I could knock on Dora’s door. Maybe I could stay with her a while. She could help me call the police and find out what had really happened to Mom.
I sat back down on a chair and my brain finally checked out.
When my head snapped forward, I sat bolt upright, headachy and disoriented. The clock told me it was 5:30 a.m. My neck ached from awkward sleep. Then I remembered.
She lay there in silence. No sighs or grunts or whispered dreams.
I was so tired. Too tired to run anymore. Too tired to hide.
I waited for sunlight, then picked up the motel phone and dialed 911. Whatever waited for me couldn’t be as bad as what I’d already been through.
CHAPTER 8
My therapist stared at me so intently that I wanted to knock the glasses off her face and stomp on them. Not exactly the smartest move if I was trying to prove how well-adjusted I was and that life was now all sunshine and unicorns.
“I sense you’re pretty angry today,” Jane said.
“Wow. You’re good at your job.”
“Thank you,” she deadpanned. “So, if I’m doing my job, why aren’t you doing yours?”
“Which is?”
“To show up. Be honest. No matter how painful it might be.”
Jane had spent the better part of an hour pressing me to tell her what had happened this past week to cause my anger. Didn’t she realize it wasn’t one thing? That perhaps it was the thousand-and-one things that had changed since Mom died?
“Nothing is the same,” I finally said. “Mom had no expectations of me. Now I’m expected to suddenly be okay with living with my wacky uncle in a silver tube. I’m expected to go to school and be a normal kid. I’m expected to come to therapy and bare my soul so you can tell the courts I’m not a freakin’ basket case.”
“I’ve never asked you to bare your soul. And I’ve never thought you were a basket case,” Jane said. “In fact, I’ve thought the opposite. That you’ve held everything together for so long you don’t know how to ask for help.”
I didn’t really have a reason to hold it together anymore. I no longer had to worry about Mom getting beat up by her latest boyfriend or burning down our motel room by smoking meth in bed. I no longer had to slog to the food bank or shelter to get us food. I didn’t have to pack up our things and load the car in the middle of the night so we could skip out on our past-due motel bill and find another Durango motel that’d take us.
Frank made me breakfast every day—a real breakfast that I couldn’t taste, but that I still appreciated. Mo picked me up for school. I sat in class and took notes. I studied and got good grades. I sang in a choral group.
“It’s make-believe. All bullshit,” I said.
She stared, obviously wanting more. “What’s real in your life, Arlie? Just name one thing.”
I didn’t hesitate. “Mo. She’s never let me down.”
I felt a stinging pang of guilt that I didn’t trust my best friend enough to tell her I liked Cody. And, more importantly, that I wanted Cody to like me.
“What about your uncle? Do you trust he’s here for you?”
This same question popped into my head from time to time, but I never let it linger there for long. Frank had given me plenty of reasons to believe he cared about me and that I could count on him. Yet a little part of me suspected that I’d arrive home from school one day and his Suburban and Airstream would be gone, leaving only an empty lot and my belongings in a heap. The image rarely stressed me out. Some days, I ached to be alone. I knew I could survive on my own again.
“Do you feel safe now?” she asked.
“Yes,” I admitted. No Lloyd. No drugs. No worrying where I’d be sleeping.
“Does that feel good or scary?”
“Safe can be scary too.” That sounded weird to say aloud.
“Can you tell me more?” she probed.
“Don’t you think I’d be better off just getting on with my life and leaving the past as past?”
“Because it’s too difficult to talk about?”
“No, because it won’t change anything. I’m fine. I’ve always been fine.”
As much as I liked Jane, I hated when she resorted to psychobabble. And I saw through her attempts to put me at ease with her casual stance.
“What do you want, Jane?” I asked. “Should I scream and tear out my hair? Do you want me to curse Mom for destroying my chances at a normal life?”
