Right. Connie. Mrs. Morales. Rosie’s grandmother.
Mom points the flowers at me. “I’m not making another excuse for you. Get dressed in something nice and let’s go.” I don’t move. “Come on. Everyone will be there. Angie and Happy and Adrian.”
I pick my head up. “Adrian will be there?”
“Of course. He’s Rosie’s uncle. The whole family will be there.” Mom turns her head and tries to hide a smile. “He’s a nice boy. Connie says he doesn’t have a girlfriend.”
I place my head back on the table. “Great,” I mumble.
At least it’s not as hot now. It’s starting to be fall, sort of. Later, I come out of my room wearing khaki pants and a black turtleneck that I ordered online. Mom turns me right back around and makes me change into one of the frilly blouses she bought me for school. I put a camisole on underneath it, but still the neck slips too far. I’m going to have to be careful.
Mom gathers up the flowers and the doll for Rosie wrapped in sparkly pink-and-yellow paper. “Teddy should be here any minute.” She moves to the front door.
I take a slow step behind her. “Is there a reason why Teddy is coming?” I can’t hide the ire in my voice.
She raises an eyebrow, but lets it go. “He didn’t have anything else going on today. And I told him there would be cake.”
On cue, Teddy’s truck rumbles around the corner. “Can you lock the door?” Mom asks, using her head to motion to her full arms.
I pull my house key out of my pocket. It’s suspended from a cheap, made-in-China rubber key chain of a distorted Mount Rushmore. The presidents don’t have faces. Just dots of black paint where eyes should be.
It came from a gas station near the highway. They had something from each of the fifty states. A peach for Georgia. A chile pepper for New Mexico. The Space Needle for Washington. You could pretend to have gone anywhere and have a key chain to prove it.
Teddy gives me a big grin. I don’t return it. Mom steps out of the way so that I can slide into the middle seat. When she gets in, I huddle against her so that no part of me touches Teddy. He hums a song instead of turning on the radio. Mom smiles.
—
There’s so much noise coming from the Morales house—loud voices, shrieking, running footsteps—that we can hear it from the street. No one answers the door when we ring the bell. Teddy puts his hand on the knob and tests it. The door pops open. He sticks his head in, shrugs, and opens the door for us to pass through.
I don’t make it all the way inside before I’m sideswiped by a blur in a blue party dress. Rosie throws her arms around my legs. “Hi, Betsy!” she yells.
I peel her off me.
“Don’t you look pretty,” Mom coos. Rosie lifts the sides of her dress and curtsies. Mom claps.
Mrs. Morales bustles around the corner, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Come in, come in,” she says. Mom presents her with the flowers, and Mrs. Morales leans in to give Mom a one-armed hug and a kiss on the cheek.
I don’t realize my back is pressed into the door until Mrs. Morales focuses on me. She waves me toward her. “Come, Betsy. Everyone is outside.” I take a step forward, and she places her arm over my shoulder. I’m taller than she is, so it’s awkward, but it’s also nice, warm.
She walks me out to the backyard. Mr. Morales has the grill fired up. Smoke rising from it fills the air with the mouthwatering smell of cooking meat and partially obscures his face. He raises his spatula and hairy arm at me in greeting.
Another man, not too much older than me, hovers next to the grill with an empty plate. I’ve seen him before at C&J’s. I recognize the tattoo of a cross surrounded by roses on the inside of his forearm. He looks like he wants to say something to me. I keep walking.
Adults holding beer bottles or red plastic cups of punch mill around a table covered with food. Happy stands alone at the far end and plucks one potato chip at a time out of a giant bowl. She looks hopefully at a passing couple, but they either don’t see her or don’t want to see her.
When she sees me, a smile explodes across her face. “You came.”
I shrug and then remember to stand up straight to keep my blouse in its proper place. Happy stuffs a handful of chips into her mouth, like she just ran out of willpower. She points at Mom and Teddy. “Who’s that man that’s always around?” Potato chip flecks rain from her mouth. “Is he your mom’s boyfriend?”
