Perfect Glass (A Young Adult Novel (sequel to Glass Girl))

by Laura Anderson Kurk

  “They don’t spend money on former gangsters. Raf entered the system as a ward and we got a call because we’d offered our services if a minor came into the system and needed a place.” He turned to meet my gaze. “Yesterday, you sent him back into the fight he never asked for.”

  I jumped down from my bunk and put on jeans, stalling while I processed Raf’s history. In my mind, though, wrong as it was, I still saw Raf’s gang tattoos next to Aidia’s face. I saw him the way he looked on that street in Managua. He looked just like the other gangsters who’d shown up to knife him. Those guys wouldn’t think twice about breaking into Quiet Waters to find him.

  This didn’t work in any universe, on any level. Raf had to go. Somebody had to say it, right? My heart might hurt for Raf, but it was bleeding for Aidia.

  I used my most reasonable voice to make my point. “I get that what he’s been through was bad, worse than anything I’ve ever heard. It doesn’t change the fact you’ve got innocent little ones running around here relying on you.”

  John shook his head, holding up a hand to stop me, but I kept going. “If you’re going to turn this place into a halfway house for juvies, I think you ought to send Kate home where she’s safe.” I wanted to take it back as soon as I’d said it.

  John rubbed a place on his jeans that had gone thin and soft. When he finally spoke, he ignored my insult to him as my sister’s husband and went straight back to where we started and where he wanted to stay.

  “Don’t confuse anger with violence, Henry,” he said. “Don’t mistake hunger for greed. Raf’s mother was murdered because of something he had the courage to say. He spoke the words that killed her. Don’t you think that might cause some anger management issues? Possibly some PTSD?”

  He yanked my spine out, knob by knob, from between my shoulder blades. And he wasn’t finished.

  “You think he’s not full of enough self-hate? You want to add to his misery by telling him he has to leave the only place he feels safe?” John leaned down to pick up the toys Whit had left on the floor. “His only other option is a detention facility. Because of his history, he’d be treated like a felon. If I fail him now, I couldn’t forgive myself.”

  “Then forget I said it.” I took a shirt out of my closet and put it on.

  “Here’s my philosophy,” John said. “We’ve all been hung up for far too long on ignoring people like Raf because we think we’re so clean and holy. I’m sick of it. There’s a big difference between holiness and mercy.” He took a deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling with the effort. “If you feel disgust for Raf because of what he represents to you then that’s going to ooze from your pores.”

  I could only nod.

  He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “And, by the way, I’d never let anything happen to these kids or my wife and son, and you know it.”

  “I know,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  He pointed at me. “You’re here to serve these kids, Henry, and, until you know that in your bones, you’re just spinning wheels and throwing mud. If that’s where you’re at, I’d rather you go home. Not because some Nicaraguan official tells me I should send you home, but because your heart’s not in this.”

  I swallowed hard. “I understand—”

  “But,” he interrupted. “If you’ll let it happen, these kids will change you for the better. Raf will change you. You haven’t even given the kid a chance.”

  I nodded but said nothing more, figuring that was best for now. Last night I’d decided that I’d go home for a while. Whether John would admit it or not, my departure might give Quiet Waters a little more time. I’d slip back in when things were clearer. I couldn’t make myself tell John right at that moment, though. Not after he’d laid his heart and soul out for me to see.

  His shoulders slumped as he moved to my door. “Come on to breakfast when you’re ready.”

  “I’ve got to get hold of Meg first.”

  I dug my fingers into the sore place on the back of my neck and hit send on my phone. Pick up, pick up, pick up. I couldn’t count how many times Meg had called me in our early days as a couple when she needed to talk about her mom. Now the tables had turned. I needed her.

  Her whispered hello stopped me in my tracks. I sank down to sit on the floor next to the bunk bed, my heart picking up a more normal cadence with one word from her lips.

  “I woke you,” I said. “I couldn’t wait any longer.”

