Burn Girl

by Mandy Mikulencak

  “So he held your hand?” Mo lay down beside me and whispered directly in my ear. “Did he stroke it like this?”

  I jerked away. “Stop joking. Yes, he held my hand, but only at the beginning. Then we just sat in the grass, close but not touching.”

  “You could’ve grabbed his hand.” Mo turned over onto her stomach and rested her chin on her arms. “Don’t expect a guy to always make the first move.”

  I had no clue how to make a move. Any move. I’d missed out on the middle-school and junior-high crushes other girls experienced. I’d spent those years recovering from the accident and then taking care of Mom. Only the wrong kind of boys had ever paid me any attention. And some of Mom’s adult friends.

  “So, you think I should kiss him first?” Saying that out loud caused my stomach to catapult through my throat.

  “Definitely. What’s your plan?”

  I had no plan. I didn’t think I could even sleep, much less plot my next interaction with Cody.

  “I thought you were going to help me with geometry.” I tugged at her backpack until she let go of it. I pulled out a textbook and spiral.

  “How can you study at a time like this?”

  “Um … because there’s a test later this week?” I loved teasing Mo. Her faked annoyance made me laugh.

  She snatched the book in my hand and stuffed it into her pack. “You make all As. You don’t need me to tutor you anymore.”

  “Not all As. I have a B in geometry. Hence, the need to study.”

  “I’m not playing teacher anymore,” she said. “Those days are done.”

  Starting the day after I’d met Mo, and every school day after that, she’d shown up with textbooks in hand, ready to teach me everything she’d learned. She even graded my homework assignments and made me take exams. Maybe those days had run their course, but the thought made me sad.

  “I could tutor you in other ways.” She puckered her lips.

  “You look like a fish,” I said.

  “A fish who’s kissed a lot of boys.”

  I didn’t doubt her. Mo’s mom already allowed her to go on dates.

  “Tell me about your first kiss,” I said.

  “It was stupid. Fourth grade. Joe Parrish and I both had hall passes to go to the restroom. He sort of ambushed me.”

  “Not swoon-worthy, huh?”

  “No, just a lot of spit. And he smelled like Doritos. You’ll get to kiss the most luscious full lips I’ve ever seen on anyone, except maybe Sam from Glee. I’m almost jealous of what that will feel like.” She buried her face in the bed and squealed like a girl with far less kissing experience than Mo actually had.

  Did I really want this goofball coaching me through my first kiss? Well, my first real kiss. When I was only seven, one of Lloyd’s friends had caught me off guard one night as I was sneaking a Coke from the fridge. He’d smelled of chewing tobacco and beer, not Doritos. When he forced himself onto my mouth, his teeth had clicked against mine and cut my upper lip. At the time, I thought it was the worst thing I’d ever have to endure.

  “What’s wrong? You got all quiet.”

  “It’s nothing. Maybe I’m just a little freaked out,” I said.

  “Come on. You had to know someone was going to fall for you one day.”

  I’d seen the train wrecks Mom dated. Or rather, slept with. I never felt I could trust a guy’s reasons for hanging out with me. She’d warned me over and over that they’d only end up hurting me.

  “If you dare say you’re not good enough for Cody, I will seriously smack you.” When Mo leaned in for a hug, I couldn’t hold back my tears. Crying for the second time that day.

  After she left, I wanted to be alone, completely deprived of all stimuli so I could recover from the mind-blowing day I’d had. My brain would surely malfunction if I had to interact with another human being. That, of course, meant Frank wanted to talk.

  “Arlie? I’d like to come in.” He shuffled his feet on the linoleum outside the door to my room.

  “I’m really tired. Can it wait until morning?”

  “No, it can’t. I’m not trying to invade your space, but I’d like you to respect my request.”

  Oh brother.

  I pulled back the door and made a sweeping motion with my arm. “Welcome to my abode.”

  The full-size mattress and its plywood platform took up most of the room. A one-foot-wide pathway wound around it, just enough to be able to scoot through to reach the closet. Frank stood awkwardly in the doorway like he couldn’t decide where to sit.

