Where I Live

by Brenda Rufener

  It is in that moment that I agree to join the boys for homecoming.

  Ham says, “I’ll do anything for love,” and Seung whispers, “So will I.” I mean, who can resist this shit?

  My two tugboats passing in the night.

  With an arm twist, a bend, and one mighty yank, I concede. Our triangle is going to homecoming as an equilateral shape.

  But for some reason, I can’t help but feel the punch of a big mistake, deep in the pit of my gut. Can I still fly under the radar when the Friday-night lights beam?

  Chapter Eight

  COMMITMENT TO HOMECOMING WAS EASY. Harder for me were the fine print and footnotes tangling my life. Details demanding my attention include hair, makeup, shoes. Don’t even get me started on a dress I can’t afford. All things I discounted because I was busy imagining what it’d be like to dance with Seung, sink my fingers into his hair, graze my lips against his. I’ll go! I’ll go! my imagination shouted. Pick me! Take me! Let me be someone I can’t afford to be, someone I don’t have time to be.

  “What’s the magazine?” Seung asks, clamping his teeth around a Cheese Country cheddar-and-cucumber hoagie.

  I push my back into the cushioned booth. “Total Style!” I flip the page, not at all embarrassed by the reading material I swiped from the library. “Apparently this homecoming thing means girls wear dresses and boys wear pants. Somebody scream sexism.” I snap the glossy page.

  Seung wipes mustard from his lip and says, “Homecoming is not sexist, Linden. It’s all perception.”

  “Well, I don’t see girls on football fields in jerseys and helmets. Not at Hinderwood, anyway. We are so behind the times.”

  “The dance?” Seung squints. “How is it sexist?”

  I sigh, ready to step up to my proverbial podium. “Homecoming is a quintessential American tradition, where boys are kings in tuxes and girls are queens in satin sashes and tiaras. How is that not sexist?”

  Seung shrugs and says, “Some girls like tiaras and satin sashes.” He bites another chunk out of his sandwich and smiles.

  “Well, what if a guy wants to wear a dress or a girl wants to wear a tux? At other schools, this happens. But not here. Not at Hinderwood High.”

  “Because here is the size of this.” Seung makes a pinhole by pinching his fingers together. “Everywhere else”—he stretches his arms out—“is this size.”

  The doorbells jingle and three students walk inside, followed by a lady in a plaid pencil skirt and heels. The chilly air smacks me in the face and I zip my jacket to my neck. The lady leans against the counter and asks, “What’s your special?” The guy at the register gives her a cold, flat answer. “Cheese.”

  I toss another cheddar-smothered fry into my mouth, happy to be sitting with Seung at Cheese Country. While I usually suggest Seung’s house for lunch, today I insisted on scoops of cheese on something fried because I found another ten-dollar bill beneath my locker. I love buying Seung lunch, even though he kicks and screams like a baby boy when I push away his money. The debt I owe Seung and his family is snowballing. I need to pay them back, even if it means spending money for lunch that could be used for a homecoming dress. But Seung’s worth every cent.

  “If you’re trying to back out of homecoming by playing a faulty sexist card,” Seung says, “it won’t work.”

  I smile and tear a chunk of bread from my grilled-cheese sandwich and throw it at Seung’s face. He catches it in his mouth and quickly eyeballs his drink while his cheeks blush.

  The lady from the counter passes our table, carrying her tray, and says hello to Seung, speaking to his forehead. He won’t unlock his eyes from his drink. Her heels clomp and her blond curls bounce as she trots to the booth behind us. She wipes the table with napkins before sitting down, then leans in for a bite of what appears to be the chicken four-cheese wrap.

  “Can I be honest about something?” I say.

  Seung stirs his soda with his straw. “I’d rather you be honest than lie.”

  Ouch. I think about what to say, how to say it. Lying to Seung hurts my heart. The worst part about lying to those you love is that you question if they are worth the truth. If I told Seung who I am, where I’m from, where I live, would he wonder why I held the truth from him for so long? Would he think I believed he wasn’t worth the truth? I’ve dug a hole I can’t climb out of. Coming clean, telling Seung I’m homeless, rips apart everything I’ve worked hard to achieve. A place to live, friends to love, hope to hold on to.

