by Maria Padian
And where she’s—hopefully—waiting for me.
The Shackeltons’ long driveway is lined with cars from the basketball boys, and I duck behind each of them as I make my way toward the road. The rain has picked up, and my blouse clings to me like plastic wrap. My soaked skirt winds wetly against my knees; my waterlogged sneakers squinch.
There is no way I’m going to be able to explain this to Mami.
At the end of the driveway, I turn left . . . and am blinded by headlights from a car parked a few feet from the Shackeltons’ mailbox. I almost fall backwards.
Then I hear, “Izzy! Get in!”
Roz. She’s pulled the car just off to one side, so it’s half on the road, half in the ditch. The passenger door swings wide. I scramble in, still blinking from the light. I land on something warm and wet.
Frank. He whimpers and jumps into the back seat.
“Oh my god! What’s he doing here?”
Roz reaches back and scratches the top of the dog’s head. “He caught up with me in the woods, and the only way I could get him to shut up was to pick him up. He’s actually very friendly.”
“What are you doing here?” I demand. Why aren’t you waiting for me back where we parked? I don’t add.
“Do I have perfect timing, or what?” she says. Frank barks. As if he’s agreeing with her.
“So what happens next?” I ask. “We add dog nabbing to the list of this evening’s entertainments?”
“You want him?” Roz asks. “The Rodent might get jealous.”
Roz isn’t a fan of our dog, Paquito Schultz. “Paco” for short. A dachshund-Chihuahua mix, he once nipped her when she accidentally stepped on his tail. Since then, she only refers to him as the Rodent.
“Seriously, Roz.”
“Take him back, I guess.”
“Oh? And how’s that? Knock on the door and say, ‘Hey, while we were trespassing on your property and stalking your son, we stole your dog! Here he is! Bye!’”
Roz does one of her sort-of laughs. But I wasn’t trying to be funny. “Nah. You can just carry him to their yard and let him go. He’ll probably scratch at the door and they’ll let him in.” She looks at me. Waiting.
“Hold on, what ‘you’ are you talking about?”
“They know me, Izzy. I can’t carry Frank back.”
“I didn’t steal him!”
“Neither did I. It was a rescue. He followed me and would have gotten lost.”
“Oh, that’s a pile of—”
“Don’t! Don’t swear, Isabella!” Roz interrupts. Frank barks again. “You know swearing is a sin.”
For some reason this pisses me off more than anything else. It’s not like she doesn’t make Catholic jokes 24/7. But right now, in my wet, muddy uniform—way late getting home and facing a tirade from Mami about violating the Roz Rules—I’m in no mood for jokes about sin.
I reach behind the seat, grab Frank by his collar, and pull him into my lap. He gazes at me with his bulging bug eyes and licks the tip of my nose.
“You’re lucky I like pugs,” I tell him. I turn to Roz. “Just so you know, I’m doing this because if we leave the dog out here, he might get hit by a car.”
“You’re so good, Izzy. Or should I call you Saint Isabella?”
“And for the record, I’m not the one who’s chicken. You are.”
No retort. I got her there.
I climb out of the car, dog in my arms, and retrace my steps down the long, dark driveway. When the lights of the house come into view, Frank begins to squirm. I let him down and he rockets off. I treat myself to one last look at the Shackeltons’ glowing house, then hustle back to the car.
Roz has the engine running, and pulls away the moment I close the door. Neither of us speaks for a while.
“I told you we’d see bugs,” Roz says, finally breaking the stalemate.
“I saw Sam,” I tell her. She glances at me, waiting. “One hell of a bug.”
“Helluva bug,” she agrees.
Another moment of silence, and then the two of us give in to the adrenaline and begin laughing hysterically.
It’s amazing how quickly I forgive her.
2
The whole drive back from the Shackeltons’ I’m wondering what story I’m going to come up with that might save me from the Wrath of Mami. As we pull alongside the Jenkinses’ home, I notice an unfamiliar car parked across the road next to ours.
“You got company,” Roz comments.
