Book Read Free

Unclaimed Baggage

Page 22

by Jen Doll


  * * *

  Heather has gone all out decorating the private room at La Casita for the party. She’s crafted a bunch of Unclaimed-themed gear, including little hanging paper suitcases and photos of the crew. There’s even a piñata shaped like a garment bag. And the food is incredible: chips and salsa and guacamole, of course, plus mini quesadillas and tiny burritos and “enchiladitos” you can eat in just one bite.

  “Save room, there are more courses coming out,” says Heather. “Including dessert! The flan is to die for!”

  Freddie is running around with another little girl, the daughter of the restaurant’s owners, Hector and Julia, who have been invited, too. All the adults are clustered along the long food table—kind of the way we group around the table in the stockroom for our meetings—talking and eating and drinking. I see people noticing Ashton, who’s holding Nell’s hand. She starts introducing him to everyone, and there are hugs and handshakes and Nice to finally meet yous everywhere. Grant is standing right next to me, acting almost like Ashton is to Nell. Almost like he’s my date. Minus the hand holding, that is. Or the need for introductions.

  “This is amazing,” I tell Heather, who comes up to say hello and give me a hug.

  “Our celebrities!” she says, referring to the news segment and the coins. It’s fun to have everyone notice me for something I’ve done, rather than for what I don’t do—i.e., church. She gives Grant a sideways glance, then sneaks a quick look at me as if to ask what the deal is, but she’s too cool to truly let anything on.

  “You could open your own party-planning business, if you wanted to,” I tell her.

  Grant nods. “I especially love the garment-bag piñata.”

  “One party a year is enough for me,” she says. “But for Cat, it’s worth it!”

  Cat hears her name and joins us. “The store isn’t going to be the same without you,” I say.

  She looks happy and sad at the same time. “I’m so excited about what’s next,” she says, “But I’m going to miss all of you so much.” She sees Nell then, and tells her how awesome the Instagram has been in her charge. “You’re really talented,” she says, and Nell blushes. They start talking about brand strategy and other ways to build consumer engagement.

  Ashton is standing next to Nell proudly, a grin on his face over how smart his girlfriend is. When he excuses himself to go to the bathroom, Nell turns to me, her eyes shining. “What do you think?”

  “I really like him,” I say. “And he really, really seems to like you. Do you still think you’re in love?”

  “I think I am,” she whispers.

  Grant and I wander to the bar, where they’re making virgin daiquiris for the underage and nondrinking among us. He goes with an alcohol-free piña colada, and I get a strawberry concoction, and we raise our glasses to each other and then to Nell and Ashton, across the room, who do the same back at us. Red is about to make a toast, and more food is on the way, so we sit at the table and listen as Cat is alternately praised and lovingly roasted. When she gets up to thank everyone, she’s crying tears of laughter.

  “I adore all of you!” she says. “You’ve been my quirky, kooky family I got to choose, and, even better, got paid to work with! I will think about you every day that I’m gone. And I will be back!” she says. “I am also, of course, always available via Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram. Thanks especially to Red, the guy who gave me a chance to work with him and helped me learn more than I ever thought I could. And thanks to Nell, who is already doing an incredible job running the store Instagram in my stead.” She looks at Nell and then me and Grant. “Y’all are the future!”

  I’m a little weepy because this is all so sweet, and Grant pats me on the shoulder. “We really are a great family,” he says. I put my hand on top of his, noticing his polish, still complete and unchipped.

  “I’m so glad we finally became friends,” I say.

  “Me too,” he agrees.

  I want to say more, but I don’t.

  The party continues, and eventually we realize Nell and Ashton are missing. Grant and I decide to go look for them, and the very first place I check is where they are, so I guess I still haven’t lost my touch (but where the heck are Red’s missing keys?). My best friend and her boyfriend have found a quiet corner, and Ashton’s got his arms around Nell, and they’re making out the way I saw Chassie and Mac Ebling making out, but there’s something different here. With Chassie, it seemed like she had something to prove, like she was doing it to show everyone else. With Nell and Ashton, well, it just seems like they’re in love.

