I hadn’t given up on Ayla, hadn’t deserted her, because deep down I knew Gram wouldn’t have. And despite the distance of death, I wanted to make Gram proud of me, wanted to be like her. Like her—and not like Ayla or my father.
Slowly, I meet the judge’s eyes. “I needed to stay with my mother. I needed to protect her.” Mostly from herself, I add silently.
“I figured that was part of it,” the judge says gently.
I inhale a deep, shuddery breath and ask a question of my own, “What will happen to her?”
The judge steeples her fingers, purses her lips, and considers. “Well, I’m not directly involved in that case, but she’ll most likely end up with a combination of incarceration and rehab.”
“She won’t go to rehab,” I say with certainty.
“She won’t have a choice.”
Oh. I allow myself a flicker of hope that rehab will help Ayla. Maybe…maybe.
Before we return to the courtroom, the judge looks me in the eye and says she’s very sorry this happened to me.
I appreciate her words, but the facts don’t change—I knowingly sold drugs. For that, I get nine months of probation, mandatory counseling, and 100 hours of community service. When I turn eighteen, my record will be wiped clean, but for now, I am a ward of the state. As predicted, there’s a bed waiting for me at Wheaton.
When it’s all over, I give Lillian a tight hug in the glass-windowed foyer of the fancy courthouse. “Thank you for everything. Will you tell Chloe goodbye?” I nearly choke on the words.
“I will, honey. But we’ll see you soon. After you get settled in a bit.”
Lillian has good intentions, but I won’t hold her to that promise. I know how these things work. Once you are out of someone’s direct line of sight, they forget all about you.
I nod, blink quickly, pull myself together. Then I walk across the shiny floor to where a social worker waits with my belongings. A few clothes, my watch, and Gram’s photo album. Someone retrieved them from the crime scene, and they all fit nicely into one brown paper bag.
This is what my life has been reduced to, I think bitterly, as the social worker hands it to me. All I can do is take it.
Chapter 41
The Wheaton Home for Girls is located in an old downtown neighborhood. It’s not a particularly nice area, but not a dangerous one, either. The building is large and ancient, four stories high with peeling white paint and lots of character: a pitched roof, casement windows, and a wide front porch. A grim-faced counselor woman meets us at the front door and tells me the first rule before I even step inside—Girls on probation aren’t allowed off property without permission.
Then I get the tour. Wheaton is one of those places that could use a serious makeover, but I don’t mind. It’s better than being stuck in some sterile institution with fluorescent lights and squeaky floors. The downstairs has been gutted and is comprised of a huge kitchen and dining area, with a rec room tucked in the back. Upstairs, it’s a mouse maze with little plaster-walled rooms, hidden staircases, nooks and crannies. At least if the other girls hate me, it will be easy to hide.
There are all sorts of girls living here. A few make my former tough-girl act seem like a joke. Some are sullen and withdrawn. Others appear outgoing and fairly well adjusted. But I won’t judge too fast. Fights break out on occasion, but I stay far away from that scene. I don’t really associate with anyone except my two roommates, Tiana and Reese. And even them not more than necessary.
Having roommates isn’t something I’d imagined, and at first I resent sharing space with strangers. But each night as I toss and turn from nightmares involving shiny knives and the gristle of gunfire, I find myself relieved not to be alone when I wake up sweating, my sheets tied in knots. Sometimes they whisper, “Are you okay, Andrea?” and I can tell their concern is genuine. I think everyone here has nightmares of some kind.
I’m still officially “healing,” so for now I have no chores, no school. There’s a backyard, a big screen TV, and a phone in one of the sitting rooms. I’ve received several calls from Chloe, and our conversations always cheer me up. I never dial her number because I’m afraid of who else might answer. I wouldn’t know what to say to Brick. Sometimes I think it might be better for Chloe if she forgets about me like Brick did, and moves on. But that’s her call. I certainly won’t be the one to do the abandoning. Besides, I need her now more than ever.