“No,” I say forcefully. “He’s some old friend of Mom’s who pretends he’s my uncle and tells me what to do.” I can’t stop the bitterness from leaking out in my voice.
“I’ve had some of those,” Happy says. Mom laughs and slaps Teddy playfully on the shoulder. “At least he’s nice to your mom, right?”
I nod. Happy looks off into the distance, watching an old memory. I recognize that face. I’ve seen it in the mirror. I want to hug her, ask her to tell me her story. Share my story with her.
My arms stay by my sides. I can’t get attached. I’ve learned my lesson about what can happen when you get attached.
Happy waves at a boy who’s sitting in the corner of the yard playing with his cell phone. “That’s my boyfriend, Tomás. He’s Rosie’s other uncle.” She rubs her thickening belly. “My baby will be Rosie’s cousin.”
I narrow my eyes. I can’t keep track of all these people. Happy laughs. “It’s confusing, huh?” She slides the chip bowl to the side and uses her finger to draw an imaginary family tree.
“Adrian and Angie are brother and sister. Angie and Lawrence”—she points to the guy with the tattoo—“are Rosie’s parents. Tomás is Lawrence’s brother. So Tomás is Rosie’s uncle, and our baby will be her cousin. See?”
No. But I nod anyway. Happy giggles. “It doesn’t matter. We’re all family.”
Tomás walks over to us, his thumbs still texting. He puts the phone into his pocket.
“This is Betsy,” Happy says, and wraps her arm around his. He wears dark sunglasses that obscure his eyes. It’s unnerving.
“Nice to meet you,” I say. He gives me a chin raise. Then we stand there in silence, his dark glasses focused squarely on me. He doesn’t move. I can tell he’s sizing me up. But he has the advantage. He can see every move my eyes make.
His phone buzzes in his pocket. Happy’s smile fades as she lets go of his arm. He moves back to his spot in the corner.
“Tomás thinks you’re a narc,” Happy says.
I snap my head over to her. “What?”
“You know, like when the cops recruit people who are, like, twenty-five but look young, to go into high schools and make friends. Then they bust everyone with pot in their lockers.”
“What?” I ask again. “Why?”
Happy shrugs. “I don’t remember anyone ever moving to San Justo out of the blue. And you don’t say much. No one knows what your deal is.”
“I’m not a narc.” I laugh, but it’s too forced, too unbelievable.
Happy smiles. “I know. I think that’s only on TV anyway. Ever since this”—she points at her belly—“Tomás’s been super paranoid. Besides, I like that you’re mysterious,” she adds, and then sweeps her arm around the yard. “Everyone here knows every single thing that has happened to me since the day I was born. I don’t get to have secrets.” She sighs. “Eventually, they will know everything about you, too.” She gives me the same smile Mom did earlier. “Adrian’s been asking about you.”
I try to keep my face neutral, but the pain in my stomach forces bile into my throat. “I have to go to the bathroom,” I say, and stumble back into a man who has to hold his beer way out in front of him to keep from spilling it. “Sorry,” I mumble. “Sorry,” I say again as I rush past Mr. Morales and into the house.
I duck into the bathroom and dry heave twice into the toilet. I sit on the floor with my back against the counter. Tomás thinks I’m an undercover cop. A spurt of maniacal laughter leaves my mouth, but then I’m hanging over the toilet again. This time I throw the bile up. It burns my throat and
sears my tongue. I wipe my mouth with a piece of toilet paper and lie down on the fuzzy green bath mat.
The only thing I know about narcs is that girls like me get them killed.
I hear Adrian’s low voice in a back bedroom. If I’m going to stay alive, Adrian has to think I’m a weird, shy girl who occasionally visits his parents’ restaurant. That’s it. I can’t draw attention to myself. I can’t have him wondering about me, talking to people, making phone calls. Bringing the black monster to life under my bed.
The shrill giggle of little girls joins Adrian’s deep ha-ha laugh.
Everyone on the other side of this door thinks he’s perfect. Someone you would trust to watch your house while you’re on vacation, someone who would sign up for your charity walk, someone you would leave your kids with. It’s so, so easy to be misled. To not see the danger right in front of your nose.
