A Room on Lorelei Street

by Mary E. Pearson

  But Carly.

  Maybe.

  Zoe could ask. She loaned Carly money once. It was a long time ago, but she knows Carly would remember. She could ask her at the next break.

  She waits on the brick planter outside Math Lab until Carly arrives.

  “You didn’t call,” Carly says.

  “Sorry.”

  “Not a big deal. Things were just weird the other night.” She digs with the word “weird,” waiting for Zoe to fill in the holes. Zoe tries to shrug it into something else.

  “It was strange, having everyone over to my own place—”

  “No. That’s not what I mean. It was Reid. He got a strange look on his face when Carlos came. I asked him about it on the way home, but he wouldn’t say anything. What’s up?”

  Zoe’s stomach throbs, and a salty film coats her mouth. “You know he’s always had a crush on me. That’s probably all it was. I didn’t really notice. You have a water bottle on you?”

  Carly digs through her backpack. She hands Zoe a half-empty plastic bottle. “You okay?”

  “Just my stomach.” She takes a swig from the bottle. “And…I need to ask a favor. Can I borrow some money?”

  Carly doesn’t hesitate. “Sure. How much?” She reaches into her backpack again. Zoe puts her hand on Carly’s arm to stop her.

  “No. I mean a lot of money. More than you’ve got there. I need ninety dollars.”

  “Shit. You really need money.” Carly sets her backpack down. “Yeah, I can get it to you. I’ll have to go to the bank. When do you need it by?”

  “Friday.”

  “You getting a boob job or something?”

  “Yeah. Something like that.”

  “I’ll bring it on Thursday.”

  Zoe is glad Carly doesn’t ask what it is really for. The warning bell for first period rings and they part.

  The days are getting cooler, but through each class Zoe feels a thin sheen of sweat layering her face, throat, even her wrists. Her stomach is raw. Her concentration is feverish, spiking and melting away.

  Carly will come through. Ninety. Thirty-one. Tips.

  Counseling on Wednesday. A new day. I have to remember.

  Will Carly remember? Thursday, she said.

  Be a good girl, Beth. A good girl.

  When will Mrs. Garrett call on me? Ever? Will she ever say my name? Cakewalk. Name or no name. Cakewalk. Be a good girl, Beth.

  Her stomach must be bloody red by now. She swipes her palm across her forehead and hopes she is not coming down with something.

  She stops at Taco Shack on the way home. She has to. Rent or not, she has to stop the burning throb of her stomach. She orders a large cheese quesadilla and a small Sprite to wash it down. The burn continues, and she stops at Food Star for the cheapest antacids she can find—a tiny roll of the Food Star brand for seventy-nine cents. She eats four of them. By the time she gets home her stomach is better but she is still feeling like shit. Now she has blown four more dollars. Coming down with something might have been better.

  She sleeps. It is not even dark yet, but she falls into bed. She melts into the mattress, wants to melt so deeply that she can never be pulled loose.

  Thirty-Nine

  “A crush? I can’t believe you said that right to my face when you knew!”

  Zoe pulls on Carly’s elbow. Tries to maneuver her to a quieter place, but Carly yanks free.

  “He’s my brother!”

  The day started out so well. After twelve hours of sleep, Zoe woke up refreshed. Almost hopeful. She felt confident enough to buy a Krispy Kreme and milk on the way to school. Everything would work out. But as soon as she stepped into the science quad and came face-to-face with Carly, things began to unravel. What made Reid tell?

  “Carly—”

  “My brother! My younger brother!”

  “He’s six months younger than me, Carly. That’s all.”

  “And that makes it okay? What was he—fifteen? Fifteen, Zoe!” Her voice is shrill, working higher and louder.

  Zoe lowers her voice to an angry whisper and glances at the students within earshot. “So are you going to tell the whole school?” She pulls Carly close to the brick wall. “So what! He was fifteen. I was sixteen. Big deal.”

  Carly retreats, her body softens, like it is tired. Her voice flattens. “It’s sick. He’s not like you, Zoe.”

  The innuendo of the “you” rolls between them. Zoe can’t ignore it.

  “What are you saying? I’m some kind of slut?”

  Carly is silent.

