Before, After, and Somebody In Between

by Jeannine Garsee

  Guy number two juggles his coffee to light a cigarette. “I’ll get him off.”

  “Yeah, Dick. You always do.”

  Hmm, that dude with the cancer stick looks a lit-tle to-o familiar. I inch away, but he notices me, too, and after his friend says good-bye, he takes a step closer. “Do you need some help?”

  Do I look that pitiful, or is it against the law to stand here? “Um, no. I’m fine.” My mouth waters at the smell of his cappuccino. I think I’d sell one of my body organs right now for a good jolt of caffeine.

  The man’s cell phone rings out the opening bars to Mozart’s Eine Kleine Nachtmusik. Forgetting about me, he pitches the cigarette and drops his briefcase to free up his hands. I peer around him at the door, wondering what I should do—just dart right in and throw myself on the mercy of the first person in uniform?

  Something tells me this was a bad, ba-ad idea. Let’s see, in the past six hours I’ve ditched school, ditched the Merriweathers, committed petty theft, and destroyed school property. Four probation violations already and the day’s not even over. I go back in there now, I might never see daylight again. What if—?

  I jump when Coffee Guy shouts into his phone, “Look! That kid’s a victim of circumstance, and I’m not going to stand by and let you railroad him into a plea. No jail time, period! I’m not discussing this again.”

  He smacks his phone shut and shoves it back into his coat, then fires up a second cigarette, puffing furiously. He stares off over my head, looking mad enough to explode, and bang! that’s when it hits me: I know who he is! Yep, it’s that guy who drove me home from Shavonne’s on Halloween.

  Not just any old guy, either. And not just any old lawyer.

  A lawyer who defends kids! Victims of circumstances. Oh, there is so definitely a God, I’ll never doubt Him again.

  “Wait!” I yell as the man comes to life and swings his briefcase up from the salt-splattered step. “I lied.”

  “Excuse me?” He does a double take, but I can see he doesn’t recognize me. Well, how could he? I was black last time we met.

  “I lied when you asked me if I need help. I do need it. Big time!”

  “Oka-ay,” he says uncertainly, and I can see he thinks I’m about one grape shy of a fruit salad. “Let me give you my card, and—”

  “No! I need it now!”

  He glances around. “Is somebody with you?”

  “No-o…”

  “Do you have a hearing today?”

  “Um, no, but—”

  “No? Well, is there a reason you’re not in school? Does your mom or dad know you’re here?”

  Attention, please: Due to a massive brain fart, Martha Kowalski will be unable to answer any further questions. Another one of my stupid ideas! I mean, what did I expect? That somebody like him in his fancy wool coat and his leather briefcase and that clunky gold watch around his wrist would jump at the chance to take on a charity case like me? Lawyers cost money, and I so obviously don’t have any.

  I will myself to give up and run for my life, but my feet won’t listen. Teeth chattering, all I can do is stand there, my long unwashed hair whipping in the wind.

  The man moves closer. “I’m sorry. What’s your name?”

  “Martha,” I manage to squeeze out through my numb lips. “You know me, too.”

  “I do?”

  “Yeah. You d-drove me home one night. From the Addamses’.”

  Triple take this time. “From the Addamses’?”

  “Yes! Don’t you remember? I slimed up your car. I had m-makeup on, and, well, I guess you thought I was black, and then you p-picked up your daughter, and—”

  “That was you?” Now, for the first time, he takes a good long look at me. “Oh, Chri—I mean, yes, I remember you. Shavonne’s little friend. You fell out of my car,” he adds, smiling at last. “And yeah, you slimed it up pretty good.” He tosses the cigarette away and holds out a hand for me to shake. “Richard Brinkman. God, you’re cold. Come on, my car’s on the street. I’ll drive you home.”

  Home? What home? I pull back, still clutching his warm hand. “No, I just want to t-talk to you, that’s all—”

  “Well, we can talk in the car.”

  Dragging my wet feet, I follow him to the long black car. Once I’m inside, the minute he asks, “What’s going on?” I blurt everything out because I can’t, I can’t let him take me back to that dog pile.

