to Brenna. And sure, she’d hated that her mother moved them to Mercer only to be half accepted back into the very family she’d run away from when she met Brenna’s father. If Brenna were still in Houston, she’d see her dad more, she wouldn’t be the only person of color in every class, she wouldn’t be called coco by her cousins for being brown on the outside and white inside, and her grandmother wouldn’t say ay and Dios mío because her Spanish was so terrible—even though that was partially abuela’s fault to begin with. But the truth was, despite how they sometimes argued, Brenna couldn’t hate her mother. Her mother, who worked tirelessly, who loved fiercely, and who had given Brenna the space to tell the truth about Colin. The space to be comforted. Brenna just hadn’t taken the opportunity. She couldn’t. Shame was a hot thing that split her tongue.
Brenna ate the orange, finished unloading the groceries, and then walked through each room, gathering towels. She knocked on Manny’s door even though Golden Girl wasn’t in the driveway. She loved going through his room when she was short on cigarettes. He tended to lose packs and then buy replacements instead of finding the old ones. Under a damp towel and some muddy jeans she found a few dollar bills—enough to buy a drink at the concert—and a half pack of cigarettes. She carried the towels to the washer and dumped them on the floor. She wanted to save the hot water for her shower later, and vowed to start the laundry before she left for the concert. If she was going to break some of her mother’s rules, she might as well get the chores done first.
In her room, Brenna knelt on the floor beside her bed and shoved aside some clothes. Dot’s words—You’re a writer too, right?—were knocking on something inside her. There, stacked under her bed with their frayed spines facing out, their covers wavy from the perpetual dampness of the house, were her old notebooks. Toby Merchant, the name of her seventh-grade boyfriend, was scrawled all over one. Later Brenna had scratched through each instance of his name, digging the pen tip into the soft cardboard cover, and used a thick Sharpie to write I’m not his doll for play, as though it were the title of that miserable year. In this notebook, she knew she’d find her first kiss. She’d find Lisle, the boy who called out her name while she was exploring the cemetery and had his penis in his hand when she turned around. In her ninth-grade notebook, she’d find a bag-boot girl named Erin, who asked her if she stuffed her bra with cotton balls, and her older cousin, Tomás, calling her Butch Brenna. In still another, she’d find Amy. And Dutch and Jade. She’d dye her hair and start powdering her face. She’d weed her closet down to black and red. And she’d start building her shell, one armored plate at a time.
Brenna flipped to the last entry of a journal.
I’m always between, she’d written. Between my mom and dad. Between my friends and my cousins. Between is the loneliest place to be.
Not much, then, had changed. Brenna climbed into bed and pulled the lavender notebook Dot had given her out of her backpack. She opened to a blank page and waited for something new to write about.
Joshua rode his bike home from school—glad he could avoid another incident with Tyler on the afternoon bus. He had enough to worry about. The vice principal had called him into her office at lunchtime to ask why he’d skipped first period. She’d expressed her concern for his safety, which was a joke because he was far safer with his new neighbor and riding his bike than he was at school and on the bus. His counselor also “checked in”
with him by telling him a story about her own truancy. By now they must have called his mother. He imagined the orbs of her eyes growing even larger, taking over her small body so she was just a set of eyeballs glaring at him. Luckily, he wouldn’t have to worry about facing her until later.
Joshua hadn’t remembered that Lawrence had stayed home sick until he flung the door open and saw him on the couch in the living room next to Ruthie, who’d beaten Joshua home on the bus. The TV was tuned to a reality show about trappers in the mountains, and Lawrence had his hands folded on his large belly, a Kleenex balled in one fist.
“Hi there, Larry,” Joshua said, using the name the man hated and hoping his tone dripped with acid. Even on days when he didn’t work, Lawrence still smelled of the meatpacking plant: pig blood, tangy and sharp, a smell that reminded Joshua of compost and metal all at once. Joshua pinched his nose and made a beeline for the kitchen.