  When you’re an orphaned teen, hope becomes stronger than fear. Hope makes you travel hundreds of miles in the back of an unlocked camper trailer with $3,000 stuffed in your backpack. Hope makes you remember the money your mother hid for you.

  “In case of an emergency,” she said. “In case I’m not around to take care of you,” she said. “In case you need to take care of yourself.”

  Hope makes you work odd jobs at your grandmother’s nursing home, accepting food over money. Hope strengthens you when your grandmother dies and the only shelter you find is a tin-roofed, weedy baseball dugout.

  My mother told me if anything happened to her I should run, hide, fight for my life. Giving up meant giving in. For just over a year I’ve played this game of hiding in plain sight. If I fold now, I become a ward of the state and lose control of my life and everyone in it. When I turn eighteen, I’m home free.

  The lady in the booth behind us sneezes, and Seung turns and says, “Gesundheit.”

  “Thank you.” She smiles, her teeth shining behind matte lips, and slips her arms into her blazer. Right away I notice the silver and blue letters.

  KOIN 6. Principal Falsetto’s sister, the TV journalist.

  She lifts her tray from the table and sets it on a receptacle, then trots out the door, darting across the street to the parking lot and climbing into a compact white car.

  “That’s the news lady.” I tap on the pane. “The one Kristen said was asking about me. The one who spoke to Ham.”

  Seung glances out the window. “Wonder why she didn’t talk to you, then.”

  I shrug, thinking the same thing. Maybe she didn’t recognize me. Maybe she doesn’t know who I am.

  Seung clears his throat. “You were going to be honest about something?”

  My throat tightens. “Oh, yeah. I was.”

  Seung rubs his chin on his shoulder. “Well?”

  I gulp air, several times, and begin my partial truths. “Number one. I can’t afford a new dress.” True. “Number two. I can’t find a real job.” Almost true. The nursing home offers little income and there aren’t enough Saturdays between now and homecoming to make money cleaning Bea’s house. Real employers, unwilling to pay in cash, want a home address. “Number three. My stepdad won’t pay for shit.” False. I don’t have a stepdad, but I imagine if I had one, he wouldn’t pay for shit.

  Seung wiggles his straw up and down and chews the inside of his cheek like it’s a steak. I mean, veggie burger. “I’m pretty sure I can help,” he says, and we finally make eye contact.

  During last period I fight to keep my eyes open, but the combination of a sleepless night and layers of cheddar on my Cheese Country grilled-cheese sandwich summons the sandman with open arms and closed eyes. I do the bob-and-jerk until someone pounds on the door, causing me to slam straight up in my chair, boot-camp ready. I hit my book with my arm and send it flying off my desk. It slaps the tile with a whole lot of power.

  Mr. George rushes to the door. It’s Principal Falsetto. She bursts into the room and says, “Please stay seated when the bell rings.”

  Someone shouts, “Lockdown!”

  “No. No.” Principal Falsetto says, palms in the air. “No lockdown.”

  I crane my neck but can’t see through the guy’s thick one in front of me. Principal Falsetto and Mr. George whisper with mouths aimed at the chalkboard, and then she walks toward the door on her tiptoes. The bell rings and Mr. George shouts a quick reminder to sit still, wait for clearance. I do the opposite
.

  “As head reporter of Hinderwood High, I need to know what’s going on,” I say when I reach Mr. George.

  “Seriously, Linden? Does anything ever go on in this school, in this town?”

  I shrug. “Well, what’s going on?”

  “Fight in the hall. Coach Jenkins is handling it.”

  I side-eye Mr. George, but he’s telling the truth.

  “Who’s fighting?” I glance out the window of the door. Reed walks by with Coach Jenkins.

  “Have anything you need proofed?” Mr. George says, interrupting my peeping. Proofed is Mr. George’s code word for reviewing my stuff before it’s posted to the school blog.

  “Nope,” I say. “Still in research mode.” Research mode is code for I haven’t done anything but plan to get right on it before Mr. George inquires again.

  “Let’s talk soon about the scholarship project,” Mr. George says. “I’m anxious to hear your ideas.”

  I smile and shoot Mr. George a thumbs-up. He offers concerned father’s eyes, so I barrel back to my desk before he decides to talk research.

