by Cecelia Earl
Dropping the pot cover, I lunge and drive the knife toward his throat, his shirt clutched in my other fist.
"Hand over our money," I say, my voice unrecognizably gruff.
He sneers. "Tough girl for a measly five hundred bucks."
"It's our five hundred bucks, and I want it back." I'm so sick of worrying about every piddly cent, sick of the insecurity of this place that's literally crumbling under my feet.
Suddenly, the necklace at my throat starts to burn and the robber's face warps. I gasp, because, for an instant, he looks... demonic. A drop of blood forms where the tip of the blade digs into his neck. But the blood is not red. It's green. The color of money and fear. Momentarily stunned, my knees start to shake, but I don't back down. Even after pressure and pain build between my shoulder blades, as if something is trying to push through my skin.
I'm about to dig deeper with the knife, when, without a word, he narrows his eyes and thrusts our deposit bag into my chest. I drop his shirt to fumble with it and check our money is there. When I see it is, I step back, reaching for my cell phone to dial 9-1-1.
He growls through his teeth. "This ain't over." Then, he fades, becomes a shadow of smoke, and dissipates until there's nothing left of him.
I drop the knife and lean against the doorframe, just breathing and waiting for my heart to return to its normal pattern.
What just happened?
Not knowing what to think or do, I grab my cell phone out of my back pocket to call the police and report a robbery, leaving out the parts I can't explain. The robber's distortion, his blood, my necklace and back pain.
Minutes later, Noah stands by the screen door, waiting while the cops interrogate me about the details. Mom stands next to me, a silent pillar of support. I'm shaken and confused, there’s no doubt, but I can't stop thinking about my newfound plans to graduate in December. I want to get to the office before class starts to find out if it’s possible.
Yet, as the questions stream on, I watch the seconds tick by on the clock above the sink, and with them, my chance at starting my adulthood this morning.
"He was wearing a black cap," I repeat. "No, he didn't take anything that I know of."
I cross my arms, lean against the metal-topped island, right next to the trash bag that's still propped up against it.
-4-
"Lock all the doors," I tell Mom while herding Noah out the screen door. A man—at least, I think he was a man—was here with a knife. A knife. If anything ever happened to her or Noah, I'd do a lot more to protect them than I would our money. And I can't stop feeling the knife in my hand, seeing the green blood I drew with it. I shudder, shaking the image out of my mind. Something is off about the world today, skewed. I should stay, but I can’t think about that right now. I need to focus on getting to school and setting up a meeting with the school counselor to find out about graduating at the end of the semester.
"Of course," she says. "All except the diner entrance door, of course."
I huff.
"I have to let the customers in, Julia. The police are monitoring us closely. I'll be fine." She tells us to have a nice day, with a pointed look and too-big smile at me, her daughter, the Homecoming Queen.
"Just go back in and lock that door, Mom."
She smiles and shuts it. I hear the deadbolt lock.
Noah and I round the building to head toward the sidewalk.
"What's the rush, Julia? I thought you were dreading this week," Noah says, as I push his backpack to propel him forward.
I don't slow down, but I do stop pushing him to move faster. He can keep up on his own. "I am. But that doesn't mean I don't have work to do when I get there." I'm so excited about the prospect of graduating in four months I almost don't even care about homecoming. All the festivities will blow over in a week. I can handle one week.
The sun has already painted the sky a bright September blue. Streaks of wispy clouds are a blanket upon the horizon. Summer warmth is lost in the crispness of near-fall. Change is in the air. The leaves know it, the wind knows it, and this town knows it.
Main Street is a two-lane road lined with buildings of all makes and styles. We're passing the red-bricked florist that has already placed buckets holding gladiolas along the sidewalk—a dozen for ten dollars. Across the street, Salsa's Authentic Mexican Cuisine’s storefront is stucco and painted red, orange, and blue. They have black wire tables and chairs with orange umbrellas out front. They'll be storing those for the winter soon. Next to them sits Scuba’s, an ocean-themed sports bar with netting and starfish hanging in the window, an ocean wave mural decorating the storefront window. Down farther is a red-bricked bookstore, shoe shop, and some office buildings. At the end of the street is the police station. I look over my shoulder, as if I'll be able to see them catch the demonic robber, hoping it's done before he can get to anyone else, or carry out his threat and find me again.
