I pause, unsure whether or not I should tell her. But I’ve already told Ember, and I know after what Ms. Troy said when she dropped me off, Mia probably has a pretty good idea that my gift isn’t making rainbows and sunshine. “I can steal things,” I reply. “Nobody ever catches me, security cameras or sensors, nothing.” Maybe I’m a little bit proud of that, too.
Mia’s eyebrows rise, and her mouth twitches, like she’s somehow conflicted about this information. She picks up her stack of pie crusts and opens the fridge door to place them on top of an already impressive pile of crusts. When she shuts the door, she turns back to me. “You know,” she says. “Ms. Troy only told me a little bit about you. I know things were hard, and that you needed to do whatever you could to get by.” She reaches out to touch my hand where it rests on the counter. “But I want you to know that nobody blames you for that.”
I pull my hand back from hers, something deep inside me bristling at her words. “I don’t need your forgiveness for what I’ve done,” I reply. “I don’t feel bad for anything.” And not for stealing your ring, either, I think.
“I didn’t mean that you should,” Mia begins. “I only meant that—”
“That I may have been a thief, but you’ll forgive me and take me in because I didn’t know any better before?”
“No, Trix—”
“I’m not sorry for anything I’ve done. Anything.” I pull away from the counter, from her. From the people in this house, this tangled web of McCabe women who think they know who I am.
And most of all, I pull away from memories of Mom and what I did to her.
Seven
THE NEXT MORNING IS A mess, which doesn’t bode well for my first day of school. Mia, having slept through two alarms, is running around the house with one shoe on and carrying the other, barking orders instead of trilling sweet requests. With less than an hour to get ready, we braved the rodeo that was four women trying to use one bathroom. Mia declares no one is allowed to do their hair or makeup in the bathroom. Get in, pee, brush your teeth, shower, and get out in under fifteen minutes. That’s the rule. This isn’t hard for me, but when Mia makes the announcement, Ember looks like her world might be ending.
But thanks to Mia and Ember’s bargain hunting, I do come downstairs in a new (to me) pair of brown boots, jeans, and a light sweater. The sweater is loose, and a pretty wine color that I would never have picked out myself. It’s not the armor of my worn black hoodie, but I’m at least not as exposed as I was in the short sleeves on Saturday. When the brunt of the chaos passes, Mia presses a tube of lip gloss into my hand that she swears will never look as good on her or Ember as it will on me. I’m happy to take it, as it seems like she’s not mad at me for last night, and the worst of her morning barking is over.
“Wow,” Auntie says, coming out of the kitchen to see me standing awkwardly in the living room with my backpack. I emptied out everything from social services, and Mia filled it with school supplies from the Dollar Tree. Only after she was done with it did I covertly add my sketchbook too. “You clean up good,” Auntie says. “Who knew there was a girl under all that mess?”
“Auntie,” Mia chides, dusting off her hands on her apron. She beams at me. “You looked pretty before the new clothes and haircut, too,” she tells me. She casts a look over at her daughter, who’s watching with perceptive green eyes. “Ember picked the sweater, and she was right: the color is lovely on you.”
Ember is wearing her earbuds again, listening to something on her phone, but it must be low enough that she still hears her mom, because she blushes and flits away into the kitchen.
While we’re waiting for Auntie to finish getting ready to go, I look at the pictures on the mantel again. While I search for the face that supposedly resembles my own, I stumble upon one of Ember and a man helping her to ride a bike. Probably her dad. And another of her holding an ice cream cone with a banner behind her that says County Fair.
Mia appears behind me. “That’s one of my favorites,” she says, pointing to the picture of Ember at the fair. “She dripped ice cream all over herself and then we took her to the petting zoo and the goats licked it off.”
I nod, unsure of what to say. I don’t know much about county fairs or goats.
“Connor loved the county fair. Especially all the fried food. And the fast rides. He said it wasn’t a good time unless there was a chance you’d puke.”
I try to imagine him, this man who thought it would be fun to puke. My father.
