I understand, but she doesn't. Every day we live here we sink deeper into Las Pulgas. I grit my teeth and flee down the hall. How can I help being a terrible daughter if she strips away the last tiny bit of dignity I have left.
Keith is still in bed buried under his pillow when I peek inside his room. No matter where he sleeps his room turns into my vision of a mole hole. At Channing he painted his walls indigo and kept all the curtains pulled tight. Here he didn’t redecorate. He didn’t need to. This room started with all the prime qualifications for a mole dwelling.
“I’m going to Channing to look for Quicken. Want to come?”
His foot shoots from under the covers. Then he pushes his pillow aside and opens one eye. “When?” When he’s sleepy my brother looks like a tall ten-year-old instead of the high school sophomore out to give his older sister grief.
“Ten minutes,” I tell him.
“Make it fifteen and I’m there.” He puts the pillow back over his head and his foot disappears under the blankets.
I’m surprised when he walks down the hall and into the living room almost exactly fifteen minutes later. He wants to go home, too.
Chapter 18
We navigate through the Las Pulgas traffic and head west toward the coast highway. Once I point the Tercel north and follow the familiar winding road along the oceanfront, I breathe the sea air. I remember how much I love the smell and how much I miss it, but I don’t expect to ache all over like I’m coming down with the flu.
I pretend I don’t notice how Keith shuts his eyes and seals himself away.
When I turn down our old street my heart hits my chest so hard I feel it bruise itself against my rib cage. I pass the Franklin place and pull to the curb across the street from our house without looking at the two-story beach home that I miss like a piece of myself. I imagine walking inside, seeing the fireplace mantle decorated for Christmas with fresh holly and lights, sitting at the dining room table with one of Mom’s lush bouquets and candle flames dancing in the reflection of the polished wood. I remember how it used to be when Dad swept down the driveway in the evenings and came in shouting, “The king is home!”
“They painted it.” Keith’s voice shakes me out of my trance and I jerk my head up.
“It’s green!” I clutch the steering wheel and swallow the sticky bile that leaps to my throat. While I’m staring at the that putrid pastel house, the door—my door flies open and that redheaded creep sashays down the path—my path. I feel rather than hear the growl that comes out my mouth.
“Chill, Carlie.” Keith opens his door. “Stay here. I’ll go to the back where Quicken used to hang out.”
Keith’s only gone a few minutes before he jogs back across the lawn empty-handed. In silence I take the familiar route toward Sam’s Shack where everyone goes at lunch and after school. On Saturdays burgers are half-off, so the place is packed. I don’t park in their lot, but hide the Tercel in the grove of eucalyptus down the street.
“Are you going in?” Keith asks.
I want to, and I don’t. I’d like to pretend today is the way Saturday used to be. I’d like to walk inside Sam’s, sit with Lena, make plans for the dance or next week or—
“Well, I’m starved.” Keith opens his door and gets out.
You can do this, Carlie. Just have your story straight. Keith won’t say anything. His mouth will be full.
I trudge behind my brother, but before Keith pushes in Sam’s door Lena steps out and blocks the way, tapping her foot.
“I’m glad to see you.” My voice isn’t too convincing.
“Really?” She puts on arm on each hip and sticks out her chin. Lena’s a master at playing “hurt.”
Keith walks around her. “Later.” He goes inside, leaving us face to face.
“I’m sorry. I’ve been so — you know trying to—” I choke back tears. I’m not ready to talk about how I’m the uptight princess at Las Pulgas High or about K.T. and her remarkable hair or the tattoos or Juan or Anthony or Chico. “I’ve been trying to get used to living—” I can’t say it. I can’t say living in a dump, living without any friends, living a life I hate. “I’m just sorry.”
Lena shifts her weight, then smiles. “Me too. Really sorry.”
She steps in close and we hug. For the first time in weeks, I feel like myself. I’m with someone I’ve known forever, someone who doesn’t have her initials tattooed on her neck. “I’ve really missed you, Lena.”
“I’ve missed you, like, massively. Come on.” Lena takes my arm. “We have catching up to do.”
