The Princess of Las Pulgas

by C. Lee McKenzie

  “No!”

  He pushes away as if I’ve slapped him and fixes me with dark eyes that reflect me cringing. This is like the moment just before the rainstorm, when the air is charged and still.

  He snatches the key from my hand, and I yank my head back so sharply that I hit it against the wall. Pain radiates from the back of my skull. I suck in air and choke.

  “Chill. I'm not into punching out girls, even sisters of creeps.” For a moment I think he might pin me against the wall again. But then he forces my key into the lock and works it back and forth until it turns. The door swings open and he says, “It’s your brother I’m taking out. Remind him.”

  He jogs to his apartment. When he’s at the door, he faces me, and for a second he looks like a little kid who’s just been told nobody likes him. Then he’s Anthony again—hard eyes and a jaw that works back and forth like a crushing machine. Once he’s out of sight the rest of my body thaws so I can move, but my legs feel rubbery and barely carry me inside. My hand is shaking and my lungs scream for air as if I’m surfacing from a deep pool.

  I lean against the closed door and reach for the light switch; when I’m sure my legs work, I go into the kitchen for water. On the counter I find a note propped against the toaster oven. It says:

  “Keith and I have gone to a movie with Jeb. We should be back by the time you’re home, but if we’re late, lock the door. Love, Mom.”

  First Quicken, now Keith and Mom—all gone. Jeb has emptied the apartment of every living thing except me. “Merde.” This has been one terrible night so far. I remember the worried look on Sean’s face while he waited to hear what I was going to tell him—if I’d say I never wanted to see him again. I didn’t say that, but I might as well have. What will I do if I don’t have Sean to call me “Milady”? What if I don’t have him to tell me I’m special and beautiful and his . . . friend?

  I punch the air with my fist. I should be punching myself for being so stupid.

  I head into my catacomb. My homework isn’t doing itself and I'm sure K.T.’s hastily scribbled story needs work. I have to keep my mind off being alone, and I have to wonder if K.T., the last person in the world I want to know anything about me, is reading my story right now? Did she just turn to page two and find out how I really feel? Why did I put all of that on paper, something I couldn’t even write in my journal?

  I take out the paper K.T. shoved at me.

  “Gloria got her name because her mom sang in the church choir before she was born and she liked the ‘Gloria Hallelujah’ parts. Gloria could of been famous. That’s cuz when she drew something it came to life like magic. One day she drew a big dog cuz she wanted one really really bad, but that dog got up off the page and ran away. She felt terrible, so the next day she drew a cat to, but it crossed the street and got run over by a car. Now she felt super terrible. If Gloria had a mom that mom would tell her to stop drawing pets for herself cuz she used to tell her what to do and not to do. Like she told her not to put up with junk from nobody. Her mom was like that too. She didn’t put up with people who treated her bad. Gloria got that trait from her mom, so she was tough and the jerks let her alone. When Gloria’s mom skipped town unexpected, and left her on her own is when she started trying to draw stuff. She wanted some animal friends. She didn’t try to draw a mom to cuz who knew what might happen if she did? The End.”

  That stupid story isn’t so stupid now that I know about her mom. K. T. misses her, and she’s figured out a way to get through one day after the next, grieving and surviving.

  I sit back in my chair, my brain doing crazy eights. I wrote the same thing in my free writing, except it's my dad who “skipped town.” I can't believe I have anything in common with K.T., yet here it is right on this piece of paper.

  I hold my pencil over the first sentence. Not a bad start, and the next four are kind of catchy in a rappy sort of way. What if K.T. turns this into rap? Maybe that’s the best suggestion. It’s got a story, sort of. The cat shouldn't get creamed. Maybe it leaves her. I can relate to that, too.

  I like the idea that she wishes she could draw her mom, but can't. It’s bad enough bringing a dog and a cat to life and then having them leave, but if that happened to her mother it would be like going through her death all over again.

