Fancy White Trash

by Marjetta Geerling

  He rummages through his binder, brown bangs sweeping in to cover his hazel eyes. Bonus! His eyes are almost the same color as Cody’s. That should make it easy to be friends, right?

  “Did you need to copy?” he asks, handing me a few sheets of notebook paper covered in hand-drawn genetic tables.

  “No, no. Look, I did my own.” I get out my tables, which are less neat than his, to show him.

  His eyes graze my paper, and then his face goes blank.

  “What?”

  “It’s, um, good that you did it all on your own.” He flushes.

  I look at my notes, then look at his. “You might as well tell me.”

  “It’s fine,” he says. “Nothing big.”

  I study the homework more carefully, then see what he saw at first glance. I grab my pencil and erase furiously, correcting my chart so that the baby does not end up with sickle-cell disease. Nothing I can do about the color-blindness without redoing the whole thing. Poor little guy won’t get to be an interior decorator when he grows up.

  “Thanks,” I say. “You’re a good friend.” Because saying it makes it true, right?

  He flushes an even deeper red but doesn’t respond, because Mr. Kimball comes in from his secret office—a connective space between the classroom and the lab that’s he squeezed a small desk into—and thumps on one of the lab tables.

  “Listen up. Today we’re doing a very dangerous and thrilling lab.” He wiggles his fingers like a magician. “A lab so ancient, so barbaric, that our very own school board once outlawed it.”

  Everyone who was talking stops.

  “A lab that involves blood sacrifice.” He stops and looks around the room. “A lab that involves”—he pulls a small lancet from the pocket of his gray slacks—“sharp, pointy things!”

  Lucas and I look at each other. He shrugs and raises his hand. “Will this be on the AP test?”

  Mr. Kimball visibly deflates. “Mr. Kimball, the all-powerful, does not know every question on the AP exam. That would be cheating. Mr. Kimball assures you, yet again, Mr. Fielding, that everything we do will prepare you for the big test.

  “Any other questions?” Mr. Kimball lays the lancet on the table and shoves his hands in his pockets.

  “Um?” Veronica Ortega raises her hand. “What exactly are we doing?”

  Mr. Kimball explains that we’re going to figure out our own blood types, which seems pretty cool to me. We’ve been making charts for imaginary offspring of insects, mammals, and even humans, but now we’re doing something real.

  “This lab was very common back when I started teaching, but the AIDS scare in the eighties brought up the issue of safety. Let me assure you this lab is completely safe. We’ll be taking precautions—using gloves, everyone working with only their own blood, following my directions exactly—and of course, anyone who doesn’t want to participate in this lab may opt out and do an outline of chapter three instead. Are we clear?”

  I nod my head and I guess everyone else does, too, because he starts passing out kits. I open mine and find hospital-like gloves, a lancet, microscope slides, and an alcohol pad. Mr. Kimball calls our attention to the front and demonstrates how to prick your finger—swab first!—and how to get the blood onto the slide. “Remember, no partners today. Everyone’s on their own.”

  “Excuse me?” Veronica doesn’t raise her hand this time, but the lab’s so quiet that Mr. Kimball turns to her right away.

  “Yes?” He adjusts the microscope on the front table.

  “If it was banned and stuff, why are we doing this?”

  Mr. Kimball frowns and turns to face the class. “If you don’t want to do it, you don’t have to. The thing is, this particular lab is special to me. Back in my day, when dinosaurs roamed the earth and Adam and Eve were my neighbors, science class was all about read the chapter, answer the questions, take a test. Then, one day, my Biology teacher had us do this lab. And when I looked under the scope and saw my own blood and was able to figure out I was type-B all by myself, well, I thought, Science is cool. Besides, as AP students, I thought you’d be up for the challenge.”

  Veronica looks at her finger and the lancet, and says, “I’ll be outlining chapter three, if that’s okay?”

  Poor Mr. Kimball. Even though I’m not exactly thrilled to prick my own finger, I close my eyes and jab.

  “Ow! Oh my God.” Perhaps I’ve jabbed too hard. Blood drips from my fingertip. Without thinking, I bring it to my mouth and suck. The bleeding stops.

