All Out of Pretty

by Ingrid Palmer

  “Mrs. Masterson?” I say groggily.

  She rises, offers me a calm smile and a drink of water with a straw. I slurp for what seems like forever. She refills the cup, and I drink some more.

  “How are you feeling today?” she asks, smoothing back my hair and propping a pillow gently behind my head. I glance out the window at the bright autumn sky. It’s a new day.

  “I’m alive, I think.”

  She smiles again, but then her face grows serious. “You’re very lucky to be alive.”

  “Maybe,” I say softly. I’m thinking a little more clearly now and I realize that because I’m alive, there will be questions—and consequences. I have no idea what comes next, but I know that I lied, I stole, I sold drugs, and I stabbed someone.

  “Call me Lillian from now on,” she states, all business. “I am not your friend’s mom right now. I’m your court-appointed advocate and your lawyer, if you’d like.”

  “Lawyer? You don’t have to—I don’t need—”

  “They’ll appoint someone else if you’d prefer. It won’t hurt my feelings. But yes, Andrea, you do need a lawyer.”

  I let her words settle in my brain. Of course I do. For the past year, there’s been a whole pot of trouble brewing around me, and we’re all finally boiling in it. I nod. “Okay.”

  “My job is to help you. But in order to do that you need to be completely honest with me. And we both know that honesty hasn’t been your strong suit.”

  Feeling like a deer in headlights, all I can do is stare. My lawyer stares right back.

  This is not the same soft-spoken Lillian who sat discussing literature with me over hot chocolate. She doesn’t beat around the bush. But that’s okay. I want someone tough on my side for once.

  “I don’t want you talking to the police unless I’m with you,” she says. “Not a word. They’re going to come in here asking questions. All you need to say is that you want your lawyer present before you answer anything.”

  “Okay.”

  “No reporters, either. No matter how much they tell you they’re trying to help, they won’t have your best interests at heart. This isn’t going to be easy,” she warns.

  I have a sudden urge to laugh, because nothing is ever easy for me. But it would probably pull at my stitches and hurt like hell.

  “Okay,” I say again. I am so relieved to have someone else, some responsible adult, in charge of things. For once. Finally.

  “Good. I have a lot to tell you.” She hesitates and her voice softens. “Are you up for it right now?”

  I meet her eyes. “Ayla?”

  For some reason, I’m certain that she’s dead.

  “She’s not hurt. She’s been taken into police custody.”

  Letting out the breath I was unconsciously holding, I don’t ask anything else about her. That’s enough, for now.

  “And Judd?” I ask, suddenly panicked.

  “He was apprehended in Kentucky. Authorities caught up to him within a few hours. His trunk was full of cocaine and firearms.”

  My eyes flutter shut in relief. Judd’s been caught. My friends are safe.

  After a pause, Lillian continues slowly, “Police found one man dead at the house. You might know him as Donovan, though that’s not his real name.”

  The whole room wobbles, and for one terrifying second, there’s no air. Then it all comes whooshing back. “Oh, God, I did it. I stabbed him. I’m a murderer,” I whisper, my hand covering my mouth.

  Lillian steps closer to the bed and gently touches my shoulder. “No. You were acting in self defense. And in any case, his stab wound was superficial. The cause of death was a gunshot to the chest.”

  Slowly, I remove my hand from my mouth and try to make sense of her words, try to remember that night…I stabbed Donovan. Then Judd showed up with a gun. I ran toward him. He fired.

  But not at me.

  “Judd shot him?” I ask, shocked. Even I can hear how young and frightened my voice sounds.

  Lillian nods.

  I turn my head, overwhelmed. Tears begin to stream down my face, but I don’t really notice until Lillian hands me a tissue.

  “You’ve been through a lot of trauma. I’m going to help you in every way I can, but you also need to concentrate on getting well. How about you rest now and I’ll come back in a little bit?”

  She pats my shoulder and walks toward the door. Before she leaves, I croak, “Mrs. Master—I mean, Lillian? I’d rather get it over with.”