  Grant and I back away, not wanting to interrupt. And that’s when something happens that changes everything. There’s a harsh voice from behind.

  “Get your hands off her,” this guy says. “You Oreo.” He sounds vaguely familiar, but I can’t place him. We turn around, and he’s tall and white and wearing nondescript clothes—jeans and work boots and a plain gray T-shirt. He’s got a bandana tied over his face. I get a really bad feeling.

  “Oreo?” asks Grant. “What are you talking about?”

  Nell and Ashton have stopped making out and are looking at the guy.

  “He means ‘black on the outside and white on the inside,’” says Ashton. “That’s a pretty racist thing to say, dude.”

  “You shouldn’t be in here kissing white girls,” says the guy, and Nell draws a sharp intake of breath. “You shouldn’t be kissing white girls anywhere.”

  “Leave us alone,” she says. “We’re none of your business.”

  “It’s my business when cute blondes are fucking black guys in my fucking town,” the guy says. “Why don’t you go back to where you came from?”

  “Um, like, Chicago?” Ashton asks.

  “Fuck you,” says the guy. He reaches to grab Nell and pull her away from Ashton, and that’s when things really go crazy. Grant, who’s standing behind me in the doorway, clears his throat in a way I’ve never heard before, releasing what almost seems like a growl. Ashton tries to pull Nell behind him to protect her, but the guy is grabbing at her, too, yanking the skirt of her dress. There’s a tearing sound as the cloth rips, leaving a gaping hole at the waist. I go into some sort of fugue state, in which I run at the racist guy with all the strength I have. It’s not particularly effective, but then, neither was escaping from Teddy Scruggs, which is what this is reminding me all too much of.

  “Don’t touch her!” yells Ashton, who draws back to hit the guy as the guy shoves me aside. I fall to the floor and then Grant and the guy and Ashton are this writhing mass of testosterone and fear and rage. I wriggle away from them and join Nell in the corner.

  “Are you OK?” I ask, and she nods breathlessly.

  “Are you?”

  “I think so?”

  But there’s no time to talk, or even to check if the pain in my shoulder is just a bad bruise or something worse. Grant and Ashton are hitting the guy, but the guy is big and strong, and he’s fighting dirty. I can’t shake the feeling that I know him from somewhere. I don’t forget a face, but his is mostly hidden. Then I hear something crunch in this ugly way, like bones are breaking.

  “Stop!” Nell is yelling.

  “Help!” I shout.

  All of a sudden Grant has this guy up against the wall, and he’s spitting in his face. “Don’t you dare bring your racist shit here and try to hurt my friends,” he’s saying. His mouth is bleeding, and his right eye is already swollen up tight. Ashton’s arm is turned back funny and he’s cradling it and emitting little groans. Nell’s screaming for help, and I’m crying, and all of a sudden, Grant says, “You know what? You’re not even worth it,” and drops the guy and walks out of the room. Which is when Hector and Red and Byron rush in to see what all the commotion is about.

  “Grab him!” we shout, but the guy punches Red in the stomach.

  “Oof!” he yells, hunching over in pain.

  Hector tries to pull the bandana off the guy’s face, but the guy knocks Hector away and holds h
is makeshift mask even closer, leaning into that football position, like you’re ready to bust through the defense. Byron tries to tackle him, but he maneuvers past and is out the door, leaving Byron on the floor. We all look at each other, stunned, until we can speak again.

  43

  Grant

  I’m standing in the sun outside the restaurant, just breathing. I feel blood trickling down my face, and my right eye isn’t quite working. My head is pounding—there’s what feels like an actual drumbeat in my ear. This is exactly the sort of situation that would once drive me to drink. I steady myself by looking at my fingers, and I realize that my left thumbnail has gotten chipped in the fray. I reach into my pocket where I carry Fireworks to make sure the bottle’s not broken—there’s something that stings in that region of my leg. I pull out the polish and am holding the bottle in my hand, relieved that it hasn’t shattered, at least, when the racist guy bolts out of the restaurant like he’s running from the law. He sees me, and before I can do a thing, he’s smacking the polish out of my hand. We watch it arc beautifully like a football across a field before it busts into a thousand tiny pieces on the concrete parking lot.

