The girls dodged their way through the packed hallway with their good friends, Megan and Cierra. Before they reached the intersection to part ways for next class, they spotted Gil Richmond among the masses. He bounced through the halls as if he had small springs in the tips of his sneakers, shaking the hair from his brow. Angie ribbed Rae softly and smiled. “See you later, Gigi.” She formed a heart shape with her fingers and thumbs. Raelyn flashed the same back. She caught the last glimpse of his head bobbing down Corridor B until it blurred out of sight.
It had been years since she’d thought about that kindergarten bus ride when the heart-shaped sign was born. Angie’d had the window seat, as always. Gil Richmond was across the aisle with a boy named Cody. No sooner had they arrived at Cody’s stop and Gil was alone, he peed his pants. Raelyn had instinctively known from his ghost-white profile and the dark spot that appeared on his lap. He’d looked ready to cry.
Angie had peeked over her. “What are you looking at?”
“Nothing.” Raelyn must have been gawking. She’d turned away from Gil and scooted forward to block Angie’s view. When they reached her stop, she had said, “Hey, look for me out the window.”
“Why?”
“I’ll—I’ll give you a sign.”
“A friendship sign?” Angelica had squealed.
“Um, yeah.”
“Okay!”
“Start looking now, and keep looking.”
As Angie did that, Raelyn had tossed her brand-new sweatshirt onto Gil’s lap and pressed her finger to her lips without looking at him. She’d hurried off the bus. Angie had turned squarely away, fixated on the window pane.
Once she’d spotted Angie in the window, Raelyn joined her thumbs and curved fingers in clumsy pantomime, forming what they both knew was intended to be a heart shape. Angie, gleaming, had instantly mimicked the sign back, an imperfect heart against the smudged window. This would remain their friendship sign for years to come. But only Raelyn knew that, in truth, it had not been born out of their friendship at all.
THE MOTHERS WERE CURIOUS. Gil Richmond’s mom would ask whose sweatshirt was in the laundry, but he would never tell. When Rae explained to her mother that she’d lost her new hoodie at school, her mother had written a note for the teacher. Two days later, the sweatshirt had appeared in the Lost and Found box. Ms. Gibble had given it to Raelyn, folded and fluffy with scented fabric softener.
There were only two people in the world who knew that this sweatshirt was forever tainted with a boy’s pee. That was never going to change. Rae had stuffed the sweatshirt in the trash bin just before mounting the bus home. As far as her mother would ever know, the sweatshirt had been Lost but not Found. She and Gil didn’t look at each other for the rest of their kindergarten year, but she’d never told anyone about it. Not even Angelica.
CHAPTER 4
Strange Trip To The Vending Machines
I DREAMED WE WERE VISITING a distant aunt and uncle who in real life don’t exist. “Now, listen up, both of you,” Dad lectured but looked directly at Jackson, who was thirteen at the time. “They are very strict. You must not, under any circumstances, leave the sofa without permission from our hosts. Is that understood?”
Jack said, “That’s retarded. Why?”
Mom chimed in, “it’s a House Rule. Your father and I can’t do anything about it.”
My brother challenged her. “Can we jump on the couch?”
“Yes.”
“Can we do flips on it?”
“Yes.”
“So we can do anything on it, we just can’t get off it?”
“Correct.”
“That’s retarded.”
Mom added, “If your foot so much as touches the floor, there’ll be serious consequences.”
“Like what?” Jack asked.
“You don’t want to know, children. Just do as we say,” she warned.
We were welcomed into their lovely home, a crystal chandelier flitting prisms all about. They were all smiles, and you never would have guessed the evil menace beneath the surface. “Have a seat on The Sofa!” Aunt exclaimed. I immediately climbed onto the oversized couch and extended my legs straight out, sharks ready to nibble my toes if they dangled too closely. I was terrified, Jack much less so; he sank next to me and started jumping and flipping about, a huge commotion to my left. I glared at him with panicked eyes, but his were laughing. The adults visited at the far end of the room.
The next thing I knew, two sneakers were planted solidly on the carpet next to me.
