Chapter Twenty-eight
I’m sitting in front of the security guard trying to picture the look on my face, whether it says I look totally innocent or maybe I have one of those faces that always looks completely guilty, like the ones on the mug shots in the post office. Then I stop worrying about this because they are taking Bridget out of the room in handcuffs. Handcuffs, like she’s a criminal. The main security guard, who acts like he is the boss over the others, says Madeline and I can go. Go where? Go about our life like nothing has happened? They didn’t find anything in either one of our purses, but they discovered Bridget had half the junior department in hers.
“You better not tell,” Madeline whispers. “Or else.”
I don’t need to say or else what? Or else she’ll tell my parents I’m a slut. This is not good timing. My mother’s coming home, and we’re having a baby, and we have a wedding, and we’re going on a cruise. And now I wonder if Bridget will even get to come? Will she be on probation and not able to leave the country? I could just kill Madeline. But then I’d have to join Bridget in the slammer, if that’s where they have her. The guards show me and Madeline to the door. We walk over to Longhorn’s Steak House which is across the street from the mall. This is supposed to be where we order Shirley Temples and an appetizer and wait for the best steak you can sink your teeth into. Instead, here we are, having to tell Bridget’s father that she’s been arrested.
“You do it,” I tell Madeline and just make my eyes as thin and mean as a Siamese cat with an attitude.
Bridget’s father and Donna are waiting in front of the restaurant. Donna smiles brightly but right away Mr. Harman’s eyebrows arch upwards, like, what gives? Where’s Bridget? And the part of my stomach that is convinced it lives somewhere else marches up my throat again.
“Mr. Harman,” Madeline says. Her voice is all syrupy-sweet. “Something terrible has happened. Bridget’s been caught shoplifting.”
Mr. Harman takes hold of one of her arms. “What did you say?” he says, and leans in a little closer, like maybe he hasn’t heard her correctly. He has his head cocked to the side and one ear turned toward Madeline.
“I just don’t know what got into her,” Madeline says. She opens her eyes wide and shakes her head from side to side.
She’s a total liar, but she doesn’t look like one. She’s very convincing. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was being sincere, too. What I need to do is explain exactly what I know happened, but do I do that? Oh no, I just stand there with tears running down my face and my shoulders heaving like a five-year-old.
Donna walks over to me and puts her arm around me. “Don’t worry, Andi,” she says, “It’s going to be okay. These things happen.”
She pulls me tightly against her and pats my back and I’m thinking I could just love this woman. Go figure. She’s like my enemy. Now how can I send her the letter I’ve been working on? This is all getting very complicated.
Rodger Harman doesn’t look like he thinks these things happen. He looks like he’s ready to start a war.
“Let’s go,” he says and nods his head toward the car.
“Are you okay, Andi?” Donna says. “Do you want me to call your father?”
So that’s it. She wants me to call my father. She wants to see my dad. And here I thought she was starting to be someone I could like.
***
Bridget has been released into her father’s custody and we are sitting with my father in our library. At times like this it’s very inconvenient having an alcoholic mother. I would really like her to be here. She would be sitting next to me with her arm around my shoulder. I just know it. My father is sitting across from me and watching my every move. Madeline has been taken back to Westwood Academy. She boards in, which means she lives there except for when she spends the weekend at Bridget’s or goes home to Savannah, which I wish she would and then just stay there. Bridget has been crying and her eyes are very pink around the edges and her face is blotchy.
“Why would you do this?” her father asks her. “What got into you?”
Bridget doesn’t answer. She just shakes her head and swallows hard like there’s a rock caught in her throat. There’s a major one in stuck in mine. Mr. Harman turns to me. “Did you know this was going on?” His jaw is set in a firm position, and he lowers his head and gives me a harsh look. It is a look that says, Don’t lie to me.
“No,” I say weakly.