  “No, it’s okay. I was getting ready to call you.” Her voice sounded shaky.

  “Are you all right?” I said.

  “No. I want you to come home.”

  “Tell me what’s wrong.” My issues mattered a whole lot less all of a sudden.

  I listened quietly as she went through the whole mess of car tag with Tennyson and some new guy at school. She described dealing with the police and told me how it felt to be accused of something she would never do. I recognized the shame in her voice because I was feeling it, too.

  “You didn’t do anything wrong,” I said. “I know you wanted to help her, but she needs more than you can give her. You’re not going back there, are you?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “We’ll see. How are you? You sound stressed.” Meg can always read me. It’s part of what drew me to her in the first place.

  “Little bit, honey. Little bit stressed.”

  “Tell me,” she whispered.

  I ran my hand through my hair, trying to keep myself from telling her that I’d be on the next plane home; that this boat was taking on water and I wanted out.

  “I’m just having trouble making things work.”

  “Supplies for the flex building?”

  “That, yeah. I sort of hit a bump in the road yesterday that I can’t get over. I’m mulling over options. I’d give my eyeteeth for a Wyoming Building Supply right about now.”

  “What happened yesterday?” She stifled a yawn, making me laugh.

  “Raf and I took a field trip to Managua and ran into some old friends of his.” I tried to inject a laid-back tone into my voice. Meg heard the bull in that immediately.

  “As in gang friends?”

  “As in.”

  “Henry Whitmire! Did they hurt you?”

  “Only my feelings,” I said. “Raf and I made it home okay, but one of the other guys ended up in the hospital. I made the front page of the Managua newspaper. You can probably Google me now. I’ve got street cred.”

  Meg was quiet. Too quiet. I knew I’d said too much. “Meg, everything’s gonna be all right. You’re going to have to trust me.”

  “I trust you.”

  “I’ll know more after today, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Okay, except she was crying, trying to keep me from hearing it. “Please don’t cry. I don’t want you to worry about this. I promise I’ll see you soon. I feel like I’m already home. I’m that close.”

  “I’m just a spaz,” she said. “And I miss you so much. I feel like everyone else is having a normal senior year, but I’m running a marathon, trying to get to the finish line. And it’s been full of suck. Could I come visit you?”

  “I want you to visit, but things aren’t good right now. Just be patient. Situations tend to change really fast.” And I planned to be with her in Chapin in twenty-four hours.

  “I love you, Henry. Call when you can.”

  I heard the smile in her voice and that made me feel better about saying goodbye. I stopped short of making a kissing noise into the phone—because I still had some self-respect—and headed toward the shower. Already a speech was forming in my head…the words that would attempt to explain to my sister and brother-in-law why I was leaving.

  The barely lukewarm water only made it clearer. I was tired of being here. Maybe it was that simple. I was tired and needed to recharge at home.

  Mornin’, Kate. Did you hear the one about the cowboy in Nicaragua? No? Probably ’cause he didn’t last long enough to make a difference.

 
; NINE

  meg

  “Honey, you’re not planning on going to school, are you?” My mom knocked on the bathroom door as soon as I turned the shower off. “Can’t you take a day off to rest?”

  “I have a math test.” I wrapped in a towel and opened the door.

  “I’m sorry I pushed you to work with Jo.” She leaned against the doorframe with her cup of coffee. “I just thought, with everything….” She waved her hand in the air so I’d know everything meant everything.

  I put my arms around her. “It’s not your fault, Mom. Rejecting people is an art and Jo does it exceptionally well. I’ll find another volunteer job.”

  There was the women’s shelter where Tennyson volunteered and the Pregnancy Assistance Center where Sara worked. I could replace one volunteer gig with another. What I couldn’t do was get over the fact that someone in the world really hated me. Enough to call the police.

  “Do you think she’s safe there by herself?” Mom said. “I saw her in town last week and she’s lost so much weight. I’m not sure she’s eating.” She followed me to my room and watched me agonize over what to wear. After several minutes, she took out a fuzzy turquoise sweater and held it up. “This is good with your eyes.”

