“Whatever.”
Ayla wants to drive. I hand her the keys, knowing that if she turns the car around now, we’re too low on gas to get all the way back to Columbus. But she sticks to the plan and parks at a cheap motel on the edge of Morgantown, where she pays with cash and we settle into lucky Room Seven for the night. With the TV humming, we finally relax.
At least as much as two girls on the run possibly can.
Chapter 18
When I open my eyes, Ayla is drinking motel coffee from a Styrofoam cup, staring out the window at the mountains. The pastel hues of the mid-morning sun highlight both her profile and the dust motes floating in the air. It makes her look sort of like an angel.
“What time is it?” I murmur, rubbing my eyes.
“A little past ten.”
I sit up and dangle my legs over the side of the bed. It is quiet and still—a heavy kind of stillness—because neither of us knows what to say. Ayla seems sober, and we’ve had so few moments together when she wasn’t tripping or sleeping that I’m not sure how to approach her.
“I paid for another night,” she says.
Part of me thinks we should stay on the move, but I don’t argue. I can’t tell if Ayla is happy we left or not, and that makes me uneasy.
“I was thinking we could eventually drive to the coast,” I suggest, trying to sound upbeat. “Somewhere remote and warm. That way, we can camp on the beach.”
She brightens a little. “I’ve never seen the ocean.”
“Me, either!”
We both smile, delighted with this small similarity. Then the moment fades.
“We’ll still need money,” Ayla says.
“Yeah. So when does Gram’s next check come?”
Ayla’s eyes skirt over to meet mine. “How’d you know about that?”
I scoff. “I’m not stupid. Why else would you keep me?”
For the briefest moment, she looks ashamed, and I don’t realize how badly I want her to deny my assumption until she doesn’t. She purses her lips. “July first. I have to find a bank where I can get the money wired.”
I swallow the hurt and ask, “How much do we have now?”
“Plenty,” she assures me. “And I’m starving. Let’s go eat.”
Her words are a relief. Planning our next move is sure to bring conflict and stress, and I’d rather take a breather and enjoy my first morning of freedom, too.
“I need to shower first,” I say, wondering if she’ll wait.
She picks up the TV remote and leans back against the pillows on the bed. I select an outfit from my bag and head for the bathroom. The motel is nothing fancy, but it’s clean and it’s ours, at least for the next twenty-four hours. Stepping into the shower, I’m more than ready to wash away our life with Judd.
Like typical tourists, we end up in Morgantown’s historic district at a place called Happy Pizza, which boasts colorful Rastafarian décor. Inhaling the aroma of freshly-baked dough and homemade tomato sauce, I attack the menu. I can’t remember the last time I had the privilege of ordering a pizza topped with anything I wanted. When my spinach feta thin-crust pie arrives, piping hot and dripping with cheese, I realize that I’m leaning protectively over my plate, as if someone might snatch it away at any moment. I vow to relax as Ayla strikes up a conversation with a couple seated nearby—Morgantown natives eager to suggest “things to see” in the area.
“There’s the university, with its beautiful grounds,” they gush. “And Royce Hill in the park. You won’t want to miss the arboretum…” They go on and on and on. By the look on Ayla’s face, she is sorry she asked.
When the bill arrives, Ayla tosses way too much money on the table. I snatch back a ten before sliding across the wooden booth and following her out into the sizzling June sunshine.
Without discussing it, we start meandering through the gift shops dotting Main Street. Ayla fusses over the trinkets, looking at them from all angles. She wants to buy a paperweight in the shape of West Virginia, but I firmly tell her no. Pouting, she says, “You’re such a buzz kill, Andrea.”
My heart does this little shake. I can’t remember the last time Ayla used my real name, if ever. It makes me feel…something like gratitude and heartbreak mixed together. I realize this is the first time I’ve come anywhere close to enjoying my mother’s company, the first time I’ve caught a glimpse of the Ayla that Gram wanted me to know.
