Not What did she say? Not Did she talk to you? Just What did she tell you? Which meant that Mama assumed El would speak to Riley, and that whatever she said was somehow a threat to Mama.
How odd . . . and tantalizing.
El’s voice played through her mind in the exact inflection of resignation and grief, and Riley knew there was more to this story than a girl and a mother failing to get along. She should have followed El. She should have made certain the girl was okay. Why hadn’t she done that?
“She just thanked me for existing, which was weird.”
Mama took a step toward her, but seemed to think better of squaring off. Her arms fell, and the sweater knotted over her shoulders sagged.
“You expect me to believe you don’t know where she is?”
“Why the fuck would she tell me where she was going?”
There was an inelegant snort, then the woman wrenched open the car door and collected a tablet that had been sitting on the center console. It was already displaying a blog page titled “Love Under Glass”, the whole thing a moody palette of green and gray. Riley tipped forward and examined the smaller print, and suddenly Mama was shoving it into her hands.
“You don’t know about this? With the way you kids are these days? Carrying on with gossip and posting your lives all over the internet.”
Riley peered from the tablet to the woman’s grimace. If Mama Glasse got any louder, Dad would wake up. “I’m not gonna talk to you if you shriek at me, lady. Just so you know. I’m not your daughter, and that shit doesn’t work on me.”
“Whateva.”
With a curious finger, Riley poked the webpage. A description popped up, and as her gaze swept over it, her pulse went topsy-turvy.
Call me Snow. 17; She/her pronouns, please. This blog is a confession I can never speak. It’s meant for her—the girl I love—but she will never read it. I want to stop hiding, but it isn’t safe, so I write to get these thoughts out of my skull. I watch her all day long, waiting for every opportunity to be close to her, to know her, to wish and hope, but she never even notices. I want to charm her or give her something to admire, but I fall short. No surprise in that, because R is aloof and strong and beautiful. Someone braver than I will make her very happy. She deserves that.
There are no reblogs here. Every entry is original material. Tags include #R #Poems #mylife and #asks
Mouth hanging open, blood raging, Riley scrolled through a few of the most recent entries and realized what she was looking at. The whole thing, every single bit of it, was dedicated to this dream girl—R—who sassed bullies, rode a motorcycle, and worked at an ice cream parlor . . .
“What . . . the fuck is this?”
“It’s a sick love letter to you, obviously!” Mama Glasse snatched the tablet from her. “She’s been writing it down in that stupid book an’ copyin’ it here somehow. You’re tellin’ me you didn’t know about it?”
Riley blinked, her mind spinning around wasted moments and kicking itself in a drunken spiral. “If I did, don’t you think I would have hit on her at least once?”
The medically preserved face flooded with blotchy color, somehow inhumanly pink cast in dawn colors. “Why on earth would you do that?”
Riley frowned. What kind of mother asked that sort of question? She didn’t have much experience with moms, but she was fairly certain that fuzzy euphoria was supposed to overlap all things that moms did. They were supposed to talk their kids up, not down.
“Uh. Because she’s smart and hot, and I like that sort of thing?”
Mrs. Glasse issued a sound of disgust and climbed back into her metallic behemoth. “As if I’d ever let such sin into my family.”
“Hey, lady . . .” Riley shut her door, not as careful as she should have been about slamming it on the white-clad chicken legs. “Sounds like it’s already in, no matter what you do. Maybe you should rethink your life strategy. Try not being such a bitch and maybe loving the kid the way God obviously made her?”
The engine turned over, and to her surprise, the woman took hold of her wrist and leaned through the window to glare at her. “If I find out that you or your ex-con daddy know anything about where Elyrra’s gone and you haven’t told me, I will make your lives a living hell. Believe that.”
In the face of battle, Riley never could resist a grin.
“Wow . . . hard to see why she left!”
As the car spat pebbles, she blew a kiss to the rearview. The moment the SUV turned the tree-lined corner, Riley dashed back to her computer.
“Now, see here, missy,” Mama began with a sharp nail pointed to her nose. “I will pick you up here in one hour. And you will stay here and wait for me, do you understand me?”
Another screaming lecture about the behavior of ladies toward their men and the evils of ditching school, combined with a sleepless night of nervous energy, had left El drained, but the profound feeling of resolution was a steadying force. She ignored the finger and looked the woman in the eye. This would be, if she was lucky, the last time she would ever lay eyes on Mama, and though she had expected to feel regret, all she felt was relief.
“After that stunt you pulled, you’re not going one damn inch without me watching you like a hawk! Apparently, that’s something you need. And at seventeen years old! Your sister was going to all her pageant rehearsals alone by this age, and you don’t see her getting into fights in front of the whole town or punching her boyfriend in the face! I won’t have it! I won’t have you turning into a hoodlum from the slums.”
“Why do you think you have any control over who I am as a person?”
Mama’s eyes flew wide. For a moment, her mouth hung open in astonishment.