  That’s one truth. The other is that I don’t want to be alone.

  Lillian comes back, picks up her clipboard and nods. “Okay. We’ll go slow, but I’ve got lots of questions.”

  I glance down at the dressings taped to my stomach. If I shift even an inch, my whole body throbs. Leaning back against the pillows, I set my jaw and say, “I’ve got time.”

  I tell Lillian everything, starting with Gram’s death. Once I start talking, it all gushes out. I even include my experience with Charlie at the foster home. It’s impossible to prove what he did, but at least it’s on record now. At least someone else knows. I do what Lillian asks—I am completely honest, even when it’s shameful to describe what Judd did to me, what Donovan wanted to do, and what I put up with from Ayla. I tell Lillian about the photos I took of the maps, about Donovan’s cabin in the woods, and the face I think I saw in the window there. She doesn’t seem appalled by any of it, but that’s her job. The telling takes hours, and I don’t stop until I’ve let it all go. When I finish, my nose is clogged and my eyes are swollen from crying. My whole body feels heavy with exhaustion, but my heart…my heart is a million times lighter.

  Chloe sits on the side of my hospital bed, one leg bent beneath her, the other hanging over the edge. Her free foot swings back and forth and I watch her brown Mary Jane, mesmerized. This is her third time visiting me in the four days I’ve been here. She has brought me chocolate, colas, magazines, and makeup. On top of that, she calls my hospital room every night at nine o’clock to say goodnight. She is amazing. This is what I keep telling her. Hopefully she’ll believe me someday.

  At the moment, she’s chatting about how Ryan talks to her every day now in homeroom, how they’re sort of kind of almost an item. I try to listen attentively and ask all the right questions because she so deserves it, but my mind is elsewhere.

  When she falls silent, I casually bring up what I really want to know, what I’ve wanted to know all week but was afraid to ask. “What’s Brick up to?”

  Her eyes shift. “He’s been pretty busy.”

  I struggle to keep my voice light. “Doing what?”

  “Oh you know…studying. Knitting.”

  “Knitting?” I repeat. I get stabbed and he’s too busy knitting to stop by or call? I know I betrayed him and Chloe both, but I thought after the way he looked at me when I was injured…maybe it was just pity. I stole from his dead mother, after all. Why would he forgive me?

  “Um…yeah.” She nods vigorously. “He’s been doing a lot of knitting.”

  Frustrated, I toss the school books Chloe brought me onto the table by my hospital bed. For once, I don’t even care about homework.

  Chloe looks at me and twists her lips. “I wish you could come home with us.”

  I don’t respond right away, because it hurts to admit that once again, I am officially homeless. Then I think of how badly I wanted Delaney to say those words to me after Gram’s death and how she never did. Chloe is the best, most wonderful friend, despite all the crappy things I’ve done. Now, seeing the worry lines stretched across her forehead, I feel a mama bear urge to protect her.

  “No one’s giving you a hard time, are they? At school?” I ask suddenly.

  “No, but people ask about you. They didn’t mention your name on the news, but everyone knows. They think it’s exciting—they’re like the p
aparazzi.”

  A flash of anger heats my skin. “Well, you don’t have to say anything. And you can’t let people push you around. I know Brick’s there, but—”

  “Don’t worry about me, Andre. I can handle them.” She pats my head. “It’s you who has to be strong.”

  After a moment, I snort. Once again, she’s got it all figured out and I still don’t. For the first time, though, I’m grateful not to be going back to school—to the stares and assumptions. I’m glad I won’t have to face the condemnation of the other kids—white trash, drug pusher, crack head. I could take it, but that doesn’t mean it wouldn’t hurt. They’d just better not revile Chloe, better not lump her in with me. She doesn’t deserve it.

  Chloe tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and a familiar glint strikes my eye, forcing me to blink. How did I not notice this? I grab her hand and gape at the diamond bracelet on her wrist. “Wha—you got it back!”

