by Maria Padian
“You’ll stay here tonight,” I tell her. I know I don’t need to ask Mami.
“Thanks,” she says, not looking up.
“You could just stay all the time,” Jack suggests. Then burps. “The Scrouch pulls out, you know. Into a bed.”
Roz glances at me over his head. One corner of her mouth curls up. A bit. “Yeah? I’ll bet it’s full of Pringles crumbs and dog hair.”
“Paco doesn’t shed!” Jack insists.
“He’s right,” I tell her. “So just crumbs. But they’re all yours.”
Roz ruffles Jack’s hair. “Tempting. I’ll think about it.”
He smiles, taking her word for it.
Mami returns. “How is everything? Okay?” she asks. “I’m sorry I didn’t have anything better for dinner. After I cleaned the kitchen this afternoon, I didn’t want to cook.” She peeks into the pot. There’s barely any soup left.
“This would be a gourmet meal at my house,” Roz comments. Mami and I exchange a glance. “It’s delicious. Thank you.”
“Roz is sleeping over!” Jack announces. He slips down from his stool. “I’m done!”
Mami deposits his empty bowl in the sink. “Izzy, help Jack brush teeth and get into pajamas?”
Roz gets down as well. “Can I do that? I’d like to help.”
“Yippee!” Jack exclaims. He takes off down the hall. “And then we’ll read! Roz, I got a book from the library today . . .”
“Let me guess,” she says as she follows him.
Mami and I watch them disappear. She continues clearing dishes, but I take them from her hands.
“Make yourself a grilled cheese,” I tell her.
She exhales deeply, shaking her head. “I’m not very hungry,” she says, but lets me clear. As I scrape and rinse, she allows herself to sit on one of the stools. She leans her head against one hand.
“What must they think of us?” I hear her say. For a moment, I’m not sure who she means. Gloria and Shawn? Who cares what they think?
But of course, that’s not who she means. I see her then, my brave little mami facing down the bad guy with the gun (does she even know he has a gun?), her hands raw from scrubbing, her clothes and her hair smelling like cleaning products. Dressing my brother in his good clothes, hoping, praying, that we make a nice impression and prove that we are a respectable family. A worthy family. People who deserve something better than this.
She doesn’t look so brave right now.
“I’m sorry I was late!” The guilty words spring from my throat. I had one job, one thing I was supposed to do. And I screwed it up.
Mami’s eyes fill. I never see her cry. She pulls me in close, presses me to her chest. It’s strange, but I can’t remember the last time my mother held me. When does that stop? As a little kid, it’s hard to know where you begin and your mother ends, you feel so intertwined. Jack is usually wrapped around her like a vine each night at bedtime when they read. But somewhere, at some point, that all changes. It’s like we float away from each other, bobbing on our own flimsy life rafts, without even a rope connecting us. I miss touching my mother.
“Oh, mija,” she breathes into my hair. “Te quiero.”
6
The fact that my first thought the next morning is whether Roz can sneak home to grab the top I was hoping to borrow probably doesn’t say much about my character. But it’s ’Form-Free Friday, the one day of the month we can wear normal clothes instead of uniforms to school, and I really don’t want to outfit-repeat. I’ve managed to come up with fairly cute stuff the past six times, but at this point the pickings in my closet are getting slim.
I suspect I’m the only girl at St. Veronica’s who doesn’t live for ’Form-Free Fridays.
As I dump milk over my Cheerios, I peer through the kitchen window and across the road. Shawn’s truck is nowhere in sight.
“Coast is clear,” I comment as Roz emerges from the bathroom. She’d fallen asleep on Jack’s bed, the two of them knotted in the blankets, Piggie Pie on the floor. She plops onto a stool next to Jack. I shove the cereal boxes to her side of the counter, but she makes this face like I’ve offered her a bowl of bait worms.
“Just coffee,” she says. “Black.” I fill a cup. “Actually, I heard him pull out an hour ago. He has the early shift this week.”