“Do you have some photos you want to put up here?” Mia asks. “Maybe one of you and your mom?”
There’s only one picture left of me and my mom, and it’s one I drew on the wall of our room at the Starlite not long after we’d moved in there. A secret portrait that would outlast our time there together. I wanted to remind myself that we would never be a perfect family like the Yangs at the Jasmine Dragon. It would only ever be the two of us.
“I don’t have any photos,” I tell Mia.
Mia makes a sound of disappointment in the back of her throat, like she’s kicking herself for having asked.
But there’s no time for Mia to feel bad because it’s time to leave. After we pile into the car, Auntie drops off Mia and her trays of muffins and pie crusts at the shop, and then we continue on to school. I’m pretty sure we’re going to die before we get there, though. Auntie blows through two stop signs and narrowly misses a mail truck before she parks directly in front of the school in a handicap spot, even though we don’t have a permit.
“Auntie—” Ember begins.
“Hush,” Auntie bellows. “I’m not walking all the way from kingdom come. I’m old. I deserve this spot.”
Ember flicks a glance at me.
I shrug. Whether or not Auntie gets a parking ticket is no skin off my nose.
I follow Auntie and Ember through the parking lot. I notice it’s filled with old trucks and battered, dusty four-door sedans. There’s even an El Camino with a weathered set of antlers secured to the front grill with baling twine. Then we enter the sprawling school. There are wings here and there like they added on over the years with very little concern about matching colors of brick or architectural styles. There are no metal detectors, no guards. It’s nothing like the schools I went to in the city.
It’s been almost a year since I was in school regularly, but Auntie assures me Ms. Troy had my records transferred to Rocksaw High. One more year, I tell myself. If I could really stick this deal out, it would only be one more year and then I would be out of here.
In the hall in front of the principal’s office, Ember stops before a brightly colored flyer about the homecoming dance. Glancing down the corridor, I see about a million more taped to every vertical surface. It must be a big deal here. Ember glances around to see if anyone else is looking before lightly tugging down the flyer and slipping it between her books. When she notices that I’m watching her, she gives a timid wave goodbye before leaving Auntie and me waiting in front of the principal’s office.
Next to the principal’s door is a big glass case filled with gold and silver trophies, some dating back ten years or more. But it’s a picture inside that catches my eye. Golden skin, golden eyes, curly black hair. Jasper, I think at first. But I lean down and see the small plaque attached to the wide frame. In Loving Memory of Jesse Ruiz. Senior Class President, Honor Council, Varsity Football, Varsity Basketball, Varsity Baseball, Drama Club, Scholars’ Bowl.
My first thought is that maybe he died from all those extracurricular activities.
Auntie sees me staring at it and makes a tsk, tsk sound. “Too bad. Jesse was a nice boy.”
“Is that Jasper’s brother?” I ask.
Auntie nods, and she opens her mouth to say more, but a man comes out of the office and declares, “Auntie! A pleasure to see you.” He shakes her hand, and then reaches for mine. “Miss McCabe, I’m Principal Lopez. So nice to meet you. Trixie, isn’t it?”
“Trix,” I reply, pulling my hand away from
his after he’s pumped it a few times. He has a big belly and a handlebar mustache. He smells faintly of pipe tobacco.
“Trixie’s such a cute name,” he continues as if he hasn’t heard me. “You look like your father. Has anyone told you that? I knew him way back in the day. Good man. Shame he was hit by that train.”
I look over at Auntie, my mouth hanging open in shock at this new story. Auntie shrugs. So far I’ve heard two different theories on how Connor died, and none of the McCabes bat an eye. I shouldn’t care what the real story is—after all, I don’t want everyone knowing mine—but some part of me wants to know the truth about the man everyone in Rocksaw knew but me. The thing is, I’m not ready to ask anyone. Because once I do that, they’ll think they can ask me things. Where do you think your mom is now? How did you get those scars? Exactly where have you been for the last six months?
