Parked

by Danielle Svetcov

  I want to ask, right away, about her job, but she throws an envelope of cash into my lap and falls back onto her bag, like, Here you go, here’s what you wanted, and I realize maybe it’s not any of my business how she’s earning it. If there were no me, she’d still be looking for her dream job. Maybe she’d have it. Maybe she just needed more time to look. I count the money. It’s not nearly enough for a person who’s always working, never sleeping. It won’t pay a month’s rent.

  She’s closed her eyes again. When she wakes up, we’ll talk. Sam will be back from vacation tomorrow, and we’ll get out of here. I want to hear about that, and what she knows about Julia Child, and gorgonzola.

  I watch her sleep. She looks exhausted, even asleep.

  I thought I was okay with her being gone all this time, but I’m so happy to have her here, in daylight hours.

  I feel inspired to brush my hair, change my shirt and underwear, open a bag of cereal. I watch the rest of the parade from her seat, with the window rolled down. I can smell spent firecrackers, corn dogs, and gasoline. I feel all right. I feel we are marching in the right general direction. We just need to move the van. And roll down the windows more often. It smells like dish soap and sweat again.

  The final float in the parade is sponsored by the Marina Beautification Committee and is made of three thousand blue lilacs, according to the sign hanging from the bumper. The same sign reads: REBEAUTIFY THE MARINA GREEN YARD-SALE FUND-RAISER, JULY 16. No mention of ridding the area of homeless squatters. That’s not Independence Day—appropriate, I bet.

  JULY 5

  Cal

  “There she is, up at the front.” I point, jumping a little, which I know Jeanne Ann would make fun of if she saw.

  Mom and I have just finished the school tour and are in line for registration. Mom, thrilled about her decision to send me to Marina Pacific Middle School, has still pointed out all the inefficiencies. Like how there should be three lines, not one, and “we should get to be in a special, expedited line because we completed all of our paperwork in advance.” Jeanne Ann said she’d join us, but she didn’t show up at our designated meeting place. I was sure it was over: She’d moved out of the city without even a goodbye. The entire tour I felt like a puddle, like someone could walk right through me.

  Then I saw her in line.

  “There,” I say again, so relieved. “See?” I think Mom thought I’d made her up. I haven’t told her much, just that a girl named Jeanne Ann exists.

  “Where?” Mom says. There are at least forty families ahead of us in line, snaking through the gym.

  I lean to the right for a better view.

  “See the girl in jeans with the red T-shirt, and the lady in green next to her?”

  Jeanne Ann is not in her usual overalls, which is kind of shocking and probably a good sign. Her mom is in a baggy sweatshirt over white jeans that don’t quite hit her ankles. Her hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail, which is making her face look . . . sharper.

  “Red shirt. Red shirt. Oh, yeah. I see her. Proud face,” Mom says, craning. “I can’t see the mom . . . Wait, whoa, now I do. She’s . . .”

  “Large,” I finish. “She cooks. Professionally.”

  “Really?” I think Mom’s impressed.

  “You guys own a lot of the same cookbooks,” I say.

  This is the longest conversation Mom and I have had in two weeks. There’s been no Julia Child, no classifieds; just shared early-bird dinners and occasional lunches, with conversations that end shortly after they begin. I’ve nearly forgotten how we used to be. Now she seems most interested in measuring me, to see if I’ve “grown” in the ways I’m supposed to. I can’t keep track of how many times she’s said “We are really making progress!”

  We are?

  “She wanted to work at Greenery,” I add.

  Mom squints for a better look. “Really?”

  “But she wouldn’t fill out the work-history forms.”

  Mom clucks. “Right. Mac told me something about that. Well, it’s a bad sign when they don’t want to fill out those forms. Mistakes they don’t want revisited.”

  On this and only this, I think Mom’s got it right.

  Jeanne Ann

  Mom must be two feet taller than Cal’s mom, but the way his mom stands—upright, like she’s leading a cavalry—and the way Mom stands—curled in, like she’s carrying a cavalry on her back—they’re practically even.