  “Say it!” Zoe says again.

  Carly slings her backpack to her shoulder. “I don’t think I need to. You already did.” She turns and walks away.

  Zoe yells after her, still needing to explain, or at least offer a rebuttal. “Give me a break, Carly. It’s not like I was his first.”

  Carly turns. “Don’t be stupid, Zoe. He was fifteen. That’s exactly what you were.”

  A long pause fills the air. Zoe tries to gather the words to her, snatch them into an order that makes sense.

  Carly adds, “Like I said, he’s not like you.” She leaves, swallowed up by crowds of students, and Zoe is still trying to find her own words to throw after her.

  But there are none.

  Forty

  Zoe slides into her seat. Late. But Mr. Ramirez is not like Mrs. Garrett. He doesn’t notice. It wouldn’t matter to her if he did. Tardiness is other world. A lifetime away, like grounding, curfew, and virginity. Less than mentionable. Zoe only thinks of Carly. Opens her book. Carly. Page 147. Carly. Last night’s homework.

  Carly.

  Carly is a virgin. To her, sex with one guy is monumental. Sex with half a dozen is inconceivable. And when one is her brother it is sure to ice her. That’s it, really. That’s all it comes down to. Her brother. And that Zoe never told. Carly will come around, though. Zoe is sure of that. But by Friday? Not a chance. And that is what matters right now. Carly would have to stew in her just-right-virgin world for a few days.

  Zoe has to move on to basics: rent, money, and how to get it.

  She will. But where?

  She slips out four more of her Food Star antacids and pops them in her mouth.

  Page 148.

  Other world.

  Right.

  Forty-One

  Fifth period. Back in Mrs. Garrett’s domain, invisible once again. Still ninety dollars short and no prospects. More than ninety if today’s tips don’t come through. She shifts in her seat, in her other, say-nothing world. She could almost like it for the shutting-out it gives, but the shutting-in is there, too, and the shutting-in is like having no air, like miles of tape are wound around you so you can’t move, can’t breathe, you can only listen, and listen, and listen. To all the stories you’ve heard before, but no one will listen to your own.

  A hand here. There. Raised. Answering questions. Part of. They go up and down. Hesitant. Sure. Up. Down. Neatly in rows. Like bowling pins, and then one is chosen, and they all fall. Strike! Like a bowling game. Zoe can’t raise her hand. She doesn’t know the answer. She doesn’t even know the questions anymore. She never was part of the game. Not in her other world, her nameless Miss Buckman world.

  Shutting in. Shutting out. She moves, nudges, in her small other world.

  Counseling on Wednesday. Tomorrow. A new day. Remember.

  Be a good girl, Beth.

  Will Mrs. Garrett call on me? Will she ever say my name?

  Come home and let’s put all this behind us. Start fresh. Come on now. Be a good girl.

  I know the answer. Call on me.

  A good girl. Beth.

  The bowling pin hands are in order again. Gutter ball. Gutter ball. The pin hands are swept away in disgust. The bowling ball gets meaner, faster. Set up. Pin hands raised. Ready. Strike! All down again.

  Strike

  or gutter ball

  down just the same.

  Say it.

  Say it.

  “Say it.
”

  The air is tight. Stretched so taut that all the bowling pin hands are frozen, all the shuffling, bowling ball feet still. No movement because the room is poised. Waiting.

  Hoping.

  Mrs. Garrett moves from her lectern to the chalkboard, stilted, with caught-off-guard movements like she isn’t sure what she heard. Like it would be too good to be true. She picks up a piece of chalk from the tray, poised to write. “The romanticism of Frost’s—”

  “Say it. Just once.”

  Tight. Sharp. Measured air and no breaths. Mrs. Garrett turns. Sets her chalk on the lectern and it rolls to the floor, its crack on the tile splitting the air. Another step. And another. And the tilt of the head. “Did you…speak out of turn, Miss Buckman?”

  “It’s only three letters.”

  Nothing.

  “Three fucking letters. That too hard for you? Would the world end if you said it?”

  Nothing.

  “I know you, Mrs. Garrett. I know you.”

  Eyes to eyes. Connection. Silence.

  “Just once. Try.”

