The only thing I have to look forward to is tomorrow, when I meet K.T. and her friends at the movies.
Oh, well. At least it’s something.
Chapter 53
On Saturday around noon, as I hurry toward the Cine-Mall Corner, I spot K.T by the popcorn, waving her arms. “Hey, Super Des! Over here. Thought you weren’t gonna
make it.”
“Sorry—Mom had to work today, so I had to drop her off at the market.”
Big Teeth gives me a hard look, but then it softens into a grin. “You’re one dangerous girl with a chemistry book.”
“Better than with my Aikido moves, I guess,” I tell her.
I buy my popcorn and Coke, and K.T., who knows the guy in charge of the almost-real butter dispenser, makes sure I get extra pumps, just like the rest of them. My popcorn box, like theirs, is totally soaked in yellow oil.
The pack of six girls romp their way into the movie theater and I follow, enjoying seeing them play almost as much as if I were part of it. K.T. waits for me at the door, and when I catch up, I’m swept into the gang’s center. It feels exactly the way I imagined—like puppies falling against each other, shoving and sometimes catching the edge of a foot. It’s a tangle of bodies used to hanging together. We jostle our way down the aisle to the center and follow K.T. single file until we come to some empty seats with two girls sitting in the middle of them.
“You gotta move over,” K.T. tells them. “We got eight people here.”
“Like, who are you?” one girl asks.
“I’m the one who’s gonna kick some butt if I don’t see you shifting two seats down, and I mean now.”
I tuck my head down and look away, trying not to make eye contact with the girls. I’ll never get used to K.T.’s in-your-face attitude, but it works. The girls get up and move to the opposite side of the theater.
“Thank you,” K.T. says loudly to their backs.
I wonder if K.T. ever says please before she says thank you?
I’m guessing no.
The movie they’ve chosen is not what I expected, and Reese Witherspoon is the last actress I’d have ever guessed K.T. or any of her group would want to see. But they’re totally into this sappy romance. And I’m still not quite getting who these Las Pulgas people really are.
In the middle of the movie, K.T. leans into me. “You drink all your Coke?”
I shake my head.
“Can I have some?”
Do I have a choice?
She takes my Coke and slurps the last of it through my straw. Sharing is part of the deal here, so I’m—sharing.
She hands the cup back to me.
“Keep it, K.T. I’ve had plenty.”
After the movie’s over, the group’s on their way to get pizza, but I can’t go along. I’ve got to pick up my mom from work. Yet K.T. and company don’t seem bothered that I’m bailing on the rest of our “date.”
“See you Monday, Super Des,” say Big Teeth, whose name I’ve found out is actually Marilee Lincoln.
“Yeah,” I say. “I had fun today. See you Monday.”
When K.T. womps me in the arm goodbye, I feel like I’ve passed another part of some Las Pulgas test.
As I make my way back to the Tercel, I realize that for the first time in almost forever, I’ve had a whole day—a good one—without thinking about Channing. It feels good.
When I pull up in front of the market, Mom’s in front.
“Am I late?” I ask her.
“No. I just walked out the door,” Mom says and slides into the passenger seat. I can hear how her tired body settles against the cheap material. “So how was your day in Las Pulgas?” she asks.
“Surprisingly excellent,” I tell her.
She yawns and says, “Oh, I’m so glad.”
And my mother really is glad I had fun while she was ringing up canned beans, bagging carrots, and making change. My mom loves me, and I need to go way back to when I promised to be a better daughter. I need to remember that she’s the one who lost something major that I don’t even have a clue about. We’ve both lost a lot, but it’s different for each of us. Very different.
I haven’t had time to think about the Spring Fling at all until I get home and finally close my bedroom door. The hurt I feel is more like a dull pain from a cut that’s already healing, and I didn’t expect that. I thought that by eight p.m., I’d be totally steeped in pain, but I’m not.
When I finally fall asleep, I dream about Quicken curled up on her pillow at the end of my bed. I dream about Sean and a pizazzy pink dress. And I dream of Juan, who calls me Princess. But in my dream, it sounds very, very nice.
Chapter 54
I’ve marked off the last five days in May on my calendar. That’s because today is our final day in Apartment 148. I tear the black sheet from my window and throw it in the trash. My bedroom in our new townhouse looks out onto the woods with walkways leading to a lake. A black sheet has no place in my new light and airy space, one without a wall I’ll share with noisy neighbors.
The phone rings, and when I answer, it’s Sean.
“Hey, beautiful girl.”
“You haven’t called in, like, forever. I was worried about you!”
“I’ve been buried, between tutoring in French and doing the last lap before graduation.” He pauses a moment. “I . . . heard some gossip last month. But I don’t do gossip, so I didn’t call.”
He knows about all of it: Nicolas—the dance—the dress.
“It’s true,” I tell him.
“How are you handling that?”
“Channing and Nicolas Benz are history.”
“I knew you wouldn’t fall apart.”
“I started to, but then I changed my mind.” We both laugh. “I have some good news, though,” I tell him. “We’re moving. You have to come see our new place.”
