The Princess of Las Pulgas

by C. Lee McKenzie

  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  Other Writing Credits & Books

  Sample Chapters

  "A beautifully written, meaningful, young adult novel. Carlie Edmund will jump off the page and pull you into a poignant and timely story of loss and ultimate gain."

  -Francisco X. Stork, author of Marcelo in the Real World, a New York Times Notable Children's Book of 2009, a Publishers Weekly Best Book of 2009, and a 2010 YALSA Top 10 Best Books for Young Adults.

  The Princess of Las Pulgas

  C. Lee McKenzie

  Published by C. Lee McKenzie at Smashwords

  Copyright 2013

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Chapter 1

  Last night I pleaded with Death, but he turned a bony back to me, pushed Hope into the corridor and shut the door.

  Now we’re waiting, all of us. Mom in the chair next to Dad’s bed, holding his hand as if she can keep him with us as long as she doesn’t let go. Keith asleep on the rollaway a nurse wheeled in earlier. He’s on his side, his long runners’ legs drawn to his chest and his head resting on his arm. Me, scrunched down into a chair at the foot of Dad’s bed. I no longer feel like I have a body. I’m not even tired, just numb. Then Death. He’s backed into the darkest corner.

  I twist my Sweet Sixteen bracelet around and around, counting the tiny links. Mom and Dad gave it to me in June before I learned how hospitals smelled at two a.m. or how I preferred nightmares to being awake.

  I hate being here.

  I hate what's happening.

  I want it over.

  I close my eyes and let my head fall back against the vinyl chair.

  No. I don’t mean that.

  Two a.m.: The hands of the wall clock go around and around. Slow. Steady. Doling out the hours one-second at a time.

  Three: I must have slept, but I don’t remember dozing and I still feel tired.

  Three-ten: Something’s different and the shift is as sudden as it is subtle—a missed tick of a clock, an unexplained space in the air, a suspended drip over a sink.

  A steady and high-pitched sound tentacles its way through the room. A flat line of green streaks across the monitor and the darkest corner is suddenly empty.

  Keith sits up on the edge of the rollaway, staring at the floor. Mom rests her head against Dad’s still chest. Around me the room curls up at the edges like a late autumn leaf and I’m sure everything will soon crumble into tiny bits.

  My dad was an important man in Channing. His investment counseling business had survived despite the economy, and all of his clients had names on doors with President or Chairman of the Board stenciled beneath. Dad had held just about every office on the city council and been financial advisor to the mayor, so the memorial service is long with speeches, and the church is crowded with VIPs.

  Mom hired the caterer that her best friend, Maureen Fogger, always uses, so white-jacketed strangers armed with trays of perfect small food thread their way among the black or gray clothed guests. Our home fills with a hum of voices.

  The mayor proposes a toast; the arts commissioner proposes a toast; three board members of Dad’s company propose toasts. By four, people who were silent and sad-faced earlier are now talking a bit too loudly, smiling, telling jokes. Maureen Fogger has one of Dad’s young partners cornered. She’s leaning in a little too close. The guy’s face is flushed and his eyes dart around the room. Nobody notices his silent cry for help except me.

  An hour ago Keith retreated upstairs. Mom stationed herself in the chair by the fireplace like a lonely planet, and the guests orbit her, taking her hand, touching her shoulder. I haven’t seen her cry since that night at the hospital, but I’ve heard her through her bedroom door. Now I think her whole body must be filling with tears while she waits for the reception to end and for everyone to leave.

  Dad was always inviting people home. “Come for dinner, for the weekend, for Labor Day,” he’d say. He insisted on balloons and confetti for special celebrations. Confetti still turns up in the carpet from last New Year’s Eve. He had the barbeque ready hours before my end-of-year beach parties started, hours before Mom had a chance to tell him whether he was cooking hot dogs or hamburgers that year. We called him our party animal. If Dad were here, he would be moving from group to group, telling a joke, gently guiding Maureen away and letting his young partner escape. Dad would have loved this “party.”

  I’m not in the mood to love anything about what's happening, so as soon as possible I slip away to hide in my room where Quicken is curled up on my pillow in a tight purring ball. Even with the door closed, I'm not far enough away to mask the chatter of people downstairs. I slide open the window facing the beach, inviting the drum of ocean waves to enter. Their steady rhythm has always rocked me when I was uneasy. Today, the crashing waves are angry, not soothing.

  Closing the window, I fall across the bed with my arms spread wide. Quicken arches her back, stretches, and then brushes back and forth along my side before curling up against me. In seconds her purr rumbles deep in her throat.

  Disappearing inside my head, imagining a happy ending saw me through those months of Dad’s cancer, so I need for it to get me through tonight and tomorrow and the next day.

  “Carlie, love. This is tough, but you’ll be just fine. I know it.”

  Dad used to say that whenever I’d bring him a crisis. Then he’d brush my cheek with his fingers and kiss the tears.

  I’m not so sure this time, Dad.

