The Princess of Las Pulgas

by C. Lee McKenzie

  “I’m trying to—Merde.”

  Now he does smile. He opens my door, takes my arm and helps me out of the car. “French,” he says. “I’m beginning to appreciate that language.”

  “I’m trying to—”

  “For a great writer, you sure have a hard time finding words sometimes.”

  “I’m mad. And when I’m mad, words don’t come easily . . . or fast.”

  “I see,” is all he says.

  “Why didn’t you give me my bracelet yourself, instead of sending it by messenger?”

  “I thought you and Anthony were—”

  “Were what?” I demand.

  “Together.”

  “Where did you get that idea?” I ask.

  “Chico said Anthony was asking you out,” he tells me.

  “How could you be so—”

  “Dumb like Othello?” He pulls me to him and wraps me in his arms. “Jealousy, I guess.”

  I’m shaking my head.

  “Besides, I like a little groveling. When it’s done by a princess, it’s a real turn-on.”

  I hit him once in the chest before he kisses me.

  Chapter 55

  On her way to one of her Sunday afternoon Open Houses, Mom drops me at Sam’s Shack so I can catch a ride home with Juan after work. Keith’s with Grits at the track, which makes me the only Edmund with nothing to do. As I wave goodbye to Mom, for one wistful moment I think back to those endless hours of cramming Desdemona’s lines into my head. But Mr. Smith’s already dropped several hints about choosing a challenging Tennessee Williams play for the senior class fund-raiser next year, so it’s only a temporary break.

  “Bonjour, Carlie.” Paula, the French exchange student, walks out of Sam’s and comes up to me. “Are you going in to eat?”

  “No, I’m just waiting for someone.”

  “Juan?”

  I nod.

  “He’s talking to Lena.” She says this with a snarky smile that shows me her teeth.

  “I can wait.” I glance at my watch, then at the door to Sam’s. “So what’s new at Channing?”

  “The really big gossip is that Nicolas Benz was suspended from school for cheating. Now the debate team will be unable to go to the finals.” Paula pulls down her lips at the corners and shrugs in that very French way of hers. “But did you know Eric broke up with Lena after the Spring Fling?” Paula’s French accent doesn’t hide the implied warning. Again I look toward the door.

  Mr. Pacheco has exactly two minutes to walk out here.

  “You are dating Juan now?” Paula asks.

  Of course I’m dating him and you know it, Paula. “He’s taking me to the prom.”

  Juan Pacheco better come out that door this minute. He’d better not have some kind of sappy look on his face either. Miss Lily has already found another pizazzy dress, and I swear nobody’s going to screw up this dance for me. Not Lena. Not Juan.

  The door to Sam’s pops open and Lena waves. “Sorry, Paula. I got to talking and—” She pretends she’s just now seeing me. “Carlie.”

  Juan’s behind her. He doesn’t look at all sappy as he comes toward me and puts an arm around me. “Ready, Super Des?”

  Lena arches an eyebrow, but I’m not explaining what this new nickname means. It’s none of her business. I follow Juan to his car, toss my sweater and fanny pack into the back and settle into the passenger seat.

  My new nickname is K.T’s creation. She was so impressed by my whacking Chico across the back with my chemistry book and then pulling that Aikido move, she wrote a special rap poem called Super Des. I became the nearest thing Las Pulgas has had to a celebrity since Grits set the school cross-country record last year, but, like K.T keeps telling me, my fame is mostly because of her.

  Juan takes the road that slopes up to my new home. After he pulls to a stop in front, he leans across and kisses me. “I’ve been thinking about that all day.”

  “You must have because it was perfect.” I gather my sweater and fanny pack from the backseat. “Jeb said he’d have dinner ready about six, and you’re invited. Mr. Smith’s coming, too. Wait until you hear the stories he’s been telling us about when he and Jeb were growing up. If it weren’t for Jeb’s dad Mr. Smith definitely wouldn’t be our teacher.”

  “I’ll see you about five.” He smiles his beautiful sideways smile, and I want it to be five right now. “We still have that vocabulary to go over, right?” he asks.