“Jackson!” our mother shrieked. She instantly clasped both hands over her mouth, but it was too late. The room fell silent, with five sets of eyes on him.
“Jackson,” Uncle called as if discovering an acquaintance from across a banquet hall. He approached with Aunt gracefully at his side. “Come along with us!” They whisked him away. Time passed. I asked my father what had happened, but he only looked down. Finally, the door swung open and in walked Uncle carrying my brother. Jack was smaller than usual and had a wide grin. His hair was combed neatly with a part in the middle—not the way he ever wore it.
“Jack?” I called out quietly. A smile remained fixed on his chiseled face, and I realized he was not my brother any more. His teeth were too white. His cheeks were made of paint. Uncle held two dowels over his head with tiny strings attached to my brother’s wrists and ankles. When he maneuvered the rods in one direction, the mini left arm and right leg lifted, bending at the knee and elbow. When the rod was tipped the other way, the opposite appendages moved. He was dancing to the commands of the strings.
Jack had been made into a puppet.
IT WAS VISITING DAY. Though she wouldn’t admit it, Raelyn missed her brother Jackson. But she didn’t like the long drive, the security lines and cumbersome rules, and, worst of all, the gagging smells of the cafeteria.
The Devines sat at the small, assigned table in the food hall, each occupying one of the sides and leaving the fourth side (facing the guards) for Jackson. Ms. Devine’s lips were pressed tight. Rae and her brother always insisted she looked like a bird. Her eyes were deep-set and close together, and her nose was small, pointy, and narrow. She even walked like a bird at times, in hurried, purposeful jerks, and her middle name was Robin. (The parents denied this resemblance.) Jackson had inherited Joan Robin’s hazel eyes and smooth hair but looked nothing like a bird. Girls went nuts over him. His skin was the color of chocolate milk. Rae had their father’s dark eyes, and her complexion was a deeper blend than her brother’s.
Joan Robin pulled a few anti-bacterial wipes from her purse and handed them to husband and daughter. “Rae, dear, wash your hands,” she said. She wiped every inch of the table and used another to disinfect her hands. Then she sat, straight as a pin in her black and white, arms folded in her lap. Rae watched her own legs move in tangled circles below, never catching up with each other. Dad was eyeing the far corner of the room. They waited in separate silence.
“Here he is.” He stood up.
Jackson approached from the opposite entrance, wearing a serious, adult expression. But when he saw them, he flashed a huge smile, and Raelyn recognized her familiar big brother again. His longish, wavy hair had been cut like everyone else’s there, clearing the forehead and the ears with a crisp edge, with no hair at the nape. He looked handsome in his dark gray belted trousers and buttoned shirt, tucked in. He’d grown some muscles. This might be where he grows up, she thought. Their parents were hoping the same thing.
They were permitted a single embrace, and that was it. The remainder of the visit would be from these seats, no touching. Such was this strange and unwelcoming place known as Juvie Jail.
“Hi, Jackass,” Rae gloated.
(“Raelyn!” exclaimed Mom).
Jackson laughed. “So I take it you got my first two clues.”
“G and an E,” Rae answered proudly.
“Not bad, Baby Rae. Hey, Dad. . . .” He was already eyeing the rows of vending machines.
But Raelyn was mystified. “How could you remember what someone wrote on the bus a hundred years ago?”
He tapped his brain three times. “I remember everything. I know who loves Marcus, who hates history, who sucks—”
“Jackson!” exclaimed Mom.
“. . .At spelling, Mom,” he said, then turned back to his sister. “Photographic memory.” His sleeves were rolled up just enough to show a black-ink tattoo on his left forearm. It was a compass with North pointing toward his bulging triceps. “Hey, Dad,” he repeated, “can you get me a slice of pizza? And an ice cream bar. Oh, and a Snickers?”
“You bet.” Dad was fanning the stack of singles in front of him. “How about you?” he asked Rae.
“I’m coming!” She jumped up and followed him to the Wall of Vending Machines, stocked with packaged items pretending to be food. There were candy bars with “real chocolate flavoring,” and Styrofoam cups with freeze-dried noodles and powder: just add hot water by pressing a button. There were sodas, chips, and ice cream.