“Sure, and I’d lend a packing experts’ help, but there’s no time.”
“That’s fine. I’ll email my new address and you can come and help me unpack.”
After Sean says goodbye, I get back to packing.
Unlike my first moving day, I have no problem sweeping my belongings into boxes, taping them carefully so I can carry them to Jeb’s truck when he arrives. I can almost imagine winged feet taking me away from this awful place.
I pick up my Jack-in-the-Box and hold it for a minute; then I tuck it carefully into the corner of a box. Next I clear the top shelf of my closet, where the first item I pick up is my journal.
I swipe my hand across the cover and the gold letters, C.E., shine. I press it to my heart like a patient friend that’s been waiting for me, waiting for me to open it again whenever I was ready. I search for a pen and sit at my desk. Then I turn to the page where I’d last written anything and run my fingers over the crossed out lines.
Sometimes bad things happen . . . even in Channing.
Below them I write, June. ’ve put four letters on the page. It’s only the month, but this time I’m not tempted to close the book or hide it away. Instead, I close my eyes and listen.
“Don’t stop, Carlie love. Not now.”
And then I write.
June 6, Channing was a long time ago. I can’t ever forget my life there. And I can’t forget losing my dad and everything that’s happened to us because he’s gone. But the anger and guilt have to go. It’s time to let my heart move on and let me accept where I am right now.
Slowly I close my journal on the first thing I’ve written there in months. Then I nestle it inside the packing box next to Jack.
There’s a knock at the front door and I hurry to answer it because I know Jeb’s here and the last stage of this exodus is about to start.
I yank open the door and there he stands, his wide brimmed cowboy hat shadowing his face. “Christopher Moving, at your service,” he says with a flourish of his hand.
I step out of the way and he walks in, then asks, “How’s your mom holding up?”
Actually, Mom’s been super st
ressed lately. She just sold one house, has two more listed exclusively with her and, as of today, she has a sale pending on an apartment house. She’s doing great and she’s at the real estate office right now, dealing with some issue on one of those sales. Between all that and moving, she’s snapping at Keith and me one minute, and giddy the next.
“She’s tense,” I say. “But I know she’s excited about doing so well so soon after getting the job with that real estate company.” I think about how Jeb’s connections and his friends with property have helped Mom get on her feet and say, “Thanks a lot for helping her.”
He takes off his hat and looks down at me. “I enjoy helping your mom. She’s one courageous lady with two kids I happen to like.”
“Huh?”
“Liking can be a one-way street for a while, Carlie. But not forever.” He starts toward the door. “I’m heading over to the orchard to check on some work I’m having done there. So go ahead and load the truck with your boxes. If anything’s too heavy, I’ll take it for you. I’ll be back as soon as I get my crew started on that back acre.”
“Jeb.”
He stops and waits.
“Thanks again. For being . . . for—”
“I get the message, Carlie. Oh, and I almost forgot. There’s something waiting for you in the back of the truck. But don’t be too long in coming out to get it.”
After he’s gone, I hurry to secure the last of the boxes with masking tape and label each one before I set them in the hall. Keith’s using boxes to pack this time, so the contents of his mole hole line up next to mine.
We trudge across the balcony with arms loaded and cross the pool area toward Jeb’s truck. But even before we pass through the gate, I hear the unmistakable yowl— Quicken! That’s Siamese for “I’m really pissed off, and I want out, now!”
In the back of the truck, Jeb’s left a cat carrier with Quicken inside it. There’s even a note tied to the handle that says, “Thanks for the loan of your cat, Carlie. The mice have all been eaten or they’ve moved to less dangerous territory, but if any of them come back, I hope you’ll let me borrow Quicken again. I’m sure she’s going to love her new home.”
I make sure she has water, and then I spend some time scratching her ears. “You’re only going to be in that cage a bit little longer, okay?”
She stops yowling and makes a deep cat-stretch before parking herself in a corner of the carrier and staring out at me with a slow blink. I’m almost positive that means “Hurry it up!”
Keith and I make three more trips before we’re finished loading the truck. On the last trip into the apartment, Georgia Callahan pops her head out from Apartment 147. “Got somethin’ for you before you go.” She holds a glittery key chain out to me. “Bought this in Reno last year. Thought we’d be movin’ to a new place, one with some class. Not happening, so you take it.”
She drops it into my hand and disappears inside her apartment, not waiting for me to thank her. From behind the closed door, I hear her yell, “Get up, you lazy bastard!” I won’t miss that.
When Mom gets back, we cram the Tercel with the last small items and she hands me the keys. “Go ahead with this load, Carlie. Keith and I’ll do the final clean up and go through the inspection with the manager. When Jeb comes, we’ll meet you at the townhouse.”
Then she picks up the cat carrier and hands it to me, smiling. “You should take Quicken with you so you can start getting her acquainted with the new place.”
“Did you tell Jeb to give her back?”
“No. That was his idea. He knew you needed your cat, and we both felt that since we’d be away from these apartments, she’d be safe, especially where we’re going.” Mom starts back through the gate but stops. “Oh, could you please stop at the market and pick up something cold to drink and some sandwiches? We’ll need food for later.” Mom hands me a crisp twenty-dollar bill and tells me, “Drive carefully.”