  “Yes, we sure do.” I climb out and wait until he pulls away. There is something I need to do today after all. I have to review my Spanish lesson from last week, and find those French CD’s for Juan. We have a deal—he teaches me Spanish and I teach him French.

  I’m barely inside and taking my CD’s from the closet when the doorbell rings. I open the door to find Sean standing there holding a Jack-in-the-Box in his hands.

  I throw my arms around him in a huge hug and say, “I’ve missed you.”

  “I had lots to take care of—finding an apartment for school, easing Mom out of her meltdown after she met Michael. You know—the usual.” He presses his gift into my hands. “This is for you. It’s not like the one your dad gave you, but—well I hope you like it.”

  The toy looks a little blurred, and so does Sean. I don’t bother to wipe the tears away.

  “I can’t stay, Carlie, but I’ll call you.” He touches my face. “But I wanted to make you happy, not sad.”

  “I am happy. How could I not be, with a friend like you?”

  He squeezes my arm and kisses my cheek. “Same here, beautiful girl. Save a few boxes for me to unpack. I’ll come see you next week.”

  Once Sean drives away, I go to my room and put his gift on my bed. I take down my old Jack-in-the-Box that Keith repaired. I’ve taken it down and held it so many times these past weeks, but I haven’t released Jack—not yet.

  I wanted to be sure the miseries were behind me, that I’d finished the journey I started last year. I glance around me. My bedroom window doesn’t face the ocean, but it’s a pretty view of wooded paths and quiet spaces by ponds. I’m not the popular Channing girl anymore, but from this distance, Channing doesn’t glitter like it used to when I first moved to Las Pulgas. Now I fit in so much at Las Pulgas High, nobody even notices when I come into a room and I’m getting used to being invisible there. Mr. Smith was totally right that night after the party. My unexpected destination is exactly where I want to be.

  I sit on my bed with both of my Jack-in-the-Boxes and slowly turn the handle on Dad’s. The gears engage; Jack jumps from his metal box, his accordion body dancing free. Just like when I was four, with Dad sitting next to me, I laugh. Then I cry, and I hear my heart whisper...

  “Carlie love. I’m sorry I couldn’t stay with you.”

  You’ll always be with me, Dad. Right here.

  I touch my hand to my heart.

  ###

  The End

  About the Author

  A native Californian, C. Lee McKenzie has been a university lecturer and administrator. She has written and published non-fiction article, both in her field of Linguistics and Intercultural Communication and in general readership magazines. For five years Lee wrote, edited and published a newsletter for U.S. university professors who were managing global classroom issues.

  She lives at the edge of a redwood forest with her husband and assorted cats; when she's not writing, she's hiking or practicing yoga.

  Other Writing Credits & Books

  Since she turned in her academic hat and began writing for young readers, Lee's fiction and non-fiction works have been frequently published in the award-winning ezine, Stories for Children, and Crow Toes Quarterly has published her ghostly tales. Her first young adult novel, Sliding on the Edge, will soon be re-released as an ebook with a new title, Bad Ass Attitude. Her middle grade book, Alligators Overhead is now out to all major distributors.

  Samples of her work and contact information can be found at http://cleemckenziebooks@comcast.net

/>   Sample Chapters:Bad Ass Attitude

  Chapter 1

  Shawna

  Something’s wrong. It’s not a heart-grabbing noise like when somebody jiggles the doorknob to see if it’s locked. It’s not a bitter smell like the electrical short we had last month, when all the breakers popped. No. It’s something in the air, something like a ghost making its way through the room. And it can’t be Monster, not after last night.

  I squint into the morning light, then roll onto my back and blink at the damp veins in the ceiling. The toilet in the apartment above us flushes twenty-four seven. There must be ten people living up there, and our ceiling takes the brunt of 4B’s high-density living.

  The air conditioner isn’t humming. Is that what woke me up?

  My hair is plastered to the side of my face. I paid the electric bill. I’m sure I did.

  Did I?

