Center of Gravity

by Shaunta Grimes

  The sugar coats the ice cubes. Oscar twists his mouth to the side, thinking, then tears open three envelopes of Flavor Aid and pours them in, too.

  “Three?” I ask.

  Jay Jay opens one of the gallons of water and pours it in. The pitcher holds about half of it.

  “We don’t have a spoon, either?” Oscar sighs. “You guys suck.”

  Jay Jay puts the jug down and picks up an unbent hanger that probably has the residue of a hundred burned marshmallows and hot dogs on the end of it. He sticks it right into the pitcher and stirs. I manage not to say Ew out loud.

  Oscar pours some of the lemonade into a Styrofoam cup and takes a sip, then hands it to Jay Jay. He sips, too, then hands it to me.

  The Flavor Aid is sweet enough to make my teeth hurt, and extra tart. There’s at least one too many packets of powdered mix in there.

  Oscar picks up the pitcher and heads for the stairs. “No one’s going to buy it anyway.”

  I pick up the gallon of water so I can dilute the lemonade, just in case he’s wrong.

  * * *

  Marvel’s made a sign with crayons and construction paper that says: Lemonade 25¢.

  There are just as many people on the bluff today as there has been every day since I got to California. It’s at least eighty degrees outside, even before ten in the morning, and I think some of them must be thirsty.

  Jay Jay puts the full pitcher on the table and Petey sets out cups.

  And we wait.

  And we wait.

  And we wait.

  The ice starts to melt. People go by with their dogs and their roller skates and their jogging shorts. They look at us, but they don’t stop.

  This is going to bomb. We aren’t going to make any money, and I’m going to owe Lila five bucks. Worst of all, I made the boys waste a Sunday sitting here on the bluff with a pitcher of lemonade that no one wants. Including us.

  “Great idea, Tessa,” Oscar says after an hour has passed.

  I want Jay Jay or maybe Petey to tell him not to be a jerk, but they don’t. “It’s not my fault.”

  “She’s right,” Jay Jay finally says, after a too-long pause. “It was worth a try. I guess.”

  Oscar starts to walk away, back toward the stairs down to the beach.

  “Where’re you going?” Petey calls out.

  “I’m hungry.” He starts down the stairs toward the clubhouse, where our backpacks are. I have little packets of applesauce and juice boxes in mine.

  Petey goes after him and looks back at Jay Jay, who shrugs before leaving, too. I stand there until they’ve disappeared and then turn back to the lemonade stand.

  Marvel lifts both of his shoulders as I walk toward him. It’s time to pack it in. I wonder what the boys usually do on Sundays. And whether they’ll include me today. Before I can ask, though, a woman holding two little kids by the hands stops in front of the table.

  “Well aren’t you adorable,” she says to Marvel. “You’re out here all by yourself?”

  Marv smiles up at her and doesn’t skip a beat. “My big sister is with me.”

  The woman looks at me, and her smile widens. Her children are a blond little boy and an older girl with curly brown hair. Like Marv and me. They tug at her arms, trying to get to the beach. She lets go of the girl, who is maybe five or six years old, and says, “We’ll take two.”

  Marvel does look adorable, struggling with a pitcher that’s half his size, pouring two glasses of pink lemonade right to the rim. The woman hands him a dollar and waves off the change before taking the Styrofoam cups and giving them to her kids.

  Another woman has stopped behind her; she’s got a big yellow dog on a leash. She hands me a dollar bill.

  “We’re saving up money to buy a dog.” Oh, Marv’s good. “We want a wiener dog.”

  He stands on his toes and pours her a cup of lemonade. She smiles at him and when I try to give her three quarters change, she shakes her head and tells us to keep it.

  It’s like everyone on the bluff this morning was just waiting for someone else to be first to buy our lemonade. I look back toward the stairs after the fourth customer, with three more in line, and see Oscar, Jay Jay, and Petey standing there, staring at us with their mouths hanging open.