“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” Jack informs us through a mouthful of cornflakes.
Roz nods in agreement, sipping. “True. That’s why God invented donuts,” she tells him. “Speaking of God, this is amazing.”
“Mami likes her coffee strong,” I say. Just as Mami walks in. She’s already dressed for work, in the cute top I got her for Christmas. It has little pandas all over it. She must be assigned to the children’s wing today.
“No, not strong,” she corrects as she brushes past Roz on her way to the coffee maker. “I like it so when you put a spoon in the cup it stands straight up.”
Jack squinches his nose. “God didn’t invent donuts,” he finally decides. “That’s silly.”
“No, but he did invent the food pyramid. And donuts are definitely on the pyramid,” Roz says. “Pit stop at Dunkin’ this morning?” she suggests to me.
I can feel my mother’s eyes lasering a hole in my back. I glance at my watch. “Uh, I don’t think I have time,” I tell her. “I need to be at the bus stop in twenty minutes.”
She shrugs. At Roz-miles-per-hour, twenty minutes is an eternity.
Mami steps up to the counter, her hands wrapped around a steaming mug. “Did you sleep, mija?” she asks. For a second, I think she’s talking to me. I’ve never heard her address Roz with a term of endearment.
“I did, thanks,” she says, then turns to my brother. “Even though you kick. And steal the covers.”
“Do not!” he retorts.
“Do.”
“Oh yeah? Well, you snore!” he fires back, giggling.
“And you fart,” she adds. “In your sleep.”
“Do not!” he says, laughing.
“It was like poison gas, blasting from your butt,” she continues. “I could barely breathe.”
Jack shrieks. And spits out his cereal. Roz doesn’t fully appreciate how easy it is to rev him. Or, maybe she does?
“Okay, let’s finish up,” Mami warns. She sees where this is headed.
Roz covers her mouth with her forearm and blows farty noises. They sound very authentic. This causes my brother to pretty much dissolve on the floor in hysterics. Paco yaps in approval.
Mami scoops Jack up by the armpits and replaces him on the stool. She shoots him her that’s-enough look, and he semisettles down. Starts in on the flakes again.
“So.” She refocuses on Roz. “What will you do today?”
Roz stares into her cup. “Same’s I always do, I guess,” she says. “Get dressed. Go to school. They sleep it off, we go around as if nothing much happened. Until it happens again.” She shrugs. “That’s pretty much all I can do.”
“The pickup’s gone,” I murmur to Mami. She doesn’t answer. She seems to be thinking.
Roz clears her throat. “Mrs. Crawford, I know I said sorry last night, but . . . I really mean it. I didn’t know where else to go or what to do . . .”
“Shh, shh, shh,” Mami says. “You did the right thing.” She glances at Jack and shakes her head, signaling Roz not to get into it right now.
But Roz misses the signal. “Thank you for not calling the police,” she continues. “I know, I threatened to do it. But that would have really messed things up. Not just because of Schiavo. But the cops would’ve called social services again. And I can’t. I just can’t.”
Mami nods. We know about this. Bad as Gloria is, Roz would still rather live with her instead of the random foster families she got stuck with last time her mom went off the deep end.
The issue isn’t really her and Gloria. They do okay when it’s just the two of them and Gloria isn’t drinking. It’s the sorry-ass guys she drags in. With Shawn being the sorriest of all.
“How’re you doing, buddy?” I say to Jack. Hoping Roz picks up on my attempt to change the subject.
“He was just visiting,” Jack answers. Between bites.
“Huh?” I say.
He shovels in another mouthful. “The scary guy,” he mumbles. No one responds. “He doesn’t live here anymore, so he was just visiting. Right, Roz?” He aims his enormous brown eyes at her.
Mami doesn’t wait for Roz to say the wrong thing. To tell him the truth, instead of give him the reassurance he wants. “Time is up! We need to go to school,” she announces, suddenly all business. “Go get your backpack and your sweater.”