I can’t help but glance at the dark windows where she lives. “You don’t,” I say, swinging open the car door.
“Surprise, surprise,” she remarks. “Let’s see if my dear mother left anything for dinner before she hit the bars.”
“How could she ‘hit the bars’? You have the car.”
Roz hesitates, narrows her eyes before answering. “Shawn’s back,” she says. Which is all she needs to say. Shawn Shifflett is the latest—and not greatest—in her mom’s revolving door of boyfriends. His most recent expulsion came in the middle of the night and involved yelling, cops called, and objects hurled at his black pickup as he roared off. Somewhere in all that, there was pounding on our door. Mami opened it while I huddled on the bed with my little brother, Jack, who was freaked out by the noise.
It was Roz, shaking, in her pajamas. Mami wrapped her in a blanket off her own bed, made her tea, and let her stay the night. The next morning, when everything was quiet, Roz went home.
No one had ever come looking for her. I don’t think Gloria even noticed that her daughter had gone missing.
“You okay?” I ask her.
“Sure,” she answers. “Whatever.” She opens her door. The rain has picked up. “See ya.” Roz quick-steps away from the car. Only when I see her lights flick on do I grab my backpack and trudge to our door.
And there’s Narthex Lady, the woman who passes out bulletins every Sunday in our church lobby (aka the narthex), perched on one of the high three-legged stools at the kitchen counter. She and Mami hold coffee mugs.
“Ay, Dios mío!” Mami exclaims when she gets a look at me. She always emotes in Spanish.
“Sorry I’m late,” I begin, ever so lamely. I still don’t have an alibi.
“Whoa,” says Jack from the Scrouch, aka the scratchy excuse for a couch Mami picked up at a yard sale, upholstered in some faux-tweedy, highly flammable material. He’s watching television, Paco on his lap. “What happened to you?”
“Hi,” I say instead, smiling at Narthex Lady while I try to wrestle my feet from my soaked sneakers.
Mami, tsk-tsking, approaches me with a dry dish towel. “Isabella, you know Mrs. May from church, right?” She begins daubing my head with the towel; I’m dripping on the entry mat. Anyone who has ever attended Sunday Mass at St. Bernadette Roman Catholic Church knows Narthex Lady, with the beehive hairdo and radioactive smile.
“Call me Brenda,” Mrs. May says.
“Mrs. Brenda,” Mami prompts.
I grab the towel from her annoying patting hands. “Sure. Hi,” I repeat.
Now Mami is frowning and examining the brown stains on my wet blouse. I cover them with the towel, pretending to dry myself off. Meanwhile, Paco has bounded off Jack’s lap and sniffs me with great interest. I must be coated in pug residue.
“You’re soaked!” Jack observes with delight. My little brother is relentless.
“Yeah,” I agree. “I had a cappella, and instead of the late bus I got a ride home. She took the long way, we got caught in the rain, and . . . I’m sorry, would you excuse me?” I look at Narthex Lady. “I’m just going to go dry off.”
She smiles. “Of course, dear, don’t mind me. I was just leaving.”
Before Mami can press the issue, I beat it down the hall to my room, Paco panting at my heels. I’ve barely peeled off my soaked blouse and bra an
d yanked a dry T-shirt over my head when Jack bangs my door open.
“Hey! Privacy?” I tell him. “Out.”
He throws himself on my bed, which takes up most of the tiny room. Paco is curled in the center of the comforter like a little bagel. Jack rests his head on the dog’s tummy, and the two of them grin at me.
“Oh whatever,” I grumble, pulling on gray sweats. “What’s Narthex Lady doing here?”
“You mean Mrs. Brenda?” he says with exaggerated emphasis. Even my six-year-old brother recognizes the humor in Mami’s attempts to teach us some manners. “I want her to go, I’m hungry,” he complains.
“What’s for dinner?” I ask.
“Arroz con pollo,” he whines. His favorite. And my little brother is not good at waiting, especially not for food.
I join them on the bed. “She’ll be gone soon,” I tell Jack. “How was your day?”