  “All over again.” I drop my pencil and look up from K.T’s paper. That’s how I feel in that scene when Desdemona says goodbye to her father. I press my fingers against my eyelids until splotches of light and dark are all I see.

  Get this done. You’ve got your own homework, Carlie.

  I sit straight in my chair, pick up my pencil and line out the parts K.T. should delete, then I write my rap idea on the bottom of the paper and add onr more comment: “This story has a sad message about a girl who's lost a mom. I fold the paper, then unfold it and write something else,, “Acting tough might be part of the answer, but I don’t think it’s enough to get rid of what’s hurting inside. Thanks for trusting me with your writing.”

  Maybe she’ll lighten up on me if I try some honey. I sigh. Or not.

  Tucking the paper back into my notebook, I wonder if she’s at her desk, writing notes on my story. And what kind of notes? Huge mistake, Carlie. Huge.

  “Carlie love, stop worrying about what you wrote.

  “I wanted you to—”

  “You wanted me to die, so both of us could stop hurting.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Do you think you’re the only person who has feelings they’re ashamed of?”

  I shake my head.

  “You can’t help being human.”

  I lay my head on my desk. “But there’s more, Dad. You know that.”

  “I know, but you’re entitled to be angry about what’s happened.”

  “I’m not entitled to hate you.”

  “Who says?”

  Dad’s voice is so clear that I sit up to look around the room. My desk light shines on my papers and because I haven’t turned on the overhead, the corners are shadowy and the wall behind me is dark. The still air stirs only slightly when I stand with hands outstretched. I want him to be here. I want one more moment of him.

  But I’m alone. I blow my nose, then swipe my eyes with the back of hand.

  Suddenly our front door opens and closes. I’m up and tense. Rapid footsteps come toward my room. How did anyone slide the safety off? Did they cut it?

  I’m clutching the black sheet at my window. My bedroom door pops open and Mom pokes her head inside, her face pale. “Carlie! Are you all right?”

  She crosses the room in two quick steps and holds me. “Honey, you left the safety chain off and the door was ajar. I was so scared. You have to remember to use it all the time.”

  I have to remember so much that I can’t remember anything. I fall against her, crying.

  “It’s time we talked,” she says. “it’s long overdue.” She pulls me down next to her on my bed and holds me until I’ve stopped sobbing.

  “Now tell me what’s happening.” She pushes my hair out of my eyes and rocks me side to side like she used to when I was little.

  “I’ve got a serious case of nerves. The play is really hard, and I’m behind in a couple of classes.”

  “I used to know all about your classes. Now I don’t think about anything except real estate laws and the Wednesday specials on canned goods.”

  “It’s . . . just nerves.” I’m still not going to tell her about the threats to Keith or to me.

  “And the dance? What about the dress? Did you look yet?”

  “I’ve got it covered. Well, . . . Sean helped. It’s a long story.”

  She hugs me closer. “I’m missing some of the best parts of your life, aren’t I?”

  I don’t answer because I want this moment to last. I don’t want to ruin it with tales of the “best parts” of life at Las Pulgas.

  “So when can I see this creation?”

  “I can pick it up next week.” I sit up and blow my nose. “Maybe I’ll c
all Lena tomorrow while I’m babysitting and have her meet me at the mall after school on Monday. She’s super ticked about my not shopping with her, so I’ve got some making it up to do, but that means I’ll need the car.”

  “I can ask Jeb for a ride to work. He told me he’d help anytime I need him to. It’s because of Quicken, you know. He tells me our cat is the best thing that’s happened to him in a long time.”

  A scowl draws my face tight. I look up through my lashes at her.

  “Carlie. Stop with that look. You have no idea—” Mom rubs both temples with her fingers. “Jeb and I . . . Well, it helps to have someone to talk to, someone my own age who understands about being forty plus, not living the life they’d expected, not knowing about the direction to take like they used to. When I was twenty-five everything was in place—your father, you, Keith, my friends.” She smiles, but it makes her face regretful, not happy. “That’s all there is between Jeb and me, so I don’t need those looks of yours, okay?” She points at me and waits until my expression shifts back to normal.