  Jay Jay says something to Oscar, and they both go back downstairs. Petey starts to walk toward us. I’m a little afraid that he’ll break whatever spell has given us so many customers, but it doesn’t seem to make a difference.

  The other boys come back with a gallon of water and the bag of sugar. Jay Jay’s holding the rest of the packets of Flavor Aid in one hand.

  * * *

  “Ho-ly crap,” Jay Jay says. “I can’t believe it.”

  At some point, before we ran out of Styrofoam cups, shoving quarters and dollar bills into our pockets stopped working. Oscar brought up Marvel’s empty backpack from the clubhouse.

  Now there’s a pile of bills and coins inside.

  “All right,” Oscar says. “The lemonade stand wasn’t a terrible idea.”

  Petey reaches in for a handful of dollar bills and starts straightening them out. It takes fifteen minutes to get everything sorted. Marvel puts the quarters into little stacks of four and Oscar counts the dollar bills.

  Then Petey counts them, because it seems impossible that we’ve earned one hundred and fifty-four dollars.

  “Ho-ly crap,” I say under my breath.

  It’s more than what Petey and Marvel need for the tickets to Michigan. My heart tightens as I realize that even without winning the tournament, they have enough money to run away.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have come up with the whole lemonade stand idea after all. Chances are pretty good we won’t win the tournament. If I’d left well enough alone, I wouldn’t have to think about what to do when my friends get on a Greyhound bus. Alone.

  Petey hands me five one-dollar bills to give to Lila, then five more to pay back the five dollars in quarters she gave us to make change. “Tell her thank you, okay?”

  I shove the money into my pocket. “Okay.”

  I wait for there to be some discussion about what to do with the rest of the money, but it doesn’t happen. Marvel digs an old lunch box out of the cooler and puts the cash into it, then puts the whole thing into his backpack.

  * * *

  At six o’clock, Lila pulls her little purple car into the parking lot of an apartment complex about halfway between the house and the community center. I’ll be able to ride my bike here if this works out.

  The building doesn’t have an elevator, and Mrs. Norton lives on the third floor. Lila takes the stairs slowly, stopping at the landings for what seems like a really long time.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “I’m fine. Just kind of worn out.”

  When we finally make it to apartment number 352, I wait a minute while Lila catches her breath and smooths her hand over her hair. When she nods at me, I knock.

  There’s a bang about halfway down the door, and the knob rattles. I hear Mrs. Norton on the inside saying, “Augie, how many times do I have to tell you to let me answer the door?”

  Too late, I realize that I’m not sure I’m ready to look at a woman who reminds me so much of my mother while I’m standing next to Lila. If Mrs. Norton’s in her scrubs and her light-brown hair is pulled back in a braid the way it was when I first saw her … my throat starts to ache with tears that haven’t even threatened to fall yet.

  The door opens, and Mrs. Norton grabs Augie by the arm before he can dart out into the hall. “I swear,” she says, “he’s on hyperdrive tonight.”

  She’s wearing a yellow sundress and her hair is down, held back in the front with a scarf. The ache in my throat lets go, and I take a deep breath.

  Lila holds a hand out to Mrs. Norton. “I’m Lila Hart.”

  “Julia Norton.” Mrs. Norton looks like she really wishes it was Lila who’d called about the flyer. But she looks at me and says, “You must be Tessa.”

 
; I nod. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Norton looks back at Lila. “Are you Tessa’s sister? I don’t suppose you babysit.”

  “Tessa’s my stepdaughter,” Lila says without choking the way I do, whenever I have to define who Lila is to me. “She’ll be great with your son.”

  Mrs. Norton steps back, pulling Augie with her so we can come inside. Her apartment looks a little bit like a tornado has landed on it. Legos and toy cars and the pieces of a Monopoly game are everywhere.

  Under Augie’s mess, though, it’s a nice apartment.

  “My regular sitter can’t cover my whole shift on Thursdays,” she says. “I need someone to keep an eye on Augie, fix him supper, get him ready for bed. Do you think you can handle that?”