Inside we line up behind Keith at the order counter.
“I have so much to tell you.” Lena clings to my arm as if she doesn’t want to lose me. “The spring dance, Eric Peterson—”
“You’re going to the dance with Eric? What happened to Gene Connell?”
“That didn’t work out, but—”
“Come on. Out with it.” It feels so good to be here with Lena, to be excited about things that my best friend is excited about. This is my real life. This is where I belong.
Keith picks up his burger and sits at a table by the windows. It’s my turn to order. I’m at the counter, still listening to Lena, still looking at her and nodding about all her good news. “One Sam’s Super-Lean Burger, no fries and a Diet Coke.”
“You’re the second girl on a diet today.”
I whip my head around. Juan Pacheco’s dark eyes are on me, his lips in a dazzling sideways smile.
He punches in my order. “Will that be all?” His name tag with JUAN in capitals is pinned to his Sam's Shack spotless white shirt. The way his cap sets at an angle over one eye is really annoying.
When did Juan Pacheco get a job at Sam’s? He doesn’t belong here. He doesn’t belong in any part of my life and I’m telling him so the first chance I have without an audience, the next time he pulls that . . . that smile business or calls me Princess. Gah!
“The same order for me, except I want fries.” Lena’s voice sounds low and sexy. “And put them together.” She wraps her arm around my shoulder. “My treat. I just got my allowance.”
“Thank you.” I barely move my lips and keep my eyes down. We wait for our order, then pick up the red plastic baskets with our hamburgers and sit next to Keith’s table. He’s already devoured half his burger.
While I peel back the paper wrapper, Lena gushes news. She’s not just going to the spring dance with Eric; they’re a couple. “Mom bought me a super outrageous dress when we were in the city last weekend.”
“Kind of early, isn’t it?”
“I couldn’t pass it up. You’ll understand when you see it.” She nibbles a French fry. “So you’re coming over, right? I mean you have to. It’s been eons.”
I remove the top bun and take a bite of my Super Lean Burger. “Uh huh. Hmmm.” My full-mouth sounds are neutral. They could mean, “Sure,” or “Maybe,” but it seems to satisfy Lena.
“So talk to me.” Lena takes the first bite from her burger.
At the next table, Keith pushes up from his chair. “I’m going back to ask some neighbors about Quicken. Pick me up at Mitch’s, okay?”
With Keith gone, I have no way to avoid answering Lena. “I’m not sure what to say.”
“Well, it kind of hurts, you know?” Lena says.
“What?”
“You’re treating me like I’m not good enough anymore.” Her voice has an edge like it did when we first met outside.
Boy does she have that backwards. “I’m sorry. It’s me, not you. I don’t like where I’m living. I hate the school.” I swallow and choke, covering my mouth with my napkin and giving myself a moment to get it together. The beginning of my confession hasn't gone well. I'm feeling pathetic.
“And that would be where?” Lena asks. “You, like, vanished and I don’t even know your phone number. Someone else answers your cell.”
I’m trapped. My web of half-truths and evasions are coming undone. I can't escape answering Lena's dire
ct question this time. I have to tell her. This is going to ruin my life.
I look Lena in the eye. “I don’t have a cell right now.” I hand her a piece of paper with my home number scribbled on it. “We moved into a place that doesn’t have . . . good reception.” I cough behind my hand. “Las Pulgas.”
Lena gazes at me without speaking.
Chapter 19
Lena stops chewing. She swallows, sips milk through a straw, and wipes her hands on her napkin, taking her time as if she’s preparing to do surgery.
“Say something.” I want to shake her.
“That’s . . . interesting.”
I should have made something up. Why didn’t I have a story ready? “Have you ever seen Las Pulgas?”
Lena wads her napkin and drops it into the empty red plastic basket, but she doesn’t answer.
“I didn’t think so.”
She shifts her eyes toward the window. “My mom said something once about great bargains, but—”
“Bargains is the operative word.”
“Wait. Wait. I do know more. My mom has a friend there. She lives in uh, uh,” Lena snaps her fingers. “Barranca Canyon?”