Still chewing, Jack scooches off the stool and races off. We wait until he’s out of earshot.
“It is not safe for you with that man there,” Mami begins, stating the obvious.
“Ya think?” Roz replies. Which doesn’t sound nearly as sarcastic as it does defeated.
“I want to help you,” Mami continues. “But I can’t have him chasing you here. You know?” Roz nods, frowning into her cup. I see her bite her lip. “Do you have someplace to stay? Family?”
“I have a friend I could crash with for a few days,” she says. She looks at me. “Marliese.” Marliese is Roz’s one friend from school. She dropped out earlier this year, landed a job bussing at Applebee’s, and now has an apartment over her stepfather’s garage. Roz knows I’m not a fan. Marliese parties. Hard. Which, honestly, is her business. I don’t care. But she gives me crap for boycotting that scene.
Mami doesn’t know about Marliese. I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned her name. But her witchy-perception-powers tell her this is not good.
“A few days to let things cool off is okay,” she says. “But that is not a permanent solution. You need to talk to your mother. When he is not there.”
Roz rolls her eyes.
“No mother wants to lose her child,” Mami says. “She will hear you.” Roz doesn’t answer. I’m not sure she shares Mami’s convictions about mother love. “Do you want me to come with you? Would that help?”
“No,” Roz answers straightaway. Then adds, “Thank you. That’s really nice, Mrs. Crawford. You’re right. I should talk to her. But I’ll do it myself.”
Mami nods. She dumps her coffee into her to-go car mug and collects her bag lunch from the fridge.
“I’m also sorry about what she said last night,” Roz adds. Hesitates. “What she called you.”
Mami waves her hand. “That was the drink talking,” she says. “Just make sure you correct her.” Roz looks puzzled. Mami glances at her watch and sweeps past us as she heads down the hall to find out what happened to Jack. “I’m Puerto Rican. Not Mexican. Big difference. Isabella? Vamos.”
“I’ll give Izzy a lift to the stop,” Roz offers. “Least I can do.”
I see Mami break stride for a moment. But even she doesn’t have the heart to impose the Roz Rule against driving. Not this morning. She manages a polite smile for Roz and a knowing look at me before shouting threatening hurry-ups to my brother.
When Mami finally drags him out the door (trailing his backpack by a strap, his sweater buttons misaligned), Roz gets right down to business. She knocks back the rest of her coffee and slips from the stool. “You need that top,” she says.
I feel relief spread across my face. I wasn’t sure how to bring it up. I’m sort of amazed she remembers. “Thank you! You are a goddess.”
She snorts, letting me know what she thinks of goddesses. “Give me ten minutes,” she says. “I also need to get my stuff and text Marliese. Then, donuts.”
“Dude, no! I have to go to school!”
“Don’t worry, I’m driving you. Screw the bus.”
“But what about you?”
She flashes me her you-can’t-be-serious-right-now look as she swings open the front door. “No freakin’ way I’m going to school. I need a mental health day,” she announces. “Back in ten.” She skips out, and I watch until she crosses the road and disappears behind her own door.
As I rinse the breakfast dishes and put the cereal away, my phone buzzes. I don’t recognize the number but answer anyway.
“Hello, is this Isabella?” I hear. “This is Lyle Cole.”
I’m wondering how he got my number, but then I remember: it’s on our paperwork. Every shred of information we had to give, we gave. “Hey, Mr. Lyle. How are you?”
“I’m actually calling to check on you, dear. I tried your mother but there was no answer. How did everything go last night?”
“Mami is taking Jack to school right now. She’s one of those responsible drivers who shuts off her phone when she’s behind the wheel.”
He chuckles. “Well, good for her. I’ll confess I’m calling from my car.”
“I won’t tell on you,” I say.
He laughs again. He’s a friendly guy, even if he is useless in the face of drunk-ass maniacs. “Did you have any other problems last night?”
“No problems,” I tell him. “And things are quiet this morning.”
I can hear Mr. Lyle exhale. He really was worried. “That’s good news, Isabella. I’m very relieved.”
