We don’t talk while he shovels earth over the squirrel. I feel like I should say something about how this squirrel should have been leaping through trees and munching seeds, not mowed down by some uncaring asshole, but that bubble lodges in my throat again.
When Dad squeezes my shoulder with his big hand, I want to dive into his arms. I remember Dad, solid and warm, holding me after I fell off my bike and scraped my forehead when I was seven. But I’m not a little girl anymore, and he can’t fix what’s wrong.
“Now will you go inside and rest?” he asks.
A wave of exhaustion hits me. “Sure,” I say.
We head inside. I skip Mom’s dinner of leftovers and collapse between my cool cotton sheets. I just want to sleep, but instead I stare at the last of the sunlight that filters through my blinds and across the clothes on the floor. My hand aches no matter how I hold it, and my brain won’t stop cycling through my memories of the day.
Eventually, I text Alena—at least I can still type with my good fingers. I tell her that my right hand is broken. No response. I leave a message for my soccer coach, saying that I can’t play for a few weeks, but I’ll still come to the games.
Then I get a random text from Melody. What did I tell u? Stay away from him, slut.
What the hell? Did Matt tell her he saw me at the mall? Was she watching us? Does she still think I’m after him? Whatever is going on in her stupid, jealous brain, I just want to forget Matt. Can’t Melody and everyone else let me do that?
I finally sleep, but I awaken to pain in the middle of the night, sure that Matt is twisting my fingers into new, agonizing shapes. You know you want it, Tori, he whispers in my ear. I’m gasping, and then I realize that I’m lying on top of my hand, crushing the bruised fingers. I stay awake for hours, eyeing the shadows in the corners of my room, feeling like the night has a tight grip on my throat.
On Sunday, my aches seem even worse and fresh bruises bloom. I convince Mom to let me miss school the next day. I’d rather do homework and watch bad daytime TV than answer a billion questions about my hand and the cut above my ear. But no way will I miss any of my shifts at the shelter.
Monday is the first stiflingly hot day since last summer. I find the kids in the fenced backyard of the shelter. The air rings with joyful shrieks as Rachel, Jonah and Manny run through a spinning typhoon of a sprinkler, colliding with one another and sliding on the slick grass.
Sal is there too, with his crew of preschoolers and the other child and youth worker, Francine.
Casey hangs back by the shed, her eyes on the spray. She’s the only kid not in a bathing suit, but at least her feet are bare. I watch her dip one toe in a puddle on the soggy grass. When the other kids notice me, I’m swarmed. Manny latches onto my middle, soaking my T-shirt and shorts. Two preschoolers I don’t know well copy him, and my bruises ache anew. Jonah shows me his new blue-and-red-striped bathing suit. Rachel pokes a finger at my cast, demanding to know what happened.
“I ran into a garbage can,” I tell Rachel. I don’t want to lie, but I’m not sharing details either.
“How?” Manny’s eyes cloud with worry. “Did you trip?”
“Sort of.” I think about how his mother may have tried to hide injuries to her body. “But I’m okay, Manny.”
He nods, his eyes serious.
Casey wanders over, her eyes on my cast. She lingers in the background, as usual, waiting for the excitement to die down.
“Can we sign your cast?” Rachel pleads. A drop of water dangles from the tip of her nose, and her long hair hangs in snaky clumps.
“It’s not the signing kind. Sorry.” I tap it. “See? It’s covered in cloth. And it’s black, so the writing won’t show.”
Rachel’s face falls briefly and then brightens. “I’ll make a card for you instead.” She hurries away, and I can hear her telling Jia that I broke my hand so she needs paper and pencils to make a get-well card for me.
When the other kids run back to the sprinkler, Casey gives me a fleeting hug.
“How are you, Casey?” I say, hoping today will be the day she answers me.
But she just gives me her usual wounded, wide-eyed stare and then wanders back to flutter near the other kids.
The heat of the sun makes my hand sweat inside my cast. I retreat to the shade, where Sal slouches against the trunk of a maple, the one tree that towers over the yard.
“Hey,” he says. “Too bad about your hand.”