“Ruthie, will you go upstairs a minute?” Lawrence said, his words both rushed and a mumble.
That stopped Joshua in his tracks. Lawrence wanted to be alone with him? When all the gayness might be floating about, unabsorbed and unhindered by other bodies? Ruthie stood and cocked her head at Joshua, eyes narrowed. He shrugged at her, but knew she’d wait at the top of the stairs so she could hear everything.
Once Ruthie was out of sight, Lawrence muted the TV and cleared his throat. “The school called me to say you skipped a class today.”
“Why’d the school call you?” Joshua asked. The thought of Lawrence stuttering through a phone conversation because of him would normally have filled Joshua with pleasure, but he sensed trouble.
“Your mother didn’t pick up. I think she’s in court for the day.” He cleared his throat again and rubbed where his jaw probably was, beneath all that thick, gummy flesh. “She doesn’t know yet.”
Joshua crossed his arms. “So are you going to tell her?”
“I’m still deciding.” He fidgeted, picking at a callus on his thumb. “You know, I was a boy once. I get it.”
“What do you get?”
“Getting in trouble. Stirring things up. Pushing buttons. Taunting folks.”
Joshua narrowed his eyes at this. “So I’m stirring things up, is what you’re saying. Just for the hell of it.”
“For the hell of it. For attention. Doesn’t matter. I’d just like a bit more respect. You show me some respect, I’ll forget to tell your mom.”
“You’re bribing me?”
“It’s not a bribe. It’s an agreement.”
Joshua stared at this man he had to live with, this man who didn’t share a drop of his blood, who didn’t know a single real thing about him. A sad, fat lump of a meatpacker afraid of a fifteen-year-old kid who was also a sad, fat lump. He had never really tried to respect or understand Joshua, so why should he return the favor?
“No deal,” Joshua said. “Tell her for all I care.” His throat hurt, like he’d swallowed something sharp, but he refused to cry in front of Lawrence.
* * *
* * *
Joshua rode his bike to the library, picked the only comic they had on the magazine racks—a five-year-old issue of Indestructible Hulk—and sat down in front of a window. Across the street was the fire station—both depressing and beautiful, like everything in town. The bronze fire bell rang only for parades now.
His new neighbor wasn’t in sight.
He tried to read a few pages of the comic, but couldn’t hold the storyline in his head. What he wanted to do was draw, to occupy his mind while transforming himself into something new, but he’d been too pissed to think of grabbing his backpack on the way out the door.
A group of freshmen filed past on the other side of the library window, heading—Joshua guessed—for the Mercer Fill Station. Tyler was among them, hair bed-tousled, as was Clayton—the kid responsible for Joshua’s coming out and his subsequent invisibility. They were laughing, and Clayton looked amused and disinterested all at once, despite the fact that he seemed to be the focal point of the group, like the joke was an offering to him. Like Joshua, Tyler had been unpopular in middle school—but now he was part of a group that was savagely anti-popular. They went after everyone—football players, dancers, teachers. Joshua felt a needle of fear beneath his breastbone, but radiating from the pinprick was something else, something bigger and throbbing. Betrayal. For the bus. For hanging out with the likes of Clayton. He thought of Lawrence, who was surely telling his mother right now about Joshua skipping school, neglecting the part of the story where he’d tried to bribe him into good behavior. Pitting her against her own son. That was betrayal too.
Joshua stood up, leaving the Hulk on the table, and followed Tyler, Clayton, and their friends down the block. He wasn’t worried they would see him. Invisibility was his superpower.
After school, Callie shuttled her books from her locker to her backpack. She couldn’t shake Mrs. Vidal from her thoughts. She’d even typed Ellie Vidal Mercer Illinois into the search bar on her phone. But there were no results. Did her mother know the woman? Asking her might mean another tear-filled bedside chat. With Brenna and Joshua, though, Callie thought she might be able to talk about the whispers, the car, and the tornado. She knew she could ask them: If you hit a turbine like that, wouldn’t you be hurt? How could you just disappear? After yesterday, she felt like maybe she could trust them—Joshua, who knew how to face his grief head-on, and Brenna, who knew when it was time to look away.