  A couple of minutes pass and Mr. George tells the class we can leave. I look around for Principal Falsetto in the hall. Now is as good a time as any to find out why her sister is speaking with my friends about me. It’s probably nothing, maybe even coincidental, but when you have shit to hide like I do, loose ends must be tied up. I glance around the hall. No principal, and I don’t have time to look for her.

  I shoot by Seung, and he smiles and nods and stares at me for an un-Seung-like amount of time. I reciprocate the nod and grin, then beeline to my locker. It’s time to go to work. Make money. Pad Linden’s homecoming-dress fund.

  At the front steps of the Nowhere Near Like Home nursing home, the bleach smell punches my nose, then burns my eyes. Callie, the newest nursing assistant, the one who changes bedpans and wipes asses and should earn a six-figure salary, opens the door and ushers me in. The door combination changes every couple of weeks, which is why Callie answered my knock. I ask if she will write down the new code, and she does without question. It’s all about confidence when you want, or need, something. My mother taught me that.

  “Hello, Ethel,” I say to a wheelchaired lady wrapped in a pink jumpsuit.

  Ethel waves, but I’m not convinced she remembers me.

  I pass the nurses’ station and tap the bell three times to wake them up.

  “Linden Rose!” Eva, the head nurse, shouts. “Where have you been, little lady?”

  “Here and there,” I say, grinning. “Well, mainly school.”

  “You study hard, little girl,” Eva says. “Make your grandmother proud.”

  Eva, my grandmother’s nurse until she died, has known me since I stumbled into town last year, drenched in sweat and desperate to find the grandmother I’d piecemealed details about. I knew little about her. She and my mother weren’t exactly close. She never joined us on holidays, sent birthday cards filled with cash, or popped in unannounced with an armload of homemade fudge. I didn’t even know what my grandmother looked like, sounded like, when I arrived on the nursing-home steps. She could have been any puckered-lip lady perched on a paisley couch. But, for some reason, I wasn’t worried about finding her. An address and a broken heart pulled me toward her. I imagined love pushing me, steering me, guiding me, toward the one person on earth who could fill the void I felt from losing my mom. I didn’t need to know my grandmother to love her. She’d given birth to the woman I adored. She was the only family I had left. Now she’s gone, too.

  “Thought I’d see if anyone would like me to read to them,” I say to Eva as I round the corner of the nursing desk. She signals my clearance with a wave.

  The first room I hit is Mr. Wallace’s. He’s a fighter. Well, he and Mr. James, another resident. Mr. Wallace and Mr. James like to argue over saltshakers at lunch, couch cushions near the piano, and nurses who give the best back rubs. Mr. Wallace thinks one of the nurses is his reincarnated wife. I’ll never judge.

  I peek around the corner to make sure Mr. Wallace is alone, and clothed. He’s sitting on the edge of his bed, rocking and humming.

  “Hello, Mr. Wallace!” I shout. “Remember me? Linden Rose?”

  “Honey, come in. Hand me that channel changer.” I do as I’m told.

  Mr. Wallace hits mute and I ask him if he wants me to read to him tonight. He shouts, “No!” Not mean, but in a hard-to-hear-you-and-I-refuse-to-wear-my-hearing-aids way. “I don’t listen, I watch!”

  “No problem, Mr. Wallace.” I pat his shoulder and shout, “I’ll catch you next time!”

  The next room belongs to Peggy. She’s a talker.

  “Hello?” I knock on the doorjamb. “Miss Peggy? It’s me, Linden Rose.”

  “Linden, dear, come in. Hurry, now—you’ll let in a draft.”

  I shut the door behind me and ask Miss Peggy if she would like a magazine story read. She chuckles but agrees to let me read a new book she said one of the aides left behind last week. She’s whispering and I’m whispering back, and I don’t know exactly why she’s shushing me until I see the cover of the book. Fifty Shades of Grey. Nice work, Miss Peggy. But I will not be reading it to my elders.

  “You have to be eighteen to read this book,” I lie, “so you’ll have to find someone else.”

  Miss Peggy huffs, but she slips me two dollars on my way out and says it’s prepayment for next week. Then she winks, twice. I remind her that I won’t be eighteen next week, either, and shudder after I close the door. Again, no judgment toward Miss Peggy, but I don’t think I can stomach reading that book to someone’s great-grandmother.