His heavy bangs fall across his eyes and swoop to one side. His smile is soft, and I like how he doesn’t ask nosy questions. I could get to like this guy, except I’m off the market.
“Thanks. Where’s Ethan today?” I ask. Ethan is a chubby two-year-old Sal often has in tow.
“He moved out.”
“Of the shelter? Where did he go?”
“I don’t know exactly.” He leans one tanned foot against the tree trunk. “Francine said that his family finally got into subsidized housing. They’ve been on the list for a year.”
“He’s just gone? That quickly?” I’d want to say goodbye before any of my kids left.
“Yup,” he says, like he’s used to people disappearing. “They’re lucky.”
Then two preschoolers start a tug-of-war over a sit-and-scoot car, and Sal lopes over to settle it.
I wander over to Casey to encourage her to go in the sprinkler. Together, we let the sprinkler spray our bare feet. I can’t go in farther because I need to keep my cast dry.
When Casey strips to her bathing suit and edges closer to the sprinkler, I return to the shade to find Sal holding a monarch butterfly. It’s perched on his hand, opening and shutting its wings every so often. One wing is torn in half.
“Where’d you get that?” The sight of this tall guy cradling an injured butterfly makes me strangely emotional.
“It was just sitting in the sunshine on the slide, and I didn’t want the kids to run over it.” He points to the playground, which has a low red slide for the preschoolers. “Don’t monarchs migrate?”
I nod. “Maybe that’s how it tore its wing. I hope it can still fly.” I try not to think about what will happen to it if it can’t. “It’s amazing how something that frail can be so strong.”
“It must have flown to get here.” He holds the butterfly up near his face to examine it, and the butterfly waves its antennae in front of his nose. “Maybe it flew through the sprinkler. It could be too wet to fly.”
“Maybe.” I glance over at the kids and get a great idea. “Hold on a minute. I’ll be right back.”
I approach Casey, who’s tramping gently over the water-soaked grass, looking back at her footprints.
“Casey, come here for a second.”
Casey’s eyes grow wider when she spies the butterfly. Sal kneels and slowly extends his hand. The butterfly opens its black-and-orange wings.
“Sal found it,” I explain. “It probably flew thousands of miles to get here. It must be the first to arrive this spring. Pretty cool, huh?”
Her eyes don’t leave the butterfly. “Can I hold it?” she asks.
My mouth falls open. Sal and I exchange a glance. I swallow my excitement and say, “Sure. Just be careful not to touch its wings—it’s really fragile.”
“I’ll be careful,” she says.
I marvel at her sweet, lilting voice.
She holds her pale fingers next to Sal’s. It takes a while, but eventually the butterfly rests on her hand.
Casey sucks in a breath. “Wow,” she whispers. Her eyes blaze.
Sal gives me a way-to-go grin and then takes off to help a preschooler who is teetering at the top of the slide. I talk to Casey about butterflies, migration, cocoons and so on, thrilled every time she answers. Jia joins the conversation, raising her eyebrows at me.
After a while, Casey wanders away with the butterfly perched on her hand. I can hear her whispering to it, but I can’t make out what she’s saying. I love the contented smile on her face.
“I don’
t know how you got her to talk, Tori.” Jia pats me on the back. “But whatever you did, keep doing it.”
“I just showed her the butterfly,” I say.
“It’s more than that, Tori. Casey feels comfortable with you.”
“Really?” I stand a little taller.
“Yes. Now please tell me what happened with the butterfly. Her mother will want a full report.”
I tell her everything. As I finish, Rachel lets out a shriek.
“Casey has a butterfly,” she announces. “Where’d you get it?”
Soon there’s a crowd around Casey. Jia and I head over.
“Tori and Sal gave it to me,” Casey says.
None of the kids seem surprised to hear her speak.
“Can I have one too?” Manny glances at me pleadingly, like I might have another one stashed behind my back.
“Sal only found one.” I smooth Manny’s wild hair. “Sorry.”
“Can I hold it?” Rachel is more direct.
“I want a turn.” Jonah stomps his foot.