  “How ’bout the couch,” I suggested. “We’ll have more room.”

  I tried to look relaxed. But more than anything, I wanted to get on my bike and ride as far away from this conversation as I could.

  “What do you want to talk about?” I asked.

  “You get home from your therapy appointment two hours later than usual, then Mo shows up and you guys hole up in your room,” he said. “I was worried something came up for you.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Frank picked at his fingernails, chipped and dirty from construction work. “I just want to know how you’re doing. You made it clear you don’t want me acting like a father, but you seem to be holding back more and more.”

  My uncle had uprooted his life and moved here to be my guardian. I had no idea who and what he’d left behind for me. He asked questions about my life but told me very little about his.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Not used to anyone checking up on me.”

  Stupid gut clenched some more.

  “What about your mom?”

  “What about her?” Please stop, Frank. Not this, not now.

  “Didn’t you guys talk? I mean, you haven’t said much about what happened before her death.”

  What would I have to share to get Frank to back off? Every so often, he’d start these conversations … little investigations into what life was like with a drug addict. I was surprised he hadn’t asked me if I’d ever used or was tempted to use.

  “Mom wasn’t really capable of that type of relationship. She had problems.”

  “That’s obvious,” he said. “But did she even act like a mother?”

  “It was hard for her.”

  “Hard for her? What about the little girl she let get burned in a meth-lab explosion? I mean, what the hell? Who does that?”

  I choked back my gasp. I couldn’t even enjoy one of the happiest days of my life without talk of Mom ruining it.

  “Well, shit. I’ve done it again,” he said, quieter now. “I’m just so … I don’t know … Oh hell.”

  When he stopped talking, I thought about taking his hand but changed my mind.

  “It’s okay. Nothing’s black and white. She wasn’t all bad, and she wasn’t all good,” I said. “I just don’t see why I have to talk about it all the time. Isn’t it enough that I see a shrink?”

  “I want you to be okay.”

  “Do you think I’m not okay now?” I pulled back, more curious than defensive.

  “Who would be okay with all that you’ve gone through? The accident alone was bad enough, but Sarah killing herself?”

  I’d grown tired of everyone insisting Mom killed herself, but I resisted challenging them. They’d just say my hurt was keeping me from seeing the truth. They didn’t realize it was actually scarier to think someone else might have hurt her.

  “Why isn’t anyone willing to admit it’s possible she didn’t kill herself?” I braced for the response I knew was coming by the look on Frank’s face.

  “The coroner declared it a suicide. For chrissakes, she had enough meth in her to kill a horse. It wasn’t an accidental OD.”

  “I’m not saying she didn’t OD.” I’d pulled a thread that was now unraveling the safe, new world I’d just begun to build for myself.

  “Then what are you saying?”

  “Maybe someone—”

  “Maybe someone what?”

  “Someone could have killed her,” I wh
ispered.

  “Murder? Really? Why do you keep protecting her? Maybe it’s time you got angry.”

  Frank’s wet eyes shone with pity or sadness or something close to it. I didn’t need his pity, and I didn’t want his advice.

  “I am angry!” I shouted. “But it’s not like I can fight with a corpse.”

  “Arlie, I’m sorry.”

  “Stop being so sorry for everything,” I said. “I get it. She was worthless. She was selfish, but suicide doesn’t make sense.”

  “Why not face the truth?” Frank asked.

  “If you’d seen the room—”

  “The motel room? What about it?”

  “Mom was neat with her drugs. I mean, she kept things in order.”

  I told Frank about the day I’d found Mom dead and the contradictions that still haunted me: her glass pipe near a half-filled syringe, the mind-blowing amount of meth left behind. It wasn’t like her. Why shoot up if she’d just smoked? Or vice versa?

  “Because she was an addict.” Frank’s expression was so hard that it hurt to look at him.