  “Ms. Savage? You okay?” Mr. Kimball is behind me, his coffee-flavored breath spreading over my workstation.

  I take the finger out of my mouth. “Pretty dumb, huh? Now I’m going to have to do it again.”

  He pats my back and walks away. “You’ll be okay. Remember you have a little over three liters of blood in your body. A few drops won’t kill you.”

  Comforting. My poor abused finger. I decide to sacrifice a different one this time. Close my eyes and . . .

  “Abby?” It’s Lucas, his one eye looking at me and the other one focused a little beyond my right ear.

  I place my lancet on the table. “What?”

  He holds out his own lancet and extends the one hand that is not gloved. “Will you do it for me?”

  Turning my head, I track down Mr. Kimball in the back row, helping Shauna get her slide under the microscope. “We’re not supposed to.”

  Lucas swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a yo-yo. “I can’t do it. Please.”

  “Fine.” I double-check Mr. Kimball’s whereabouts and say, “Close your eyes.”

  He does. I take his lancet and put it in his right hand. Holding his left, I say, “Okay, I’m going to help you. Ready?”

  “Did you do it yet?” He opens one eye.

  “Keep ’em closed! And listen. When I say three, push down hard.” I guide the lancet into position, then let go. “One, two, three, jab!” A tiny pinprick of blood bubbles to the surface of his skin. “You did it! Let’s get your slide.”

  Lucas and I set up his slide and get it under the microscope. “This is so cool,” he says. “Look!”

  I push my eyelashes against the viewer. Lucas’s blood is right there, and you can actually see the individual cells. “That’s so cool.”

  Now I’m really anxious to get mine done. I use the same pressure as I did on Lucas’s hand, and I also get a small bubble. I quick get my slide ready and then study my own blood.

  “Lucas?” I distract him from his slide. “How do we tell what kind of blood we have?”

  He takes over my scope and has a look. “You’ve got to add the solution.” He flags down Mr. Kimball, who puts a small drop of reagent on my slide.

  “I started with the anti-A reagent,” Mr. Kimball says. “Check your scope. Do you see clumping?”

  “Yep,” I nod.

  “Lucky on the first try!” Mr. Kimball crows. “You’re an A.”

  “Does that mean I get an A?” I ask. He chuckles and walks away.

  I fill out my worksheet and ask Lucas, “What’re you?”

  “AB.” He fills out his own lab report. “If we had a kid, their blood would most likely be a B.”

  Whoa, kids? Maybe I’ve been too friendly today. “You can really tell what kind of blood your child will have?”

  He shrugs one shoulder. “Sure, it’s just like the genetic tables we did for homework last night. If you know two of the blood types, you should be able to figure out the third.”

  I get an idea. A great idea. “Does it work in reverse? Like if you know the baby and the mom, can you tell what blood type the father has?”

  He stops writing and taps his pencil on the table. “I don’t see why not. I mean, it wouldn’t be infallible, but you could take a pretty good guess.” He opens his Bio book and flips to the back. “Here, they’ve even got tables you could use to help you figure it out.”

  Oh my gosh, this is better than Cain and Lacey finally getting together on Passion’s Promise. And
bonus! I may even get extra credit for finally figuring out who Stephanie’s dad really is.

  “Thanks, Lucas!” I say, and almost ask him if he wants to eat lunch with me. But then I remember our kids and think it’s better if we just stay lab partners.

  It’s not as easy to casually work blood types into a conversation as you might think, especially when you’re not talking to one of the people whose blood type you most need to know.

  “Shelby?” I knock on the door to her room and then push it open. Mom’s suitcase, the one so old it doesn’t even have wheels, is opened up on Shelby’s bed. There are a few pairs of underwear in the inside mesh pocket. She’s folding her silky pajama bottoms. “Going somewhere?”

  Shelby jumps like she’s surprised it’s me. “No, not really. Just another weekend away.”

  With Dean, no doubt. He must have beaucoup bucks. “I can’t babysit this weekend.” I try to head her off.

  She just smiles and says, “Don’t worry. Dad said he’d take care of her.”