Which is the truth—I did not know it was going on this time; and I only knew about the other times after the fact, so I’m being completely honest here. But I know I should tell them the truth and not worry about my parents finding out about the necklace buried in the backyard and all about my incident with Anthony. I’ll live in a convent until I’m of age, but it’s better than Bridget living in a juvenile center.
But I’m a coward so I sit there and watch Bridget, who is keeping the secret, too. Why would she do that? Why would she take the blame when it all belongs to Madeline? Is it all just to be popular? To be part of the in-crowd and if she tells Madeline will let everyone know Bridget is a snitch, which I guess is worse than being a thief. I picture Bridget walking down the corridors at Westwood Academy and everyone clearing a path to get out of her way. A tear is floating down her cheek. The whispers on both sides of her easily reach her ears: tattletale, stoolie, ratfink, stool pigeon, SNITCH.
“It was Madeline!” I say. “She’s been stealing for ages. She put that stuff in Bridget’s purse. She did it once to me, too. And she brought a bunch of stuff over here one night and showed us, and we never said anything and we should have!” The words fall out of my mouth one after the other like a waterfall. “She put a necklace in my purse! It’s buried in the garden.” I turn to my father. I’m sorry is plastered on my face. Bridget is looking at me, pleading with me to be quiet. There’s desperation in her eyes. I stare back. I feel my eyebrows scrunch together like they have a mind of their own. They try to convince her we are doing the right thing. Lies heaped upon lies have gotten us into this mess. All that’s true is sitting on the table like a delicious piece of pie, piping hot from the oven, warm and all inviting, waiting for someone to take that first bite and say, yes, this is good, this is what dessert is all about. All that’s true—it’s something to savor.
Chapter Twenty-nine
I’m sitting with Mr. and Mrs. Sterling, reading them The Great Gatsby. Mavis says, “Why doesn’t he kiss her?” She says it almost every other paragraph and I’m thinking maybe I’ll read into the story that Gatsby does kiss Daisy and shut her up, but then I decide that changing the story may be worse than plagiarism, and I’ve been in enough trouble lately, thank you. Howard—that’s Mr. Sterling—says, “What’d ya say?” and Mavis shouts back her answer. “He didn’t kiss her!”
“Who cares?” Howard says and slaps the air. “Got any Mickey Spillane?”
He likes murder stories. I tell him I’ll check the library for next time. I’ve already read him two, but it is very hard to shout out the details of a crime. Actually it’s hard to shout out any book. I’m thinking of checking at the desk and explaining that Mr. Sterling’s hearing, I mean lack of hearing, is making it impossible to read. I’m probably getting cancer of my vocal chords from all the irritation. Maybe some arts and crafts would be better, anything that doesn’t involve hearing.
Guess what? Remember when my grandmother said there is good in everything? Well, she is making a believer out of me. Bridget is no longer attending Westwood Academy! She’s back at Parker Junior High. No charges were brought against Madeline and the ones against Bridget were reduced to a misdemeanor and she has to make restitution and she got forty hours of community service, too. It didn’t matter when we told them Madeline actually did it. Since no one can bear witness that they saw her put the items into Bridget’s bag, Madeline’s off the hook. For Bridget’s community service, they’ve assigned her to Table Grace Kitchen where people bring in food products that aren’t perishable and then they
are distributed to families in need. Bridget gets to sort through all of the canned goods and put them into different piles to be passed out, so everyone doesn’t get ten cans of green beans and nothing else. They take volunteers too—not just who Juvenile Court sends them—so I volunteered and you would not believe how many hungry people there are around here. We are always low on food. They don’t take any perishables except bread. And they really like getting Pampers and other baby needs, and also grooming aids. I’m sorting through deodorant and toothpaste and shampoo to make up different packages to be included with the food boxes. One woman brought in L’Oreal shampoo and a matching bottle of conditioner and I kept them together in the package and imagined the lady that gets it thinking, wow, God really likes me. I picture her face lit up like a Christmas tree, and then I get kind of sad thinking what a silly thing to get excited about, if that’s all that poor lady has to get excited about and I put in a bottle of hand lotion that looks like it came from a gift shop. Really make her day. When you do something like work at a share kitchen you just know it’s an important thing. Your heart steps back and takes a good look at itself and says, ah, this feels really good. That’s what mine’s doing now.