  “And I was gonna turn myself in, but I’m in so much trouble now! And I’m really, really sorry, but I am not going back to that house, and I don’t know what else to do!” I finish with a pathetic wail, and sink back into the seat, half of me embarrassed and the other half not even caring.

  He thinks this over, tapping the steering wheel. “Fine. Let’s grab a bite to eat, and we can discuss this like adults.” He emphasizes the “adults” part.

  This, I think, has got to be a trick. Maybe he plans to roll me out onto the curb as he speeds past the nearest police station.

  Instead, he drives me to some fancy east-side deli where my corned beef sandwich and café mocha with double espresso costs twice as much as a week’s worth of school lunches. I dig in, trying not to drool as Mr. Brinkman fires questions at me. I can tell he doesn’t get it about the Merriweathers. What? No TV on school nights? I have to dust clowns? Everything I say sounds stupid now, even to me.

  “Do you have any relatives who can take you in till your mother gets better? Any friends of the family?”

  Nobody but Wayne, and forget about staying with him. It’s Shavonne I want to live with, but I’m not sure how to bring it up.

  “What about your dad?”

  “Dead,” I whisper, gouging my thumbnail with my teeth.

  “How did it happen?”

  I don’t want to tell him, it’s too humiliating—but, well, I bet he’s heard worse. “He got murdered. In prison.”

  Not even a blink. “I’m sorry to hear that, Martha.”

  Most people say that automatically, but he sounds likes he means it. He gives me a break for a while so I can finish my sandwich in peace, and then I play with a crust of bread while he continues the interrogation. What do I do for fun? Read, watch movies. What kind of books? Elves and magic, science fiction, and yes, even the classics they make me read in school. What kind of movies? Fantasy, horror, almost any dumb comedy. And anything with Elvis, of course.

  Then: “So what do you plan to do after you graduate?”

  This throws me. “Um, I haven’t thought about it much.”

  “Somehow I find that hard to believe,” Mr. Brinkman observes. “I think you’ve thought about it a lot.”

  I don’t have enough energy to shrug. “Well…” Should I say it? Does it sound really, really lame? “I kind of used to want to be a cellist.”

  “Why?”

  Why? Nobody ever asked me this before, not even Mr. Hopewell. I sit there silently, buzzed from the espresso, and think about this long and hard. I have no clear answer, other than the way I felt when I heard The Four Seasons that day with Shavonne. But you can’t describe that kind of feeling. Words don’t exist.

  “It sounds stupid,” I begin, tearing up the last of my bread crust. “But I touched one once, like for the very first time? And after that, it was the only thing I wanted to do.” And before he can fall out of his chair, choking with laughter, I add, “Anyway, I kinda gave it up, so…”

  He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even smile. “Why on earth would you do that?”

  I twitch a shoulder and pretend to study the dessert menu because I’m sorry I opened my mouth, and yes, I’m tired of his questions.

  I guess he can tell, because he switches gears. “You know, legally speaking, I could be in a lot of hot water. What I’m doing in a sense is harboring a runaway.” He flashes a Hollywood smile, but a cold panic rises inside me, pushing food up to the back of my throat.

  I’m not going back to the clown house. I’ll kill myself first.

  It must show in my face
because he lays a hand over mine. “You wait here. I’m going to make a few calls.” I jerk in alarm, but he gives my fingers an extra squeeze. “Don’t worry. I’m not turning you in.”

  In total wonder, I watch him whip out his cell phone again and troop out of earshot.

  And as hard as I try not to, I feel myself hoping.

  27

  Shaker Heights is one of those la-di-da suburbs on the east side of Cleveland, and the Brinkmans’ house is about as la-di-da as you can get. An ivy-covered mansion all decorated for Christmas with white lights, a candle in every window, and a wreath on the front door. Inside, it’s immaculate with lots of dark wood and bright chandeliers, a curving staircase, and not one single mouse trap or roach motel in sight.

  The lady of the manor steps forward, and Mr. Brinkman announces, “My wife, Claudia.”

  Blond and gorgeous, like she belongs onstage at the Academy Awards, Mrs. Brinkman touches my shoulder with a warm, “Hi, Martha. Welcome.”

  “And our daughter, Nicole,” Mr. Brinkman continues.