  “Jo is skin and bones.” I pulled the sweater over my wet hair and began the process of trying to free my hair from where it got trapped in the fabric. “I assumed she’d always been frail like that.”

  “No, seriously, you need to stop by the gallery today after school. I’ll show you a self-portrait she did years ago. You won’t recognize her. She looked like a young Vivien Leigh…with this intensely vulnerable thing happening in her eyes.”

  “That’s okay,” I said, watching my mom morph into Adele Kavanagh, artist. I’ve known this distant look of hers all my life. It usually meant that as soon as I left the house, she’d sit at a canvas and produce a miracle. “I know she was beautiful. I’ve seen a picture of her. But I’ve had enough Jo Russell to last me a little while.”

  “You would be wrong to take this personally, Meg.” Mom ran her finger along the edge of her coffee mug, a nervous gesture that told me how important this conversation was to her. “Jo’s mind is fading. She’s losing bits and pieces. Things from the past are mixing with the present. My grandmother went through this. I went through this.” She held up her hand, quietly counting family members who’d been through this.

  I turned to my mirror to brush my hair and finish getting ready for school. Without Henry here, as long as I was clean, I felt okay about walking the halls of school. But I didn’t want to hear a defense of my accuser this morning, so pretending to primp signaled an end to the conversation.

  My mom slipped out quietly to fix breakfast. When I joined her, she started the conversation where she’d left it. “I heard she marched over to a neighbor’s house last week and accused them of chopping down several of her trees.” She poured herself a glass of orange juice and stared out the window.

  I looked up from my bagel in time to see her reach over and straighten a picture Wyatt had drawn in art class years ago. At our old house, that frame had been hanging on a wall. Here, she kept it in the window over the kitchen sink. I never noticed why until now. Wyatt had used chalk to draw trees that looked a lot like the pines we could see through this kitchen window. The juxtaposition jarred me.

  “Had they?”

  “Of course not. She broke down and cried on their porch and they had a hard time calming her down.”

  “The last time I talked to her, she seemed to be really sad about something.” I poured a cup of coffee and mixed in cream and sugar. “It’s not that I don’t want to help her, Mom. It’s just that I don’t think I’m experienced enough. And she hates me.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if you learn that she misses you. She just doesn’t know how to connect—if she’s supposed to push or pull. But you, my darling daughter, did nothing wrong and have nothing to be ashamed of.”

  When I looked in the mirror this morning, I saw a girl accused of something bad. It really wasn’t all that surprising, to my mom or me, when tears started flowing.

  “Everything’s going to be okay, Meg.” She dried her own cheeks with the backs of her hands and used a paper towel on mine, pushing it close to my lashes to keep my mascara in place.

  “I think I sort of feel responsible for her now.” I pushed the towel away. “I wish I could turn that off like a light switch.”

  “I know what you mean. I have some switches I’d turn off, too.”

  I took a shaky breath and attempted a smile. “I’m okay. If Henry were here, he’d just drive over to Jo’s and she’d let him right in. He’d explain everything and she wouldn’t misunderstand him. He’s literally un-misunderstandable.”

  “Be careful, Meg,” she said, turning back to her window. “No one’s perfect.”

  ***

  It didn’t take long for me to see my secret had been leaked. When I walked through the front door of school, someone said, “Hey, Kavanagh, stalking is not love.” The hall erupted in laughter. Tennyson waited at my locker with a horrified look on her face.

  “What?” I said when I got close enough.

  She shifted slightly, exposing the pink, furry handcuffs attached to my lock.

  “I tried to break them, but there’s metal under all that fluff.” She tugged at them to prove it. “I swear I only mentioned what happened to a couple of people and I have no idea why it’s so funny. I think you’re a victim of a slow news cycle.”

  “It’s not a problem.” I pushed closer to my locker so I could try to open it. I just wanted to get my books and make it to English on time. Quinn picked that moment to walk by, doing a double take when he saw the handcuffs.