  “Oh, good.” I sit on the bed. Shelby tosses me her jeans, and I obediently fold them and place them in the suitcase. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure, as long as you keep folding.” She takes a drawer of T-shirts and tanks and dumps them on my lap.

  “You ever have Kimball for science?”

  “Yeah, sure. He’s been there forever.”

  “Did you have to type your blood?”

  Shelby’s rolling socks but stops to look at me. “Yep. It was pretty cool. That why you’ve got a Band-Aid on two fingers? Labs must still be on Wednesdays.”

  I smile at her. “I jabbed a little too hard the first time. I found out my blood type’s A. Do you remember yours?”

  “Sure, A, like you. Why, you looking for a donor or something? Got an incurable disease?” She laughs and tosses a sock ball at me. I deflect it into the suitcase with an upraised hand.

  My brain pedals fast for some kind of explanation that does not involve Jackson and Stephanie. “Just worrying about Hannah. With you going out of town so much lately, what if something happens? We should know her blood type, don’t you think?”

  Shelby laughs. “I remember Mr. Kimball getting us all worried about bleeding out at the hospital because no one knew our blood type. Hannah’s a B, like her dad.” Whenever Shelby speaks of He-Who-Divorced-Her, she gets a faraway look in her eye.

  I feel like Nancy Drew, all detective-y and stuff, when I say, “Is there anyone in our family who’s the same type?” Like Kait? I want to prompt, but let her answer in her own way.

  “Yeah,” she says, long hair swishing as she walks across the room to get the body mist off her dresser. “Kait and Mom are both A. I remember, because I bled a lot when Hannah was born and almost had to have a blood transfusion. They were candidates. But then the doctor got the bleeding to stop, and I didn’t need one after all.”

  “What if Hannah needs blood and the hospital’s out of B? Wouldn’t that be a disaster?”

  “Overreact much?” Shelby chews her lip while deciding which pair of skanky heels to pack—red stilettos or black wedges with ankle wraps? “But I think Steve could probably be a donor. Once, when we were dating, we were gonna donate blood. You know, for the money? But after answering, like, a bazillion questions, we found out that they don’t give you anything but a cookie afterwards. So we blew that place, but I remember seeing his form, and he was a B like Hannah.”

  Bonus! Who knew Shelby would be such a font of bloody wisdom? She’s solved half my mystery without even knowing it.

  “Cool,” is all I say. I watch as Shelby packs some barely-there bras. “Can I ask you something else?” Since she’s being so helpful and all, I figure why not take one more shot in the dark?

  “Shoot,” she says.

  “Are you still sleeping with him?” I thought I could let it go, fake amnesia like the rest of my family, but sometimes, when I’m not thinking about anything else, I think about that. How my dress got ripped and his tongue in my mouth. Not that I’m doing anything about it, it’d just be nice to know.

  The sock ball she throws at me this time is no joke. It bounces off my shoulder with enough force to remind me that she played softball for a whole lotta years. “God, Abby. Do you have to be so awful?”

  Which I guess is as close to a “no” as I’ll get from her, be cause she clams up and stomps off to the bathroom.

  I stay on her bed, inspecting the contents of her bag. I should’ve known the Guitar Player was lying. Have I learned nothing from my family? Men lie, and when they get caught, they lie some more.

  Chapter 24

  Some people would be thrilled that their parents were back together. I am merely thrilled that Dad is moving out of my bedroom. But the fact that he’s only moving down the hall, into the bed so recently vacated by the Guitar Player, is not thrilling.

  “He really was sleeping with Shelby all along,” Mom cries into my shoulder. Does she apologize for doubting me? No, she does not.

  We are standing in the driveway on Saturday morning as Shelby and the Guitar Player drive away together. I don’t know how I feel. Relieved. He’s gone and hopefully it’s for good. Mad. Can Shelby not see what a loser he is? Was there ever really a Dean or was it the Guitar Player all along? And how dare she trick me into helping her pack?

  “She’ll be back,” Dad says, coming up behind us. He was the only one who didn’t seem that surprised when Shelby made her announcement on Thursday night. He even paid for a motel for her since things were so “awkward” at home. “It takes some people longer than others to get over fools’ mountain.”