  A pen is picked up. Then a pad. Smooth, barely-there movements, like this moment has been practiced. Waited for. It has. She knows. Zoe Beth Buckman. A cakewalk.

  Mrs. Garrett’s cakewalk.

  She hands the slip to Zoe, and says only word.

  “Good-bye.”

  Forty-Two

  She sits in Mrs. Farantino’s office. Sitting but floating, too. Unconnected. Mrs. Farantino shuts her file drawer a little too strongly. Almost a slam.

  “Was it worth it?”

  Zoe has no answer. Mrs. Farantino doesn’t expect one. She shuffles through papers. Angry. Violation of probation. Suspension from the tennis team pending a review by the counseling team. “Is this what you wanted?” Again, no response is required. She is busy fielding phone calls and other interruptions. Zoe is not the only pain in her life.

  “I like you, Zoe. I want you to know that. But you have to do your part, too. There’s only so much I can do.” She fills out yet another pass for Zoe. Study hall for the remaining twenty minutes of the period. “Was it worth it?” she asks again. This time the phones are quiet and she expects an answer.

  Zoe sit-floats in her seat. Above it all. Unconnected. What is Mrs. Farantino asking? Worth what? There is no answer. Zoe’s gray other world does not match Mrs. Farantino’s neat black-and-white one. But she sees what is happening. What they are trying to do.

  “Don’t take tennis away from me, Mrs. Farantino. Don’t.”

  “It’s done, Zoe. You did it. You made a choice.”

  When?

  When in her whole fucking life did she ever get to make a choice?

  She thinks about the connections. Connections that aren’t even seen. Not even there. But they are. Like Mr. Kalowatz’s sprinklers, barking dogs, and chirping tree frogs. Distant events barely connected by a mist of thought or circumstance. The distance between her, tennis, and Mrs. Garrett. The distance between her and a childhood that wasn’t. The distance between her, ninety dollars, and a room she calls her own. The same distance as the sprinklers and barking dogs. There but not there, except in Mrs. Farantino’s strangely connected world.

  Her thoughts snap clear to Saturday. The next match. Zoe, the star. Opal and the Count in the bleachers.

  “Don’t,” she says again, but Mrs. Farantino just sighs and shakes her head.

  Forty-Three

  The rutabagas are sprouting. The earth pushes up in chunks, and baby-soft green peeks through cracks. Zoe hunches like a two-year-old on her heels. Watching. She has never grown anything before. How long will it take? Did Opal say? The last long arms of the sun reach between rooftops to warm her plot of ground, and she checks her watch to make sure she won’t be late for Murray’s. Even if she kisses every ass three times over at the diner tonight, she will never make enough in tips to meet the rent due on Friday. She fingers a piece of earth away to make growing easier for an emerging sprout. She could give Opal an excuse. She could tell her she was just a little short. She could tell her she’d make it up soon. She could give—

  One of the thousand excuses Mama always gives.

  Zoe stands.

  She brushes dirt from the edge of her skirt and adjusts her apron.

  Opal will have her money on Friday.

  Forty-Four

  “Your windshield’s looking just fine, miss.”

  “Best compliment I’ve had all day.” Zoe pours him more coffee. “That sticker put me out ninety bucks, though. That’s a lot of money for a waitress.”

  “That’s a lot of money for anyone. We’re all in the same boat.” He reaches for his wallet.

  You’re not in my boat, she thinks. Not by a long shot. Mama’s in my boat. And Grandma. And a sort of best friend who can’t even look me in the face and wouldn’t loan me ninety bucks to save her life. And Daddy. He hops in now and then, too. That’s the kind of stuff my boat’s full of, mister. Not you or anyone like you. But she smiles and accepts his generous tip, because that’s her job. Waitresses deliver food and swallow shit—all for the accumulation of small change.

  “You take care now, you hear?”

  “Yes sir,” she says, and forces out a cheerful, “You too.”