Lillian phones a few days after I arrive at Wheaton and delivers an update. The police found huge amounts of marijuana, cocaine, and other substances in those sheds. They got a ton of information off the pictures I took with Judd’s cell phone, recovered from the pocket of Chloe’s brown coat. Keith Jackson and Marcus were both arrested, and the cops are still watching the dealers Judd supplied. As I suspected, Donovan was involved in more than drugs. He had his hand in human trafficking as well. They located his cabin and found Baldy living there with two teenage girls—both runaways from Tennessee. The girls were returned home last night.
There’s more—Ayla had her sentencing, and it is pretty much what my judge predicted. One year in a secured rehab facility followed by two years probation. Lillian says I can do my community service at Ayla’s rehab clinic if I want.
I don’t know what I want.
After a short silence, Lillian asks how I’m holding up. I’m about to lie and say, “good,” when I remember Chloe’s words. Be honest. Let us help you. Now’s your chance to try something new.
I take a breath and give it a whirl. “I’m really worried about school. I’m getting behind and they won’t let me do anything but rest.” I relay what my therapist said the other day—that I have a different kind of work to do now. But it’s not enough. “I’m going to the doctor next week to get my stitches out,” I explain. “And I’m hoping he’ll clear me for school. I don’t want to lose this semester.” I hesitate, then lower my voice and add that I’ve looked at the other girls’ books and the work is really basic, stuff I learned years ago.
“I’ve got some ideas about that, Andrea. There are other options, like online schooling, that might work for you. I’ll let you know what I find out.”
“Really? That’d be great,” I say, just as relieved to have someone looking out for me as I am about the idea of having options.
“How’s Wheaton?” Lillian probes.
“It’s not as bad as I thought. I mean, it’s not great, but it’s better than Charlie’s or Judd’s.” I could stop there, but I go on. “There are a lot of adults here, counselors and therapists, who seem, you know, interested in my life. I’m not used to that,” I say with a sad little laugh.
“And how are the other girls treating you?”
“Fine,” I answer. Even though there are fifteen of us living here, I’m still kind of lonely. I tell her that, too. “I don’t know, Lillian. I’m just trying to make the best of things.”
After another pause, Lillian says, “That’s all really good to hear, Andrea.” And I know she isn’t talking about my situation. She’s talking about the way I opened up to her, about my honesty.
Before we hang up, Lillian once again says she’ll see me soon. But soon isn’t right now. It isn’t tomorrow. And even though I’m starting to believe that she will keep this promise, each day waiting feels like eternity.
On my seventh day at Wheaton, a local cosmetology student arrives to give us all free haircuts. I go downstairs more from boredom than anything else. The woman is young, with bright red lipstick and platinum hair streaked blue. She hums to herself as she sets up a chair and a cart of tools near the sink in the kitchen. While I wait with the cluster of girls, Tiana tells me the cosmetologist aged out of Wheaton herself a few years ago.
When it’s my turn, the young woman smiles gently, as if sensing my wariness. She begins combing out my tangles and notes that she hasn’t seen me before.
“I’ve onl
y been here a week,” I say.
“Sometimes new girls want a change,” she says as her cool fingers separate my dark locks into smooth sections. “Sometimes, they want something drastically different. A clean break from the past.”
I consider this. It might feel liberating to ask for a pixie cut, or a short bob, or a bunch of layers to reinvent myself once again. Maybe I could do something so outrageous that I wouldn’t look pretty or innocent anymore. And even though I do feel fairly safe now, I won’t be sorry to lose the long strands that Donovan took such interest in, that Judd liked to yank.
I am about to tell the woman to chop it all off when something powerful stops me, like a brick pressing on my chest. A moment of clarity. Cutting off my hair might feel good at first, but it might also feel like hiding. And I am so sick of hiding. The fact is, I like my hair long. And I don’t need a new identity. What I need is to reclaim myself. To be brave and strong, and unbreakable. To be me.
“Just a trim,” I say firmly.