“I don’t want anything, Arlie, except for you to have a full, happy life. But you’ve lost your mother. You have a new guardian and are experiencing all the normal stressors of teenage life, with the added stressor of being physically different. So, yeah, I think you have some emotions to sort out. Maybe ones you haven’t even allowed yourself to feel yet.”
I played with a hole in my jeans, avoiding Jane’s stare. Mom had done the unforgivable in leaving me. And it frightened me to think I hated her more than I loved her.
“I think it’s time for me to be going,” I said. “I’ll see you next Friday.”
Before I could leave, Jane reached out and touched my elbow.
“Your mother didn’t destroy your chances at a normal life,” she said. “Only you can do that.”
CHAPTER 9
Frank lugged a bundle of two-by-fours on one shoulder without breaking a sweat. When he saw me, he dropped the wooden planks to the ground and they bounced noisily.
“How was school?” he called out.
“It’s Monday. What’s there to say?” I mumbled and made my way over to the Airstream trailer.
“It’s Monday. What’s there to say,” he mimicked in a high-pitched voice. “Get over here and tell me how your day went.”
He sat down on the edge of the smooth concrete foundation. I sat down beside him and offered him the rest of the water in my Nalgene. He downed it and wiped droplets from his thick beard.
“It’s a warm one for April,” he said. “You wearing sunscreen?”
Both he and Mo were overprotective of my burn scar. Or maybe being a redhead made Frank unusually concerned.
“Yes,” I said. “Want to inspect the tube I have in my backpack?”
“You don’t always have to be a smart-ass.”
I shrugged.
“Hey, I borrowed that new Karen Russell book from your room,” he said. “I’m sure you’re probably working on several others.”
He was right. I usually had four or five books going at once. If I got bored with one story too easily, I liked to have choices. And since we didn’t have a TV, I was reading more than usual lately.
“You almost done for the day?” I looked at the chaotic construction site. No matter how cluttered it seemed, by the end of each day, Frank always had his tools in order and locked away in a storage shed. Scrap materials found their place into the dumpster.
“I’m going to finish framing this wall and then I’ll cook us some supper.” He slapped his thighs with both hands and returned to his woodpile.
Besides recognizing his voracious appetite for books and an aversion to razors, I still knew little about my uncle, but we felt more and more comfortable around one another. He usually said what was on his mind, which kept things real. Sometimes too real.
“Can I do anything to help?” I asked. “Chop something?”
“Already done that,” he said. “Relax or read.”
I shielded my eyes and continued to watch him work. He assembled two-by-fours into a grid on the foundation. Within forty-five minutes, he had another wall lifted and braced into place. He’d designed the house himself. In fact, he’d drawn and redrawn the plans over and over for the past twenty years. He said he’d never gotten around to building it, but now seemed as good a time as any.
My stomach knotted in a weird way—happy and sad all at once—to know he was building the damn thing for me. I still doubted that sharing a house was enough for us to feel like a family.
I dropped my backpack on the floor and slipped under the thin blanket cover
ing my bed. Although I’d lived in the trailer for more than two months, every day when I came home was like visiting someone else’s house. Frank offered me money to buy whatever I wanted to make the room feel homier, but I’d never had stuff to call my own and didn’t know what I’d even buy.
Every few days, something new would show up—a lamp, a clock, some throw pillows. Frank was trying his hardest to get me to feel some permanence, but I saw the trailer and all this stuff as his alone.
I heard Frank in the trailer’s galley kitchen rummaging for a skillet, but the gnawing in my gut had already told me it was dinnertime. If I couldn’t taste food, it seemed unfair my body could alert me to hunger in such an obnoxious way.
“I’m going to start the stir-fry now, okay?” he called out.
This Asian food rut would have to stop. If I wanted to eat something other than rice and slimy lo mein noodles, I needed to speak up.
“Sure, be right out.”
Frank had made me see a doctor about my inability to taste and smell. The specialist couldn’t find a medical reason and suggested it was a psychosomatic by-product of the trauma I’d endured in the explosion. He said that once my “mental state” improved, I’d likely regain those senses.