  Frank, the police, Dora—all of them were so sure about the cause of death. They made me feel like a crazy person for thinking differently. I was feeling even crazier for thinking my stepfather could have been involved. Lloyd used to only occupy my nightmares. Now I was wasting energy trying to convince myself he hadn’t tracked me down, that he wasn’t the driver of that Mustang.

  I decided against sharing these new fears with Frank. His anger at Mom was all-consuming.

  “You’ve been angry at Mom for a while, haven’t you?” I asked.

  Frank chewed on my question and a ragged thumbnail at the same time. Then he looked me squarely in the eyes. “Yeah, I’m angry. For what she did to you. For what she did to me. For dying.”

  “You mean because you got stuck having to take care of me.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” he said. “I meant she checked out on me twenty years ago when I needed her most. After Mom and Dad died.”

  “I don’t want to be this angry forever,” I said. “And I don’t want to hate her anymore.”

  “I don’t want to hate her either.”

  “Maybe it doesn’t always have to feel like this,” I said. “Maybe we can help each other.”

  “Of course we’ll help each other,” he said. “Now can I give you a hug?” Frank showed respect for my boundaries in the weirdest ways. One was always to ask before touching me.

  “Sounds good.” I accepted the uncharacteristically gentle embrace of his massive arms. But I couldn’t yet accept that Mom had made a conscious decision to leave me.

  Back in my room, I peeled off my jeans and crawled under the bedcover. No matter the room temperature, I always pulled the sheet or spread over my head. The habit had taken hold during the times when Mom and I shared a motel room. She stayed up late with the lights and TV on. Only by covering my head would it be dark enough for me to fall asleep.

  “Your brother is cool,” I said softly, as if Mom was just on the other side of the covers. “But you should’ve introduced me to him while you were still alive.”

  CHAPTER 14

  TWO YEARS AGO—A SURROGATE MOM

  The water in Mo’s parents’ tub was just about as hot as I could stand it, and I usually liked it scalding. I placed my hand over the jet that circulated the foamy water.

  Mo sat beside the tub reading and ignoring me, so I flicked water onto her with my toes.

  “Don’t. You’ll get my book wet.”

  When I splashed her again, she slapped the water, spraying my face.

  “Hey! You’re getting soap in my eyes,” I said.

  “You’re taking a bath. Stop whining.” She returned to her reading.

  The sunken tub was my favorite part of Mo’s house. When she and I were younger, we could both fit in it at the same time. She always let me have the side with the plastic seashell pillow. We’d keep our feet pressed together like fins and pretend to be mermaid sisters.

  I dipped beneath the surface, my hair fanning out around me. I could hold my breath for almost two minutes, which freaked out Mo. She rarely could wait that long before pulling at my arm for me to come up for air.

  She tapped the top of my head and I gave up on setting a new record.

  “You have a death wish?” she asked.

  I had at one time, in the weeks after the explosion when I was in the burn treatment center. Many times, I’d begged the youngest nurse on the ward to kill me—and I meant it. My pleas only made her cry. After that, the hospital psychiatrist made regular visits.

  “When I’m underwater, I can’t hear your mom and dad fighting,” I said.

  Her parents had been arguing downstairs since I arrived. Although I couldn’t make out their exact words, I suspected the fight was about me visiting Mo.

  “You promised he wouldn’t be here,” I said.

  “He came back early. Just don’t listen. You know how he is.”

  I did know. Her dad had always objected to Mo being my friend. He said I’d just bring trouble. And maybe he was right. There was nothing I could do about Mom and the people she hung around, but I made sure Mo never visited me at the motel. We’d meet at the library or the Dairy Queen, or at her house when her father was at work. And I kept Mo’s address secret from Mom. I wanted those worlds as separate as possible.

  Her father’s voice grew muddled until I didn’t hear it anymore.

  “You know Mom really loves you.” Mo closed her book and tossed me a sponge.

  “I know.”

  I dunked the sponge and then squeezed it over my head, sending streams of water down my face.