She nods, then goes to work gently massaging my scalp. I don’t think this is part of her job, but I’m grateful for her touch. It’s funny how you miss sensations like that. I picture Gram standing behind me, smiling and stroking my hair, reflected in our antique mirror, and for the first time in months, I feel certain and unwaveringly proud of a decision I made.
When I return to our room, Reese is lying on the top bunk paging through a fashion magazine. She stares as I enter and flop gently onto my bed. “Wow, Andrea. You look so pretty,” she says.
Pretty. My instinct is to bite her head off, but I don’t.
Instead, I consider the blue eyes I inherited from my father, the yellow bruises courtesy of Judd, the pink scar Donovan seared on my stomach. They are all a certain kind of pretty—the kind that is earned by overcoming some hardship and emerging stronger on the other side, with more durable traits. Like Brick’s resilience and Chloe’s compassion. I understand now that our choices make us who we are, not our genes. And from this moment forward, my choices are going to be great.
I look up at Reese, fourteen years old and in need of so much. I smile at her and say, “Thank you.”
That night, a counselor finds me in the hallway and tells me I have a phone call. I assume it’s Chloe, so I’m not prepared when the counselor adds, “Her name’s Ayla. Says she’s your mother.”
My whole body tenses.
Ayla is calling me? Why? To yell at me for ruining everything she had going with Judd? Or to apologize? Isn’t that something they have to do in rehab—make amends?
Part of me is curious about what Ayla has to say. Part of me hopes that she’s calling to tell me she’s beginning to turn her life around, that someday in the future she wants to have a relationship with me. And that the next time she looks at me, she will try really hard to see something other than her rapist’s eyes. But I don’t trust her, and it’s too soon. It’s too soon for her to have made any real kind of progress. It’s too soon for me to forget what she put me through.
The counselor looks at me kindly. She knows what I’ve decided. “What do you want me to tell her, sweetie?”
“Tell her…not yet,” I say and walk away.
Someday. Someday I will be strong enough to face Ayla. Someday, if she is really clean and really trying to fix her life, I will help her. Someday I’ll be as forgiving as Gram. But not now. Right now, I’m taking care of me.
Chapter 42
November in the Midwest is a dreary affair. The sky transforms from a grayish blue to a drab silvery color reminiscent of soot. The chill seeps through the cracks and the window moldings and the door jambs of Wheaton. I take to wearing my ski cap twenty-three hours a day. It would be twenty-four, but there’s a “no headgear” policy at dinner.
One blustery afternoon the week before Thanksgiving, a counselor named Sherri finds me staring at a bookshelf in the downstairs library. I was looking for something to read, then sort of zoned out. This happens a lot lately. It’s a symptom of post traumatic stress, so I’m told.
“You have a visitor, Andrea!” Sherri trills in her typical bubbly voice. I swear, if the Angel of Death showed up at our door, she’d greet him with a smile. “I’ll send him in, okay?” she chirps.
“Okay.” I sigh. It’s probably my probation officer, here to go over my community service options. I am so not ready for this.
But as she leaves, Sherri adds over her shoulder, “He’s got some serious accent.”
I freeze. When my brain thaws a moment later, my head snaps up. Brick is standing in the doorway three feet from me. I’m so excited to see him that I sort of catapult myself into his arms without thinking, and he has no choice but to catch me in a lopsided embrace. The instant this happens, I pull back, flames of embarrassment heating my neck and cheeks. What am I thinking? He hasn’t called and he didn’t come visit me in the hospital, and he’s probably only here to tell me to stop talking to Chloe and to leave his family alone once and for all. I’m sure he doesn’t trust me not to hurt her again. Things are not the way they used to be.
“I’m sorry,” I say, flustered.
“S’okay,” he says a little uncomfortably, but oh man, the sound of his easy drawl nearly snaps my heart in two.
I stare at him, wide-eyed, and he does the same. We’re like two statues in a garden, and it’s killing me not to jump back into his arms. I wasn’t kidding when I told Lillian I was lonely.