  We pass them as we’re leaving. Cal jumps out of line to grab my elbow.

  I wish I’d ducked. Cal is making introductions. Lizzie—his mom’s name—is smiling hugely, looking us up and down like she’s deciding whether to let us into her club. I guess it’s a good thing that Mom made me take off my overalls to wash them.

  “I missed the tour,” I say to Cal, stating the obvious. I am surprised by how bad I feel at not meeting him. I pretty much promised I would. “Mom got the day off and . . .” She had to sleep in . . . and take her uniform and stuff to the Laundromat . . . and sleep some more. She and I haven’t had the conversation about where she’s working yet, and what the plan is going forward. I keep trying to start it, and then something gets in the way.

  “I told you you’d meet a friend at work,” Lizzie says, shifting her gaze to Cal. “You see?” She winks at him like they share a secret.

  She has the same wet eyes as Cal—wide and alert—but besides that, the two look almost nothing alike. She reminds me of one of those small, muscly dogs—the ones where all the bones show through. She’s got dandelion-fuzz for hair.

  “We didn’t meet at Greenery,” he says. He steps toward her and then back, like he’s fighting some invisible pull.

  “Jeanne Ann, where did you meet my Cal?”

  He hasn’t told her. Okay. I try to be honest. “Outside.”

  “Outside?”

  “Outside.”

  “Outside is nice . . .” She turns toward Mom, not particularly interested in my answers. “I hear you’re a fan of the restaurant.”

  Mom looks at me, confused.

  “Where did you accept a position, in the end?” Lizzie continues.

  Blood is rushing into Mom’s face, turning her a purple red.

  Lizzie looks to Cal. “Cal, didn’t you say that Jeanne Ann’s mom applied to work at the restaurant?”

  “Yes,” he says, drooping a little. “My mom owns Greenery.” He looks at me dead-on for the briefest second.

  “You didn’t tell them before?” Lizzie peals. “Well, no wonder you’re all looking at me like I’ve got two heads. Cal!”

  A whistle blasts just as I’m building up a head of flames. His mom owns that restaurant?

  “Fellows? Jeanne Ann Fellows?!” A woman wearing a Marina Middle School sweatshirt strides toward us, accompanied by that Principal Dan guy. They stop, check a registration mug-shot against the face in front of them—mine. Then the woman thrusts some papers forward. “Incomplete registration. We need your address, here, and again here . . . and just one more time down here.”

  Principal Dan steps in front of her. “Whenever you’re able to get it filled out,” he says in a honey-calm voice that makes me want to swat him.

  “Mom?”

  “I told you, kid, I wasn’t ready for this,” Mom says, low, turning aside.

  I turn too. “I thought we could use Sam’s address—for now?” I whisper.

  Mom’s shaking her head. She’s wilted with her arms crossed. Cal’s studying her, like he’s looking for some evidence of . . . I’m not sure what. Principal Dan is studying her too.

  Nobody says anything, and as the seconds pass, I feel like the quicksand has got us and pulled us under.

  “When’s the latest they can give you an address?” Cal says, stepping between the paperwork and the rest of us. He and his mom have the same selling smile. I feel a warm drip of relief, st
arting near the back of my neck. I want to kick him and hug him at the same time.

  The registrar looks to Principal Dan and then us. “August third.” She seems reluctant to say it. She shakes the papers one last time. “But that’s the absolute last minute. Come back and fill in your new contact information as soon as you’ve got it, or we can’t promise you a desk on August twentieth.”

  Cal

  I’ve lost Jeanne Ann in the crowd. And possibly for all time.

  Mom can’t stop talking about her.

  “She’s got a tough-girl thing going. Right? There’s a spark to her. I bet she’s smart. I like her. Where are they moving?”

  She keeps reaching over for sloppy squeezes and ruffling my hair. We’re getting closer to the front of the registration line. My throat closes a little with every sneaker squeak on the gym floor. I can barely hear my own thoughts.