But Leslie rounded the corner instead of Brenna or Joshua. Her cheeks were flushed as if she were raring to argue.
“What’s up?” Callie asked.
“‘What’s up?’” Leslie said, slurring the s with her braces. “What’s up with you? You weren’t at lunch or practice yesterday. Then you ditched me at youth group this morning and skipped lunch today, too.”
“I didn’t feel like going.”
Leslie seemed to latch on to that word: feel. Her eyes widened, the sympathy look Callie knew well because every teacher, every neighbor, every parishioner had one. “I’m sorry. It’s okay. I didn’t mean to snap,” she said. “Is everything all right? How’s your mom?”
The inquirers never wanted the truth—not really, which was why Callie had a savage desire to share it. “My mom’s kidneys failed yesterday.”
“Oh God. I’m so sorry,” Leslie said, her voice reminding Callie of an overripe fruit, mushy and sickly sweet. She leaned against Callie’s locker. “Coach asked about you, and I just didn’t know what to say.”
“Am I running at the meet tomorrow?”
“You were supposed to. I don’t know if he’ll take you off.”
Callie’s calf muscles tightened, a sudden, deep ache that demanded stretches, flexing, rotation. This might be the last time her mom could come to a meet, and even as she tried not to care, she did.
“I’ll talk to him,” she said. Coach, like everyone else, would probably forgive her because of her mom.
“Are we doing anything tomorrow for your birthday?” Leslie asked.
“I’m getting my license.”
“But are we doing anything?”
“I don’t know. Do you want to do something?” Callie said.
“Of course I want to do something. It’s my best friend’s birthday.”
Callie tried to smile. “What do you want to do?”
Leslie’s gaze was steady, almost accusatory. “If I plan something,” she said, “will you actually come?”
“Yeah,” Callie said, but she knew she didn’t sound convincing. She shouldered her backpack, hoping Leslie would take the hint. “Gotta find Coach. Just text me the plan. Something simple, and I’ll be there.” She jogged toward the athletics office, glancing over her shoulder when she reached the staircase. Leslie was still against her locker, looking small and alone. But even if Callie tried harder to be a good friend, she knew things would
never be as they once were. The rift was Callie’s mother, and it would only widen with time.
Tyler and Clayton’s group stopped at the gas station. Joshua hung back to watch them. They seemed to be conferring about something. One of the girls—a stoner in Joshua’s biology class—climbed onto a picnic table and reclined on her elbows, her chin up to the sun like she was tanning. Her boyfriend sat next to her, leaning forward onto his knees. Tyler, Clayton, and a girl Joshua didn’t know made their way inside.
Joshua followed, ducking down an aisle and opening a newspaper to obscure his face—not that they’d even glanced in his direction when he’d walked through the door.
While Joshua scanned the news for mention of the VW—still none—the trio migrated from the snack aisle to the pops, handing Tyler the bags of chips and plastic bottles. Clayton and the girl took a sudden interest in the racks of candy bars and gum while Tyler approached the register and pointed to a pack of cigarettes behind the cashier. The stout, curly-haired woman narrowed her eyes at him and asked for an ID.
He opened his wallet and held it up to the woman, who peered at it closely, shrugged, and retrieved the pack. Clayton and the girl, still by the candy, relaxed noticeably.
So this was why an asshole who kicked seat backs had friends now: a fake ID. Joshua felt something flare inside him. Maybe it was the part of him that had stood in front of Clayton at the beginning of the year and proudly identified himself, or maybe it was something darker—angrier. He closed the freezer case and approached the counter.
“Excuse me, ma’am?” Joshua said to the cashier.
Tyler glanced back at him and then quickly away. But the glance was long enough for a lift of the eyebrow and a flash of irritation in the eyes. Clayton’s lip curled into a snarl—made more intimidating by the thin scar leading to his nostril.