  Now that he is in Dad mode again, he’s started spouting random bits of his life’s philosophy at us. But I hope he’s right. I hope Shelby does come back, especially if she’s ditched the Guitar Player by then. If not for her sake, then for Hannah’s. I’m glad I’m not the one who has to tell her Mommy’s gone, but don’t worry, Grandma will be your new mom for now. Of course, it could be worse. The Guitar Player and Shelby could’ve taken Hannah with them. Who knows how much the therapy to recover from that kind of damage would cost?

  We go back in the house. Hannah is watching cartoons. It seems like a good way to spend the afternoon. Only there’s no couch—because the Guitar Player trashed it in a rather impressive show of infantile rage when Mom said leaving it was the least he owed her—so I snuggle with Hannah on a big pillow and let Mom have the Barcalounger. She tosses me a blanket. It’s like we’re all being careful of each other. Like we’re afraid of breaking something. But I think we’re too late. I think it’s already broken.

  “Abby, get dressed.” Cody shakes me awake on Sunday afternoon. “It’s three o’clock. You have to get up.”

  I’ve been sleeping a lot since Dad moved down the hall. It’s awfully peaceful having my own room. I stretch and Cody steps back. “Whoa, honey, you need a shower.”

  I frown but stumble to the bathroom. When I’m clean and wearing the jeans and green halter top Cody chose while I was showering, he sits me down on the bed. “We need to talk.”

  “Did Walt take your car again?” It’s the only thing I can think of that would crinkle his forehead like that.

  “No, it’s about Jackson.”

  I wave my hand at him. “I’m not talking about him. Let’s pick someone else from your list. Andre didn’t work out, but there are still plenty more guys to go through. Hey, maybe I’ll even find one for you.” I wink at him.

  Cody grinds his teeth. “I’m being serious.”

  “Okay, what about Jackson?”

  “He’s going back to Nicaragua.”

  “I know.”

  “You know? How?” Cody folds his arms across his chest.

  “He told me. It’s, like, his dream.”

  “He’s leaving tonight. Tonight, Abby.” Cody thumps one foot like an impatient teacher waiting for a slow kid to spit out an answer.

  “Tonight?” I echo, like I am that slow kid. “How long have you kno
wn?”

  “There was something on the news about an earthquake in the area where he worked. He made a few phone calls yesterday, and now it’s bye-bye U.S.A.”

  Of course he’d go. They need him, and after a disaster, they’d need him even more.

  “Your parents bought him a ticket?” I remember that they cut off his college money, and as far as I know, hanging out at home doesn’t pay well.

  “Sold his car to one of his friends. Can you believe it?”

  Of course I can, but that doesn’t explain why I suddenly can’t catch my breath.

  Thump, thump, goes Cody’s sandal on the wood floor. “Abigail Elizabeth Savage, do you really want him to go without saying good-bye?”

  Tears well in my eyes. I ignore them and shrug. “We said everything we needed to say at homecoming.”

  Cody sighs and reaches into his pocket. “He told me to give you this.” It’s a folded note. He flings it at me and leaves.

  It sits on the bed next to me. Finally, I open it. More Rumi. Sad Rumi, about how effort doesn’t matter. Either love is or is not.

  Underneath, he wrote, Abby, I give up.

  I can’t stop crying.

  “Take me to Kait’s.”

  It’s evening. Mom and Dad are in the kitchen, sharing a glass of wine. Hannah’s under the table with the whisk in her mouth.

  “Now?” Mom takes a sip. “Why now?”

  Because I’ve finally stopped crying and I need to know the truth. It would’ve been so easy to ask Kait at the dance, or call her, or respond to Jackson’s first note. But I didn’t. And now it might be too late. To Mom I say, “Will you take me? I really need to talk to Kait.”

  “That’s funny,” Dad says. “She called yesterday and asked for you.”

  “She did?”

  “Didn’t I tell you?” He looks confused and it irritates me. Is it so hard to write down a message?

  “Please?” I use my begging voice. “Please, Mom, I need you to take me.”

  “I’ll take you,” Dad says.

  I ignore him. It would be safer to go with him, but this is a girl thing. “Mom?”

  She sighs and sets down her glass. “I’m not supposed to be drinking this anyway. Let me get my purse.”