The Princess of Las Pulgas

by C. Lee McKenzie

  “Carlie love. Remember I said it’s human to be angry about what’s happened.”

  “I remember, Dad.”

  I can almost feel a soft touch, the weight of down brushing across my shoulders.

  Chapter 49

  Later when Mom comes into the kitchen, her eyes still show signs of a long session of crying. She strokes my hair and hugs me to her. “Are you okay?”

  I don’t answer, but I hold her tighter and that’s enough of a yes.

  She pulls a covered bowl from the refrigerator and takes out her crepe pan from under the stove. “Here, “she says. “Take these to the car. I’ll go get Keith.”

  “You mean we’re still going to Jeb’s?”

  “He has dinner ready, and he has another guest he’s invited especially for us. So, yes, we’re going.”

  I wait in the car and it seems like forever, especially with the car clock never budging from two forty-five. Finally the gate clangs shut behind Mom and Keith, and, while their expressions aren’t happy, they aren’t openly hostile, either. Maybe this afternoon has opened some connecting doors for all of us. We’ve let out our guilt and our anger, and hope those doors stay open.

  When we arrive at the orchard house Jeb greets us at the door with a bottle of champagne in one hand. “You’re just in time,” he tells us.

  We follow him into the kitchen, where he pops the cork and quickly fills three long-stemmed glasses. “Keith, pour some of this sparkling cider for you and Carlie.” He pushes another bottle across the table and Keith pours our drinks.

  “We need to toast our guest of honor, who’s still outside exploring.”

  I’m wondering who the guest of honor might be when Mr. Smith, dressed in jeans, a Las Pulgas T-shirt and tennis shoes comes through the back door. “Mrs. Edmund! Carlie, Keith.” He says, greeting us. Then, taking the champagne from Jeb, he lifts his glass along with everybody but me. I’m speechless and still recovering from seeing my elegant teacher dressed like—like a Jeb look-alike.

  “To one of my oldest and best friends, Zacharia Smith,” Jeb says.

  Mr. Smith holds up his glass and clinks Jeb’s. “It’s been much too long.”

  “You’re right on that score, considering you used to live here more than at your own house.”

  I look from one to the other of them. How can Mr. Smith and Jeb Christopher be best friends?

  “You’re letting my past loose in front of my student, Jeb.” Mr. Smith says and looks at me. “Jeb’s father was my probation officer—or you might say my guardian angel. He’s the person I told you about, the one who saw a speck of decency underneath my well-cultivated bad behavior.”

  Jeb laughs and pats Mr. Smith on the shoulder. “He saw those specks in both of us, as I recall. I know this’ll surprise all of you since we’re now what Las Pulgas considers upstanding citizens, but from the time we turned fourteen—”

  “Ahem, make that eleven.”

  “Do we count swiping Mrs. Patterson’s chickens?”

  “What do you think?” Mr. Smith asks.

  “Okay, then. Eleven. And when we were fourteen we landed in juvie together. The sheriff had no sense of humor back then, either.” Jeb leans against the kitchen counter and smiles at Mr. Smith.

  It’s obvious they shared something years ago, and they don’t need more than a word or two to bring it back like it happened yesterday.

  “It wasn’t a hanging offense, but borrowing the sheriff’s car wasn’t much of a laughing matter.” Mr. Smith shakes his head. “What we were thinking?”

  Now Jeb laughs. “That we needed to get to the swimming pool to see those girls. That’s what we were thinking.’ He sips from his glass. “My dad got ribbed about my arrest, even after he quit the department and bought this ranch. I never had even a slim chance to step outside the law again, either. He saw to that.”

  “I’m sure that’s why he took me in. He was smart to put two bad monkeys in one cage where he could keep an eye on us both at the same time.”

  “Your mothers had to be made of iron.” Mom’s got that arched eyebrow look now, hearing these stories.