The little girls laugh again.
I was misled too the first time. But now I know. You can’t trust anyone.
I won’t let Adrian do it. I won’t let it happen again.
I propel myself to my feet and open the door a crack. The hallway is clear. I dash out into the living room. I need a plan. Then I see it. A crystal bowl filled with those pastel-colored, chalky mints that melt in your mouth. I grab it and tiptoe to the bedroom.
I peek around the open door. Adrian has his back to me, with five little girls gathered around him. They’re playing a board game. Adrian rolls a three and moves his piece four spaces.
“That’s too many,” one of the girls squeals.
“No it’s not. See: one…two…three.” He moves it five spaces this time. All the girls giggle. But one girl’s face isn’t as bright as the others. She sits a little farther away. Her overalls clash with the frilly dresses. She watches the game but doesn’t participate.
She’s the one.
I can save her.
I wave. She looks up. I wave more frantically and point to the bowl of candies. She hesitantly stands up. The others don’t notice her walk to the door. It’s terrifyingly easy for me to lead her into the hallway.
I hand her a mint and kneel down to her level. “Do you want to go play outside with me?”
She shakes her head and looks back at the game. I give her another mint. “Come on, let’s go outside.” She steps back into the room. I can’t let her do that. I take her hand and pull gently.
I’ve almost got her to safety when, in the living room, she yanks away from me. The force sends the mints flying and showers us in a pink and green rain. She bumps her head into the wall.
It isn’t hard. She’s more startled than hurt, but it’s still enough for her to cry. I drop down to my knees. “It’s okay,” I say to her. “Don’t cry.” Don’t cry, or Adrian will come out and get us.
The girl stumbles to the sliding glass door. A woman opens it and takes the girl into her arms. “What happened?” she asks the girl, but then raises her eyes to me on my knees in the scattering of mints.
Mom, Teddy, Mr. Morales, and several other people peer inside.
“She, uh…” I look up, and Adrian has come into the hallway. He steps forward until he towers over me. “She wanted a mint and bumped her head.” I wave a hand at the wall, like that explains everything.
I glance down, away from Adrian’s scrutiny. In the kerfuffle, the top of my blouse has dipped down. My exposed skin stares up at me. Adrian can see down my shirt. I slap my hands over my chest and leap to my feet. I have to get out of here. Now.
Adrian’s between me and the front door. I push past him hard, careen outside, and take off blindly down the street.
—
Teddy’s truck circles the block for a fifth time. The first time, he tried to convince me to get in. The second time, I gave him the finger. I don’t know how long I’ve been walking, but it’s getting dark.
On Teddy’s twelfth circle, I flag him down. It’s totally dark now. I crawl into the truck when it stops. He opens his mouth, but I put my hand up to stop him. I don’t want to hear it.
When he deposits me at home, I give the same hand to Mom and slam the door to my room. I pull the black monster out. My evening routine. I expect it to be hot in my hands from all the missed calls after the party. But it isn’t. It’s cold.
It buzzes. The familiar number, the one with the fucking Washington area code, pops up on the screen. I send it to voice mail. I don’t want to talk to him. I know what he’s going to say. Not that it matters. I won’t be alive twenty-four hours from now anyway. If Adrian didn’t know who I was before, he knows now. I’ve signed my own death warrant.
Lying to Mom is easy. I told her I had to work. It’s my night off, but she doesn’t pay attention to things like that.
Marie’s house is painted blue. It has an honest-to-God white picket fence that separates its little front yard from the sidewalk. Masses of tall, white, sweet-smelling flowers hang over the pathway to the door and glow under the gray skies. The first time I saw the house’s steeply pitched roof and trim that matched the flowers was when an anonymous social worker said soothing things and helped me out of the car with my gently used teddy bear. I thought I was going to be living in a fairy tale. That I would get to be a princess.
I still have a key. I could unlock the door and go inside, but this isn’t my house anymore. I ring the doorbell.
Marie hugs me on the front porch. Without her heels she has to stand on her toes. “Dinner’s almost ready,” she says.