  “Who is this Juan Pacheco, anyway?”

  Mom’s been busy, but her radar hasn’t been totally down. I explain about the poor Mexican kid who works at Sam’s Shack and does a great Othello impression. Then I veer quickly to Mr. Smith, the most awesome teacher ever. I save Sean for last because I don’t know how to explain what’s happened.

  “He’s . . . he’s my best friend. No. He used to be.”

  Her eyes are studying me, seeing what I wish wasn’t there. “Did you have a fight?”

  “Not exactly, but he’ll never speak to me again because I let him down.”

  “Maybe I can help. I . . . I know something about letting people down.” The way she says this makes me ache to tell her everything.

  “He’s gay, Mom, and I love him, but I hate him for . . . not being able to love me back—at least the way I want him to.”

  I tell her the rest of what happened and how I regret leaving him thinking I didn’t want anymore to do with him.

  She traces her finger along my cheek. “You were upset. He has to understand that. And, Carlie, you still have time to tell him how you really feel.”

  After she leaves I curl up, missing Quicken at the foot of my bed, aching because I may have lost Sean, the one person left in this world who made me feel special.

  Chapter 38

  Sunday, while Kip and Jessie watch afternoon cartoons, I close myself in Mr. Franklin’s office and pick up his phone. I punch in Sean’s cell number and wait, hoping he’ll answer because I don’t want to leave him a message. But I also have no idea what I’m going to say or how I’m going to say it if he picks up. It rings a few times, and then his voice messaging answers. I hit End.

  When I call Lena, I have to listen to twenty minutes of her “news” before she stops to inhale. Then I grab my chance to jump in.

  “I found a dress for the dance.”

  The silence has a chill, and I can picture her drawing her mouth tight. I know what comes next—she perfected snotty act around the time we entered second grade. She discovered that saucy tilt of her head when we started junior high, and by the time we were freshman in high school, she knew the effect of parting her glossy, peach-scented lips and sighing. Snotty look. Saucy head tilt. And now I hear that sigh.

  “Lena?”

  “I thought we were shopping together.”

  “We talked about it, but . . . it just kind of happened. I didn’t go looking for it, you know?” I wait a few beats for her to say something, but when she doesn’t, I plow ahead, hoping to get her back to being happy. “How about you go with me to pick it up after school tomorrow? About three?”

  She’s slow to warm, but after I say, “like old times” she comes back with “I still need a small evening bag for my gown.”

  “Super. Let’s meet in front of Très Elégant.”

  “Perfect. I’d love to paw through their shelves,” she says.

  Paw through their shelves? “Lena—”

  “Mom’s calling. See you tomorrow.”

  The dial tone is all that’s left of our conversation. You don’t paw through shelves in Très Elégant.

  I’m ready to press redial and cancel when I hear Jessie screaming in the TV room. I’ve got some kind of cartoon crisis. I’ll worry about Lena later.

  Monday morning I lie in bed waiting for the shower to stop, then I drag myself into the steamy Keith-used bathroom and draw a sad face on the mirror. How much longer will I have to share this bathroom with my brother?”

  By the time I’ve showered and grabbed toast, Keith’s eaten the whole box of Toasted Flakes and used what was left of the milk. Mom comes back into the kitchen, fastening the last snap on her Las Pulgas Supermarket uniform. “I’m set with a ride from work. Jeb says he’ll swing by to get me, so pick up your dress this afternoon. I can’t wait to see it.” She hugs me. “This is so exciting. I want to talk to your Sean. He sounds one interesting boy.”

  Keith—The Diabolical—leers at me. “He’s interesting all right.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He takes an empty mug from the drainer and fills it with hot cocoa. Then he picks up the mug, extending his pinky finger with a flourish. “Just what I said—interesting.”

  My insides constrict. How come I find out about Sean after my brother, and only by asking? My face goes hot. “You’re a twisted piece of snot!”