I manage to not say Me too. I don’t want to give him the impression we live in some war zone, constantly battling with neighbors.
“Could you give your mother a message from me?” he says.
“Sure.”
“I know she was concerned that last night’s disruption interfered with our home visit. I wanted to reassure her that your neighbors aside, Clare and I both agreed that we very much enjoyed meeting you all and that we have everything we need.”
“Okay.” Then I stop. I really don’t want to say the wrong thing to this guy.
“Isabella, please tell your mother not to worry.”
Pause. I wonder if I should say okay again?
But then Mr. Lyle repeats himself. “You folks have nothing to worry about.” I hear a smile behind his words.
“Thanks, Mr. Lyle,” I manage. “Bye.”
“Bye.”
Outside, I see Roz loading bags into their car. Stuff she’s taking to Marliese’s, I guess. She slams the door shut, then heads back in our direction. In one hand she carries her “accessories bag,” which is basically this fanny pack filled with some of the cool fake jewelry she makes herself. Draped over her arm, there’s the shirt she promised. I glance at my watch. We’ve got time, especially if she’s driving me all the way to St. V’s. Plenty of time for a donut. Hell, maybe two. A little celebration is in order.
Because unlike Roz, I get signals. And Mr. Lyle basically just signaled to me that despite last night’s disaster: we’re still in it.
7
Forget singing: even when she’s only talking, Aubrey Shackelton’s voice is full of music. Tinkling glass and wind chimes. Like God attached angel bells to her vocal cords.
Some people are just born lucky.
I’m at my locker when I hear her. The crowded hall is loud with students switching from sixth to seventh period, but Aubrey’s unmistakable sound slices through the background noise.
Or maybe it’s just that she’s standing twelve inches away. Speaking to me.
“That’s a great shirt,” she says.
Roz called it Southwestern Hipster. It’s basically this long-sleeved, white crinkle-top blouse with a high-low hem that falls to the hips in the back. She “paired it” (her words) with my one pair of skinny jeans and favorite scuffed leather ankle boots. Over donuts and more coffee at Dunkin’, she instructed me to pull my hair into a loose side braid, insisted I wear these silver hoop earrings she dug out of her pouch of “accessories,” and draped one of her Crazy Bead Creations
around my neck. It’s strung with colorful glass and assorted metal. There’s a thick fake-gem-studded silver cross at the bottom.
Even though her own look falls in this no-man’s-land between goth and grunge, Roz says she wants to be a stylist. Which makes no sense, given her claim to hate rich, superficial assholes. Who I imagine are the sort of people who pay stylists, but whatever. Meanwhile, she experiments on me.
Which keeps me in the game on ’Form-Free Fridays since my closet is pretty bare compared to Roz’s, a bursting clown car of clothes. I stopped asking where she gets it all, even though she insists Goodwill, flea markets, and the Salvation Army store are treasure troves for anyone willing to hunt.
I pivot to face Aubrey. She’s wearing a University of Virginia hoodie and jeans. “Thanks,” I say.
Her gaze drops to the Crazy Beads. “Ooh. And that’s cool.” Without asking, she reaches for the cross and rubs her thumb along the rough stones. “Where did you get it?”
“My friend made it.”
Aubrey’s eyes widen.
“The shirt’s hers, too. I’m fashion challenged, so she pretty much dresses me.”
She laughs. “Me too. Fashion challenged, that is. Does she go here? I could use a consult.”
Our eyes meet. Which is when she appreciates the too-much-too-soonishness of this moment. We’d never spoken one word to each other before, even if we recognize each other from yesterday’s tryout. But since I ducked out before winners were announced, we haven’t actually met.
She drops the cross like it’s red-hot and her cheeks begin to burn. Aubrey Shackelton might be the most talented as well as the most socially awkward person ever.
I decide to toss her a lifeline.
“Nah, she doesn’t go here,” I say, smiling. “She’d never survive the uniform.”