She motions to the side table next to the door where a stack of envelopes marked with the Clairmont High Explorers symbol—the Earth with satellites buzzing in electron-like tracks around it—sits. They’re addressed to “the parent or guardian of Kayla Asher.” Marie hasn’t opened them.
Whereas Marie doesn’t tolerate lying and makes that clear on the first day with her new charges, this is one lie she lets slip by. The reason I get to stay at Clairmont and don’t have to transfer to Northside is because the school thinks I still live here.
I wish I still did.
Marie sticks her head out of the kitchen. “Come meet my new little bear.”
Marie has had lots of little bears over the years. Their school pictures line the mantel over the fireplace in the living room.
I was her only little mouse.
A boy, whose chin barely clears it, sits at the table. His hair stands straight up off his head, like he’s been electrocuted. His dark eyes are wide. He hasn’t been here long.
“Hi, I’m Kayla,” I say with a bright smile. He doesn’t acknowledge me. His gaze is fixed on his plate and the solitary mound of broccoli in the middle of it.
Marie puts a plate down in front of me. I look at it and then at her. She nods. My eyes well up, and I have to sniffle hard. Next to my pile of broccoli is a big helping of macaroni and cheese.
I’m an adult now.
I have to set the example. I pierce a broccoli tree with my fork and pop it into my mouth. Marie does the same thing. When we foster kids showed up at Marie’s, most of us had never seen a vegetable before. And all of us, for as long as we lived here, had a plate of vegetables placed in front of us while our favorite foods hovered nearby. No broccoli, then no mac and cheese, or pizza, or lasagna.
It worked. Without even thinking about it, I still eat my vegetables first.
The new boy sniffs at the broccoli. I know what’s running through his head. He’s been on his own from day one. He’s developed a certain discipline. He can outlast Marie. We all thought that in the beginning.
Marie will wait forever.
Marie hands me a dripping plate, and I dry it and stack it in the cupboard. The new boy still stares at the cold green aliens in front of him. I turn my back, but out of the corner of my eye, I see him sneak one. Marie smiles knowingly at me.
Before I head back to Bluebird Estates, I slip into the guest room. This was my room. It’s missing my clothes and stuffed animals, but otherwise, it’s trapped in time, waiting for me.
It m
akes me swallow hard. I want to lie on the bed and refuse to get up again. I want to stay and never go back to Bluebird Estates. Never go back to Mom. I blink to clear my eyes and feel like a traitor.
In the back of the closet there’s a loose piece of molding. I pry it open to reveal a place where the dry wall has been hollowed out. Marie doesn’t know it’s here. It was empty when I found it, but it became a place for my special things. Things I couldn’t stand to take with me to Bluebird Estates.
I pull the wad of pictures and papers out of the hidden cubby. In the beginning it was just little things I found. A nice leaf, a perfume sample from one of Carol Alexander’s magazines. Then it was A+ smiley-face spelling tests.
At the end of eighth grade, when I was returned to Bluebird Estates and my newly clean and sober mother, I realized Marie had saved my life. Because of her I was okay. I wasn’t going to be one of those foster kids who ended up on the streets addicted, beaten, and used. Marie gave me a chance to live a real life. A good life.
I began to think that maybe I could do that for someone someday. I started collecting newspaper and magazine articles that would remind me. Horrible stories about children being abused and neglected. I don’t know yet what I’m going to do about it, but I smooth out my stack and go through it every time I visit Marie.
I hear water running. The bedtime ritual has started. I roll up my papers and old treasures and replace them in the wall.
Jordan’s acorn is still in my pocket. I can’t get him out of my head. And I’ve realized something. The acorn and the stuff about potential were more than a pick-up line. It was like he saw a little piece of my soul in the oak leaf and responded in kind. That’s never happened to me before.
I lay the acorn on top of my other things. This way I will always have it and the memory of how it felt when Jordan gave it to me.
I press the molding closed over the hole.
“Good night,” I call to Marie, and slip out the front door before she can answer. Taking my leave quickly, like ripping off a Band-Aid, is the most humane way to go. For Marie and for me.
The Truth Beneath the Lies Page 4