Sirens sound in the distance and I can feel the pressure in my back returning. What is going on with my back? This pain is annoying and I don’t have time for it. I don’t have time for anything except focusing on our future. With that thought, I look back at Noah. He’s taking two steps for every one of mine to try and keep up. I stop for a second to allow him to catch up and mindlessly fiddle with my necklace.
"Why do you still wear that thing, anyway?" Noah asks.
"What?"
"That necklace from Dad." He glances at my fingers as they roll the necklace's stone between them. It's cool to the touch now, nothing like the scorching hot blaze it became in the diner's back room.
I often wonder the same thing, yet I can't seem to take it off. The green-blue stone floats on its golden chain, closer to my neck than when I first received it.
I shrug. "Same reason you don't throw out the hand-me-down watch he left you." I flick his wrist where the still-too-big watch is fastened. Somehow, wearing the stone makes me feel like wherever Dad is, he really does still love me. No matter how angry I am at him, I still need that, as much as I hate it. He gave me the necklace on my sixth birthday, wrapped it up and saved it for hours after my other birthday gifts were opened and the smoke from the candles had been consumed by fresher air.
"Wear this, always, and I'll be with you."
Sometimes, in the dark of the night, I used to imagine that it sang to me, and once, when I confessed that to my dad, he said, "Of course it does, the songs of angels."
As a little girl, I liked the idea that the angels were watching out for me, singing me to sleep.
Now, wearing it is a habit, like running every morning at 5:00 and brushing my teeth and checking on Noah before leaving the apartment.
"Yeah, he did a great job of pretending to love us," Noah says.
I nod. Poor kid. I used to try to tell Noah stories about how wonderful Dad was, fill his head with peace wherever Dad was concerned, but now I figure it's best to tell it like it is. He left for no reason, and now we're stuck with the life he left us with.
My memory of the time he left is fuzzy, but up until a few weeks before, he'd been a great dad. He left us notes before he went to work every morning, messages that told us he loved us, would miss us during the day. He brought us little mementos from business trips. His hugs were warm and cozy. He and Mom were home to us. The four of us played cards and Chutes and Ladders. He let us play hide-and-go-seek at bedtime, prolonging our sleep for over an hour. He read us the Bible and taught us to pray. When he left, it uprooted every love-filled memory, made me doubt every certainty I'd ever had.
"He did love you, Noah. Still does." This much, I have to tell him. It's bad enough he has to watch all the other dads coach their sons' football and baseball teams, while Noah is stuck playing catch with me.
"You don't know that."
I don't.
I also don't know why this necklace got so hot, or why that robber's face turned demonic, or why my back suddenly hurts. But I have zero time to worry about all that now. I have to stay focused.
&n
bsp; Main Street's buildings morph into neighborhood maple trees, and then we're at Noah's school, Shady Creek Elementary.
"Here you are, Muffin. School."
He glares, not at me, but at the building. "Math. Homework. Yuck."
"Well, think of it this way, no more sorting salt and pepper shakers at the diner, and you get recess,” I say, smiling down at him.
He rolls his eyes and runs off toward some friends as they head inside.
I make my way across the lawn, between maple, spruce, and birch trees, and check my watch. Only about ten minutes before the first bell will ring, and I'll need to be in class. Shoot. I pick up my pace, sprint past the middle school, and finally make it to the high school campus. Thank goodness all three schools are on the same large city block.
"Jules! Julia, w-wait up!"