He bounces up, startling Paco. “Awesome!” He’s revving up. Dude needs protein. I listen through the door: Mami and Mrs. Brenda are still chatting.
“Yeah? What made it so awesome?” I ask.
“Well,” Jack says, squinching his nose in concentration. It’s this very cute thing he does, as if his brain is wired to his nasal passages. Wiggle the nose and thought happens. “First, lunch was awesome.”
“What’d they have?”
“Italian dunkers!” he exclaims, bouncing just a little.
“No way. They had those last week.”
He straightens up to display telltale marinara stains streaking the front of his shirt, the result of “dunking” fried mozzarella in red sauce.
“Okay, I believe you. What else made today awesome?”
“My team won four square at recess,” Jack continues. “And we had library! I got to pick a book. Can we read tonight?”
“Did you get something new?” I ask.
He holds his breath and doesn’t answer.
“Oh no, Jack. Not again. Please tell me you didn’t . . .”
He’s trying not to smile. But then he giggles. Then laughs. I glare at him, which only makes it worse, until finally he explodes with, “Piggie Pie!” In a screechy baby-voice. The one he uses when he’s upset or uncomfortable.
Piggie Pie is his favorite book and he keeps checking it out. Every week. Even though there are hundreds of books in his school library, and Piggie Pie is a picture book from the little-kids section. Jack should be checking out books from the Easy Readers shelf. Mami spoke to his teacher about this.
Correction: confronted his teacher about this. I lose count of all my mother’s epic takedowns, but that one I remember. We were driving home from Jack’s school after her first conference with his very young, just-hired teacher.
“Do you know what that imbécil said to me?” Mami’s voice shook, even though she was trying to keep it low. Jack was seated in the back.
I remember feeling my heart sink. Would Miss Mahaney, la imbécil in question, be another person in town I’d have to avoid following a “conversation” with Mami?
“She said,” Mami continued, “sometimes children who don’t own many, if any, books of their own become attached to one in the library’s collection. She said they keep checking it out so others can’t take it home. That way it feels like theirs.” Mami shot me a can-you-believe-it? look. “She said not to worry, let him have his ‘comfort’ book, he’ll eventually move on. So I said, ‘Really? Like, when he’s fourteen?’”
My heart sank further.
“I said to her, ‘Sweetheart, let me ask you something. If I had driven to this conference in a Lexus instead of a rusty Ford, wearing yoga pants instead of my nurse’s aide uniform, would you still think it’s okay that my son, the little brown boy, chooses books below his reading level?”
“Oh god,” I groaned. I couldn’t help it. It escaped me, like gas. Which only spurred her on.
“No, Isabella. Escúchame. I’m not wrong. Then she starts to get all, ‘Now, Mrs. Crawford, that’s not fair,’ and I say to her, ‘You bet I know it’s not fair. So here’s what’s going to happen. No more Piggie Pie. Unless he comes home with a chapter book, too.’ Well, then she starts in on how that’s not fair to the other children because they are only allowed one book each. So I said, ‘You know what? I think we should continue this conversation with your principal.’ And like that!” Mami snapped her fingers. She has this crazy loud snap that sounds like a whip cracking. “Jack is allowed two books.”
Here’s the thing: you don’t mess around with Margarita Garcia Crawford. Miss Mahaney learned that fast.
“Jack. Jack!”
He settles down. A bit.
“Did you get a second book?”
His smile fades. “Yes,” he says. Sighs. “Sam the Minuteman.”
I hold up my hand. He gives me a reluctant high five. “Awesome. We’ll read about Sam and piggies tonight.”
There’s a tap at my door. Mami.
“Mrs. Brenda is leaving. Come say goodbye,” she orders.
Jack bounds up. “Dinner!” He races down the hall. I’m about to follow him, but Mami puts a restraining hand on my arm.
“Who drove you home?” she asks, voice low.
She knows. She’s like a witch. I need to search her closet and find her crystal ball.