“I’m not your pet, you know. I’m a human being, but you’ve only ever treated Rose and me like inconveniences you tolerate if they pay off. We’re purse dogs trained not to bite or bark.” El opened the car door when her mother made no reply and stood looking at her in the chilling gusts from the air conditioner. She needed to say her piece, but it couldn’t sound like a goodbye, because if it did, her mother would move too quickly to stop her. “I want you to know that I don’t like you. I never have. I never will. And I think you are a tremendous hypocrite who should be ashamed of herself.”
At last, her mother’s mute awe shriveled up into encyclopedic contempt. It was clear she already had a number of choice words lined up like a row of soldiers, but as she fired the first, El slammed the door in her face.
Her heart beating with furious elation, El ignored the shrieking from the window. As usual, she cut around the sanctuary to the office door and ducked into the covered breezeway. Mama’s SUV sat there for a long while, and the speakers and shouting were so loud, El could hear her mother making an incensed phone call. As if on cue, the phone inside her backpack began to buzz, but last night had been the last time she’d be summoned to account, made to stand and listen to a tyrant spit venom at her because they needed an outlet.
Turning off the device, El popped open the cartridge and removed the SIM chip. With it out, Mama could not track her, but she would keep it, just in case it ever came to a Prodigal necessity. Making her way to the classrooms at the back, she liberated her pack and changed clothes. The SIM was secured in a tiny pouch meant for medications. When the phone came back to life, El tested the internet, finding that it would link with the church’s wi-fi and allow her to log into her accounts.
She sent one coded email to Oscar. A few apps were checked, calculations made, plans set in reservation numbers and email receipts, and her journey began.
There was only one thing left to do.
At the ice cream parlor, she took one last, long look through the plate glass window, her chest so cramped with emotions that she could scarcely breathe. As their eyes met and Riley’s face lit up, El withered a little. This moment alone seemed to reawaken all the pessimism she’d tried so hard to stifle. Words spilled out, but made no sense, and her thoughts were too addled to correct her. Riley’s b
row furrowed in concern, crushing El’s nerve in a single tick. El turned on her heel, and with one backward glance, said the thing she’d prayed for years she would never have to say.
“Goodbye, Riley Vanator.”
Riley shouted after her, but El’s misery ran over. Sneaking around the building, she dropped her pack on the ground and pressed her fingers into her eye sockets. She wanted to sob, but it felt so wrong. If Riley knew what El was doing, she would want her to be strong, and most importantly, Riley would never want to be the reason for sadness. El controlled her heart with measured breathing and regulated her feelings with the recitation of all the dates and times of her escape. Within a minute, she could stand up straight again and lift her burden.
For the fourth day in a row, El tapped her bank account for the full daily withdrawal amount. With the transaction complete, she stood staring at the card. It was a tether to her past and she hated it. Even the thought of keeping it for security made her cringe.
Taking a deposit envelope, she stuck the card inside and dropped it in the night slot.
That was the end of that.
Twelve hundred dollars had to see her across the country and into her new life. She had never existed within any kind of financial limitations. The very concept of it was foreign and unnerving, the anxiety compelling her to snatch up the coupons as she stepped into the department store. Walking through the aisles, reading each tiny square carefully, she worked her way through non-perishable foods, found a bar of soap and a cheap roll of toilet paper. A reloadable Visa card for her cash, a first aid kit, a pair of cheap sunglasses. The electronics department had a contract-free smartphone for a reasonable price. Chewing on her thumbnail in the cosmetics department, El selected a bleaching and a dying kit.
Her train didn’t leave until midnight. Mama would be looking for her, but wouldn’t come to the Walmart to check until closer to bedtime. That would be more than enough time to transform into a less glamorous version of her sister, one who was making a cross-country trip alone, one who was running from emotional agony and was tired to her core.
Purchases made, she retreated to the restroom and read through all the instructions. It seemed simple enough, but something profoundly embarrassing hit her as she sat on the toilet trying to plan her next move: she couldn’t wash her hair in a Walmart sink. Too many people would see her! They might even complain to the management! She’d have to stand there and be criticized by someone barely older than her. It might even get her thrown out, and there was no telling if the police might get involved or her mother called.
How did homeless people do this?
El sat frowning in consternation at the open box, certain she was doomed. There was no way a spoiled, privileged girl like her could ever accomplish what she was attempting! She lacked the ingenuity, the survival instincts. She couldn’t even swear without apologizing. How was she going to learn how to bathe in a sink without being ashamed?
Stuffing everything into her bag, El wandered back out into the store, her numb mind looking over shelves without seeing them. She ate a meager dinner in the sandwich shop, gazing out over the brightly lit commerce with increasing worry. There was only so much time, and it would take her at least an hour to walk back to the station. She couldn’t return to the church, because the alarm would be set by now, but there weren’t any other places between here and the station with a restroom friendly to such things.
El had no choice. She was just going to have to do it, and that must be the secret really. She just had to see her own success as being more important than anyone’s opinion of her. Necessity demanded she compromise her ego, so that was what she would do.
Riley would scoff and use some choice words. Perhaps she’d tell a story about all the fascinating ways she’d done bizarre things to her own unruly hair. But above all, Riley would encourage her to be brave.
Mind made up, El cut back through the store and into the restroom. The bleach was easily applied inside the stall. She spent the forty minutes setting up her new phone and docking it with the store’s wi-fi.