“There’s a canyon in Las Pulgas?” We are not seeing the same place.
“Mom says the views from her friend’s house are super, just not the ocean, of course.”
“Your mom's right. The views are not to be believed.” I’m seeing dumpsters, plastic lounge chairs with their webbing dangling from their seats, and a flat-roofed carport.
A tap on my shoulder brings me around in my chair.
“May I clear your table, Princess?” Juan waits, holding out his hands in the direction of my almost empty basket and Coke can.
What is the matter with him? “Yes, take them.” I sit back out of his way while he stacks our baskets and wipes off the table top. His lips part into that annoying sideways smile, then he steps to the empty table next to us and arranges the napkin holder and catsup as if he’s doing important executive work.
Lena stares after him and then back at me. “Princess?”
“It’s a joke. At least he thinks it’s funny.”
“So are you sharing or what?”
“He’s in my class at Las Pulgas. That’s all.” No, that isn’t all, but I can’t explain what I really feel. But one thing I know, I’ve had it with Sam’s. “Come on, Keith’s waiting for me.”
Out front we hug each other again. “Call me, okay? I’m sorry I’ve been such a dope. I’ve really missed you, Lena.”
“That makes me feel sooooo good. I thought you wanted to dump me.”
“Never!”
“You know Nicolas still talks about asking you to the spring dance.”
I’d almost given up on the dance, but now visions of that red strapless dress float in my head.
“Maybe we could double. That would be so awesome.” With another hug, Lena walks away, then looks over her shoulder. “Bye, girlfriend.”
As I return to our old neighborhood I feel better than I have since the move. Lena and I are still friends, and even if Sean won’t be in town for the dance I may have a date. I may at least appear to be the Carlie Edmund I used to be. But if Nicolas asks me, how am I going to buy that dress? I’ll call the Franklins. Give them my new number. Maybe they’ll have more babysitting jobs.
When I pull up at Mitch’s house, Keith’s on the sidewalk talking to four guys I know from Channing’s track team. He motions for me to wait then turns his back.
“I love being your chauffeur!” I shout out the window.
He ignores me, but Brent, the kid with a baby face who tries to leer and always fails, leaves the huddle. When he reaches the Tercel he leans down to look inside.
“So how’s it going in Las Pulgas?” He was always trying to get me to notice him—a sophomore.
“It’s good.”
“Yeah. So you’re okay hanging with the fleas?”
Step on it Keith and let me get out of here. I look past him. “Go back with your play group, Brent.”
“Sure.” He slaps the side of the car. “New?”
“Keith! I’ve got to go!” I’ve had it with baby brother’s little friend.
Brent returns to the huddle and steps between Mitch and Keith. “So does the Las Pulgas track team, like, hop over the finish line?”
All the guys laugh, except Keith who snatches a tan gym bag from Mitch’s hand and hurries to the car with it slung over his shoulder. His jaw is clenched and his face is flushed. Mom used to call him her time bomb when he stomped through the house looking like that.
While Brent hops in place, the others egg him on. Finally, Mitch shoves him and he falls onto the grass, still doing his flea imitation.
“He’s quite the comedian,” I say as Keith settles into the passenger seat and slams the door. I put the car into gear and make a U-turn, keeping my eyes ahead and not looking at Keith’s friends. “Any Quicken sightings?”
“Nobody’s seen her.”
“What’s in the bag?”
“Stuff I left at Mitch’s house last month.” Keith rolls the top of the bag shut and tucks it between his feet. He leans back and closes his eyes, his signal that he doesn’t want to talk. He’s done that since I can remember; sort of shuts everyone out when he’s down.
When Keith used to turn sulky, Dad would knock at his door and they’d stay in his bedroom for a while. Sometimes they’d occupy the garage and ban Mom and me while they huddled over the workbench. Solder sputtered under a hot iron, the polishing wheel hummed and at the end of a session Keith entered the house making eye contact. Neither Keith nor Dad answered questions about what the “men” had been up to.
