“I figured you did when you dropped the ten-dollar bill at the dugout this morning.” My head falls against his shoulder.
“Well, I wasn’t certain until then.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
The SAT
SUPPOSEDLY THE BIGGEST TEST OF our lives.
We skip it.
Go to the park instead.
We kiss. We swing. We kiss.
We walk. We kiss. We hold hands.
We kiss.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
MR. GEORGE WANTS TO TALK. Code for interrogation. Code for You skipped the SAT; prepare for shit to fly.
“You better have a good reason. Both of you.” Mr. George hits the newsroom door, mouth moving, words flying. “The SAT, Linden, Seung. Your futures, Linden, Seung. Tell me you have an excuse, Linden, Seung.”
Seung and I look at each other and smile.
Once we calm Mr. George down and ease him into his pastoral place with chatter about makeup test dates and with his French press filled with coffee, he addresses my plans, my future. He says, “Principal Falls saw your name missing from the SAT roster. She asked me what your plans are after graduation.” He clears his throat. “How’s that scholarship piece coming along, Linden?”
I flash a smile. A nod. Then shrug my shoulder, just one.
Mr. George frowns and I offer him his cup. He says, “Your shit, Linden. Do you have it together?”
Seung and I stare at Mr. George with eyes wide. It’s almost comforting to hear him swear. His honesty oozes and flows, like his genuine care for us all.
I nod again and say, “Yes, sir. I have my shit together. It’s just taken longer than planned.”
A rhythmic knock hits the door before I have to explain that I’m not talking about the scholarship article, but my actual shit. How it’s taken forever for me to get it together, but I believe I finally have, and now want to come clean, at least with Mr. George. He scurries to the door.
Principal Falsetto’s sister enters, along with two guys in khakis and matching polo shirts. The men carry black leather bags marked with the KOIN 6 logo. The smell of a good morning fills my nose. Miss Sunshine sports a microphone clipped to her royal blue sweater. She says, “Mr. George. Good to see you again. I hope I’m not late for our meeting.”
Mr. George cocks his head in my direction but refuses eye contact. “Yeah,” he says. “They were just leaving.”
“We were?” Seung asks.
“You were,” Mr. George answers.
I linger at the door, cracking it to listen. Principal Falsetto’s sister tosses twenty questions at Mr. George, giving him no time to answer even one.
“What’s that about?” Seung asks.
“No idea,” I say, but I pick up on buzzwords like Principal Falls, SAT, and homeless shelter.
“I answered a couple of questions,” Ham says, wiping nacho cheese dip from his upper lip. He breaks a fry in half and dunks it finger deep. “Miss Sunshine asked me if I knew you on a personal level.”
I wait for the guy at the front counter to finish shouting, “Order up,” then ask, “What did you say?” I’m fighting to stay focused on why Principal Falsetto’s sister is speaking with Mr. George. She said she wanted to chat with me the next time she was in town. But she hasn’t. As far as I know, she’s only spoken to Ham and Mr. George.
I lift Seung’s hand off my knee and swirl his knuckles with my finger.
Seung ignores my hint and massages my knee with both hands.
“Then what?” I ask, getting impatient. “What did you tell her, Ham? Did you ask her why she was so interested in me?”
“Or why she doesn’t talk to Linden herself?” Seung says.
Ham huffs. “Look, Linden. It was a while ago. Memory’s a little hazy after the wreck. I mean, I could be dead, you know. Should be dead. Yet here I am, ready to share my story with the world.”
Now it’s Seung’s turn to huff. “If she’s so interested in Linden, why hasn’t she talked to me?” He slides his arm around my back and Ham winces.
“I’m not used to you two, you know, all touchy and shit.”
Seung presses his chest against me and says, “You mean this?” He licks my cheek. I repeat, he licks my cheek.
“That’s just wrong,” Ham says, and I push Seung back onto his side of the booth.