  I don’t want to think about Jeanne Ann’s spark. It’s likely smoldering right now, looking for a liar to incinerate. I really did mean to tell her about Mom and the restaurant. Eventually.

  Mom adjusts her purse, tucks some untamed hair behind her ear—it just pops out again.

  The girl in front of us in line sits for her registration photo, admiring her black lipstick in a pocket mirror and spit-polishing her boots before the camera flashes. She looks like she could kick my butt.

  The registrar—the one who asked for Jeanne Ann’s address—hands us papers, nudges me in front of the camera. The wait is over. FLASH. The camera snaps my picture before I’m ready.

  There goes my life.

  We walk out of the gym. I feel a little spaced out, like I’ve just inhaled helium from a balloon.

  I scan the sidewalk for Jeanne Ann.

  Mom swings an arm around my back; she can barely reach my shoulders.

  “I knew this was a worthy experiment. I knew it would work out.” She sounds so proud of herself.

  “You want to go home and read the classifieds?” I ask, curling toward her. If I’ve “adjusted” in the ways she wants, maybe we can go back to how we were. I think that’s what I want. I would rather read the classifieds with Jeanne Ann than anyone right now, but that option is probably totally and forever off the table.

  Mom smiles, continuing like she hasn’t heard. “Look how far you’ve come since that dark day in the Point Academy office. I’m so glad we dealt with that.” She actually claps.

  We begin the long walk home. Mom threads her arm through mine. “Where did you say Jeanne Ann’s moving?” I hope Jeanne Ann and her mom are discussing that very thing, right now. “Because her mother is going to need extremely high ceilings.”

  Jeanne Ann

  Mom and I don’t speak on the walk home until we’re a block from the van, and the words fill me and fill me till I just can’t keep the cork in. “What did you mean, back at the school, when you said you weren’t ready?”

  Mom widens her stride so that I can’t keep up without jogging.

  “Sam comes home today,” I say. “Right? It’s been three weeks. His address is on that letter he sent.” I shift to running sideways. “How come we couldn’t write that address down on my registration? What’s the worst that could happen? He collects our mail for a while, after we move to our own place. Then we just go back and get it from him.”

  Mom stops abruptly. She’s shaking her head and muttering something. She turns in every direction like a compass that’s lost its way, and finally settles on me. “Jeanne Ann.” It’s a croaky kind of bark. “Sam is not here.”

  “But he’s coming back.”

  “No.” She holds my gaze, but I can tell she’d rather not. “He’s not. He’s not coming back. If he was ever here, he’s left. I can’t find him.”

  She pulls out the worn envelope, removes the letter from inside, passes it to me. It’s practically disintegrated.

  “I don’t understand.” I can taste something bitter in my mouth.

  “I thought he was here.” She points to the ground. “He said he was here. He left his number in the letter. I called it after we visited his restaurant. The number didn’t work. It’s no one’s.”

  “Wha—why would he lie? Why would he make it all up?” I sound calm but I’m not.

  “ . . . He put in these details. About the city. That only someone who’d been here could know. About the gray-green light in the evening. And the way the air smells . . . like pickles and old milk. I read it and reread. You know. You saw me . . .”

  “Mom.”

  “Pride.” She sounds very sure, like she’s thought about it. “You would lie like that if you wanted someone to be proud of you, if you were pretty sure they’d never find out that you made it up.”

  “Did he ever work at that restaurant?”

  She shakes her head, gets quieter. “The manager said no. Maybe he visited, ate there. The return address on the envelope is a real place. I went there. It’s a stationery shop. He probably bought his stamps there.”

  I don’t know what to say. He tricked her. She tricked me.

  “You told Sandy about this but not me.”

  “I was going to solve this before you needed to know. You worry so much. For both of us.”

  But she didn’t solve it.