“Lindsey,” I lie. I force myself to look her in the eye. Lindsey Hale is a St. Veronica’s girl who lives on the other side of town, not far from the medical center where Mami works. Whenever she gives me a ride back to Clayton after school, I have her drop me there, claiming my mother’s shift is almost over and I can drive home with her. Sometimes that’s actually true.
Most times it’s not. But it’s only two miles between the medical center and Meadowbrook Gardens, so not much of a walk. I just wait until Lindsey pulls away, waving bye, see you tomorrow.
In the six months we’ve lived here, no one from St. Veronica’s has ever driven me all the way home. I always tell Mami they drop me at the Meadowbrook entrance to save time. I’ve already inconvenienced them, I explain. And we live so far in, all these little winding roads.
She’s never really bought that line, and sure doesn’t buy it now. She frowns. “I did not see a car pull up.”
I shrug, pushing past her and heading down the hall to the arroz con pollo. My mother’s chicken rocks and my stomach is complaining.
“What, it is pouring and she can’t take you to the door?” Mami demands, following me.
Jack has already perched himself on the stool vacated by Narthex Lady, a fork in one fist and a knife in the other. I sit on the one next to him.
“It’s fine,” I say, trying to put an end to the interrogation. “I don’t melt. What did Mrs. Brenda want?” I kick Jack under the counter. His face reddens as he fights to hold back giggles.
Mami doesn’t answer right away. She turns to the stove and begins shoveling steaming rice and chunks of chicken onto plates from her cast-iron pot. The kitchen smells like garlic and onions, peppers and olives.
“She is helping me fill out some papers,” Mami finally says, sliding very generous servings before us.
Jack attacks. I grab his arm.
“Wait, buddy,” I say.
He groans, but holds off until our mother hands us glasses of milk and fills a plate for herself. Then she stands, on the other side of the counter. There are only two stools.
“Okay,” she says. The three of us hold hands. Bow heads. “Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, through Christ, our Lord. Amen.” Release hands.
“Good Lord good meat good God let’s eat!” Jack roars, then shovels a massive forkful into his mouth.
Mami doesn’t react; he does this every night. Like it’s a tic. Ever since I told him it’s the prayer Daddy taught me.
Jack never met our father. Mami was five m
onths pregnant with him when we got word that Charlie Crawford had been killed in action. The only memories Jack has of him are the ones we share. Mami was pretty annoyed when I shared the good meat prayer.
She seems to have moved on from the wet-uniform-ride-home issue, but I’m not taking any chances.
“What sort of papers?” I ask. “Chicken’s great, by the way. D’you use the sazón?”
Mami shakes her head. “I think that MSG gives me headaches.”
“Mrs. Brenda was talking about the new house,” Jack says, mouth full.
I’m not sure I hear him right. “Whose new house?” I ask.
Mami suddenly seems very interested in separating a bay leaf from her pile of rice.
“Ummphf!” he exclaims. He’s added another forkful. At this point his mouth is so stuffed, he’s beyond intelligible sound.
“Jack, slow down,” Mami says. “You’ll choke.”
Jack’s jaws work the food, chawing methodically until he clears his throat. “That’s the other thing! That made today awesome!” he exclaims.
I’m confused.
“Our house!” Jack cries. “Izzy, we’re moving! To a real house!”
I feel my head snap up, my muscles seize. I look at my mother, but she’s turned her back to me while she fumbles around with something under the sink. She’s not making eye contact.
What. The. Hell.
3
Despite what she thinks, Roz’s timing is anything but perfect.
Especially this afternoon. Mami and Jack are due home soon, then we’re heading to the Mystery Location. And here’s Roz at the door.
I’m just off the bus, home for maybe thirty seconds, when she knocks, calling out “Hey, Izzy!” as she walks in. I’m in the kitchen hunting snacks, haven’t even changed clothes yet. Does she watch for me out her window?
I glance at the wall clock over the stove. We have a little time.
I pull a Sprite from the fridge and toss the can to her. I check out the options in the cupboard. “Cheetos or Doritos?”