  Chloe smiles, a sight as dazzling as the diamonds themselves. “Yeah. Brick figured you went to the closest pawn shop. But he said he’d only buy it back if I actually wore it once in a while.”

  “And your earrings?”

  She shakes her head. “They were sold.”

  Our eyes meet again.

  “I’m so sorry, Chlo,” I whimper. I had so many other things in my mind, things I was going to say when I got up the courage, but that’s all that comes out.

  Chloe’s eyes are wide and dry. She shrugs. “Like you said, it’s just jewelry.”

  “No. It’s about friendship and trust. And I’m terrible at both.” I sigh heavily. “I don’t know why you want anything to do with me.”

  Chloe is quiet for a minute, playing with her bracelet. “I just think,” she begins slowly, “that you were desperate. It’s not like you stole from me to buy an iPad or something. You were scared of him. Weren’t you?” Her voice is sweet and tentative, because she doesn’t know all the details of what happened to me. Lillian left it to me to divulge whatever I wanted.

  I feel myself tearing up at Chloe’s blind faith in me. “I was terrified,” I admit, using Brick’s word from that day in his truck. “But that doesn’t make it right.”

  “No, but it makes it forgivable. No one’s mad at you, Andrea. Just be honest from now on and let us help you. That’s all we want.”

  “I’m not very good at letting people help me,” I admit, sniffling. “Even when I lived with my Gram, we kind of did things on our own.”

  “Well, now’s your chance to try something new.” She grins impishly.

  As I consider that, the nurse walks in to announce the end of visiting hours. Chloe slides off my bed and ruffles my hair in farewell. “See you tomorrow,” she calls over her shoulder. My eyes are full of gratitude as I watch her go.

  I really don’t deserve a friend like Chloe. But maybe she’s right. Maybe I should try something new, and be the kind of friend she deserves. I have to try. Because I owe her, and I love her so very much—smiley faces and all.

  Chapter 40

  My hearing is tomorrow morning. Lillian paces around my hospital room, in full attorney mode, prepping me for the harsh questions the judge may ask. “You’re a juvenile with no priors, you were clearly in danger, and you did alert the authorities with those emails, so I doubt charges will be filed,” she says, “but you need to be ready for anything.” She explains that even though Judd and Ayla both pled guilty to their charges in hopes of getting lighter sentences, that doesn’t mean I’m off the hook.

  “What are you going to say when the judge asks where you want to live? Have you thought about it?”

  “Yes. I want to be emancipated,” I tell her excitedly. “I can go to school and take care of myself. I’ve been doing it all year anyway.”

  Lillian stops pacing and looks at me. Her eyes are kind when she says, “Honey, no judge will emancipate a minor with a history of dealing drugs—even though you were coerced. I’m sorry, but people aren’t going to give you the benefit of the doubt on that one.”

  And no one is going to want to foster a 17-year-old with a history of drug dealing, either. Oh, and when you factor in the tiny detail that I stabbed someone, it’s clear that I’m doomed. I’ll end up at Wheaton, the local institution where castoff girls stay until they age out. I looked it up one night when Chloe left her laptop at the hospital for me to use. Worst of all, Wheaton feeds into a “Needs Improvement” school district that barely has enough funds to keep the electricity on. The school has no honors program, no extra curriculars, nothing.

  I cross my arms sullenly, not caring if I look like a pouting child. Lillian gently asks if there’s anyone—a relative, an old family friend—who might take me in. She has asked me this before and I told her I’d think about it, but the truth is, I’m alone. I can’t even imagine going back to Indianapolis now. I might as well resign myself to “the system.”

  “Andrea—”

  “I’m tired.” I abruptly turn over in bed, even though it makes my stitches throb.

  She pauses, then tucks her papers inside her briefcase. “Okay, get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow. The word sits like a rock in the pit of my stomach. Tomorrow I’m getting discharged from the hospital. Tomorrow I’m going to face the judge. Tomorrow my life will change, again.

  Lillian hesitates, then leans over and kisses the top of my head. I stare straight ahead and listen to her heels click-clack down the tiled hall, diminishing into silence. My eyes fill, and I just let them.