  Jeb and Mr. Smith exchange quick glances, as if they’re deciding how to respond. Finally, Mr. Smith says, “No mothers, Mrs. Edmund. That’s what brought Jeb and me together in the first place. Two kids left early on with only their dads and a lot of anger.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I—”

  Keith’s staring at his feet, and I’m hoping the conversation will keep going. What I’ve heard so far is amazing.

  Jeb puts his half-full glass on the table. “Come on. Let’s take a turn around the orchard before dark. Sarah? Are you up for a walk before dinner?”

  Mom sets her crepe pan on a burner. “No. I have crepes to make. So please don’t pester the pastry chef.” As she adjusts the flame, the afternoon fades from her face. “Try saying that three times.”

  Jeb laughs.“Okay. I give up. Keith, I’ll show you what I’ve got in mind for your summer job. And Zach, I want you to see the trees I put in where the old barn used to be. Remember when you tried to fly off the roof? Had to tear it down before it collapsed.” Jeb holds open the kitchen door and they head out.

  “You’ll never let me forget that flying stunt, will you?”

  Mr. Smith says.

  “Nope,” is all Jeb tells him.

  Mr. Smith shakes his head. “I was young.”

  “Like my father told you, you should have known better, all the same.”

  From the window over the sink I watch the three of them cross the orchard and disappear around the barn. Keith is jabbering away, and Jeb points this way and that, just like a tour guide. And who’s that other cowboy next to them? What did Jeb do with Mr. Smith—the one good thing I found at Las Pulgas High?

  “They seem to like each other,” Mom says. Her batter sizzles as she tips the pan to spread it evenly.

  “I guess you’re talking about Keith and Jeb.”

  “Yes, but Mr. Smith, too. It’s nice to have some men around, isn’t it? It makes a difference for Keith.”

  “Jeb isn’t Dad.”

  Mom flips a crepe from the pan. “No, he isn’t, but that’s not the point, Carlie. When Keith’s with Jeb, I see my son the way he used to be. I’m counting on Jeb to help me get Keith to go back to school.”

  “So he’s using Mr. Smith to make Keith cooperate?” I can’t mask the acid in my reply.

  “Yes, that’s part of his plan.”

  “Some plan.” I hate that we’re already sniping at each other. But why can’t she see that Jeb causes more problems than he solves?

  “Stop,” Mom says as she taps her spoon on the side of the pan. She removes the crepe pan from the heat and leaning against the counter, she rubs her temples. “I want Keith back in that school. I want him to run cross country again, to come back to life the way he was, instead of letting anger chew up a little more of him every day. If it takes a hundred Jebs to help him, you’re going to have to learn to accept every one of them.”

  Then Mom takes me in her arms, rocking me. I keep my eyes closed and let her hold me. I feel like a child—small, scared, and broken.

  That’s how I feel—small, scared, and broken.

  “I want my life back the way it was,” I tell her.”

  “You can’t have it back, Carlie. None of us can. We all need to move on.” Mom tightens her arms around me, then holds me away from her so she can look into my eyes. “Your dad would tell us that same thing.” She cups my chin in her hand. “And you know I’m right.”

  Yes. For months he’s told me, and for months I haven’t listened. I haven’t wanted to hear it.

  “Let’s finish the crepes before those three characters come back.”

  I’ve seen Mom make crepes a hundred times, and one by one, the perfect French pancakes grow into a small stack, waiting for the diced apples already scenting Jeb’s kitchen with cinnamon and sugar.

  “Why don’t you fill and roll these,” Mom says as she
sets the crepes on the table. “I’ll start the dishes.”

  I finish the crepes and station myself at the kitchen window just as Mom stacks the last clean pan on the shelf. The three men come from behind the barn and stroll toward the house. Quicken trails behind them, sleek and fat, and clearly very happy.

  At least your cat found a happy ending, Carlie.

  Keith’s talking, using his hands to punctuate his words. Mom’s right. My brother is different when he’s with Jeb—and I hate that. Why can’t he be himself without this bossy interloper?

  “It’s time to move on, Carlie love.”

  Dad’s voice is so close to my ear, I can feel the rush of air from his breath, like when I was small and he’d tuck me into bed. He’d whisper, “Sleep tight, Carlie love.” Out of habit, I reach up and almost expect to touch his cheek. But there’s only an empty space where he should be.