  Last year, Mo’s mother had added a cell phone to the family’s plan so that I’d be able to contact Mo or her in an emergency. She slipped me money from time to time, urging me to buy fresh fruit and vegetables and vitamins. When I got my period, she bought me tampons and Motrin since she knew those were expensive.

  “It’s not that Daddy doesn’t like you,” Mo said.

  “Yeah. I feel the love.”

  Mo pursed her lips. “He doesn’t like that you don’t go to school.”

  “I won’t go to school,” I said.

  “I’m just saying you should think about it.”

  Mo got up and stood in front of the vanity. She opened her mother’s makeup drawer and took out a tube of lipstick.

  “If I went back to school, he still wouldn’t like me,” I said.

  Mo lifted her long hair and struck a pose in the mirror, her lips a color between coral and tangerine.

  “Not your color,” I said.

  “Yeah, maybe.” She grabbed a tissue, wiped her lips, and tried another shade. This one was a frosty bubblegum pink.

  “Your mom wears that color?” I asked.

  “Impulse buy,” Mo said.

  I stepped out of the tub and wrapped a large bath towel around me. Mo gave up on the lipstick search. I sat on the stool near the vanity so she could untangle my hair.

  “It’ll be our freshman year. You could say you’ve transferred from out of state,” she said.

  “Without any records or transcripts.”

  “Say you were homeschooled,” she said.

  “I am homeschooled. Sort of.”

  “I’m not a real teacher.” Mo began to braid my hair, pulling the strands too roughly. “You’d get a better education going to class.”

  “I don’t need a better education.”

  “You do if you don’t want to end up like your mom,” she said.

  I looked at our reflections in the mirror. “That’s not fair.”

  “I’m sorry. I just want what’s best for you.”

  “Would you rather not tutor me anymore?”

  “It’s not that.”

  The front door slammed so forcefully that we felt the vibration upstairs. When her dad started shouting again, Mo opened the bathroom door and looked down the hall.

  A female—not her mom—shouted so
mething back at Mo’s dad. Before Mo could say anything, I recognized my mother’s voice in the hall.

  Mom stomped up the stairs and it sounded like Mo’s parents followed.

  “Where’s Arlie? I know she’s here!” Mom pushed past Mo and into the bathroom.

  “Please go home, Mrs. Betts,” Mo begged, then yelled for her parents not to come in, that I wasn’t dressed.

  “Well, isn’t this fancy. Just like your fancy friend here.” Mom stumbled forward and I caught her. “So this is where you sneak off to.”

  “Oh my God, Mom. What are you doing here? Please go. Now.”

  “I’m your family. You shouldn’t be here.” She slurred her words and found it difficult to stand. “You’ve betrayed me, you little slut.”

  I slapped her. Hard. I wanted her to shut up. I wanted to keep hitting her until there was nothing left of her or our life together.

  “You don’t get to call me that,” I said. “I’ve never let anyone touch me.”

  “Get them both out of my house!” Mo’s dad raged on the other side of the door.

  “It’s not the girl’s fault. Let’s go back downstairs.” Mo’s mom coaxed her dad away from the bathroom while I held my breath.

  Mom pressed her hand against the cheek I’d slapped. She’d stopped babbling. Mo gently took her arm and helped her sit on the vanity stool.

  “Get dressed,” Mo said to me. “You should go.”

  I put on my T-shirt and shorts, not bothering with my underwear or bra. I slipped on my flip-flops.

  “I’m sorry, Mo.” Tears rolled down my cheeks. Her dad was right. I’d just brought trouble to their house. How long would Mo keep fighting for our friendship after something like this?

  “It’s okay. Just take her home.”

  This was definitely not okay. It’d never be okay. I pinched Mom’s elbow, digging my fingers into the bony joint, and led her downstairs hoping we wouldn’t run into Mo’s parents on our way out.

  CHAPTER 15

  The last thing I wanted to hear on a Saturday morning was the screeching of Frank’s table saw. Where were the outraged neighbors who should be putting a stop to the madness? Frank’s cluelessness could be charming at times. This wasn’t one of those times. I pulled on some sweatpants and a hoodie and marched outside.