  The last room on the right is oversized compared to the single units. The room belongs to Margaret. Maggie is what her husband called her. He died a few months ago. Cancer. He lived in here, too, but they’ve since removed his bed.

  “Miss Margaret,” I say, and she turns around from the window. She clutches a photo in her hand.

  “Linden. Sweetie. Come in.”

  “How are you doing?”

  “Today’s been tough.”

  She places the framed wedding picture on the bed and reaches for my hands. “You miss him, huh?” I say.

  “You have no idea how much.”

  I walk to the portable CD player perched on a stand. “Do you mind?” She smiles and nods. I pick up another picture of her husband. He’s twenty and hot in a wiry-rock-star sort of way. I push play. The music is cued where I stopped it last time. I slide the picture frame into Margaret’s wrinkled hands, and she eases into her chair.

  I kneel beside her chair and rock her back and forth with my hand since she is too weak to push her feet against the carpet and too focused on hearing her husband sing on the rerecorded CD. He was in a band when they met. She says she was a groupie. But they fell in love and it worked, and the magic lasted decades.

  I hate thinking about her loss.

  I fight the tears. Margaret’s eyes and cheeks are damp. She sings along with gentle breaths and quick blinks. She knows every word, every note, every pause.

  Three songs are her limit.

  When she nods, I hit the player and cue it up for next time, then wait a minute before saying good-bye. Her eyes are closed tight and she’s pinching the bridge of her nose.

  I bend over her rocking chair and whisper, “Good-bye, Maggie,” beside her ear. A smile spreads across her face.

  I tiptoe to the door to leave Margaret with memories of her husband, and she says, “Linden, dear. Go fetch my purse.”

  I wave my hands. “Oh, no, Miss Margaret. You don’t need to.”

  She swats the air. “Of course I don’t need to, dear. But there’s a difference between need and want.”

  I shake my head. That’s not why I’m here, in her room, helping her hear her husband’s voice.

  “Linden, please.”

  “But . . .”

  “But nothing. I need my purse before you leave.”

  I hand her the bag and she hold
s up twenty bucks. I promise myself not to spend it on anything un-love-worthy.

  Chapter Nine

  “DO YOU FIND THE THEME for homecoming—how shall I say this?—racist?” Ham slams his notebook shut and falls back on the couch. He flicks a piece of popcorn onto the coffee table, pinches it between his fingers, and tosses it into his mouth.

  I side-eye Seung. He’s running his finger over a list of vocabulary words, pausing at each one, and whispering to himself. For the last seven days we’ve been prepping for the SAT. It’s one of my better ideas lately, because (1) we need good scores if the Triangle wants to attend college together, (2) our study sessions keep me occupied after school, so I can (a) procrastinate on the story Mr. George insists I write, and (b) spend time with the guys, with Seung.

  Added bonus includes hanging in a heated house five to six nights a week. The schedule is well ironed now because I’ve made it back into the school every night this week to sleep in the theater room covered in velvet curtains. If it weren’t for the occasional knocking of pipes in the night, I’d say I’m living in luxury.

  “Racist?” Seung asks, glancing up from the word list.

  Ham drops his voice a couple of octaves and says, “‘Whispers of the Orient.’ You’re the one who said, ‘Oriental is for rugs, not people, Ham, you fucking douchebag.’”

  Seung Frisbee-throws a couch pillow at Ham’s face. It’s standard SAT-prep. Same bickering, same pillow tosses—different night.

  “So, Linden,” Seung says. “Did you get your homecoming dress or tux?”

  I rattle off reasons for my lack of formal wear, and that I’m planning to refuse said dress because of my opposition to sexist conformance. Basically, I’m rambling about the right to choose between dresses and pants, when someone knocks on the basement door.

  “What?” Seung shouts. Ham and I jump.

  Mrs. Rhee peeks around the wall. “Sorry to interrupt, but you’ll be glad I did.”

  The smell of fresh baked goods filters through the basement, which knows Mrs. Rhee’s baking all too well. I’m hit by the goodness that is Toll House chocolate-chip cookies. Homemade by the hands of a mother.