“It’s not a good idea to pass it around,” Jia says. “It’s a living creature, not a toy. And it’s hurt.” She points. “See the broken wing? It may not be able to fly.”
“That’s okay.” Casey’s voice is steady. “Because I’m going to keep Monty safe. He can stay with me.”
“Monty?” I grin.
“Is that his name?” Jonah asks.
“We can all feed him.” Rachel pushes closer.
The butterfly closes its wings.
I’m just about to tell the kids to give the butterfly some space when Casey says, “Not too close. You’ll scare him.” She cups her hand around the butterfly and beams at me.
I give her a thumbs-up.
Casey holds the butterfly near her chest. The other kids visit and then wander back to the sprinkler. Soon the moms start trickling into the backyard. I’ve gotten to know a few of them since they come to collect their kids before dinner each night.
Casey’s mom, Rita, talks to Jia and then hurries over. I’m proud and slightly embarrassed when she thanks me repeatedly for encouraging her daughter to talk.
“You know, Casey-Lynn really admires you.” Rita has dark circles under her eyes, and she looks exhausted. “Last night in our room, she was talking about you.”
“That’s great. I like her too.” I smile, staring at Rita’s face and trying to decide why it looks so lopsided today.
“So many people at the shelter have helped us, but you…” She pauses to gaze intently at me. “Somehow you connect with Casey so well.”
“I guess.” When I realize that she only has makeup on one eye, I marvel at how she could forget to do the other eye. Is she too busy? Too stressed? Jia had once asked Rita how the search for an apartment was going; apparently, it’s hard to find an affordable one these days.
Just then I hear a horrible screech from across the yard.
I turn to see Casey falling to her knees, wailing. Her arm stretches toward the sky as the butterfly flits away, wobbling above the shed, over the fence and beyond.
Her mother runs to her. I stare after the butterfly, silently pleading for it to come back.
I don’t want to leave the shelter until Casey calms down. She sits between her mother and me on the hard bench in the yard, sniffling and wiping her nose every so often. When her mother brings out their dinner, Casey hardly eats.
Eventually, I say, “I have to go soon, Casey.” Exams are coming, and I’ve barely started any of my review packages. The sun has set behind the trees, although the sky is still bright.
“Not yet.” Casey’s eyes get watery. She wraps her arms around my neck.
“I’ll go in five minutes.” I hold her shivering body. “But first, I want to tell you something.”
“What?” She pulls back and examines my face.
I glance at Rita, who looks drained. “Today I’m sad and happy at the same time,” I say.
Casey shoots me a confused look.
“I’m sad because when the butterfly left, you cried. Maybe if I hadn’t shown him to you, you wouldn’t be hurting now.”
“But I loved Monty!”
“I know. And I loved showing him to you. That’s why I’m happy. Because when you saw the butterfly, you spoke to me.” I smile. “I like when you talk.”
“You do?”
“Yup. I like it so much that right now, my happy feelings are bigger than my sad ones.”
“I like talking to you too.” She throws her arms around me again, but this time she’s not shaking.
I give Casey a final hug and disentangle from her.
Rita nods at me. “Thank you again. I seem to be saying that a lot to you today.”
“I like helping.” I shrug, embarrassed. Then I say to Casey, “Talk to you tomorrow?”
“Okay.” She wipes her eyes.
Ten minutes later I head out the back gate, which opens onto the sidewalk. I’ve got Rachel’s hastily scribbled card in hand; she wanted to get back to the sprinkler more than she wanted to draw. Across the street, Mr. Manicure, the tidy neighbor with the trim fingernails, is cutting the grass with a noisy electric lawn mower. Apparently, he prunes his yard as well as he trims his nails. When he sees me coming, he waves and turns off the motor.
I wave back and keep walking.
“You work at the shelter?” he calls across the street.
He knows it’s a shelter? I try not to show my surprise.
He grins, heading across the street toward me, stripping off his gardening gloves one at a time. “We all know it’s a shelter. I mean, look at the cameras.” He points to the one above the gate to the backyard. “It’s pretty obvious.”