I turn to find my best friend—okay, my only friend—Mitchell, rushing to catch up. His too-small button-up shirt is flapping around over a T-shirt displaying a diagram of the inside of the atom. Miraculously, his almost-white hair is completely in place. When he reaches me, I resist the urge to poke it to see if it is plastered with hair spray the way he used to style it freshman year. Looks like he may have reverted to an old fashion. This is why he'll never have a girlfriend.
"Hey," I say. "You look excited for school."
He looks at me wide-eyed, no smile in sight, and says, "Aren't you?"
"Oh, yes. Always." Now it's my turn to roll my eyes. "I'm in a rush this morning. Let's go get this over with."
It doesn't matter I'm three paces ahead of him; he's talking a mile-a-minute about whatever thoughts rush through the brilliant cells of his brain. Today, he's going on about the hilarity of costume creation in an old sci-fi movie he watched the night before. Something about velour and visibility of zippers. No clue what the boy is talking about. Again, the girlfriend thing. Not gonna happen.
Seven minutes.
I can scoot into the office, get my transcript from the secretary, find the counselor, tell her my plan, she'll say yes, and I'll still have thirty seconds to spare to get to my locker and class. Yes, I can do this.
Or, not.
Three squealing girls rush us.
"Oh, no. Hide me," I say to Mitch.
"Huh?"
A robber invaded my home, and now I have to endure these homecoming enthusiasts. I'm no longer an anonymous senior.
All these years, I've kept to myself. Working hard. Minding my own business...
Something draws my attention upward, probably the fabric flapping in the wind.
You've got to be kidding me. In the center of the wide sidewalk leading to the entrance is a circle of bricks housing flagpoles flying the American, Wisconsin, and school flags. There's an addition for this oh-so-special week. It seems completely unpatriotic that there are also two flags with the homecoming king and queen's pictures flapping in the morning breeze.
My face. Is blown up. On. A. Flag. High enough for all the surrounding neighbors to see and recognize.
"Why me?" I whine. The only consolation is that next to my flag is Cole's. I have to admit: one possible perk to this week is being by his side. "Please stop," I add, less of a whine, more of a plea.
The girls giggle. They must have been waiting for me. They drape me with ungodly floral vines, all while squealing, "Happy homecoming!" Precious minutes are slipping away, like my pride.
Mitch keeps walking, totally unhelpful. Some best friend he is.
I've dreaded this ever since they announced the homecoming court—with me as queen. Then, even worse than the flowers, they crown me. There's now a tiara… on my head.
The trio shrieks, "She's royalty!"
It's hard to bring my lower jaw back into place after having dropped it so low at how incredibly ludicrous—
"W-wow," Mitch says, turning to stare at me. "Y-you look ridiculous."
This coming from a boy wearing clothes that could fit Noah, though I completely agree.
"Girls, enough," I say, swatting at their hands and pulling myself free from them. I back away, slowly at first, then jog backward toward the door, keeping them at bay with my arms outstretched, palms facing them like stop signs. "Stay."
"S-sorry," Mitch says, looking at the girls, who look stunned. He shakes his head at me. Why is he apologizing to them? To them? What about me? I'm the humiliated one.
Once we're inside, he joins me in my mad dash for the office.
Five minutes.
"Y-you should be nicer, Julia. They just want to be your friends."
"What? You should talk. What other friends do you have?"
"I w-wasn't voted queen. And, actually—"
"Well, I name you ‘friend in charge of playing nice on my behalf,’ then, this week. I have other, more important things to take care of."
He stops in the middle of the hall and refuses to budge. He's shaking his head at me. Again. What's his problem?
Fine. "Bye."
Four and a half minutes.
I get to the office at the same time another girl does. She looks familiar; she's in my government class, I think. I reach for the doorknob at the same time as she does, smile, and push through ahead of her. She arrives at the counter seconds after me. The secretary looks up, smiles, and I open my mouth to speak—
"Kate, what can I do for you?"
What? I was here first.
I clear my throat. "Excuse me, I—"
"Hi, Mrs. Thompson. How is your daughter feeling?"