  “Loser,” he says. “Pussy. Drunk. I’m glad you finally found the pathetic freaks you should be hanging out with. Stick with them and leave my sister alone.” This is particularly ironic given that he crashed our party, but then bullies aren’t really known for their cohesive dialogue.

  He punches me in the face again, and I fall to the ground.

  I have a feeling then, like a hot-air balloon that has come untethered and is floating, maybe peacefully at first, but just you wait till the wind picks up—there’s no telling what will happen. To my credit, I don’t even look at the guy. I don’t pick up my head as I hear him run away. His boots crunch the gravel beneath his feet, all those tiny rocks and stones that are digging into my face. I already know who he is. I know where he lives. I don’t scream at him or tell him he’s a shitbag to the millionth degree. I don’t vow revenge. I just lie there, and as soon as he’s gone, I get up, brush myself off, and start walking as fast as I can, trying to ignore the pain. I don’t have a car, but one of the benefits of a small town is you can get anywhere by foot if you’ve got the time. And I’ve got all the time in the world.

  44

  Nell

  Doris and Red and Byron and I run outside, but it’s too late; the guy’s gone, and Grant’s nowhere to be seen, either. Heather stays inside to tend to Ashton, who we think has a broken arm. Hector is getting Doris a bag of frozen peas to put on her shoulder. We’ve called the cops and an ambulance. All the Unclaimed party guests are offering help and hugs and condolences. Byron and Red are beating themselves up that they couldn’t stop the guy.

  “He surprised us all,” Doris says. “I don’t know who he was. But there was something familiar about his voice, and the parts of him I could see.”

  “What a coward,” says Hector. “Covering his face like that!”

  “Why would someone do that, just start attacking a group of people?” asks Red. “How did the fight start?”

  “He was saying racist things about Ashton,” Doris explains, and Byron and Red give each other a look and shake their heads.

  I walk to a corner of the parking lot to call my mom. She answers on the first ring. “Hi, honey!” she says. “How’s it going? Are you having fun?”

  I thought I was holding it together, but at the sound of her voice, I start crying.

  “What happened? Are you OK? Is Ashton with you? Are you still at the airport?”

  Slowly, I tell her everything. That Ashton and I were the target of this unidentified racist at the restaurant. That he’s been beaten up pretty badly, but we’re taking care of him. That the cops have arrived and are making a report. That Grant’s gone, too, and that we’re terribly worried. That I now have a giant hole in my favorite dress. But, yes, Doris is with me. I’m OK. We’re OK.

  “Stay where you are,” she tells me. “I’ll come and get you. We’ll figure this out.”

  “The ambulance is coming,” I say.

  “I’m on my way,” she says.

  * * *

  Ashton’s on a stretcher outside the ambulance, being prepped for his trip to the hospital. He’s in a lot of pain—the EMT says his arm is most definitely broken. His eyes are closed and he’s quiet.

  “I’m so sorry,” I tell him. He opens his eyes and looks at me, confusion mixing with everything else that hurts.

  “Nell, sorry doesn’t fix anything.” He grabs my hand with his good arm and holds it tight. “Sorry just makes you feel better.”

  I open my mouth and close it. I don’t know what to say.

  “Don’t be sorry. Do something,” he tells me. “Make sure the cops get that asshole. And all of the other assholes like him.”

  He closes his eyes again and lets go of my hand as they lift him into the back of the ambulance.

  “Is he going to be OK?” I whisper to the EMT.

  “Is anyone, really?” she answers, which doesn’t help at all. “Yes,” she finally says quietly. “Your boyfriend will be OK. Which is more than I can say for the world we currently live in.”

  “We’ll be right behind you,” I tell Ashton as they pull the ambulance door closed, but he doesn’t respond.

  In the car, my mom is ranting about how there are still all too many pockets of the South that are hopelessly behind, and she never should have agreed to Ashton’s visit, we never should have moved here, she regrets everything, look at poor Ashton, look at what’s happened.