  Tips have been good but tables slow. Murray’s diner is feeling the competition of newer, flashier restaurants sprinkling the outskirts of Ruby. She watches Murray moving between busing tables and studying a menu he has memorized, looking every bit the rat in the snake’s belly. This week’s special: fish tacos. Fish? In Ruby? But he makes do. That’s Murray. She wipes water rings and returns salt and pepper shakers to their holders. She asks Charisse if she can pick up her Wednesday shift. No. Charisse is hoping to pick up more shifts, too. Both the kids need new shoes and her car’s transmission is teetering. Zoe wipes the ketchup bottle rim and replaces the cap. She twists so tight the skin of her knuckles whiten, and she slowly slides it back into place near the A.1. Steak Sauce.

  Two new parties walk in, and Murray shows them to the best booths. Hope is revived. A few minutes later, more customers arrive, and the evening rush—which is not so rushed—begins. Carlos stops by but doesn’t order anything. He’s on his way to work. He just wants to say hi. Thursday he’ll stop by for a late dinner and talk more, but for now, he just wants to say hi.

  “Hi,” she says, and then he’s gone, and she thinks that’s probably the nicest thing anyone has ever done for her—except for Opal and the Count cheering for her from the bleachers.

  The sleazebag arrives late. Her shift is almost over. He is quieter than usual. His eyes move back and forth across red-rimmed lids, and his large meaty hands rub the top of his thighs like his clumsy come-ons are knotted somewhere inside. He slides into a seat, and though his flaring nostrils and leering eyes still prickle her skin, she is glad that he chooses her end of the counter.

  Forty-Five

  New day.

  She remembers.

  She shows.

  She settles into her chair. But Group is light today. Not even the counselor comes. She stares at the empty seat across from her that should hold Mr. K, or Mr. Beltzer, or Mrs. Farantino, or maybe someone else from their counseling bag of tricks. Will this count against her? Somehow she thinks it will. Somehow it will be her fault. Somehow at their counseling party to see if she will be able to play tennis, they will count it a no-show. And, oddly, today she wants to talk.

  She slides her hands outward across the cool surface of the tabletop until her cheek rests there, too. The air conditioner hums. Her stomach gurgles. There are no Food Star antacids left to calm it. She sits upright and looks at the empty counselor chair.

  “So what should we talk about today?

  “Your life, Zoe. We want to hear all about your life. And your filthy mouth, too.

  “My life? It’s pretty much perfect. Not much to tell. And my mouth? I guess I just got lucky.”

  She tires of her game and leans back. Stares at the empty chair.
Presses against her stomach. Listens to past conversations that speak louder than present ones. Listens to the hum that is always there.

  Hush, little baby, don’t say a word.

  The childhood tune she has sealed away to a dark corner breaks through the silence. The tune Grandma always sang. Don’t say a word. She remembers the afternoons Grandma was there for her after school, Kyle already in tow, taking her by the hand without explanation, saying today was special, today they would have an after-school snack at her house. Zoe knew what “special” meant and why it was Grandma and not Mama or Daddy picking her up. At ten years old she was light-years from Kyle’s oblivious innocence, but she went along. For Kyle’s sake she was already going along. And then Grandma would sing tuneless songs around her kitchen to make them laugh while she smeared chocolate frosting on graham crackers and poured cold glasses of milk. Afternoon snacks would grow into late suppers and then borrowing old T-shirts for pajamas. The special time grew and grew until Kyle was cranky and crying to go home. And then Grandma would sing more songs.

  Hush, little baby, don’t say a word.

  Daddy’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.

  If that mockingbird won’t sing,

  Daddy’s gonna buy you a diamond ring.

  But Zoe was not the child Kyle was—she didn’t find the song comforting. She wondered at a daddy who only brought home useless gifts and then, as weeks and months went by, the wondering turned—why did Grandma always choose that song? She wished just once the mockingbird would sing a beautiful song and make Grandma be silent.

  Hush. Don’t say a word. She pushes the song back to its dark corner. But there is no silence. The hum trickles into the chopped-up conversations with Mama that started nowhere and ended up in the same place. Conversations that bled her dry. Conversations that took but never gave. Because Mama needed so much. Because Zoe owed so much. She owed and the debt would never be paid. Owed for growing in a place she didn’t belong. Owed for Daddy. Owed for people she never knew and places she never saw. Owed for more than Zoe could ever give. And then, owing nothing because Mama would hold her close and stroke her head. Kiss her. Croon and rock her. Mama loved her. Loves her.