I glance at the shelter and then back at him, feeling uncomfortable. He’s right, but Peggy told me not to talk about it. For the safety of the residents, she said.
“Yeah, I know all the people there.” He steps too close, and I can smell his musky aftershave mixed with the scent of gasoline. “Peggy Epstein tells me about them. Rachel is a sweet girl, and Casey too. Do you know them?”
I step back. Is this guy a creep or just sickeningly nice? “Uh, I’ve got to go.” I hurry away without glancing back.
“Okay. Bye, Tori.”
Did I tell him my name?
From now on, I’ll be avoiding that guy.
CONCEAL
to keep secret
Getting ready for school the next day is worse than usual.
Joel takes more than his share of time in the bathroom, and when I do get into the stinky, soggy mess he leaves behind, I slip on the wet floor and whack my sore hand on the edge of the counter. I can’t easily shave my head with my broken hand, even though my hair is growing in. In front of the mirror, I find that my concealer refuses to hide the cut over my left ear.
Dad has already left for his shift, and I’m waiting for Mom to holler up at me to come for breakfast. When she squeezes into the bathroom with me, I’m surprised.
“Are you going to be okay today?” she asks.
She’s wearing dress pants with a neat crease down each leg, high heels and a freshly ironed shirt. She smells like perfume and coffee, and in the mirror beside me, her makeup is good enough to make me feel like a preteen trying to do my face for the first time.
I dodge around her to grab my concealer off the counter. “Why wouldn’t I be?” I dab more on the cut and blend it in. I don’t want people yapping about it at school. I’m wearing a loose, long-sleeved black shirt that hides most of the cast, even though it’s warm again today.
My mother smooths in the concealer behind my ear.
I jerk away. “I can do it.”
“I know.” She frowns at me in the mirror. “Just stay out of trouble today. Dad and I don’t know what to expect from you next. I still think a therapist would be a good idea.”
“Forget it, Mom.” I roll my eyes. “There’s nothing to worry about.”
“Is that so? You hardly eat anymore. You’re withdrawn
, and you’re always preoccupied.” She waggles her schoolteacher finger at me. “Maybe you’re having trouble with something or someone? Maybe a boy? If you won’t talk to a therapist, you could at least talk to me about whatever’s going on with you.”
In the mirror, my face goes white. “I’m fine, Mom.” Like I’d ever talk to her about Matt.
She studies me and then glances at her watch. “I have to get to school. We’ll talk later,” she says, like it’s decided.
Not if I can help it.
I endure the kiss she plants on the top of my head and lock the bathroom door after she leaves. I know she means well, but my mother talks more than she listens, and she’s a control freak. The middle-school kids she teaches don’t dare cross her, and at home she runs our lives too. Sometimes I can handle it, but mostly I just want her to let me live my own way.
I sweep my concealer off the counter and into my makeup drawer. I hope this lousy start to the day isn’t a sign of what’s to come.
As I’m heading toward World History, sweating in my cast and long-sleeved shirt, I see Jamarlo with Carmen, who’s in my class. She’s dressed in a faded jean jacket, white jean cutoffs and ripped black tights. He’s in a leopard-print hoodie, jeans and his trademark fedora. They’re melded together in a parting kiss, with her hand on his waist and his arm stretched to her shoulder, since she’s taller than him. She’s leaning down to reach his lips.
Since I have to walk right past them, I figure, what the hell? Why not break the silence?
I tug my sleeve down lower over my cast and say, “Hey, Jamarlo.”
Maybe I call to him out of habit. Maybe I just miss him too much.
I keep walking, since I don’t want to hassle them or deal with Jamarlo’s wrath, but before I get much distance between us, Jamarlo and Carmen pull apart, looking startled.
Carmen blinks rapidly, as if she’s just waking up. “Check out that cast!” she says, disentangling from Jamarlo and drying her lips on the back of her hand.
“Whoa!” Jamarlo says, as if he hasn’t been refusing to talk to me for weeks. “What happened to your arm?” He plays with Carmen’s bobbed, white-blond hair, twirling it between his fingers like he’s proud to have access.
Punch Like a Girl Page 6