  Yes, it’s that Nikki chick from the car on Halloween night. I hold my breath, waiting for her next words: Daddy! Isn’t that the little hooker who fell out of your car?

  “Nicolette,” she corrects her father, showing off dimples the size of peas. I notice her pale blue eyes and wispy brows, and cheekbones that could’ve been carved from a hunk of glass. Relaxing my jaw, I force a smile as she eyeballs my smelly sneakers. I must look like a war orphan from the mountains of Afghanistan, which I guess is a step up from looking like a drunken underage hooker.

  But wait. I was black, I had braids, and I doubt she saw my face. Did Mr. Brinkman call me by name that night? I don’t remember. I barely remember the ride.

  Mrs. Brinkman tells Nikki to lend me some clothes and show me where I’ll be sleeping tonight. Hoping not to leave dirty footprints on the thick pale carpet, I creep upstairs behind Nikki’s shining hair, watching it ripple and swing like a shampoo commercial. Taffy, their silky cocker spaniel, sniffs my grubby shoes for hillbilly contraband as she follows along, tail wagging.

  Opening a door to a sunny blue room, Nikki announces, “I’m right next door, through that bathroom, and Mom and Dad are way down at the end of the hall. And that’s Daddy’s office, next to the music room.”

  The music room? Well, double la-di-da.

  “Who’s down there?” I ask, pointing toward the other end.

  “Nobody. That’s Rachel’s room.”

  “Who’s Rachel?”

  “My sister.”

  She heaves an armload of clothes at me, and I tuck them into drawers lined with thick, scented paper. I’m glad it’s her stuff she’s watching me put away, not my own raggedy underpants and stretched-out bras.

  “Did my dad tell you I dance?” she asks out of the blue. “I had an audition today, and I’m so excited! I really wanted to try out for Odette, but they wanted a pro, so I got stuck with the ensemble. But I’m glad I got in.” At my uncomprehending look, she adds, “It’s Swan Lake, Martha. Odette’s the lead, the principal dancer.”

  Well, gosh darn it all. I shove the last drawer shut, nicking my pinky as Mrs. Brinkman appears and wraps her arms around Nikki. “I’m so proud of you, honey. You were wonderful today!”

  Nikki rolls her eyes over her mother’s shoulder. “Thanks, Mom.”

  Wow, when was the last time Momma said that to me?

  “You girls get acquainted, and I’ll start supper.”

  “Want me to help?” I ask, hoping to suck up.

  “Thank you, Martha. But you relax, take it easy.”

  When her mom’s out of the room, Nikki winks. “Well, that’s one brownie point.”

  “I’m not looking for brownie points,” I lie. “I like to cook.”

  “Whatever.” Nikki shakes away a long strand of hair. “So, like, what grade are you in?”

  “Tenth.”

  “Really? I’m a junior. I thought you were younger.”

  Well, I am, since I skipped second grade. But maybe if she thinks I’m closer to her age, she won’t try to intimidate me so much.

  “How old is your sister?” I ask, hoping she’ll forget about me for a sec.

  “Rachel? She died.”

  “Oh. When?”

  “A couple of years ago.”

  “Oh,” I repeat lamely, then, “Sorry.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s not like we were close or anything, but … well, thanks.”

  That’s kind of a weird thing to say, and I wait for her to throw in some more details, but she does no such thing. She just looks at me, and I look back, seeing nothing in her face that says she knows who I am.

  “Think I can take a bath?” I ask, since obviously I won’t be hearing any more about Rachel.

  “Knock yourself out. There’s extra towels in the hall.”

  On my way back from the linen closet, I hear my name through the door of Mr. Brinkman’s office. I trip to a halt, ears standing straight out. “Tim, I don’t care how long those people have been at this. That kid looks like she hasn’t had a bath in a week.”

  Great. Tell the whole world, why don’t you?

  “Yes, I know the mom’s a head case. That’s beside the point. I want these people investigated, and, no, I’m not sending her back…Yes, it’s fine with them, too. You’ll make the calls?… Thanks, Tim.”

  Flying to the john, I rip off my clothes. Not a single speck of green mold caked around the faucets, and the tub is so clean, so sparkly, it’s a shame to grub it up. Water shoots out in jet spurts from every side as I sink down into the warm bubbles, scrub my skin raw, lather my hair, and then bob in the suds with my heels anchored to the rim.