Instead of the paperweight, we buy a city map and study it on an outdoor bench, eating ice cream cones. “Look. We’re near the park that couple in Happy’s mentioned.” I point to the tiny picnic table on the map. “Let’s check it out.” I jump up, excited.
Ayla shrugs and follows, sucking on her mound of butter pecan.
I lead the way to a winding trail, where we pass a placard marked ‘Royce Hill.’ Ayla is winded almost immediately, but I push on. We cross paths with some students wearing big smiles and WVU shirts who say, “Beautiful day for a hike!” and “The view’s fantastic!” as they head down.
“Are we hiking?” Ayla asks after they’ve passed. “I don’t hike.”
I stifle a laugh. “We’re just walking. You walk, don’t you?”
“Depends on how far away the car is,” she mumbles and falls into a hacking cough. But she keeps going.
I quickly lose myself in the rhythm of the hike. The sun is bright, the trees are lush, and the little blue wildflowers dotting the trail kindle something warm inside. I notice a fuzzy bee seeking the perfect flower to pollinate, stringy weeds poking through the dirt in search of sunlight. I take a deep, savory breath. I’ve always liked being out in nature, where every living thing single-mindedly pursues its purpose with clarity and devotion. What a relief it would be if people operated that way.
We’re nearing the top of the hill when Ayla blurts, “You ever had a boyfriend, Bones?” I bristle a little. She’s never asked me anything personal like that. An image of Ben jumps into my head. Ben and Delaney.
“No. And I don’t want one.” As far as I can tell, boys—and men, for that matter—just complicate things. In a very unhealthy way.
“Oh…you like girls, huh? Me too, sometimes.”
Shaking my head, I clarify, “I don’t want a boyfriend or a girlfriend, Ayla. I don’t need anyone.”
“Huh. Maybe that’s why Mama always said you were so smart.”
I want to explain that Gram said I was smart because I pulled A’s in honors classes, but it would be a waste of my breath.
“I was never smart,” Ayla adds after a moment. It’s not a sad sort of admission, just matter-of-fact. I don’t respond, but now I’m thinking about Ayla falling in love as a teenager. I’m thinking about her and my father. Ayla never mentions him, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t love him. Gram didn’t talk much about my grandfather either, and I know she loved him dearly.
After a few minutes, I glance back at Ayla and am met with a gorgeous smile—a full one, rare. Her eyes glimmer, looking past me. As I turn back to the trail, I see why. We have reached the top of Royce Hill and the view looks like something out of a travel magazine. Far below us, the shimmering Monongahela River snakes through rolling green hills that fade to a bluish brown in the distance. Farther off, puffy treetops blend together, creating acres of green cotton candy.
“Wow,” I breathe. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.”
“Me, either.” Ayla staggers across the clearing and leans against a tree, sucking wind and coughing up phlegm. Still, her eyes sparkle.
I shuffle over, notice the same rattle in her chest that used to worry me so much in Gram’s. Now I feel kind of bad for tricking her into the hike.
“The walk down will be easier,” I say.
She nods, her cheeks apple red.
For dinner that night, we buy crepes at a sidewalk café, then wander around town some more. Neither o
f us wants to return to the motel. We don’t want to think about moving on, or evading Judd, or building a future. The day has been too lovely to dismiss.
As dusk seeps in around the shops and restaurants of Morgantown, musicians trickle out to play jazz on the sidewalks. Street performers show off their tricks. Ayla and I stand shoulder to shoulder, wrapped in the warm summer air, giggling at a mime’s impromptu show. There is this content, surreal feeling—almost an affection—stretched like a wire between us, and my heart is soaring because this, this is what I’ve wanted my whole damn life. And I never even knew it.
Chapter 19
The next morning in the dingy motel room, there are no more warm fuzzies in the air. We count what’s left of our money and my chest tightens. It’s not going to last two weeks—maybe not even one.
“What’ll we do?” Ayla fumbles for her cigarettes.
I want to ask, “Who is the adult here?” But I know the answer.
“Let’s talk to the motel manager.” Squaring my shoulders, I stride outside and over to the office. Ayla follows slowly, unsure of my plan. Which is wise of her since I don’t actually have one.