The principal ushers us into his office, and a young, dark-haired man who looks like he spends a lot of time lifting weights at the gym joins us. “Ladies, this is Mr. Jindal, our school guidance counselor. He’s been looking over your records, Trixie, and it looks like you’re just in time to start your junior year.”
“No,” I spit out, leaning forward in the uncomfortable wooden chair I’m sitting in. Auntie, sitting in a chair next to me, looks over placidly. “I’m a senior. This should be my senior year.”
Mr. Jindal purses his lips, riffling through the papers he’s brought with him. I watch the corded muscles on his forearms move as he shifts. “Miss McCabe, I can see why you might think that, but your records indicate that you didn’t complete your junior year. You don’t have enough credits to be a senior.”
“But I’m seventeen,” I argue.
“Well, yes, but that’s not how the system works. You need to have enough credits to graduate with a diploma. It’s not a matter of age.” He gives me a sympathetic smile.
I feel sick, like I could puke up the blueberry muffin I pinched from one of Mia’s trays this morning before realizing that everyone in the house was eating them and no one cared.
Mr. Jindal hurries to add, “But your grades were adequate before you stopped attending classes. And it’s only September, so while you’re a week or so behind the other students, if you work hard, there’s no reason you shouldn’t catch up and be able to graduate in two years.”
“Two years?” I ask again, my voice sounding pitiful, even to me. One year. One year was the plan. The super-optimistic plan where I didn’t run away less than a week into my forced vacation in rural America. I didn’t bargain on two years. What was the deal again? Graduation or prosecution? Or was it stay in school until I’m eighteen? Because at this rate, I’m going to graduate as a nineteen-year-old. I’ll practically be a senior citizen. The same age as Auntie.
Auntie absorbs this information before telling me, “You’ll get to be in Ember’s class.”
Mr. Jindal nods, like this is something to look forward to.
I can’t even form words.
The principal continues, handing me a stack of papers. “Here’s the schedule for our juniors. Now, we’re a small school, but you’ll see we have a decent variety of electives. Once you choose those, Mr. Jindal will take you to get your books.”
I blindly circle a few classes, handing the schedule over to Mr. Jindal. He looks pleased with my choices.
“And then, Auntie, there’s the matter of Trixie’s enrollment fees.”
“Enrollment fees?” Auntie asks, finishing with a couple of creative swear words. “I thought this was a public school.”
“Well, yes, ma’am, but there are certain fees for textbook rentals and technology use . . .” His voice drifts off as Auntie sends him a withering glare.
“I thought we were in America! Free education for everyone!”
“Auntie—” the principal begins again.
“I’ll make you a deal,” Auntie says. “I won’t charge your wife for all those Ardent Apple pies she has delivered. For the next month.”
The principal blushes, and Mr. Jindal pretends to be engrossed with his biceps. I remember now from the delivery run with Jasper. One big white house had two apple pies delivered on Saturday. That must have been the principal.
“Sounds fine, Auntie,” the principal mumbles, standing up and ushering us out of his office. While he’s helping Auntie out of her chair and Mr. Jindal goes to a supply room to get the books I’ll need, I swipe the fountain pen on the principal’s desk, just because I’m irritated. And maybe because I want to prove to myself what I told Mia last night. I don’t feel guilty at all for who I am or what I’ve done. “I’ll take care of Trixie’s paperwork, and you can be on your way. I’m sure Mia needs your help.”
Auntie cackles as the principal leaves us out in the hall. “He got the shit end of the stick on that one. The Ardent Apples are the cheapest. We’ll still come out ahead.”
When Mr. Jindal returns with my textbooks, Auntie salutes me goodbye with a grunt and half a wave. Mr. Jindal helps me find my locker and store my school supplies. I keep my backpack with my sketchbook inside it with me. He offers to walk me to my first class, but I shake my head, still unable to find words to express how angry I am at the strange twist this day has taken. So he gives me directions to the first classroom and assures me anyone in class would be happy to help me find my second-period class as well. I shrug like it doesn’t matter to me either way.