  Normally I don’t believe in fate or destiny. But what happened today is too eerie to be a coincidence. I feel so out of place in these fancy rooms, and yet—even weirder—it’s like another part of me feels completely at home.

  Ha! My heels slip off the edge and I spit out suds. The only reason I’m here is because Mr. Brinkman knows I’m friends with Shavonne. Well, he’s the lawyer. There must be some way for him to fix it so I can go stay with the Addamses.

  …

  Dinner is awesome. For once I eat at a table with a real tablecloth instead of out of my lap in front of a parade of reruns. The silverware matches, the china matches, and I sip bottled water out of a crystal goblet with crushed ice and lemon. Thanks to Nikki, nobody bombards me with questions because they’re too busy listening to her blab about her audition. I squint up at the chandelier, marveling at how totally fantastic I feel…and then I realize why: for the first time since Bubby died, I don’t have a single twinge of a headache.

  Later, Mrs. Brinkman hands me an extra blanket at the door of “my” new room. “It gets chilly in here at night, so bundle up. And if you need anything, just give a knock on Nikki’s door.”

  “I won’t need anything.” I hug the soft blanket, and she waits, watching me with a half-smile, like she knows I have something to say. “Um, thanks. A lot. You know, for—” Saving me sounds goofy, but what else can you call it?

  She touches the side of my head. “Sleep tight, hon.”

  I sleep tighter than tight.

  No dreams. Nothing. The best sleep I ever had.

  28

  The dog wakes me in the morning, shoving its wet nose into mine. Amazed, I stare at the sky-blue walls striped with sunshine, at the leaded-glass windows and lacy drapes. Big TV in one corner, with a built-in DVD player, no less. Artwork on the wall—Degas, Monet, obviously not originals, but not those cheap drugstore prints, either—and the kind of gleaming wood furniture that comes as a set.

  Wow, I’m still here. Nothing changed overnight.

  Nikki pokes her head into the bathroom as I’m brushing my teeth with a brand new toothbrush, and toothpaste that doesn’t taste like it came from a dollar store. “Hey.”

  I spit into the sink. “Hey.”

  “You want to go riding with me this morning?”

&
nbsp; “Riding? You mean horses?”

  “Yeah, I have two of my own, and one’s really sweet. A baby could ride her. C’mon, it’ll be fun.”

  I picture razor-sharp hooves trampling me into a bloody puddle. “Um, no thanks.” I don’t need to be spending hours alone with this Nikki chick anyway. What if she starts asking about me? Unless she already knows. Maybe her dad already told her the whole story.

  Instead, Nikki knocks me away from the sink and goes off on like six different tangents as she layers on lipstick. Not only do I have to hear about Justin, her ultracool boyfriend, but about all her friends at Waverly, a totally exclusive school probably reserved for female descendants of the Mayflower pilgrims. Oh, and her cousin Danny “who’s like my best, best friend!” and who’d be “perfect for you!” if he wasn’t already attached.

  If she wants to blab about something, why doesn’t she blab about her sister? Like, how did she die? Or maybe it’s none of my business.

  Then: “Don’t you have a nickname or something? I mean, honestly—Mar-tha?”

  No shit. Same thing I’ve been saying these past fourteen years.

  “I hate my name,” she goes on. “There are like three other Nicoles in my drama club, so as soon as I’m old enough, I’m changing it to Nicolette. What’s your middle name?” She makes a face when I tell her. “Georgine? Eew, that’s just as bad. Wait, wait! I got it—Gina! It’s perfect.”

  Gina? Gina… Gina. The more I say it to myself, the more I like it. Gina Kowalski? Yeah! Gina Kowalski.

  Over breakfast, Mr. Brinkman asks Nikki, “So are you ready to go pick out a Christmas tree this morning?”

  Nikki makes a face. “Oh, Daddy. I’m too old for that stuff. Anyway, I’m going riding.” She jabs a spoon in my direction. “Take Gina, why don’t you?”

  “Gina?”

  “That’s her nickname,” Nikki informs him, sparing me from explaining.