  When the three men enter the kitchen, Jeb picks up his glass. Mr. Smith and Keith do the same. “To Keith’s summer job.”

  Mom wipes her hands and finds her glass. She holds mine out to me, her eyes slightly moist and hopeful. Please, Carlie, her eyes ask. Please.

  I take the sparkling cider and drink, but my toast is silent and different from theirs: To moving on.

  Jeb sets his glass down and picks up an oven mitt. “Now, let’s see if this dinner’s ready. Everybody hungry?”

  “I’ve been ready to eat since I first smelled that stew of yours,” Mr. Smith says.

  “Good. Carlie, you’re in charge of setting the dining room table.” Jeb opens the oven and lifts a large pot from inside.

  Mom pulls out a drawer and counts out the flatware. When she gives it to me, she mouths, “Thank you.”

  At dinner I eat and listen to the conversation that goes back and forth across the table, as Mom, then Mr. Smith, then Jeb or Keith tell stories. My brother’s become quite the talker and in a reversal of roles, I’m now the silent one.

  “I was a new teacher—and somewhat arrogant.” I look up at the sound of Mr. Smith’s laughter.

  “A lot arrogant, you mean,” Jeb says.

  “Indeed, but I love a challenge and so do you. Admit it! You were the one who took over Walsh Investments and turned it around, when even the Walsh family had given up on it.”

  “Walsh Investments?” That comes out of my mouth unexpectedly; I’d meant to say it only to myself.

  Walsh Investments was a company my dad used to talk about as the financial success story of the decade. I try to picture Jeb Christopher in a suit and tie pointing to people seated around a large, shiny boardroom table, telling them what to do and how to do it.

  “I never took the risk you did, Zach. Your job was on the line, but only my ego was in jeopardy. I never guaranteed the Walsh family anything.” Jeb picks up the large serving dish of stew and asks, “Seconds?”

  Keith serves himself another heaping bowlful. “So the other teachers at Channing got steamed just because your students’ scores went up? That’s nuts.”

  “Not steamed, exactly. More like unsettled,” Mr. Smith says.

  “Jealous is more accurate,” Jeb tells him. “Don’t pay any attention to Mr. Christopher, here,” Mr. Smith says. “The teachers were surprised, and they should’ve been. I was a bit surprised myself, in all honesty. But as Jeb said, I’d guaranteed that I’d bring those students up to grade-level or resign, so I had some scrambling to do before any of them started improving.”

  “What my modest friend hasn’t told you,” Jeb says, “is that he set up contests with cash rewards, made home visits every week, and took his kids on field trips—at his own expense. All to motivate them to do better in school.”

  “I didn’t have much salary left that year,” Mr. Smith chuckles. “And I took many a meal at this table to keep from starving.”

  “Those kids would have gone to hell and back again, not to let you down,” Jeb says. “Every one of them scored in the 80’s or 90’s on those final tests. Three even made the honor roll in their junior year.”

  “That’s when I decided there were probably more than just this handful of at-risk students out there who needed a boost, and they weren’t going to school in Channing.”

  Mr. Smith lifts the serving dish from the center of the table and passes it across to me. For a moment he doesn’t let go, and we hold that dish together, his eyes locked onto mine. “Las Pulgas had plenty of those kinds of students, so I came here to work with them.”

  The look he directs at me is one I’ve seen every time K.T. raises her hand, or whenever Chico reads one of his stories, or when Jamal recites an original poem. I can see that he thinks I’m like the other students in his class; he thinks I need a boost, too.

  I take the dish and set it down, suddenly not very hungry anymore.

  Chapter 50

  Of all my Las Pulgas Mondays, this one will have its own special place in my brain.

  When Keith and I go through Mr. Icky’s security stop, I’m so twitchy worrying about what my brother’s going to be facing that I get sent to the wand guy for closer inspection. I want to stick close to Keith today, but he just brushes me off. Pulling the brim of his baseball cap down over his eyes, he silently disappears into the principal’s office. His first official day back and he’s acting like he’s here for some kind of award, while I’m the one who feels sick.