Texting Oscar to ask if he got her itineraries, she got a confused emoji as a reply.
?
Why did you break up your trip like this? Why not just fly here?
El used the camera to check her hair. It was a patchy orange color and her scalp was beginning to burn. This would certainly be interesting.
I had to. Flights were $800+. This is half that and if I know my mom, she will check the airport first, bc she doesn’t think I can handle myself. This way, I move around the country in smaller increments too difficult for her to track, paying for everything in cash.
Oscar sent a voice message howling with laughter and calling her the most dyed-in-the-wool spy he’d ever met.
Not dyed just yet. Wool is still curing.
Is it even close to yellow?
She listened to the room and when it was empty, snuck out to get a better look at herself in the mirror. Parts of it had indeed gone bright orange-yellow, but not all of it.
Does it matter if it’s not all the way white?
Not really. The dye will do some of the work. It might look like shit, but you’re not trying to be a beauty queen.
Snorting, El tucked the phone into her pocket.
It might have been a better idea to use a little more of her reserves, or risk using Rose’s card again at a salon, just to have this done right. As she stared into her own eyes, however, she knew there was no way. Everyone in this town knew her sister. She could never get away with that farce.
A Walmart sink it was.
Mama would laugh and call her white trash. Riley would tell her to rock on.
The door opened. A woman burned her with an askance as she stepped into an available stall, expression twisting into scorn as she took in El’s rugged clothes and the caked tresses. Hands on the sink, El clenched her teeth and swallowed her feelings.
This was going to keep happening. For the foreseeable future, she was going to be judged. She was going to be talked down to. She was going to be cast out and laughed at and called a host of names. She was going to feel picked on, bullied, desperate. That was just how it was going to be.
But . . . how was that different from every other day in her life? So it came from strangers. That was in many ways better than it coming from her own family.
The blue eyes in the mirror were haunted by that long-fought sorrow. She could look into them and see her own story so easily. Her life had been nothing but ridicule and torture, the constant chipping and picking that ate a person down into dust. And yet, here she was, still standing.
Suddenly, it didn’t seem so impossible. Suddenly, she didn’t give a good goddamn about the woman in the stall behind her, or the staff of the store, or her mother’s mean-spirited abuse.
Tipping forward, she rinsed the pale blue foam out of her hair, massaging it carefully. Her scalp thanked her, and when she stood up, it was much lighter than she’d expected, though by no means perfect.
Strangers came and went, saying nothing aloud. A clerk in a blue smock entered and departed with nothing more than a sniff as El dutifully cleaned the mess with a handful of paper towels. No one commented as she dumped a bottle of golden chemicals onto her crown and worked them through the damp mane.
As she twisted the lathered knot up and clipped it into place for its half hour of processing, an ancient old woman with coke-bottle glasses stared at her like an insect blinking back disbelief.
“What color are you doing?”
Surprised, El took a moment to remember how to speak. “Blonde.”
The wrinkled face split into a warm smile. “I was blonde once! It was fine, I think, but my favorite color was black. Oh, I worked so hard to get jet-black, but I never could. My hair was just too orange. It always faded into green. Of course, that could have been because I was doing it in my girlfriend’s backyard with a bottle of ink.”
El’s emotions were so raw that the image was painfully am
using. Though her laugh echoed around her, tears had begun to spill down her face.
“Why ink?”
“All I had. Mama wouldn’t let me get dye. Course, then my daughter started doing hers with powdered drinks, do you believe that? Who puts Kool-Aid in their hair? Smelled good, though.” She patted her own snow-white curls. “Now my great-granddaughter wants me to put pink in it. She says the white will make it easy. I think it’d look like cotton candy. What do you think?”
El dabbed her face dry and nodded. “I know a girl with pink hair. I think it looks really pretty.”
The crone cackled. “Oh my, what would the girls at the club say! They’d be so shocked! But who cares what they think? They’re gonna be dead in six months anyway. They better be anyway. I have a bet to win.”
While El fought her giggles for breath, the old woman stroked her arm and bade her a gentle farewell. A glimmer in her enormous eyes said she knew exactly what she’d done for El, and El had no trouble thanking her.
She applied her costume in makeshift layers, toasting her hair beneath the hand dryer, pulling it up into a haphazard bun, applying cosmetics with her fingers and a pocket mirror. The makeup was a bit easier, because she’d been watching Rose do it for years and practicing every day for a week. It was a little too much or too little here and there, but all in all, it was as good as she could get it.
On her way out the door, she snapped a photo for Oscar.
Holy shit. You look really different.
Yeah but do I look like my sister . . . who duh, IS a beauty queen.
The ellipsis was on the screen for a long while before he came back on with one of Rose’s pageant pictures, cut into a side-by-side comparison.
OMG I did not know! Goddamn! But that’s ok, because it means regular people won’t know who she is either.
That was difficult to imagine. She is always put together tho, and I look messy.
Gurl, it’s close enough for an ID check. Now you just have to behave like an adult.
How do I do that?
Stop giving a fuck. Act like every single thing you have to do is annoying as balls and you need a drink.
Love Under Glasse Page 11