  Chapter 2

  This is first year since I learned about Jack-O’-Lanterns that we don’t have one for Halloween. Snaggle-toothed grins were Dad’s specialty. Mom turns out the walkway lights at dusk. We don’t answer the door for the goblins and witches.

  Only one ghost is allowed to enter here now.

  Chapter 3

  Mom’s friend, Maureen Fogger, invites us for Thanksgiving dinner.

  We go.

  We eat.

  We leave early.

  I fall asleep to Mom’s crying. It’s become as much a part of home as the sound of the ocean outside our windows.

  Chapter 4

  I drive Keith to the Christmas tree farm like Dad used to do. We saw down a six foot fir and tie it onto the top of the car. At home we carry it as far as the front door, look at each other and set it down in front of the bay window.

  That’s where it stays.

  Chapter 5

  Mom goes to Maureen Fogger’s New Year’s Eve fundraiser. I think Keith’s at Mitch’s house. I cancel babysitting for the Franklins and stay home. It’s just the TV and me with Quicken curled on my lap, purring.

  Chapter 6

  “Ten. Nine. Eight.” The drum of Time Square voices beat out the final seconds of the year. As the ball plunges to the count of one, paper bits flurry across the TV screen—a sudden end and a sudden beginning. I choke back tears at that thought—the one I’ve had since I watched my Dad die—the moment when the world grew one breath smaller.

  When I switch off the television the house goes silent. Tonight’s the first time since the memorial service that I’ve been here after dark without Mom or Keith someplace close by, and now loneliness crowds the room.

  I twist my Sweet Sixteen bracelet around and around, fingering the tiny links.<
br />
  Setting Quicken down I stretch up from the couch. “Come on fur person.”

  Leaving on a few downstairs lights for Mom and Keith, I pad up the steps behind my cat. She leaps to her cushion at the foot of my bed and curls into a tight circle.

  I wish I could fall into a steady purring sleep like she does. I wish Mom would come home. I even wish Keith would shuffle down the hall to his mole hole of a room.

  On my desk my journal lies open to the almost blank sheet of paper with a date across the top. I trace my finger over “October 22.” The rest of the page is blotched with old tears.

  Perhaps because I can’t stand to read about the darkness inside me, I’ve avoided writing anything since that day. I feel like I’m wrapped in a cocoon.

  “Carlie love, you’ve been shut away long enough. It’s time to rejoin your world.”

  My dad’s talking to me like he used to, only now his words come like whispers inside my heart.

  The journal was his idea. After I won Channing’s Scribe contest my freshman year, he handed me a small package. Inside was this blank book embossed with C. E. On the inside cover he’d written. “For Carlie Edmund, one girl who has the imagination to write wonderful stories. Put some of those ideas down and use them later when you need them.”

  Since October 22nd, there's nothing this One Girl has to write that anyone would want to read, especially me.

  “You have all kinds of good ideas, Carlie love.”

  “I only have one idea and it’s so not a good one.”

  “Good or bad you have to start sometime.”

  I turn to a blank page and take up my pen. “Sometimes bad things happen . . . even in Channing.”

  The first bad thing that springs into my head is spelled c-a-n-c-e-r, then comes the vision of that hospital room, the hours plodding forward. More memories creep forward like tiny monsters and sit hunched, waiting for me to notice them.

  I drop my pen onto the journal page, tasting rather than hearing the low sound just behind my lips, not quite a cry, not quite a moan, just something sharp-edged, something I’d like to keep hidden.

  When I read what I just wrote, some letters aren’t clear. Even though I’ve turned to a new page, the tears have made the surface rough, so October 22nd has bled through to a new day.

  What can I write that won’t tear at me every time I read it? What can I write that won’t crush my heart and send me back to that day life changed?

  The answer—nothing.

  “I’m sorry, Dad,” I say softly, then I listen to the silence. I don’t know what’s worse, when he talks to me or when he doesn’t.

  From outside comes the sound of a car pulling into the driveway, then the garage door slides open. Mom’s home.

  I change into my pajamas and robe, brush my hair and pull it into a long dark tail that hangs to my shoulders. I got the thick black mane from my mom’s side of the family. Keith inherited Dad’s sandy color and the spatter of freckles across his cheeks. We don’t look like we’re related, except for our eyes and those are all Dad, sand pebble gray.

  Mom will make cocoa before she goes to bed just like she did when Dad was here. Cocoa is still a bedtime ritual, but it’s not the happy one it used to be. Now she sits alone at the table, studying real estate books, or, as she says, “sorting out the finances.” After being by myself most of the night I need company, so cocoa and Mom to talk to sound good.

  “Hi Mom. How did the fundraiser go?” She’s already pouring milk into a saucepan when I slipper my way into the kitchen.

  “Let’s see.” She sets the saucepan on the cooktop, and stirs in cocoa. “I made a hundred plus a fifty dollar bonus from the caterer at Maureen Fogger’s annual charity event—proceeds going to Bangladesh or Milwaukee, depending on which place needs it more this year.”

  Mom’s attempt at keeping it light doesn’t fool me. She was embarrassed having to work with the catering crew at a party she should have been enjoying as a guest.