  “You still should have told me.” To passersby, I probably look like a little kid having a fit, pounding my own legs, but this is so much more than that. How do I explain it to her? It’s like giving someone the only copy of a book but tearing out the final pages. Why give them the book at all?

  She tries to place a hand on my head, but I dodge it. I cut ahead, cross to the opposite side of the street, and see black the rest of the way home.

  ADDRESSEE INCORRECT OR NO LONGER LIVES HERE, RETURN TO SENDER

  From: Chicago Public Library, Sulzer Branch

  Re. Notice of Overdue Books

  Date: July 5

  To: Jeanne Ann Fellows, 798 W. Wilson, Chicago, IL 60622

  This is a notice to inform you that the following books, checked out on May 8, are overdue:

  Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH

  Frankenstein

  El Deafo

  Oliver Twist

  Nooks & Crannies

  The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe

  The Golden Compass

  The Night Diary

  Hatchet

  Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

  The Lottery

  The Phantom Tollbooth

  The War That Saved My Life

  The Wolves of Willoughby Chase

  Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry

  A Long Way from Chicago

  One Crazy Summer

  The BFG

  Howl’s Moving Castle

  When You Reach Me

  Pippi Longstocking

  Swallows and Amazons

  The Little Princess

  Born Free

  Ballet Shoes

  The Penderwicks

  The Saturdays

  Brown Girl Dreaming

  101 Dalmatians

  From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler

  Merci Suárez Changes Gears

  Redwall

  The Railway Children

  Adventures of Huckleberry Finn

  A Little History of the World

  Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

  The Way Things Work

  Finance for Dummies

  Your fine is 25 cents a book, per day, or $294.50 total. If the books are not returned within 8 weeks, you will be fined for their entire value. Please call this branch library if you cannot locate the missing items or if you need to renew. Thank you, The Chicago Librarians

  JA, Now you really have us worried. Two returned overdue slips with the “incorrect
address” stamp? We called Uptown Branch, and Uptown called Lincoln Park, and Lincoln Park called River North, and River North called Logan Square, and no one has seen you this summer. Honey, you know what happens when you upset a crew of trained researchers . . . Yesterday, first thing, I sent Roberta, the new desk assistant, over to your apartment. Apparently there’s a very grouchy older man living there now . . . Apparently, he cried, “Mother?! Mother?!” when he saw Roberta—all 24 years of her—and then slammed the door in her face. So, you clearly don’t live there anymore. Where do you live? We’re going to birddog this till we get our answer. Prepare to be located. In the meantime, read up, as we’ll require a backlog of book reviews when we reach you.

  —Head hound, Marilyn Jablonsky

  JULY 6

  Jeanne Ann

  The used-book store salesman draws out a long “Ssssssssssssssssssssss” as he turns pages, looking for damage.

  “She never cooked from them,” I insist. She doesn’t know what she’s doing, I’m tempted to add, but don’t. “They’re worth more than five dollars,” I say instead.

  I waited till Mom left for work—wherever that is—then grabbed two of her cookbooks, The Thrill of the Grill by nobody I’ve heard of and The Way to Cook by the Julia Child, and I clomped back up to the used-book store. On her book jacket, Julia Child looks exactly like the person I saw on TV. Jolly, can-do. What use is she to Mom now? Mom’s lifting crates of soap off trucks, for all I know. We don’t even have a kitchen.

  The salesman flips another page, moving at a turtle’s pace. I think he’s reading the recipes instead of inspecting the condition of the book.

  I pat the mound of cash in my overalls. I’m still saving the money from my sold books to help pay our first month’s rent. But with the cookbook money, I’m going to buy myself a sandwich—a fat hoagie—and a pastry at Greenery, full price. If I can’t go to middle school, at least I can eat like someone with half a brain.

  The clerk scratches his scalp. “Five dollars? I don’t think so.” This is the same clerk as last time. “Cookbooks lose their value like all other books. Yesterday’s recipes aren’t today’s. My mother served beef tongue when I was a kid. Does your mother serve beef tongue?” He’s really smug, this guy.