Something sad happened on our street. Mrs. Reed died. She’s the lady who’s eighty something and lives next to Mrs. Anderson, the fat lady. What’s really spooky is Mrs. Reed wasn’t even sick that we know of. She gets up one morning, pats her cat on the head, has her tea and toast and boom, she’s on the floor dead. We’re gathered at her house now. My mother’s here. She’s home from Peachford and looking really good. Her skin is prettier than ever and there’s a glow on her cheeks that’s bound to get my father’s attention. She goes to an AA meeting every evening at six o’clock and then we have dinner when she gets back, so Rosa stays late. Mrs. Reed’s grandson is here. He’s been serving in Iraq in the Gulf War and happened to be back on leave when she died, so that was nice. He is so good-looking I almost grab my chest just looking at him. His name is Rodney Hall. His mother is Mrs. Reed’s youngest daughter, Pamela. Mrs. Reed has two other daughters, but they haven’t arrived yet. I think Rodney’s twenty years old, but I can’t be sure. He fought in the burning fields of Kuwait City when the Iraqi soldiers set the oil wells on fire, so he’s probably a hero and has saved many lives. I’m about swooning and Anthony Morelli can just forget it. Now I understand why divorce is so prevalent. Had I been able to actually marry Anthony I would have made a big—big—mistake. Now I’m in love for real. Anthony was the puppy kind, but it was hard to know until the real kind showed up right out of the blue. And all because Mrs. Reed keeled over. That part’s really sad, but true love will have its way, no getting around that.
Chapter Thirty
Easter dinner. We are having ham and scalloped potatoes and creamed corn and fried okra and cornbread and rolls and iced tea and every kind of pie there is. Beth is here and Amy and Jeffrey and Howard and Vivian. There is laughter in the house again and everyone is smiling and eating and seeming to have a perfectly good time, except for me. I am hopelessly in love and feeling miserable, like I can’t get enough air into my lungs.
“What is it, Andi?” my mother says, and puts her hand to my forehead. “Do you have a fever?”
Yes, I have a major fever of the worst sort.
“No, I’m just not hungry,” I say. It’s true. I’m not. If there is one thing love is good for I have noticed is that it is a miracle diet. I have lost three pounds. It seems I’ve lost it from the head down. I finally have cheek bones.
“Oh look,” Beth says. “Andi’s losing her baby fat.” She holds my chin in her hand and turns my face from side to side. I hate her. She already pointed that out two years ago.
“Why Andi, you’re turning into an absolute beauty.”
I love her. She might be the sister I’ve been hoping for. Then I realize how strange she is. She didn’t even invite Parker to join us for dinner. So, why is she even getting married if she’s going to ignore him?
I don’t dwell on Beth. I think of Rodney which makes me sad. There’s something I’ve learned about the other kind of love—the romantic kind. Sad just rolls over you every minute you are not in the same room with the one you love, which is every waking hour I exist. I haven’t seen Rodney since the funeral which was eight days ago. But I will see him today. My mother has invited him and his mother to come for dessert. They are having their Easter dinner at some restaurant, I can’t remember which one, and will join us later. I should be very excited, but my stomach is too nervous and I am rehearsing what it is I want to say to him. It’s very important I choose just the right words, as he is leaving to go back to Iraq and who knows when I will see him again.
“I love you. I positively love you,” seems too much too soon. I’m thinking of maybe, “Can I ask you a question?” And he’ll say of course and I’ll say, “Do you believe in love at first sight?”
But that sounds like it’s a script for a movie. So dorky. When he gets here I manage to say, “Hi!” but then everyone is standing around in a circle so what else can I say? But later when I get a chance to talk with him alone, I say, “So, how’s the war going?” and he nearly chokes on his iced tea, and I want to kick myself. It’s a very serious thing, this war, and it comes out of my mouth like I’m inquiring about the weather.