  “Mother,” I say, and in a rush, my sadness has turned into anger, and it’s directed at my mom: “Why didn’t you just come out and say that, then?” A terrible thought occurs to me. “Oh my God,” I say. “The move wasn’t to break us up, was it?”

  “No!” she says. “This job really is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Remind me to tell you about the upcoming rocket launch.” She gives me a little half smile, but I look at her stoically. It’s time for the whole story. No sugarcoating it this time.

  She looks at me with glossy eyes. “The truth is, I was always worried about something like this,” she admits. “Even when we lived up North. That’s why I was so hesitant about you two getting serious. People can be so cruel, and sometimes there’s no time to try to convince them anything other than what they’re dead set on believing. I worried about your safety, yours and his.… Oh, I feel so terrible,” she says. “What will I tell his parents?”

  “The truth, I guess,” I say. “That something awful happened because there are some really shitty people in this world, but we’re taking care of him and he’s going to be OK.”

  Doris clears her throat in the backseat, which I take as a sign of support. My mom keeps going.

  “It’s hard,” she says. “I know what the right thing is, but I can’t help worrying. I know it’s ridiculous, but sometimes I wish I could just lock you away and keep you safe from anyone who wants to hurt you.” We’re waiting at a stoplight, and she turns to look at Doris. “I want to keep all of you kids safe. You and Nell and Jack and Ashton and Grant. There’s too much ugly stuff out there!”

  “Mom, you can’t shield us from what’s going to happen in the world,” I tell her. “There are bad people, no matter where we go. But most people aren’t bad. Most people are pretty good, actually.” I think of Grant, who stood up for Ashton and fought back—and of Red, and Byron, and Hector. I think of Doris, sitting quietly behind me in the car, listening and ready to help me do whatever is next.

  “And the more people of different races and religions and whatever else who fall in love, the better,” I say. As it comes out of me, I know it’s true, and I feel stronger for saying it. “That guy isn’t going to keep us from being together. No racist is. If Ashton and I aren’t going to be together, that’s up to us, not anyone else.”

  Doris pipes up from the back: “Mrs. Wachowski, if what I’ve seen is any indication, I’d say Ashton and Nell are going
to be together, possibly for a very long time.”

  I hope she’s right.

  “Do you love him?” asks my mom.

  “I really think I do,” I say.

  “Then let’s get you to the hospital so you can see him,” my mom tells me, putting her foot on the gas pedal and driving faster than I’ve ever seen her go.

  45

  Doris

  It’s late by the time we leave the hospital. Ashton’s arm has been set, and he’s been given painkillers that make him sleepy and a little loopy. He keeps touching Nell’s hair and saying “Pony” in this little-boy voice. Nell won’t leave his side. He doesn’t have to stay the night, and we’re all happy about that. It was a clean break, and the doctor says it should heal well. His parents and Nell’s mom have had a long talk, and he’s going to stay for the rest of his trip, though he’ll probably spend the next day and a half pretty woozy and in bed. A nurse helps him into the backseat of the car. Nell puts her arms around him to keep him from jouncing too much, but I suspect it’s really because she just wants to be close to him.

  I sit up front. A doctor checked out my shoulder, too, and pronounced my injury merely a deep bruise. He told me to keep icing it. “You kids got off lucky,” he said, shaking his head at some of the stuff he’s seen. He didn’t expound, which I was glad about.

  “Would you like to spend the night?” Nell’s mom asks me. “I can drop you off at your house if you need to get home. But I’m sure Nell would love to have you keep her company tonight.”

  “Yes, please. Stay,” says Nell from the backseat.

  “Pony,” murmurs Ashton.

  My car is still parked at La Casita. I don’t feel like going back there yet, especially not alone and after dark. And if I go home, I’ll be too worried about Grant to sleep, and have no one to talk to.

  “I’d love to sleep over,” I tell Mrs. Wachowski. “Let me just check in with my parents.”

  I’d called my mom from the hospital to tell her what had happened, and I can tell she’s been impatiently awaiting another update. She picks up on the first ring.

 

‹ Prev