The familiar street leading out of town doesn’t look so gloomy as it did when we first moved here, and the Las Pulgas Market doesn’t seem so seedy, either. I roll the windows down halfway for Quicken and hurry inside. I select three chicken salad sandwiches from the deli section and pick up a six-pack of cold water. As I pass the dairy case, I grab a pound of butter. This time, I’m using every last ounce on Quicken’s paws, if that’s what it’ll take to keep her settled in at our new home.
The checkout line has three people ahead of me, so I pick up a tabloid paper and thumb through it. Two-headed babies and space invaders never seem to be in short supply on their pages.
“I didn’t think you’d read that stuff,” someone says.
I look up and see Anthony standing next me. “I don’t, usually,” I tell him.
He takes the paper from my hand, reads the headline and hands it back to me. I pay for the food and get change, then put the tabloid back on the stand. As I leave, Anthony follows me out.“I heard you’re moving,” he says.
“Yes,” I tell him. What does he want? All of Keith’s issues are resolved. At least, that’s what my brother tells me. I unlock the driver’s door and squeeze the grocery bag into a corner.
“This yours?” he asks, dangling my Sweet Sixteen bracelet in front of me.
“Where did you find it?” I gasp, then grab the gold chain, relieved to hold it in my hand again. I snap it around my wrist.
“Pacheco asked me to give it to you. He found it on the floor where you and Chico had that run in.”
Why couldn’t Juan at least return my bracelet himself? It wouldn’t have taken that much time or effort. But all I say is “Thanks.”
Anthony doesn’t leave, and I’m not sure what else I’m supposed to say.
Then he leans against the side of the Tercel. “You and Pacheco—are you through?”
“No,” I tell him. “We’re not.” We never even got started. But I don’t say this to Anthony, and by the time I realize what this conversation is really about, it’s too late to try and avoid hurting his feelings.
The disappointment in his face is a surprise. He pushes away from the car, and as he walks back into the store, all he says is, “Just thought I’d ask.”
Carlie, you are totally stupid sometimes. The guy you kept thinking was out to hit you, was really only trying to “hit on” you. Men are just too complicated. I really don’t think I need them in my life.
The townhouse Mom’s rented is on the other side of Las Pulgas, the Barranca Canyon side. To reach our new place, I have to take the road that Juan lives on. It winds up through the oaks, and in daylight, the views are beautiful— just like Lena’s mom said. When I come to the Pacheco driveway, I glance toward the house in spite of vowing not to. Juan’s Camero is at the top, right by the front door. I pull to the side of the road with the Tercel’s motor idling.
Okay, Carlie. Let your heart move on. Let it help you accept that you like some things about Las Pulgas . . . even Juan Pacheco. Maybe especially Juan Pacheco.
I grip the wheel, panicking a little. What if he slams the door in my face? What if he tells me to get lost? What if—
“Don’t imagine the worst, Carlie love. Always imagine the best.”
I make a sharp right and drive the Tercel up behind the Camero. Juan’s by his car, leaning over the hood with a polishing rag in his hand.
Now what do I do?
Juan comes to the driver’s window and peers in at me. “Carlie?”
I crank the window down all the way, the pulses at my temples throbbing like tiny drums. “I wanted to—I appreciated that—. Thank you for finding my bracelet.”
“Sure.”
“We’re moving.”
Juan’s expression is neutral and he doesn’t ask me where I’m moving to or anything else.
I don’t know what else to do, so I just keep babbling. “I guess you know my brother’s on the track team. Bins has decided everyone’s been punished enough, so he’s not going to stop them from competing at the next meet. Las Pulgas is going to go up against
Channing before the end of the school year.”
“I heard,” he says.
“Well, that’s all I had—” Quicken gives out an impatient Siamese yowl. “Guess I have to go. My cat . . . she doesn’t like being stuck in the carrier for long.”
“That was some heavy-duty power move you made when Keith and Chico went at it. It took guts,” Juan says.
Then why didn’t you tell me that at the time?
“When you flipped Chico around by his arm, I thought, ‘Damn, that Desdemona would have flattened Othello.’ The play would have had a whole different ending if she’d been you.”
I inhale his clean smell, thinking he’ll give me that tantalizing sideways smile. But instead, he’s looking out toward the road, not at me. He hasn’t called me Princess even once.
I’d like to rewind to the night when Mr. Smith and I drove away from this house. I’d like to really say goodbye.
“Carlie love, you can’t expect people to read your mind.”
You’ve told me that before, Dad.
“Are you listening this time?”
“Juan. I need to say . . . I’m . . .”
Finally, he looks down at me. “You’re what?”
You’re not going to make this easy, are you?
“First, the party. I should have . . . Well, at the fight when you . . . I wanted . . .” Why doesn’t he jump in and say I understand or that’s all right? Something.
I square my shoulders and say, “Juan.”
“Yes.” He crosses his arms and waits.
The Princess of Las Pulgas Page 24