My eyes blur and that spark of happiness I’d felt after my conversation with Lena sputters, then dies. Anytime I think about how it used to be, some very complicated things happen to me and I can’t keep separate the feelings of guilt and anger and grief. They all mush together, like a soup made with spoiled ingredients. I step on the gas and hurry back across town.
When I open the door to the apartment, the sound of voices comes from inside—Mom’s and a man’s. I look at Keith. He shrugs and starts into the kitchen, then stops so suddenly that I slam into his back.
“Jeez, Keith, what—” The rest sticks inside my mouth because at the table with Mom is the man from the apple orchard. In our dinky apartment and without his gun his hawk-like features aren’t menacing. His eyes aren’t the way I’d imagined them in the shadow of his hat brim either. Instead of a black look I’m getting a steady gray gaze. On his lap is a purring Quicken.
“Look at what Mr. Christopher brought home.” Mom says.
“She showed up a few days ago. She's a little lean, but healthy enough.” The man rubs behind Quicken’s ears. “It’s lucky you’re the only new tenants here. Made you easy to find.”
I stroke Quicken’s back. “Oh fur person, have I missed you.”
Mr. Christopher hands her to me. “Keep her inside for a while. My grandmother always put butter on cats’ feet when she moved them. She said that by the time they’d licked their paws clean they’d stay in the new place.”
“Thank you again, Mr. Chris—” Mom begins.
“It’s Jeb.”
“Then please call me Sarah.”
I look at her, then back to the man who doesn’t look like a Jeb. Jeb should be chewing on a straw and scratching. By all criteria, this guy’s hot, old, but definitely hottie material.
Mom walks Jeb Christopher outside; then, after he’s gone, she leans against the door and says, “What a nice man.”
Chapter 20
It’s almost 2:30 when I arrive at school for my first Saturday play rehearsal. I grasp the handle to the door of Room 9, then consider running back to the car and escaping. I should never have let Mr. Smith talk me into this part. I’m not an actress. How can I learn all those lines?
“Once you give your word, Carlie love, you have to keep your promise.”
“Yes, but .
. . well, you promised to be here forever.”
I tighten my grip on the door handle and yank.
“Didn’t you, Dad?”
When I open the door to Mr. Smith’s classroom, he looks as if he’s pleased I’ve arrived. He probably worried I’d change my mind. Well, I have, but—
“Welcome, Miss Edmunds. We are just starting.” He brings another desk into the circle of students and motions for me to sit. Hearing Mr. Smith’s honey-warm voice calms me, but I can't forget it's the voice that coaxed me into this mess. Directly across sits K.T., her eyes fixed on me like gun sights. I thought she was out of the play.
Next to her on one side is Chico; on her other side, Juan. Anthony, studying his script. I shudder to think of what’s ahead of me, working closely with the most disturbing Las Pulgas dwellers.
I still can't remember why Anthony is so familiar. He catches me looking at him and quickly, I thumb the playbook, scouring for the first mention of my character.
Mr. Smith takes the seat next to mine. “This afternoon we are reading and discussing Act I. K.T. please note any props for this act and use the copy I gave you to begin making your Prompt Script. “You have a challenging first act, Chico. Even with this abridged version Iago has a lot to say.”
“Got it covered, Mr. Smith.”
“So let us begin. Jamal, Roderigo has the opening lines.”
I follow the dialog, avoiding anymore eye contact. When Chico gets to ‘damn’d [by having] a fair wife’ I feel his stare, but I refuse to look up. How am I going to get out of this part? How am I going to get out of this school?
I’m buried in my own plots of escape when Mr. Smith taps my arm. “Desdemona? That was your cue.”
“Sorry.” I flip the pages searching for my place.
“Give Brabantio’s line again, Pavan.” Mr. Smith signals Pavan Gupta who plays my father.
Pavan reads my cue. “‘Where most [do] you owe obedience?’”
“‘My noble father, . . .’” My voice cracks. I can’t read this, not facing K.T. and Chico, not facing anyone. I don’t want to hear those words out loud. Desdemona is telling her dad goodbye in this scene. I’ve already said goodbye to my dad. I can’t do it again, not here.
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