  The hands on our wall clock chunk, chunk around to eleven. I pull on my jeans

  and my bra, then dig under the roll-away and haul out the rest of my clothes from yesterday. Mom’s bedroom door is closed like always, so I tap on it and wait. When she doesn’t yell at me to go away, I knock again, harder. Then I twist the knob and push. It’s usually locked, but today it swings open.

  The sheets twisted together in a heap on the bed look like they’ve killed each other. The dresser drawers stick out like stair steps, their insides scooped clean. I pull the door shut and roll my forehead back and forth against the peeling paint. I’m in free-fall, clutching at clouds.

  Four steps across the hall and I’m in the bathroom. It’s been stripped. The clutter of Mom’s bottles and sprays, mascara tubes, and nail polish, all gone. My toothbrush and a crushed, half-empty toothpaste tube curled up on the back of the toilet make a lonely still life.

  I splash my face with cold water, then lean against the sink and hold on with both hands. More than anything, I wish I could crawl in and swizzle down the drain along with the water.

  What’s she up to this time?

  The face in the mirror doesn’t have a clue.

  In the kitchen the sink full of take-out containers are losing their battle to mold. We’ve lived here three months, a record. The mold, on the other hand, was a tenant before we paid our first rent check. It has been around so long, it’s immune to bleach. I gave up after the first week.

  A folded piece of paper sticks out from under the greasy skillet. When I tug at it, a bus ticket and a hundred dollar bill flutter onto the linoleum floor. Where did she get a hundred? . . . And how? . . . damn. I kneel and scoop up the money, then stare at the piece of paper next to it. At the top is Casino Royale’s logo, with show girls playing cards and roulette wheels down the side. Royale is one of her favorite gambling places, one I can usually stake out at about six in the morning when I need to get lunch money from her. There’s a note on the piece of paper, but I don’t pick it up. I don’t want to touch it and I don’t want to read it.

  The clock keeps chunking. My knees go numb. Upstairs 4B’s toilet flushes. I turn my head so her words aren’t sideways.

  She starts with “Shawna sweetie, Dylan and me are going to New Jersey to try our luck at some other tables.”

  Huh? I squeeze my eyes shut then open them. There’s more. I pick up the paper and get off my knees.

  “He bot you a tiket to California and left you a hundred (he’s a sweet heart, right?). Your granma lives in a place called sweet river. Its close to sacamento in California. Go there so I can get in touch once were settled, hon.

  Jackie”

  In the bottom corner of the paper Mom scribbled something else, but while her writing is hard to make out, her scribbling takes code-breaker training. I don’t bother to try.

  Instead, I read the note one more time and turn it over, in case she added more on the back. Like, “I’ll miss you.”

  No. The back is blank.

  I hang over, resting my head on my knees. Don’t get the shakes. Don’t get the shakes. You know what happens when you get the shakes.

  I wish I could be five again . . . I wish she would prop me up on pillows like she did, then, and feed me ice cream . . . and I would lick the spoon and she would laugh and I would laugh and she wouldn’t leave until I slept.

  Blood is backing up behind my eyeballs. I need oxygen, quick. I straighten up and walk to the air conditioner, giving it a hard smack on the side. The blades inside crank over and cool air fans across my face. I stand there, thinking about my mom, writing the note while I was asleep, leaving without saying something.

  Like “Good-bye.”

  “See ya.”

  “Be careful.”

  And I know Dylan watched her write that note. She never calls herself Mom when he’s around.

  Finally, I study the tight scribble in the bottom corner. “Kay Stone” and a phone number. Below that is, “ps you gotta sneak out of the apartment. Rents over do.”

  “Oh, man, not again.” My voice sounds whiney—like I’m six, not sixteen.

  On the calendar hanging over the hot plate, I’d scrawled “rent due” in purple marker across the first week. The rent was due last Saturday, so I figure I have about an hour before Tuan bangs on the door.

  I gotta lie down.

  Gotta think.

  I sprawl across the roll-away and bury my head under my pillow. Mom could come up with doozies, but this one is pretty big. She’s skipped out for a few days at a time before, but she’s never left me a ticket or a grandmother to go and stay with.