Finally, Brick glances toward the couch and asks, “Can we sit down?”
I lead the way, and we both sit and face each other. I press my hands together and slide them between my knees. He fiddles with the loop on his backpack.
Neither of us knows where to begin, and I’m suddenly irritated that he didn’t plan something out before showing up. At least he had some advance notice. While I’m just sitting here stewing in red-faced humiliation over that stupid, impulsive hello.
“How’ve you been?” he finally asks.
I shrug, at a loss. I’m not going to lie but I don’t want to dump my troubles on him either.
He peers intently at me, and his gaze suddenly feels intrusive. I have no right to be annoyed with Brick, but his unexpected appearance has stirred up a flood of emotions, half of which I don’t understand. As good as it is to see him, a part of me wishes he hadn’t come. Part of me is downright mad about it.
“Did you want something from me?” I prompt.
He frowns. “Just to see you, is all. Make sure you’re all right.”
“I see,” I say, even though I don’t. “Well, I’m fine. In fact, I’ve been fine for two weeks, so you didn’t really need to take time out from your needle crafts to come all the way down here.” I even sort of huff at the end.
Brick shifts forward a little on the couch, his eyebrows drawn together. “Um. What are you talking about?”
I drop my eyes and curse myself for this bitterness, this anger that’s clawing up my throat. But it’s better than the ache of longing I feel at the sound of his voice. It’s better than the shame that is knotting me up inside, good and tight. “Nothing,” I say. “Chloe just isn’t a very good liar. So the next time you’re avoiding someone, you probably shouldn’t ask her to cover for you.”
“I wasn’t avoiding you. I was busy,” he says defensively.
“Yeah, I heard. Knitting.” I make air quotes with my fingers around the word.
Brick looks stunned. He blows out a breath. One puff, like he’s purging himself of me. “Wow.”
“What?” I ask, harsher than I intend.
“Look, I just came here to…” He struggles for each word and it’s driving me crazy that I can’t read him at all.
And then it hits me and I feel like such an idiot. Of course. “Oh! Chloe’s bracelet,” I say. “Um, I don’t have the money now, but as soon as they let me get a job I’ll repay you. Your uncle, too. How much did you hav
e to spend to get it back?”
Brick squints at me, his mouth hanging open, like I’m some alien he can’t figure out.
“What?” I ask again, totally unnerved.
He shakes his head and suppresses either a grin or a grimace, I can’t tell. “It’s just that…I’ve never heard someone so smart say such stupid things.”
Now I really don’t know how to feel. I glare at him through eyes that are threatening tears. “Did…did you just call me stupid?”
“I called you smart, too,” he points out and I briefly catch his smile before he dives into his backpack. The smile has already disarmed me, even before he pops up holding a wrapped package. “This was supposed to be for Christmas, but since I missed your birthday in September—thanks for mentioning it, by the way—I had to hurry and finish. Happy birthday, Andrea.”
I stare at the bulky package he has set in my lap. The gift is wrapped in brown paper with silver angels on it. I slowly peel the wrapping away, trying to reclaim control of my senses. Soon I’m holding a fuzzy black scarf with pink cursive letters woven through it. It looks hand-knitted. It is hand-knitted.
“You…made this. For me?” My voice is thick with emotion.
“Not bad, eh?” Brick says proudly, then admits, “Aunt Lil helped with the script.” He reaches over and stretches out the scarf so I can see the word the pink letters spell: Unbreakable.
I am speechless.
“I figured this might suffice until you get that tattoo,” Brick says. “And it matches your ski cap. Right?”
Biting my lip, I run my fingers over the soft black fabric. “I love it,” I murmur, overwhelmed. “Thank you.”
“There’s more,” he says as I loop the scarf around my neck and snuggle down into its softness. He reaches down again, pulls an envelope from his bag of tricks, and taps it nervously with his thumb. “I hope you’ll like this too.”
All Out of Pretty Page 26