  “Carlie! That’s disgusting.” Mom shakes her head and scoops up a stack of papers on the end of the table.

  “Big sister, scare little brother,” Keith says with an evil grin.

  “Keith, that’s enough from you, too. Sean is Carlie’s friend, besides you know better than to spread rumors that can hurt people. Get yourself ready to go to Jeb’s. He’s expecting you, and I’d better get good reports.”

  Keith gulps his cocoa.

  “I liked you both better when you were three,” Mom says. “Okay, let get on our way. Anything you need from the lovely Las Pulgas Market?”

  Keith hold up the empty milk carton.

  “Right,” Mom says.

  I aim another look at him that I hope screams you are a jerk head. “You have a test in algebra next week. Do you want me to pick up anything from your locker?” I ask him

  “No.”

  “Good. Didn’t want to get it anyway.”

  “Look you two. That’s enough. I’m already tired and I haven’t started my shift yet.” Mom kisses Keith’s cheek and musses his hair before he can duck away. “Quite a mop you’ve got going there. Do you need some money for a haircut?”

  “No.”

  “He’s not going to run anymore,” I tell her.

  “That’s none of your business,” Keith growls.

  I go for sarcasm. “Gee, thanks Carlie for bringing all of my assignments home every night. And I really appreciate your dropping me off at Cal Works and picking me up every Saturday.”

  Keith holds up two fingers. “Twice.”

  I yank the front door open, then look both ways before stepping outside. Every time I come or go from this place I know what it’s like to live in a war zone. I poke my head back inside. “Mom, I’m going to be late for first period if we don’t go now.”

  “See you after six,” Mom says to Keith. She takes her coat from the back of the couch and closes the door behind her.

  The traffic is fairly light, so I make the trip to the Las Pulgas Market in less than ten minutes. Neither of us talks, but as Mom gets out, she says. “I want you to stop talking like that to Keith.”

  “He’s—”

  “Your brother.” Mom gets out of the car. “And he’s hurting as much as we are.”

  When I look up, she’s already inside the store.

  When I get to school, I’m later than usual, there’s only a single parking space at the end of lot.

  Our decrepit car clock reads two forty-five just like always, but my watch has the right time. Grabbing my backpack from the pa
ssenger seat, I race toward the main entrance and line up behind three others in the security line. Five minutes to final bell.

  Every time I pass through security my skin crawls. I pray Mr. Icky won’t search my bag again. He’s done it three out of five days every week. Am I particularly suspicious-looking?

  Today the wand guy lets me through instead.

  I’m making good time until four guys break away from a group, and come at me, forming a wall I can’t get around. I find myself staring into Chico’s scowly face, and recognize two other guys beside him from that incident at the apartments. The fourth one is the sulky-faced denizen of Apartment 152, Anthony.

  “So, when’s your creep of a brother coming to get creamed?” Chico asks.

  He already knows when Keith’s due back so I don’t answer him.

  “You tell him we’re waiting.” Chico says, shoving me aside. Each of them makes a point of shouldering me as he passes. Anthony squeezes my upper arm hard.

  The final bell rings as I slam my way into Mr. Smith’s classroom, still shaking. Keith doesn’t stand a chance against these guys when he gets back.

  As I head for my seat, I slide K.T.’s story with my suggestions onto her desk.

  “What’s this?” she asks.

  “It’s your story about the artist.”

  K.T. looks at the paper. “Got lots of marks on it.”

  “It’s a critique, K.T.!” I wait, but she takes her time reading my comments and doesn’t pay any attention to me. Then I remind her that I’m waiting by asking, “And my . . . paper?”

  “Oh, yeah. Here.” She pulls out a folded sheet of notebook paper from her pocket. It’s been creased so many times it looks more like scrap.

  I growl on my way to my seat, but low enough that she doesn’t hear me. Once I sit down, I unfold the paper and smooth it out. She’s scribbled red pen in the margins and even between my lines. She’s written more than Mr. Smith did about my story. I shove it inside my notebook without reading her notes. I just can’t right now.