Secretly I adore Seung 2.0 and his physical affection bursting with overconfidence. It’s refreshing, really. But I can’t stop thinking about the journalist lady. I wonder if her sister, our principal, even knows she’s questioning students, midweek and during school hours. Has she even checked in at the office?
I lean over and kiss Seung on the side of his mouth. He reaches for me with both hands, but I slide out of the booth and say, “I’ll find out for myself. Pick me up after school.”
I bump into Jarrell on my way out the door and race for the crosswalk.
“Hey, Linden. Is Ham inside?” Jarrell shouts.
“He is!” I yell, running across the street. “Go find him! Tell him how you feel!”
When I reach the front office of the school, Principal Falsetto is in a meeting. I say, “I’ll wait,” and the office manager says, “You’ll be waiting awhile.”
I wander into the hall, finding my way back to the newsroom. With Principal Falsetto busy, Mr. George is next in line. Besides, he was speaking to the source of my confusion and I need to know why. She said she wanted to share journalism stuff with me the next time she was in town. Well, here I am, and she hasn’t looked me up, just rushed me out the door and asked questions behind my back.
I glance through the window and barge in the door. “Mr. George. We need to talk.”
Mr. George looks up, stone-faced, while Principal Falsetto’s sister tilts her head and smiles. Mr. George chomps on his cheek and kneads his forehead like he’s molding clay.
I extend my arm and Miss Sunshine reaches for my fingers. “We meet again,” she says, and squeezes my hand like she’s trying to send a message. “You’re the one I’d like to speak to, now that I’ve spoken with everyone else.”
Mr. George clears his throat and interrupts before I agree to talk. “I didn’t ask,” he says, “but have you checked in at the office?”
Miss Sunshine fidgets, fluffs her bangs. She looks nervous, but I suspect her nerves are made of metal. She smiles again, at Mr. George. “Of course.”
Mr. George squeezes my shoulder. “Okay then, Linden,” he says. “Keep it brief. I need you in class, and to reschedule your test date. We have a lot of work to do.”
When Mr. George leaves, Principal Falsetto’s sister nestles into his chair and invites me to take a seat. She says, “Call me Helen,” and I nod.
She tips her head, signaling that it’s my turn to talk.
The only question I don’t answer at first is “What’s your address?”
She slings information she shouldn’t, couldn’t, possibly know. She says Principal Falls contacted her a few months ago after becoming suspicious and started poking around. She says, “My sister normally doesn’t see the forest for the trees, but sometimes she’s full of surprises, especially when her students are involved.”
Principal Falls found an old article and sent the link to her journalist sister. She asked if she could get in trouble for not helping, because she never knew. Miss Sunshine, I mean Helen, says, “It’s only when people look that they see.”
The article said there was a teenage girl found in a closet. The same one who ran away from the morgue.
She asks if I know this person and if I think she needs help.
She asks if I know where this person lives, and I wonder why she’s playing this game.
I glance at the window in the door, hopeful I’ll find Mr. George’s shadow or maybe Seung’s face. All I see is blank space.
Miss Sunshine tells me she has connections to move mountains and in my mind I picture anthills. She says she’ll find me a place to live, and in my mind I see distance. From my friends,
the people I love. She thinks she knows what’s best for me. She thinks she’s my saving grace.
She tells me they found my mother’s killer and that I deserved to know.
She asks if she can quote me. Use my name in an article she’s writing for some big-name press. “I want to share your story,” she says. “How you hid in plain sight.”
She pauses for an answer, a breath. Taps her toe three times. She’s counting on the word yes. But it’s lodged in the back of my throat, far from the tip of my tongue.
“Is that why you’re here? To deliver the news?”
She nods. “Going where the story takes me.”
I scoff. “Well, it took you to everyone but me. Journalists go straight to the source, right?”
She opens her mouth to speak, then clamps it closed.
“Was he arrested?” I ask.
She nods again.
“Who is he? Who killed my mom?”
She pushes her hip against the desk and rakes her teeth across her lip. I’m not sure I’m ready to hear the answer I think I already know. For the first time in her career, I don’t think Miss Sunshine is ready to deliver the news.