Frank wasn’t patient enough to wait so he’d begun bizarre experiments with foods that were bitter, sweet, sour, salty, and savory. My taste buds wouldn’t cooperate, no matter how many different combinations he tried.
I grabbed plates and utensils while Frank expertly juggled two serving bowls, a bottle of soy sauce, and a tube of wasabi. He pushed the screen door with his butt and we headed to the cedar picnic table. Protected by a large canvas tarp overhead, this outdoor dining room served as our largest living space since Frank used the Airstream’s living room as his bedroom and library. I sometimes did my homework at the picnic table after school while Frank continued his work on the house. On nights I’d come home late from Mo’s, Frank would often be sitting at the picnic table, nursing a beer or reading by lantern light.
“Arlie, I know we can beat this. We just haven’t found the right ingredient.” Rice dribbled down his chin from talking with his mouth so full.
“Nothing to beat,” I said. “Buy whatever’s on sale. Lamb testicles. Cow tongue. Won’t make a difference to me.”
“You really do take snark to a whole new level,” he said.
“I don’t like to mince words.”
“Whatever,” he said and got up from the table. “I can’t eat this crap. I made it spicy thinking you might finally taste it. I’m going to have some cereal. Want some?”
I shook my head. “I’ll just finish this.” What did it matter anyway?
Frank didn’t like cell phones in general, and never when we were eating. This meant I often forgot to check messages until much later in the evening. Mo had texted several times in the last hour, which wasn’t all that unusual except for the news she had to share.
Not gonna believe this, she wrote. Nick punched Cody. Busted his lip.
Can you believe Nick hit a blind guy????
Helllllooooo? You there?
Text me!
This is about you!
Nick was Brittany’s pathetic lapdog, but I thought he and Cody were friends. My gut told me she had to be involved. What I couldn’t figure out was how a fight with Cody had anything to do with me.
Get over here, I texted back. With the way my stomach was somersaulting, I just prayed Frank’s latest stir-fry wouldn’t come up before I got some answers.
Mo laid the Oreos package between us on the bed and pulled back its resealable top. She wore plaid pajama bottoms and a sweatshirt. Her blond hair spiraled around chopsticks in a messy bun. Comfort obviously mattered more than fashion after 7 p.m. on a school night, and I wished I’d changed out of my jeans earlier.
“Have one.” She stuffed a whole cookie into her mouth and chomped, sending crumbs onto my blanket.
“I don’t like cookie texture. And stop getting crap on my bed.”
She huffed her displeasure. “Eat them for the calories at least. We weigh the same and you tower above me.”
Her stalling wasn’t funny. I needed to know what had happened with Cody. “Why do you think the fight had anything to do with me?”
“Jessica said she saw Cody get all up in Nick’s face after school. Supposedly he swung at Nick. Pow, right in the eye. Must have honed in on Nick’s voice.”
I sat up. “Cody took the first swing? Your text said Nick hit Cody.”
“He did. He hit him back.” Mo’s smile revealed a perfect row of teeth dotted with chocolate cookie bits. She was enjoying this way too much.
“Why are you smiling? You look insane.”
“Because he was sticking up for you. Jess told me that Nick called you some name and Cody snapped. No words. No warning. Just fist to face.”
Why would Cody come to my defense? Especially if I wasn’t even around to hear the insult. My cheeks tingled with heat and confusion.
“That’s not all,” Mo continued. “When Cody fell backward after being punched, Brittany went all Florence Nightingale on him, and he just pushed her away. Then she screamed that he was stupid to care about a reject like you.”
Reject. Yep, that sounded like Brittany. I’d never done a thing to her, but she made her dislike more than apparent. At school and in choral practice, staring her down instead of looking away took everything out of me, but I wasn’t about to let her intimidate me.
“Brittany can’t stand that Cody is interested in you.”
“Huh?”