The kids loved the place!
The cafeteria had filled up with visitors and residents all seated in the same way, with the boy in trouble facing front. Every boy from high school could be there. Voices bounced off the walls, a generic, high-decibel loudness.
“Thanks, Dad.” His eyes grew big as he bit into his slice as if it were prime rib. It didn’t get any better than that there—food and family. “What’s new, Rae?” It had been a while. Specifically, Raelyn did not tell him about Gil Richmond’s love letter. Or her non-response, or the confusing predicament she found herself in over so-called romance. She did tell him about softball next spring, and that she and her friends were still undecided about what to wear for Halloween. “That’s good, that’s good,” he replied, as if being un-costumed with only ten days left was good. He tore off the wrapper of his candy bar. “How’s Little Penny?”
“Jack!” she exclaimed. “They don’t let dogs in the parks anymore!”
“What? What do you mean, they don’t let dogs in the park? Of course they do.” He twisted up into his goofy face.
“She’s right.” Their father’s voice was low.
“What? What’s up with that?”
Mr. Devine proceeded to tell Jackson the same thing in the same way he had told the others over dinner, but in more boring detail: dog poop, skyrocketing taxes, inflation. Foreclosed homes, HR, PD, drone, drone, chugga-chugga, train on tracks, heavy with cargo. The other three rolled their eyes and sighed, sorry he’d asked.
Like Raelyn, Jackson also had a special relationship with Penelope. In fact, he was the one who had taught her how to spell, even though his little sister got all the credit. When Raelyn was eight, she began her 4-H oral presentation this way: “Penelope is a very smart dog. She can even spell. Don’t believe me? (Coy smile at the judges.) Watch this.” She called to Penny, sitting ten feet away: “T-R-E-A-T!” Penelope trotted instantly to her and caught the treat with customary grace. The judges were impressed. The Rae and Penelope team earned their way to the State competition.
The State venue was larger. The judges were better dressed, the competition more cut-throat. And, unfortunately, Penelope was ill and woozy from medicine. Raelyn’s parents tried to convince her to give it up. The only thing more traumatic than failing in public was watching your child fail in public.
But if Rae had faith in anything, it was in her Penelope. She was bent on a miracle and crossed her fingers, an auditorium of eyes watching. She spelled the magic word. Penelope lay motionless. “T-R-E-A-T,” she called again. Not a muscle. After a third futile spelling, she popped an unearned biscuit in the dog’s mouth.
The second dog feat had been equally disastrous. She recalled her mother in the second row with a nail biting, pointy smile and a plea in her eye, her father’s slow, even nod. Jackson sat next to them, giggling up at her, his silver braces flashing. After that she remembered nothing. But apparently, she ad-libbed to the panel for the full three minutes while stroking Penelope in her lap, and even bowed in the end. The Rae and Penny team earned high “sympathy” scores. The comments: “You rose to a difficult challenge,” “You could have quit, but you didn’t,” “Ninety percent of life is showing up.” Two days later, Penelope had returned to normal again. Timing was everything. The story had become Devine family lore, Jackson’s teaching skills all but forgotten.
By the next visit with Jackson two weeks later, more anti-dog rules had been imposed. Raelyn relished reporting because no one else would. “And Penny can’t even be off leash in our own yard. Plus, we can only buy her a small amount of food every week. It’s gotten super expensive. It’s called a ration,” she continued with an unscripted string of gossipy things to report.
“Hold up, hold up.” He looked at his dad again. “Is this stuff true?”
“Hello! Duh,” she protested. “I’m not some dumb little kid, Bozo! Why would I make it up?”
Mom weighed in, the voice of reason. “There are some new laws, that’s all. Penny is fine—same as always.” She said this to end the discussion. Then she added, with a chuckle to end it more light-heartedly, “She needed to lose a little weight anyway, pffh!” Her jokes were never funny. Other than the hug, she hadn’t shifted her posture one bit since they got there, hands still folded in her lap. “Did you read the books we sent you?”
“Yeah, yeah. They were good. Thanks, Mom.” But he turned again to their father. “So what does being leashed have to do with taxes?”