“You sure you want to know?” she asks.
“I think I already do.”
She reaches for my hand. I let her take it. “He doesn’t know about you, Linden. He doesn’t have to, either. He thinks your mother gave you up for adoption when you were born. He knows nothing about you.” I stand and stumble. Miss Sunshine grabs my arm.
“Why’d he do it?” I ask. “Why’d he hurt her?” I shake my head but it won’t stop the room from whirling.
“We don’t know, Linden.” She stuffs her hand in her pocket and sighs. “I suppose because he could.” She palms my back. Pat. Pat. Pat. Swirls her fingers in circles and squeezes my shoulder.
Every time I move us forward, he pushes and pulls us back.
Who, Mama?
Every time I hide us, he finds us.
Who, Mama?
Every time we vanish, he appears.
Mama? Do I know him?
No, Linden. And he’ll never know you.
Miss Sunshine says my name three times and asks if I need her to find Mr. George. “I want to help you,” she claims. She promises my father doesn’t know I’m here. She swears he’ll never know where I am. I have to believe. What else can I do? I don’t want to run again.
I lift my bag over my shoulder, offer a smile that tells her I’m good, okay, fine enough to go. She steps back and I scoot toward the door. She says, “So about that story, Linden. I’d love it if you let me share. I’ll do it justice.”
I stop. So does the spinning ceiling. “I don’t think so. This isn’t your story to tell.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
PRINCIPAL FALSETTO CALLS ME OUT of Mr. George’s class. I sit, refusing to respond to my name on the intercom. I knew she’d call but didn’t expect it would be so soon.
Mr. George says, “Linden. Over here, please.”
By the time Mr. George quits talking, I’m panicked and pressured. He hands me a piece of paper from his briefcase: my curriculum vitae—course of my life.
Woman murdered in Portland apartment. Daughter found hiding in closet.
Daughter of deceased prostitute flees morgue. Social worker unable to locate child.
Ethel Rose, resident of Just Like Home in central Oregon, dies of complications caused by stroke. No known next of kin.
Linden Rose—no address on file.
Honor roll listings for 2018 include . . . Linden Rose. . . .
They don’t seal the gaps in between. Their dot-to-dot won’t connect. Facts aren’t really facts. Truths only partial. But good journalists take their jobs seriously. Wrap research in tight little bows. Miss Sunshine lives by the station’s slogan. Pushes Mr. George to the front line when I refuse to let her speak. Maybe she is watching out for us, for me.
“Is this you?” Mr. George asks, tapping his notes with his finger and gnawing his cheek like a gristly piece of meat.
“Daughter of deceased prostitute”? No. That’s not me. My mother was someone different to me. She read books, started classes, saved money for emergencies. She hid me every time he pounded on the door. She said, “He doesn’t know you exist. He won’t ever know.” She protected me, kept me safe, even after she died.
I draw my breath and stare at Mr. George’s face until his features blur behind the tears pooling in my eyes.
“Linden? It’s okay. You can tell me the truth.”
But the truth, Mr. George, will jeopardize my present, my future. If I tell him I live here, open my arms, and twirl like a princess showing off my room, my charade is over. Done. Kaput. No more Linden Rose, honor roll student, scholarship recipient, school journalist, or best friend. There will only be Linden Rose, runaway. Linden Rose, arrested for squatting in her high school. Linden Rose, prison bound.
“Linden? Where do you live?”
“Here and there,” I whisper.
“Do you stay with friends?”
“From time to time.”
“You’re homeless?”
He wants to hear the word. He wants confirmation. When I say it, everyone will shift into action. Do what they’re supposed to do. Send me away from the only family I have. The people who matter most. My stare should be blank, but words bubble and pop and push at my brain.
“I can’t leave here,” I blurt. “Please don’t let them send me away.”
Mr. George leans in, breaks the teacher rules of conduct, and places his hand on the top of my wrist. He squeezes and it feels like a promise. I have to believe it’s a promise.