  Augie looks at me from where his mother is holding him, against her side. I offer him a smile, and he sticks his tongue out at me. “I think so.”

  “We’re less than two miles away,” Lila says. “I can be here in five minutes if they need me.”

  Mrs. Norton visibly relaxes and releases Augie so he can go to his toys. She has nurse hands, I notice. Dry and rough from so much washing, just like my mom.

  “He’s a handful,” Mrs. Norton says. “His dad moved to Sacramento last year, and he’s still trying to adjust.”

  Lila and Mrs. Norton start talking about babies, and I slide off the sofa to my knees near Augie. He’s building something with his Legos that looks like a cross between a building and a robot.

  “Can I play?” I ask him.

  He gives me a sideways glance, then pushes a pile of little bricks toward me.

  What would Mrs. Norton say, I wonder, if she found out that her fifteen dollars a week is going into a runaway fund? When both women stand up a few minutes later, I have to look away. From my position on the floor, looking up at them, I see my mom in Mrs. Norton again, and when she spontaneously hugs Lila it twists my insides.

  * * *

  “I think this will be a nice little job for you,” Lila says when we’re in her car.

  “Thank you for coming with me.”

  Lila doesn’t reply or put the car into gear. When I look at her, I see her fingers are gripping the steering wheel so hard that her knuckles are white. “Do you think you could heat up some soup for dinner tonight? I’m really not feeling well.”

  I look back at the apartment building. “Should I get Mrs. Norton? She’s a nurse.”

  Lila shakes her head and puts the car in reverse. “I just need to rest.”

  THIRTEEN

  “Tessa?”

  I look up from my bowl of chicken noodle soup. Lila is standing with her back to me with both hands on the edge of the kitchen sink. “What?”

  “I need you to call your dad.” Her voice sounds wrong. It takes me a minute, but I realize what it is. She’s scared. Like she’s seen a bear outside the kitchen window or something.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Please, Tessa.”

  And then I see it. There’s a puddle of liquid on the linoleum under her feet. It looks like she’s wet her pants. I put my spoon down and stand up. “I don’t know the number.”

  “He’s—” She leans into the sink and moans. Her belly seemed huge a few minutes ago, but suddenly I’m sure it isn’t big enough. The baby isn’t due until August and it’s only the middle of June.

  “Lila?”

  She slowly straightens and turns to look at me. Her face has a grayish tint to it. “We’ll have to call him from the hospital.”

  No. That can’t be right. It’s too early. “Should I call 9-1-1?”

  She shakes her head. “I can drive.”

  I’m not even sure she can make it to the car. I am pretty sure that my dad wouldn’t want me in a car with someone who looked about to pass out. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  “I’ll be—” I actually see her stomach tighten, and she leans forward, like someone’s punched her in the gut.

  “I’m calling 9-1-1.”

  Lila sits in the chair I stand up from. Her blond hair is pulled back in a ponytail and she’s wearing a white T-shirt and a blue pair of maternity shorts that are soaked through. She doesn’t seem any older than I am and for the first time, it really hits me how scared she must be.

  She takes a breath and tries to say something. “I don’t think…”

  I wait for her to finish, but she doesn’t. “I have to call someone.”

  Lila runs her hand over her stomach. “Maybe it’s just something I ate or I have the flu or…”

  She moans again, it sounds like something between a curse and a prayer. I look at the list of phone numbers taped near the phone. None of them look like they’d reach my dad.

  “Oh my God.” Her voice is hoarse. “I want my mom.”

  I want mine, too. Badly. “Do you want me to call her?”

  “My parents are in Jamaica.”

  I forgot. “She might know what to do. Do you have their number?”

  “They’re on vacation.” She sounds so sad. But she shakes herself and straightens. “My mom wouldn’t be any use right now anyway.”

  My eyes land on the only number that looks even remotely useful to me. I pick up the phone and dial for a cab.

  “Go get me some clean pants,” Lila says after I hang up.

  “I don’t think anyone cares if…”

  “Please.”