"Much better. Thanks so much for asking. Are you here to pick up your cheerleading uniform?"
"Yes, and also my brother's basketball trophy from last spring. He never picked it up after it got engraved."
"Of course. I'll go grab them. Be back in a minute."
No! Don't leave. "Mrs.—" What did she say her name was? Isn't there a nameplate here somewhere?
She disappears into a back room.
Two minutes.
Maybe I'll sneak past the front desk, just bypass the secretary and head straight for the school counselor’s office. It's her approval I need anyhow.
"Thanks," the chatty girl from government calls. How does she know all this personal stuff anyway? Does she spend all her free time in the office, or what? "I'll stop in and say hi to Mrs. Wiltrow real quick."
Wait, what? No!
I'm already halfway to Mrs. Wiltrow's office door when the girl breezes past me and knocks. She opens the door without waiting to be invited.
"Kate, how nice to see you!" the school counselor says from inside.
Stupid, small-talking social girl from government.
Thirty seconds.
I put my hand out to catch the door and squeeze in behind her, but the door and my chance to be free of this place come December slam in my face.
-5-
Four hours later, I've made it to the lunch hour. I beeline it for the office, not to be outdone this time, and rehearse a small-talking conversation in my head. Mrs. Tomlinson, er, Thomas, um... ma'am. I'm so glad your son is feeling better. You may not remember me, but I'm Julia White. I'm a senior and—
Ah-ha. Nameplate on the door says Mrs. Thompson, Secretary. Now I'm getting somewhere.
I push through and clear my throat. There's a line. A long line. Everyone in it is chatting, loud, all friends, or really friendly. Mrs. Thompson is laughing with a guy as she hands him a slip of paper.
I stand there, at the end, and take a book out of my backpack to read. I have so much reading to do for senior lit class.
When finally I arrive in front of Mrs. Thompson, she glances at the clock above the windows to her left. She stifles a yawn and takes the lid off a container of soup.
"Yes?" she asks.
"Hi, um. Glad your, your son is feeling better," I mumble. Her soup smells delicious.
"Pardon me?" She's shaking her head. "I don't have a son."
"Wha—oh. Okay. I, my name is Julia White. I'm a senior, and I believe I may have almost enough credits to graduate at th
e end of this semester. Can I… may I speak with Mrs. Wiltrow, the school counselor, please?"
"She's busy."
"Um." I tap my fingers on the counter, checking the wall clock. "May I check my transcript, please?"
She raises her eyebrows. Her lips turn down, wary-like. She sighs at her soup.
"I'll be quick," I say.
She rolls back in her chair, stands, and then walks to her file cabinet.
"White. W-H-I-T-E. Julia," I remind her.
She digs through, pulls out a file, and stands there looking through it.
"You're six credits short." She looks up at me. "You'd have to take two more classes this semester, and you look full already."
"I can do it. I have time." Over lunch, I don't tell her. "I can give up my study hall to take a class."
She glances back down.
"And you haven't done any service hours. Not even one."
"Service hours?"
She puts the file away, shutting the drawer more forcefully than was necessary.
"You're required to fulfill 120 service hours before graduation. In fact, you haven’t shown any interest in being social whatsoever. Not one group or event is listed in your file."
When I stare without adding anything to the conversation because I don't know what she's talking about, she adds, "Like tutoring, or volunteering with the booster club, or helping at Special Olympics events, or clean up, or—"
"Tutoring?"
She pulls another file folder off the top of the file cabinet and opens it.
"Yes. There are several people signed up as interested in being tutored. Math, literature, science..."
"Math. I can tutor someone in math."
She nods, chewing her lip. "Looks like there are three girls signed up from the same class. You can tutor all three, triple your hours."
Now we're getting somewhere.
"Yes! Yes, I'll do that. Thank you so much."
"Okay." She sets the file down, picks up a pencil, and jots something down. "You are all signed up. I'll let them know you'll meet them at 3:00 today in the library for the first session. After that, you can schedule the sessions amongst the four of you."