  He stopped and reached for them, yanking hard in an attempt to open them. Then he took a mechanical pencil out of a pocket in his backpack and jerked off the metal clip, which he used to pick the lock of the handcuffs. They sprang free quickly enough that his lock-picking history seemed like an interesting future conversation.

  “Thanks,” I said, reaching for them.

  But Quinn held the fuzzy handcuffs in his hands, looking them over closely, and he smiled. “Oh, hey, did you want to keep these for when your invisible boyfriend returns from his fake vacation?”

  “You’re a riot, O’Neill. You’re also late to English.” I turned the combination on my lock and finally opened my locker.

  He tossed the handcuffs in and reached for my copy of The Rose Tattoo, the play we were studying. I had to jog a little to keep up with him when he headed down the hall, but it kept my mind off the stalker jokes being whispered around me. Quinn flipped through my copy of the play, pretending he didn’t hear what they were saying.

  Nate Murray, one of Thanet’s friends, reached out to stop me. “Hold up, Meg,” he said. “How long have you been into old women?”

  I shook my head and kept walking.

  “I looked it up,” he said, following closely behind us. “It’s called gerontophilia and there’s a support group in Denver for you. I wrote it all down.”

  Nate probably thought he was being cute, but Quinn had obviously heard enough. He shoved Nate. Hard. Into the wall. I had no idea Quinn was that fierce. Or quick. Or working a protection detail for me. He was on the thin side, more intellect than muscle.

  “Dude,” Nate yelled, holding the shoulder that took most of the impact. “I’m a friend of hers. I was just kidding.”

  “It wasn’t funny.” Quinn still hadn’t backed off.

  I tugged on his arm and tried to get him away from Nate. “You should just go on to English, Quinn. It’s okay.”

  Nate pushed Quinn back and started walking toward the bathroom. He opened the door and kicked it shut behind him. Quinn and I were staring at the door when it opened again and Nate stuck his head out and met my eyes. “I really was kidding, Meg. I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings.”

  “It’s okay.” My face burned.

  “Does Henry know
about this clown?” He jerked his chin toward Quinn, who was scowling, and let the bathroom door close again.

  “Are you making some good friends at school?” I said to Quinn, trying to sound like an interested mom.

  He sighed and gave me a lopsided grin. “Crap. I might have overreacted. I’ll apologize.” He leaned into the bathroom and spoke to Nate, who must have been standing by the door. After a second of listening to Nate’s response, he stuck his hand through the half-open door. I caught a glimpse of a handshake/fist bump combination. Guys are so easy.

  “Let’s go before Mr. Landmann gets heated up,” Quinn said after he let the bathroom door close.

  Mr. Landmann had started his lecture on Serafina, the main character in The Rose Tattoo. He barely glanced at us when we opened the door.

  “‘A woman can be dignified in her grief, but when it’s carried too far it becomes a sort of self-indulgence,’” he read. “What’s Serafina grieving, Mr. O’Neill?” Usually Mr. Landmann’s punishment for tardiness was a barrage of direct questions about the homework.

  “Her husband, at first,” Quinn said, stopping between two rows of seats and facing Mr. Landmann. His show of respect earned him a nod.

  “And then,” Mr. Landmann prompted.

  “And then she grieved everything.” Quinn began to look uncomfortable.

  “Sit, Quinn, and tell me what you mean.” Mr. Landmann motioned for him to find his seat. “How does she grieve everything?”

  Once Quinn was settled, he unzipped his backpack and took out his copy of the play. He might have been buying time. I raised my hand because I figured I owed Quinn for helping me with the handcuffs, as well as worrying about the jokes flying around about my character.

  “Meg?” Mr. Landmann said. He seemed surprised I would willingly open myself up to the class about another case of literary grief.

  “Serafina grieves the loss of things she hasn’t even lost yet. Some people don’t know what else to do except to grieve. They’ll make stuff up to mourn.”