  And what about this Kay Stone? That’s a new name on the family tree. I don’t remember ever hearing the name Stone.

  And why should I go, anyway? I can make it on my own without some granny minding my business. It would serve Mom right if I just cashed in the ticket and stayed right here in Vegas. She’d never find me here, and I can take care of myself. Get a job.

  “Screw her!”

  I hurl the pillow across the room, knock over the bullet lamp, and send it crashing to the floor. Great, now Tuan’ll come pounding on the door to see what kind of damage I’ve done to his furniture.

  I wrap Sweetheart’s hundred and the ticket inside the note and jam them into my jeans pocket. I skim my hand over the top of the fridge and reach to the back, feeling for the goods I’ve hidden there. The envelope is dirty and torn, so I take care to fold it over the cards inside, then slip the packet into my hip pocket. Then I find my thin treasure, one of Dylan’s razor blades wrapped in toilet paper. As I pull it forward, my hand knocks over a small plastic bottle. It falls and rolls across the floor. I scoop it up. It’s Mom’s sleeping pills she got after a guy named Regan dumped her. Just thinking about him makes my flesh creep. Guess she doesn’t need these anymore, now that she’s got old Dylan. I put the razor blade and the pills inside a paper bag.

  Packed.

  Now, all I have to do is escape without making Tuan suspicious, but that’s not going to be easy. Sour Puss Tuan circles his apartments like a reconnaissance plane every day. My only hope is to do like Mom taught me.

  “The best way to bail out on your rent,” she’d say, “is to act totally normal.”

  So I bounce down the stairs like always, and check my expression in the mirror outside Tuan’s apartment door. On it is a tag fluttering from a piece of string: “ForSale/$2.” Tuan’s been trying to sell that cracked glass since we moved in. If I stand so the crack cuts my face into two pieces, I actually look kinda interesting. If I stand on one side and get my full face, I just look dorky. No sixteen-year-old looks like me in Vegas, except for the Keno players’ kids from Kansas.

  “Somebody’s got to be able to work a regular job. And that’s gotta be you,” Mom would say, jabbing her finger into my chest.

  Once a month, sometimes twice, like in the summer when school’s out—that’s as regular as it gets with Mom and me—I play a lost teen, asking for directions at the casino door while Mom lifts tourist wallets, and, I have to say, she’s pretty good. We’ve never been busted. A couple o
f close calls, but the cops have never booked her.

  The door opens and I jump at Tuan’s sudden appearance. He’s armed with the paintbrush that I see him use every day to cover up graffiti. We live way too close to Morrie’s Hardware, and all the taggers test their Krylon spray nozzles on our wall before they head for their real targets downtown.

  “Good morning, Tuan.” I smile and smooth my hair in his mirror like I’m in no hurry to go anyplace. His eyes don’t blink. He’s kinda snaky that way.

  “Not good,” he grumbles.

  He jerks his door closed behind him and stomps outside. I follow and watch while he swipes gray paint over the red-and-black stucco art.

  “Las Vegas!” He spits into the gutter. “Hoodlums do this. All time.”

  While he dunks his brush into the paint I slip past him. I want to run, but I make myself walk the way the girls do on the street when they’re working. “Look at us” they say. “We’re not doing anything wrong, just walking.” Come on, Tuan, watch me leave like I’m coming back, like this is the same as any day since I moved into your dump. I almost make the corner when he yells.

  “You betta tell her rent due at noon or you both out!” He flings his arm, and paint

  flies like gray raindrops onto the sidewalk.

  I wave and smile.

  When I reach the corner, I can still feel his snaky eyes on my back.

  Chapter 2

  Shawna

  There are lots of good things about Las Vegas, but the best thing is it never shuts down. If I steer clear of the old section of town and the back alleys, moving from casino to casino, looking bored like I’m waiting for my parents, I can stay pretty safe around the clock. The trick is to avoid crossing paths with the same security guards too often. I’m thinking that if I hang around Vegas, I can make it on my own. Have before. Yeah. Sure I can.