When he finally leaves me alone, I peel off the prescribed route at the first small empty room with the door propped open. The sign next to it says “ISS,” which I know from personal experience stands for “in-school suspension.” Inside is a small teacher desk and one student desk. But it’s the phone on the teacher desk that catches my eye.
I dart inside, pulling the door shut behind me, and grab the phone. I dial Ms. Troy’s number. She had me memorize it last year, even though I swore I’d never need to use it.
Ms. Troy picks up on the second ring, and I don’t even bother to say hello. “They said two years,” I hiss. “Two whole years until I’ll graduate.”
“Trix?” Ms. Troy asks.
“Yes, it’s Trix!” I’m practically shouting now, etching out a diamond on the corner of the desk with my stolen fountain pen. “We made a deal. One more year and then I was free. I didn’t sign on for two more years of high school and living in this village.”
“Trix, we did make a deal. You get your high school degree, or you get prosecuted as an adult.”
“But I thought it was only one more year,” I complain.
“Sorry, Trix. You barely have enough credits to be a junior. You can’t drop out of school for six months and expect to start back as a senior. You weren’t even attending regularly when you were in foster care. You should be grateful they’ve offered to let you catch up.”
The stupid thing is, I did think that I’d be a senior. All this time I was focused on my eighteenth birthday, but that wasn’t the end goal. The end goal was my diploma. And that’s two years away now. Suddenly the idea of me actually sticking this out seems more ludicrous than ever.
“But once I’m eighteen, the state has no more control over me,” I counter.
“Once you’re eighteen, you don’t need a social worker. But that’s not going to end your deal. It’s a diploma or prosecution for theft, Trix.”
I don’t ask the question that’s sitting in my gut. What if the McCabes won’t have me after I’m eighteen? What if they’re only in it for the small stipend that comes with my upkeep and then I’m out on my ass?
“Trix,” Ms. Troy says, her voice tired. “Don’t give up just because it’s hard. You’re a bright, resourceful young woman. Enjoy this time. Some people say their high school years were the best years of their lives.”
I don’t know who those people are, but I’d like to punch them right now.
“Fine,” I practically growl. “Bye.” I hang up before Ms. Troy has a chance to say goodbye back, as if that somehow gives me the upper hand.
&nb
sp; Two. More. Years.
I feel my chest tightening again, like metal bands are constricting around my rib cage.
What was I thinking? Even in passing, it’s ridiculous, this thought that I could ever live this deal down. I can’t do this. I can’t stay here two more years in this little town. I etch out a four-letter word next to the diamond I drew.
Then I head straight out the front door. There’s no one to stop me.
This is who Trix McCabe really is. Abandoned. Thief. Drifter.
Anything else is just pretending.
Head down, I march toward the parking lot. I don’t know where I’m going, but as long as it’s not here, it’s fine with me.
Right when I get to the road outside the school, I’m nearly run over. I leap back as an old Suburban jumps the curb, stopping next to me with a screech. “Thought I might see you here,” Auntie cackles, rolling down the window. My heart is beating so hard it might explode out of my chest.
“What are you doing?” I yell. “You nearly killed me!”
“Stop being so damn dramatic,” Auntie says with a dismissive wave. “What’s your problem now?”
“I didn’t sign up for this,” I snarl, hoisting my backpack higher on my shoulder. “It was only supposed to be one year.”
“Well, you were wrong,” Auntie replies, unruffled. “So you have to deal with it. That’s part of growing up.”
“What do you know?” I sling back. “I grew up a long damn time ago when my mom walked out on me. Maybe before that, even. So don’t give me this bullshit.”
“You live under my roof, so I’ll give you whatever shit I want,” Auntie says unflinchingly.
“Maybe I can fix that,” I snarl.
“Fine, you little brat. Go back out on the streets. Steal what you want. Run away whenever things get too hard. But don’t pretend like that’s a good life. Don’t pretend what you’re giving up here isn’t better than that.”
A Constellation of Roses Page 7