“She’d normally go for a dumb jock, but once Cody expressed an interest in you … well, challenge accepted,” Mo said.
“Challenge? What are you talking about?”
“For some reason she’s made you a personal target. She probably thinks that hooking up with him would somehow hurt you,” she said.
“Why would I care?”
“Because you like him.”
I started to object, but it was pointless to lie to Mo. I’d liked him for a long while now.
“And why are we talking about Brittany?” Mo continued. “This is about you and Cody. Wow. A blind guy who can fight. How hot is that?”
“I’ll be right back.” My hand shook as I slid open the plastic accordion door to my room and headed for the trailer’s kitchen sink. Tap water would do. My mouth had gone dry, and I had visions of choking if I didn’t have something wet immediately. I filled the glass and downed it, then filled it a second time.
“Where’s the fire?” Frank sat on the sofa, reading the newspaper. Mo used to be the only person in my life who could say the words “fire,” “flame,” and “burn” without immediately apologizing for saying something inappropriate, but Frank was getting better at it too.
Mo pushed past me and plopped down next to Frank. She held out the package of Oreos and his eyes lit up. Suddenly, they were best friends.
“A boy likes Arlie and she’s having some kind of weird reaction. I think she might faint.”
This time both Frank and Mo smiled with chocolaty teeth.
“Figures it’d take a blind guy to be interested in me,” I said to myself.
They frowned in unison.
“Oh, I know you didn’t just say that. Don’t make me slap you,” Mo warned.
“Yeah,” Frank added. “What she said.”
“Mo got the story secondhand. Cody doesn’t like me. We barely know each other.” The trailer suddenly seemed smaller than it ever had. My racing heart began to make me dizzy as well.
“Cody?” Frank stuffed a third cookie in his mouth.
“A super-hot guy who’s in Arlie’s English class and the choral society,” Mo explained. “Oh, and like she said, he’s blind.”
“Well, invite him over!” Frank’s enthusiasm only egged on Mo who continued to describe Cody in great deal.
“Mo, go home. Frank, mind your own business.” I needed time to think and to fight the urge to throw up.
“Oh my God, I can’t wait to see what happens tomorrow in your English class,” Mo said.
“Go!” I pointed to the door.
“I won’t sleep a wink tonight.” Mo’s voice trailed off after I shut the door behind her.
“This is going to be good.” Frank tittered like a little girl, then stuffed another two Oreos in his mouth. “Tell me more about this guy.”
Their ribbing set my confused emotions roiling. Anger was the first to bubble up. “Shut up for once, Frank. Just shut the hell up!”
“Hey, now. What gives?”
He took a tentative step toward me, but I raised my arms, indicating I wanted him to back off. “Never mind. I just need to go to bed.”
Frank took hold of my elbow before I could leave. “Sit down. Please.”
The trailer walls closed in further, making Frank’s concern too big for the space.
“One minute we’re all joking, and the next you’re mad as hell. Talk.”
“Maybe I don’t find the jokes funny,” I said.
“Mo and I are happy for you. That’s all. What’s the big deal? Don’t you like this guy?”
“You don’t get it.”
“Then enlighten me.”
I didn’t know what to say. Stop being so chummy with my best friend? Stop thinking I have a freakin’ chance in hell with Cody? Stop pretending this is how I envisioned my life after Mom?
“You’re not my dad. I wish you’d stop acting like one.”
Frank stared at me. Through me. He didn’t seem angry or sad or anything. Just numb.
“That line is getting pretty fucking old.” He got up and went into the kitchenette while I sat there dumbstruck.
My skin felt too tight, and I didn’t think I could remember how to breathe on my own. I wanted to be in my room, but I’d have to squeeze past him to reach it. So I remained on the sofa and watched him wash and stow away dishes, wipe down the stove, rinse out the sink, straighten the salt and pepper shakers on the table. His methodical, slow-motion movements freaked me out more than if he’d just yell at me and get it over with.
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