  I take off, sprinting up the stairs. I hesitate for a second at her bedroom door. I’ve never been in there. I’ve barely been able to make myself look at the closed door on my way to my room. Lila’s next moan vibrates up the acoustic stairs, and I turn the knob.

  The bed is rumpled and unmade. The room doesn’t smell like Dad’s old bedroom did. Dad’s room still smelled like Mom. Like her soap and her shampoo and the perfume she wore when they went out. I’m glad this room doesn’t smell like that.

  I go to the tall dresser and close my eyes for a minute before opening the top drawer.

  Underwear. I close the drawer again, hard enough to startle a note of music from a jewelry box sitting on top of the dresser.

  It’s pale pink with gold flowers painted around the edges and for a second, I can’t take a breath. Lila has stolen my ballerina box. I’m too stunned even to be angry.

  Does she think this is how she can make me stop collecting my milk-carton kids? I’m a little surprised to realize that I didn’t even know my jewelry box was missing. I haven’t actually opened the cubby where my box is … was … since the campout.

  When I lift the lid, to make sure that my scissors are still in the box, a little ballerina pops up and I know as soon as I see her and the music starts playing that this isn’t my box.

  My ballerina wears a white skirt and is posed with one leg out behind her. This one has both feet on the ground and her skirt is baby blue. And the music is different.

  Instead of a pair of bird scissors, Lila’s box is full of plastic beads and clip-on earrings. Like a little girl’s dress-up box.

  I find Lila’s maternity shorts folded in the third drawer down. I open the underwear drawer again and make myself take the top pair.

  When I come back down into the kitchen, Lila is leaning on the sink, holding onto her stomach with one hand and keeping herself upright with the other.

  “Do you want—” I hold her shorts and underwear out to her, but she cuts me off with a low moan. “Should I go get Mrs. Sampson?”

  Lila slowly straightens herself, as if whatever was happening has passed.

  “I’ll go get her,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”

  Before I can go, though, there’s a honk outside.

  “It’s okay,” Lila says. Only I don’t think she’s talking to me. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

  She does not sound okay, which makes me feel very, very not okay. I don’t know what to do. She’s supposed to be the grown-up here, but she’s clutching underwear against her huge belly and I really want my dad.

  “We can try to reach Gordon from the h
ospital,” she says, maybe reading my mind. She takes a breath and starts walking toward the front door. I guess she’s just going to carry her dry clothes. I grab my backpack from the counter and catch up with her. Before she opens the door, I take the clothes from her and shove them in. I take her purse from the hook by the door, too.

  The cab driver is young. He looks barely older than Denny. He peers out at us and then gets out of the car and comes around to the passenger side.

  “We’re going to St. Joseph’s,” Lila says, only the word Joseph’s is cut off when another wave of pain hits her. She clings to my arm and I stumble a little, but I manage to keep us both on our feet.

  “Hey, lady,” the guy says. “Maybe we better call an ambulance.”

  Lila shakes her head. For the first time since I’ve known her, she doesn’t look beautiful. Her hair is a mess, her face is red and splotchy. She doesn’t look ugly, really, just scared and ragged. Like a cat that’s spent a couple of nights stuck in a tree.

  “I’m not—” The driver looks honestly terrified. Before he can finish his sentence though, Lila has opened the back seat of his cab and pushed herself into it. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

  Lila ignores him all together. “Get in,” she says to me.

  I’m not sure whether to go around and get in next to her or sit in the front. I’m afraid that the driver is going to just stand there as long as I do, though, so I open the nearest door and climb in the shotgun seat.

  Lila reaches an ice-cold hand between the seats and grips my fingers. She keeps a hold on me until the driver finally gives up and gets in the car, and she doesn’t let go until he pulls into the emergency entrance at St. Joseph’s hospital fifteen minutes later. Not even when another contraction makes her squeeze so tight, I feel my bones rub against each other.

  Lila shoves a ten-dollar bill at the driver, and I think he must be so relieved to drop us off. I would be, if I were him. We’re barely out of the cab before he takes off.