A bald, heavyset man with tattoos on his arms and one climbing up his neck stands behind the counter reading a magazine. He says good morning and asks how he can help us lovely ladies. I smile sweetly and ask if there are any discounts available.
“The rate is what it is. This is tourist season.” He shrugs like it can’t be helped.
“What if we pay for a whole week up front? Can you give us a deal then?” I plead.
Before he can shoot me down, Ayla pipes up. “Sir, we just need to get by until July first, when my husband’s life insurance comes in.” She lowers her eyelids. “He was killed in duty. Afghanistan…”
Unable to stomach her lies, I turn away. Ayla pats my shoulder and mumbles, “She’s having a real hard time with it.”
“Well, I’m sure sorry to hear that,” the man says kindly, stroking his goatee. “I’m ex-Army myself. Maybe we can work something out this once.”
“God bless you,” Ayla gushes.
While they discuss the details of a payment plan, I notice a bunch of military magazines piled on a small table by the door and the one the man was reading when we walked in, titled AMVETS. Ayla must have noticed, too.
I push out of the office, disgusted and impressed.
“It worked, didn’t it?” Ayla defends herself over brunch at the IHOP twenty minutes later. “Didn’t hurt anybody.”
She’s right, though it makes me feel like scum. “I don’t like lying. That guy was nice.” The words sound ridiculous because, of course, I’ve been lying to plenty of nice people in one way or another all year.
“Fine.” Ayla sighs. “I’ll try not to lie anymore. What’s next?”
I take a sip of water and lay out a short-term plan—stay here to save up some money, then head for the coast by early August. That will leave time for me to get settled into a new school. My goal is to be able to stay in one place for the entire next two academic years, but I don’t tell her that.
“Okay,” Ayla says. I’m shocked that she’s so agreeable. She doesn’t even balk when I tell her she has to get a job. She glances around the restaurant. “Maybe I could waitress.”
“Yes!” My whole face lights up. “Ayla, you’d get tons of tips. As long as you’re friendly.”
“I’m friendly,” she assures me with a mischievous grin.
I swallow, trying not to think of her kind of friendly. “And sober.”
She rolls her eyes and throws back her orange juice like it’s a cocktail. “What do you think I am now?”
I’m still worried, but so far this is working out a hundred times better than I’d hoped. Ayla seems to be trying. I know she’ll never be a mother to me, but if she just acts decent, we can make a life together. And then someday maybe I can help her. Really help her. Just like Gram wanted to.
We ask about jobs at the IHOP, but the manager just hired three new people. Ruby Tuesday is next door but the thin-nosed man behind the bar says he’s not hiring, either. Ayla leans onto the counter, offering him an eyeful of her cleavage. Then she practically purrs, “Are you sure there’s nothing you can do?”
The man takes in everything she’s handing out. When he’s had his fill, he raises his chin and smiles at Ayla. “No. There’s nothing I can do, but thank you for stopping by.” He turns away, grinning.
“Pig!” Ayla yells as we leave.
“Ayla. That’s not okay,” I chastise her once we’re outside. “You can’t just…flaunt yourself.”
She laughs, then looks at me smugly. “Here’s a tip, Bones.” She twirls a piece of my long black hair around her index finger. “Learn how to use that gorgeous face and hot bod of yours to get what you want.”
This is my mother’s wisdom. This is what she has to offer me after years of life experience. I study Ayla, with her own gorgeous face and wasting-away brain, and know I will do just about anything to survive. Except that.
“Just let me do the talking from now on,” I insist.
She puts on some lipstick and shrugs.
We hit every restaurant within five miles of the motel, but no one needs a waitress. Or a dishwasher. Or a hostess. A few businesses give us applications, but filling them out is more difficult than I anticipate, starting with the fact that we don’t have a permanent address. We end up borrowing the motel’s.
“What year did you graduate high school?” I ask Ayla, pen poised. I am sitting with my feet up on Gram’s dashboard, using my legs as a desk.