  “Oh, and I saw Eric Peterson. He was parking cars.”

  “Wonderful. Now I suppose he’ll spread the word about our money problems.”

  “I don’t think so. I gave him an excuse about volunteering and escaped to the back entrance.” She turns the flame under the pan to low and sits at the table. “It was a small uncomfortable moment.” Mom’s humor fizzles again.

  For years she helped Mrs. Fogger organize her charity party. She hired the caterers. She walked in the front door with the guests. From the way Mom looks and sounds, tonight's been an embarrassing hell.

  “You didn’t go out? No party at Lena’s this year?”

  I shake my head. There was a party. I didn’t go.

  We jump at the sudden sound of the front door slamming. Keith’s familiar shuffling footsteps start at the entry and cross the dining room toward the kitchen. He pauses at the kitchen door.

  “How was the movie?” Mom’s voice gives her away, at least to me. She wants Keith to stick around and talk to us. She knows he won’t.

  “Didn’t go. Stayed at Mitch’s.” His jaw is tight like it’s been for months, and I’ve forgotten when he looked at either one of us as if we were really there.

  “Do you want some co—?” Keith has already started upstairs. When his bedroom door closes, not with a bang, but something close, Mom slumps in her chair and rubs her eyes.

  Thanks to my mole of a brother, she looks more exhausted than when I came in. Slowly she straightens her back as if every muscle aches, then she goes to the stove and pours cocoa for each of us.

  We sip from our mugs, staring into the steamy liquid and letting the quiet hang in the air between us. We have more to think about than we have to talk about.

  “I do have some good news for the start of the year.” Her words should sound hopeful. They would if the way she said them did. “When I finally opened last week’s mail I found I made ninety percent on my first realtor’s exam.”

  “Great, Mom.” I try to mean it, but everything that has to do with her real estate course reminds me how different our lives are now.

  “It’s only a practice test, but I feel a lot more confident after taking it.”

  We fall into more silence. I have no good news, except that Lena called to tell me the Nicolas Benz might be asking me to the Spring Fling. It’s not a sure thing, so it’s only semi-good news and not as important as it was last year.

  “Carlie. . . I,” Mom clears her throat and looks up at the ceiling. She does this when she has things to tell us that aren’t of the good news variety. When Dad was first diagnosed with cancer, she studied the ceiling for a long time, letting the tears trickle back into her hairline before she looked Keith and me in the eyes and told us about the reports.

  I can’t take too much more of her staring-at-the-ceiling news.

  “I made a decision.” Now her eyes are on me and the way the word, “decision” sounds sets off an alarm in my head.

  “I wasn’t going to say anything yet, but . . . Well, there’s never going to be a good time to tell you. It’s not something I decided tonight either, and it’s something—” Mom sits back in her chair. “We need to sell this house.”

  “Sell?” I sound like all the air is leaking between my ribs.

  Mom puts her hand over mine, but I snatch mine back.

  “We can’t make it otherwise. I have to free up some capital and the house is the only asset that will get us out of this mess. The health insurance company isn’t coming up with any more money to cover the last of the hospital bills unless we sue. I can’t face that right now. Not ever.” She sighs. “All I want for a while is some peace.”

  “But Mom! It’s the middle of my junior year!”

  “I know, Carlie. It’ll be very hard for you and Keith, but no matter how I add the figures, I come up way too short. Even if I finish the real estate course and start working by summer, we’ll lose everything. I can’t even promise you college right now.” Mom gazes into her mug as if she’s looking for answe
rs. “We can’t afford to live in Channing anymore.”

  “No!”

  “I borrowed money on the house and now the payments are—” She presses her hand against her lips as if she doesn’t want the words to escape. “They’re bigger than I thought. I made a mistake when I figured out how much I’d have to pay each month,, but I wasn’t thinking clearly. I knew I needed money, so I got it the quickest way I could.”

  I push away from the table and get to my feet. “You can’t do this. There has to be—”

  “It’s late. We’ll talk tomorrow. Let’s keep this between us until we have a family meeting, okay? Your brother’s so edgy that I need to choose one of his good moments to tell him.”

  I hurry out of the kitchen.

  “Wait.” She catches me at the stairs. “I need you to understand.” There's pleading in her voice, something I've never heard when she talks to me.

  I yank my arm free and run up the stairs.

  “I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t have—”

  Slamming my door, I lean against it, squeezing my eyes closed and tasting the salt tears at the corner of my mouth. Quicken jumps from my bed and rubs against my legs until I pick her up and cry into her short gray fur. She nuzzles her Siamese understanding and sympathy under my chin.

  With her tucked close to me I open my bedroom window, inviting the sound of the Pacific inside. When I set her onto the window sill she wraps her tail tightly around her haunches and stares across our beachfront. Like me, she's never lived anywhere but here. The steady rhythm of waves has always rocked me to sleep, and I’ve never thought how important that sound was until this moment. I get one of those heart shock moments. What if there’s no ocean where we end up living?