  And the assembly makes me feel even sicker. I’m closed in with hundreds of students, all with revenge against the Edmunds on their minds. The announcements take about fifteen minutes, then there’s the prom committee report. Keith’s waiting in the back corner by the exit, chewing on his thumb with his head down so I can’t see his eyes.

  When Bins steps onto the stage, I can almost taste the anger in the room. He takes the microphone and searches among the faces staring up at him. His eyes stop at each boy on the track team, and then he starts to speak.

  “In the past month, we’ve had some incidents at Las Pulgas High that do not reflect well on our school.”

  Butts shift in their seats and K.T., who’s sitting in front of me, jabs Big Teeth, who slaps at her without making contact. Someone kicks the back of my chair, but I keep my eyes facing forward and I don’t move.

  “So I’m giving fair warning to every student in this school.” Bins pauses, looking at the spot where my brother stands. “One more fight, one more act of vandalism, and all athletic competitions, dances and clubs will be cancelled.”

  The tension ratchets up and a low buzz of voices travels around the room.

  Bins holds up his hands and the buzzing subsides. “Now return to your classes. Have a great week, and I don’t want to see any of you in my office for cutting or disruptive behavior the rest of the year. Got that?”

  The student body shambles out the buzz picks up again all around me. I speedwalk to English, where my hot seat simmers under me every time Mr. Smith asks a question that he directs at me. Jamal leans in and whispers, “Told ya. That’s the hot seat.”

  I scoot sideways, and in a low but threatening voice, tell him, “Jamal, if you say that one more time, I’m going to—to rip up your poetry book.”

  The wounded-puppy look he gives me makes me regret my nasty tone and I quickly say, “Not really—but just stop bugging me, okay?”

  Between English and French, I slink along the hall to my locker, head down, making myself into as small a target as possible.

  Get through today. Get through today. I repeat that thought like a mantra.

  As I twirl the dial on my locker, a loud crash comes from the main entrance. A girl screams, and someone shouts, “Nail him!”

  Everyone who was still in the hall now rushes in the direction of the commotion and to keep from being squashed against the lockers, I let the crowd sweep me along. Just before the security entrance everybody comes to a stop and I hear shouting.

  “Get him, Chico!”

  “Cream him!”

  Pushing my way past to get a better look I see Keith and Chico, crouche
d and circling each other. Then Chico lunges and knocks Keith flat on his back. But before Chico can land a punch, Keith rolls out of the way and scrambles to his feet.

  Chico whips off his jacket and lashes Keith across the face with it. Keith falls back, then swings a clenched fist and lands a solid punch to Chico’s face and blood trickles from a cut below Chico’s eye. Furious, he moves in close to grab Keith around the middle, then pins him against the wall. He slams Keith hard in the stomach and my brother crumples to the floor. Chico straddles him now, pounding his head and chest.

  Screams and shouts surge through the crowd that’s waiting for blood, and it’s Anthony and the two scary scumballs from that day by the pool who are yelling the loudest. I taste acid creeping up the back of my throat and I feel like I’m going to throw up.

  Then, from somewhere inside, I hear, “Carlie love, he’s your brother. Take care of him.”

  Before I think about how much pain I’m about to be in, I jump on Chico’s back and hit him across the shoulders with Introduction to Chemistry.

  The crowd is suddenly silent and I now finally understand the properties of a vacuum. Doc would be so proud.

  Chico turns on me, crouched like an animal ready to spring and I try to remember the Aikido class I’d have taken more seriously if I’d had any clue that someday I’d be going to Las Pulgas High. Redirect. That’s the key. Don’t oppose. But how?

  We circle each other and I drop my weapon, keeping my hand out in front and open.

  “You going to slap me to death, or what?” he smirks.

  The snide look on his face makes me furious, but I remember that I have to keep calm. The key is to wait until he comes toward me. Then use his own force and weight against him.