“Never finished.”
That’s not surprising.
“Well, it doesn’t ask specifically if you graduated,” I say. “We just have to list the school and the last year you attended.”
She tells me and I write it down, realizing she left school just before I was born and never went back. I push down the stirrings of guilt. That is not my fault.
“Job Experience,” I read.
“Oh!” She raises her hand as if in school. “I answered phones for this guy Jamie once. Man, was he cute. He owned an auto parts store, a one-man shop.”
“Perfect,” I say.
“It only lasted a few months, ’til Jamie’s wife caught us in the back room…her name was Viola. Like the instrument.” Ayla remembers this detail, but she can’t remember whether the shop was in Cleveland or Toledo, or even what it was called, so I make it up. I make up the dates, too. I feel like I am fabricating an entire person.
When I’m done with Ayla’s applications, I fill out my own, listing each club and activity, every babysitting job, even the few times I subbed on the Essex debate team. A deep pity invades my heart as I realize I’ve accomplished more in my sixteen years on earth than Ayla has in thirty-one.
“Okay.” I try to sound chipper as I cap the pen. “Let’s go.”
Job hunting is no fun. Rejection is hard, especially for someone like Ayla, who has never even tried. When I see her mood falling, I tell her everything will be fine and try to believe it myself. But beneath my calm veneer, I’m a wreck. When I think about Judd, my skin turns cold. Even if he was blowing smoke when he talked about tracking me down, there’s no way he’s not looking for his stolen drugs. If no job prospects come up tomorrow, I’m going to tell Ayla we should just move on.
That night, we eat half the food I smuggled out of Judd’s house for dinner. I work on a budget while Ayla watches TV. “We’ll find something soon,” I assure her as I turn out the light.
But I don’t sleep well. Three times I’m chased awake by nightmares before I decide to splash some water on my face. When I flip on the light in the bathroom, I notice Ayla’s bed. Empty.
My stomach plummets. This is it—she’s abandoned me. But a sweep of the room shows her bags still piled on the chair and when I race outside, the Buick is pa
rked where we left it, in the shadows. A neon sign across the street catches my eye. Most of the lights are burnt out, but I can make out the most important word—BAR. Of course.
Back inside the motel room, I realize Ayla’s purse is gone, which means she could be spending all our money. And without an ID, I can’t get into the bar to stop her.
I sit up stewing for a while, but fatigue eventually trumps anger. Ayla stumbles through the door at 4:00 AM, but my eyes don’t pop open until I hear a man’s voice, pleading, “Can’t I come in, baby?”
My mother’s silhouette in the doorway blocks the guy with the odd European accent. I grip the comforter and hold my breath. Ayla gently pushes him back, promising that she’ll see him later. Tomorrow for sure, she croons.
Despite his protests, Ayla locks the door, strips down naked, and climbs under the sheets. She is asleep as soon as her head hits the pillow, hair spilling into her mouth.
“Where is it?” My voice trembles as I shake Ayla awake four hours later.
“Wha-at?” she whines, flipping onto her stomach.
“Our money. Don’t tell me you wasted it on tequila or something.” I can barely breathe through my fury, so it’s hard to get the words out.
Ayla’s eyes are open now and amused because I don’t often show this much emotion. She props up on one elbow and smiles like she’s in the middle of a lovely dream. “I never spend money at bars, darling. I get all my drinks for free.”
Unconvinced, I demand to see the cash since I’ve already looked through her purse and couldn’t find a single dollar. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch,” she says, sitting up and grabbing her smokes on the bedside table. “I hid it, under the mattress.”
I search there frantically until my fingers curl around the bills. I breathe a huge sigh of relief.
Giggling, Ayla flops back onto the mattress and proceeds to tell me about her “amazing” night at the bar. Feeling sheepish about my outburst, I sit cross-legged on the comforter, gripping the money and listening intently since Ayla rarely opens up to me. It’s kind of nice. Her voice is giddy and expressive, like someone my age who just met the cutest boy in school…
All Out of Pretty Page 9