“It’s not a good situation, Andi,” he says, “but I think we’re making progress.”
He’s so mature; I could just die on the spot acting so stupid. And then what is wrong with me? Out of the blue, I blurt out, “Do you believe in love at first sight?”
He doesn’t blink. “I’m not sure I do, Andi,” he says, “but I’m not convinced I don’t.” And he winks. I am the color of what’s left of the ham sitting on the dining room table.
“Would you like to see some photos of Kuwait?” he says, and reaches into the breast pocket of his uniform.
He wants to share his world with me—a world of war and death and suffering and oil field fires. He wants me to see what is going on in his life; to be prepared. My heart starts beating so fast I get the hiccups.
This is absolutely the best Easter of my entire life, bar none. Except for the hiccups.
***
Being in love for real is like watching the sun set and seeing every color that God ever created sit in the sky all at once. I play music on my stereo and dance around the room. I have my arms held out in a circle with each hand wrapped around one wrist like Rodney is in my arms and I’m in his. Really there’s only empty space, but someday there won’t be and that makes my heart just stand up.
We’ll have such an incredible life together. And three children—a boy and a girl and then a surprise baby; whatever it is we will love it. I am so far in the clouds I don’t even mind school anymore. In algebra if Ms. Hadley calls on me and says simplify the expression and writes on the board 2(a − 3) + 4b − 2(a − b − 3), I tell her I don’t know, like always, but I’m not the least bit embarrassed. Why be embarrassed? I plan to marry Rodney when I’m old enough and raise our children. Why would I need to know how to simplify a mathematical expression? Exactly. And when Mr. Finch in English asks me to define two independent clauses, I say it’s two sentences that can stand alone and take my seat (I mentioned I was going to work harder in English), but I don’t really care at all that I know the answer. My mind is seven thousand one hundred and ten miles away—the exact distance between Kuwait and Atlanta.
Chapter Thirty-one
Amy and I are folding all of the baby things she got at her shower last night. Two of her friends, Trish and Marsha, held it here so she could just stay on the sofa and rest herself. Amy is eight months pregnant now. It’s so nice having baby showers when you know what kind of baby you’re having. There are blue rompers, and blue blankets and cute little boy-baby hats and shoes. I wonder during all those years when there was no way to know what kind of baby they were having how many women lined up to return things or just dressed their baby in whatever color was availabl
e, say a pink stretchy on a little baby boy and all day long people were saying, “Oh, isn’t she cute?”
Lately, being around Amy, I’m amazed at all the things pregnant woman cannot do anymore. It’s a wonder the rest of us are alive. The women were talking about it at the shower—how mothers who smoked and drank and took aspirin and ate blue cheese dressing and tuna from a can and never got tested for diabetes. And then after babies were born they were put to sleep on our tummies in a baby crib covered with bright colored lead-based paint. There were no childproof lids on medicine bottles, no latches on doors or cabinets, and kids rode bikes with no helmets. They rode in cars with no car seats or booster seats or air bags. They drank water from the garden hose and not from a bottle. They ate cupcakes and white bread and real butter and drank Kool-Aid made with sugar, but they weren’t overweight because they were always outside playing. My mom said they would leave home in the morning and play all day, so long as they were back by supper and then they’d go out again and stay outside until the streetlights came on. No one was able to reach them all day and it was okay. There were no PlayStations, Nintendos, or Xboxes. No video games or movies, and no cable TV, no three hundred channels and no surround-sound. Mostly they were pretty safe. They had lots of friends and went outside and found them. They fell out of trees, or slipped on the sidewalk, broke bones, and teeth and there weren’t any lawsuits. It was all part of growing up. They ate mud cookies and worms did not end up living in them. And if they got in trouble at school, they got in double trouble at home and their parents always sided with the principal.
I think of Amy’s baby and all the changes in the world since my mom was little and even since I was little and figure maybe it’s not so great and then I get scared for him.
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