  Courtrooms in real life aren’t nearly as quiet as in the movies. My hearing begins with a bunch of legal jargon flying back and forth between Lillian and the judge and the prosecutor. I hear the man on the other side of the room say the word “incarcerate,” and I break out into a cold sweat. It’s hard to breathe in here, where everything looks so massive—the presidential portraits on the walls, the dark-paneled judge’s bench, the pillars. If I wasn’t in the hot seat, I might think it was cool. As it is, I’m struggling to keep mine.

  Lillian is a superstar, though. She doesn’t let the other lawyer ask me anything directly. I hear her argue for leniency because I was “coerced,” “abused,” and “in fear of my life.” The man at the other desk hesitantly agrees, but wants to be sure we have the facts straight. I try to sit tall and look poised, but I feel vulnerable and…so angry. Of all the days for me to feel angry, this is the worst possible one. Finally, the judge calls a recess and I’m escorted into chambers to speak with her privately. She enters from another door, glasses perched on her nose, black robes flowing. She hands me a cup of ice water and we sink down into two leather chairs. This is better, quiet.

  “It’ll be easier to talk in here, don’t you think?” she asks, and I nod. Then the questions begin. The judge is nice, professional, and seems to believe everything I tell her. I cry a little, even though I told myself ten times this morning not to do that.

  Some of her questions are easy—factual, logistical. But some of them are tough. Mostly because they make me think hard about what I did, and why—and what I didn’t do, and why not.

  “Andrea.” The judge shuffles through some papers and then looks at me squarely. “Your drug screenings were clean, you’re an honors student, and most of your upbringing was in a stable environment with your grandmother.” After a pause, she continues, “You knew that carrying drugs, selling them, was illegal. You did it anyway, and you didn’t tell anyone. Why?”

  “Because…” I falter, feeling the sting of how unfair this question is. How unfair it is that I have to relive this nightmare, when it’s all there in my written statement. How everyone wants to know the same thing—why—and how I don’t have a good enough answer.

  “Did Judd pay you?” the judge inquires.

  “No.”

  “Did he buy you jewelry, electronics, clothes?”

  “No!” I repeat hotl
y, then clarify, “Well, clothes once, but he wasn’t happy about it. And he gave me a cell phone, but it was just so he could reach me.”

  She waits to see if I’m going to add anything else, so I do, after swallowing hard. “I didn’t have a choice. I was…scared. He hurt me, and threatened me all the time. He even threatened to hurt my friends if I told! I couldn’t—I mean, he said he had connections with the police, with everyone—” I stop myself because I’m getting worked up and Lillian told me not to let that happen, no matter what.

  “Okay,” the judge says calmly. “I’m just trying to understand why someone like you didn’t realize that you had chances to ask for help.”

  What she’s really asking is, how could someone so smart—an honors student, no less—do something so stupid? I bite back my anger. This woman has no idea what it’s like to wake up every morning with one goal—surviving the day. She has no idea what it’s like to live in constant fear of men like Judd and Donovan. I want to stomp out of this room, turn my back on the judge, tell her off. But I can’t. So I stare at my hands, balled in my lap. She doesn’t push me. As the silence grows, her words reverberate in my head.

  You had chances to ask for help.

  I think of Delaney, Essex, the church lady, Belmont and Mr. Greeley, Brick and Chloe, her parents. And then, sitting there in the plush chambers of the judge’s office, I suddenly realize the truth in those eight syllables. As impossible as my situation felt, there were people I could have turned to. Why didn’t I? Was it really my fear of Judd, and my reluctance to face the unknown in the foster system? Locked in the deepest part of my heart, I know another answer.

  As a kid, I never understood why Gram let Ayla in every time she came crawling home. Why she cared lovingly for her daughter knowing Ayla might rob her blind on her way out. I know exactly why I didn’t turn on Ayla now. It’s as clear as if Gram were whispering the words in my ear—she’s family, love, and she’s sick. You don’t give up on family.