“It’s, uh, complex, I suppose.”
But the more Raelyn reported, the more incredulous her brother became. “That’s effing messed up, yo!”
“Jackson.” Everyone knew that was Dad’s way of scolding him for saying the “F” word in front of his little sister—even though he hadn’t actually said the “F” word, and she wasn’t little anymore, something they kept forgetting.
Mom added, “You know her flair for drama, Sweetie.”
“I’m not exaggerating! It’s true.” Raelyn’s cheeks flared deep crimson. “And when we took Penny to Doc Goodman’s for her annual checkup, it cost us triple because he has to pay all these new fees. He said Daffy County is trying to put him out of business.” According to Doc, she was his best helper, with a unique, calming effect on Penelope. She had never missed an appointment.
“Raelyn, hush now,” her mother said.
Rae looked to her dad for an unlikely hint of support, but he cleared his throat instead. “Yeah, that’s enough.” No help from Big Bad Brother, either.
She was fuming. They considered everything she said or did a tantrum because she was the youngest. How old did she have to be, thirteen? Sixteen? A hundred eighty? She threw herself back into her chair and crossed her arms in a demonstrative huff. She sank down, down, down, until her eyebrows were level with the table, a blanket of hair flung over her face. That’s exactly where she would stay until visiting hours were over.
Her brother looked from one to the other. “Whatever, that’s effing messed up.”
Okay, back up. Did you miss that? He ignored the scolding he’d just received over using the “F” non-word, and the parents ho-hummed right past it. Messed up, anyone?
“Well, I’m not political,” Mom said decidedly. “It is what it is. I always say, you don’t have to like it, but it is the law.”
“I agree,” Father nodded.
“Yep, I agree, too. Absolutely.” Jackson nodded. “You do always say that, Mom.”
“So how’s everything going, son?” Strategic change of subject by Dad.
Jackson began rattling off lofty calculations of weeks and months, concluding that he’d be out before his seventeenth birthday. Six months.
“So have you made any, you know, friends?”
“Mom.” He put on his special brand of charm. “That’s a no-win question. You know that, right?” he explained with a half-smile. “If I say no, I haven’t made any friends, you’ll worry about my social skills and that I’m
lonely. Right or wrong?” She nodded slightly, conceding. “If I say yes, I’ve made friends here, you’ll have a heart attack.”
Rae burst out laughing. He was pretty hilarious.
Then the real question: “Have some of your programs helped?” Mom was referring, of course, to substance abuse treatment without saying so. No one ever talked directly to Raelyn about these things, but it was obvious. Not to mention, she often eavesdropped on nighttime conversations from half way down the stairs.
“Yeah, Mom, they have,” he assured. “Don’t worry. I won’t be back here. Ever. Promise.” He held out his pinky finger, and she locked hers around it with a cautious smile. A pinky promise with her beloved first-born.
They took turns with updates. Dad grumbled about the colossal mess the legislature was facing. But his voice lit up when he spoke of his new software program at the college, color returning to his drained face. Mom had ordered an emergency air lift for a bleeding child—a victim of a head-on collision. She sometimes accompanied the victims in the helicopter on their way to the expansive city hospital. Raelyn always wanted just once in her life to fly with her mother in the helicopter! But, of course, it wasn’t allowed. She could lose her job.
Rae’s posture had accidentally returned to normal. She remarked how stupid it was to play badminton in gym class. How could you get a grade in badminton? Why was it called a birdie when it looked nothing like a bird?
“Chirp, chirp,” Jackson cooed beneath the radar (an inside, Mom-joke). Rae covered her giggle with full hands. The folks didn’t let on.
Attention, Inmates. The loudspeaker announced. Roll call. Chairs skidded everywhere, and the teenage boy in gray at each table stood at attention. The place grew completely silent. By the time the process was completed, visiting hours were nearly over.
As much as the parents wished he wouldn’t, Jackson brought the parting conversation back to Penelope. “If I was out there, I’d be on the streets protesting! I’d make sure my voice was heard.” He made a valiant fist, his tattoo bumpy from veins and muscles.
The Thing at the Edge of Blundertown Page 3