“There should be a goddamn homeless shelter in this town,” he says.
Mr. George pats my hand, then straightens his tie. “We need to talk more about this, Linden, but Principal Falls is waiting for you.”
The room begins to whirl, or is it my ears? Ringing. Maybe my phone? I tap the screen, two hundred times. Mr. George promised. Didn’t he? He squeezed my hand as if to say, “You’re not alone.” Why do I feel so alone?
“Can’t you talk to her for me?” I plead. “Tell her I don’t want to leave?”
He shakes his head. “Go now, Linden. Don’t keep her waiting.”
I stuff my phone into my pocket. Nice knowing you, Mr. George.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
PRINCIPAL FALSETTO DRUMS HER DESK with the pink eraser capped to her pencil. She’s conflicted, confused, but masking it well. Her sister filled her in on important details concerning one of her honor-roll students.
“We want to help your situation, Linden. But you’re going to have to help us, too.”
I nod to the rhythm of her pencil, bopping and bouncing on her desk. I hear, Linden. Linden. Linden.
“Where have you been living?” She looks me in the eye, not to stare me down but to lift me up. She wants to help. Compassion smeared like concealer all over her face.
If I tell her the truth, my future stops as soon as I cough out the word.
I can’t stop fixating on the eraser, bumping up and down. Up, down.
“Linden?”
Bounce. Bounce.
“Where do you live?”
Bounce. Bounce.
“Linden?”
Bounce. Bounce. Bounce.
“Are you listening?”
Bounce. Bounce.
“Linden?”
Bounce.
“Here.”
Chapter Thirty
One Week Later
WHEN I WALK INTO THE newsroom, Mr. George and his husband are the first people I see. They smile. I smile back. Mr. and Mrs. Rhee are sitting in desk chairs with grins spread across their lips. They nod. I nod back. Mrs. Rhee rises and walks toward me with her arms open. I go in for the hug and the squeeze.
Ham’s parents are there, too, motioning to an empty chair beside them. The Royses insisted I move in with them, following the big reveal, but after a week of sleeping in a room next to Ham’s, I’m
ready for some space. We’re working through some sibling rivalry, especially where the bathroom’s concerned.
The social worker assigned to my case taps at her phone and scribbles notes on a yellow legal pad.
“We’re waiting for Principal Falls,” Mr. George announces.
“And Seung,” I say.
“And Seung.” Mr. George smiles, winks.
On cue, Seung enters, followed by Principal Falsetto. Seung tosses his bag into a chair and sits beside me. “Sorry I’m late,” he whispers.
Principal Falsetto greets the parents and perches on the edge of Mr. George’s desk. “Linden,” she says. “Thanks for coming.” As if I had a choice.
I nod and mouth, “Thank you,” and it flows from my heart.
“The reason for this meeting, as you all know, is that we’re concerned about Linden’s living arrangements. The Royses have been kind enough to offer their home, but things need to become formalized. At least temporarily. Decisions must be made.” Principal Falsetto nibbles the tip of her pen. “Correction,” she says, and motions to me. “We need Linden to make some decisions.”
I glance at Mrs. Rhee. She’s in front of me, and her entire face beams. “Linden,” she says, “we thought you could come live with us. We’d really love it if you would move in with our family.”
Seung shifts in his chair.
“We have a spare bedroom,” she continues. “And, although you’d share a bathroom with Seung, you would have your own space. We’d make sure of it.”
I side-eye Seung. His chair shifts have become squirms.
Mrs. Rhee’s smile is contagious, though. She tilts her head, eager for my answer, then glances at Seung. I puff my lips and blow air too loud, too much. Seung slips his hand into mine. “You okay?” he asks.
“Yep,” I peep out like a chick.
Seung laughs and we both fall back against our chairs. My shoulders relax and I drop my head against Seung’s arm.
“Seung,” Mrs. Rhee says, “tell Linden how much we want her to live with us.”
“Mom,” Seung says, his voice serious, “I’m not sure your idea is going to work.”
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