Miracle Girls: A Novel

by Anne Dayton

  “AAHH!” I don’t normally think of myself as a screamer, but it escapes from my lips before I can stop it. What is that? I squint out over the sanctuary and see a shadow move a bit on the front pew. I watch it for a second. It appears to be . . . waving?

  “Dave?” I walk down off the stage quickly, then move toward the shadowy figure. As I get closer I can see him sitting there, arms crossed over his chest, smiling. “What are you doing here?”

  “Same thing you are.” He shrugs and pats the empty space on the pew next to him. “Have a seat.”

  “You figured out the scavenger hunt?” I take a step toward him. My cheeks are burning, and suddenly I’m really glad it’s dark. He nods.

  “When someone in church tells you the prize is great treasure, you can bet they’re talking about the cross,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Especially on Valentine’s Day. True love and all that. So I came here right off the bat to watch the fun.” He pats the space next to him again, and I tentatively lower myself down. As my eyes begin to adjust to the dim lighting, the big blob on the stage takes the shape of a grand piano.

  “You’ve been sitting here in the dark this whole time?” I let my body relax a little as I lean back against the padded pew.

  “It’s nice.” He lifts the end up his necktie and plays with the tip. “Me and God had a chat.”

  “Sorry to interrupt.”

  “I’m not sorry.” He shifts a little and settles himself on the pew. If I’m not crazy, he’s a fraction of an inch closer to me than before. I must be crazy. “It’s nice to have company.”

  I sit still, afraid to move. If I move, he might realize he’s sitting with me, not Jamie, and he’ll leave.

  “So.” He twists a little to face me. “Valentine’s Day. Why aren’t you at the dance at your school?”

  I shrug. “Why aren’t you?”

  “Don’t like dances.”

  “But Jamie must like dances.” I bite my lip.

  “Maybe.” He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

  “But weren’t you supposed to . . .” I trail off. This is awkward. How do I say this? “Weren’t you taking her to the dance?”

  Dave laughs. “Nah. Not my style.” He twists again, and this time his arm settles on the back of the pew. He’s not touching me, but I can feel the heat of his arm on my shoulder. “Besides,” he says, leaning forward a bit, “I’d rather be here with you.”

  I laugh quietly, but everything in me hopes he doesn’t mean this as a joke. I lean back a little, and my shoulder just touches his fingertips. He doesn’t pull them away.

  “But aren’t you and Jamie . . .” My mouth suddenly feels very dry.

  Dave sits up suddenly, pulling his arm away. Uh-oh. Why did I do that?

  “I don’t know why everyone thinks that.” He shakes his head, but his voice doesn’t sound upset. It’s soft, kind of sexy. “She’s just singing with us. That’s it.” He leans back against the pew again, but this time, his hand lands on the bench part of the pew, just a few inches from my hand.

  “Oh.” I don’t know what to say, but I’m also afraid to say anything for fear he might move again. I feel my muscles tense as I lean to the left a tiny bit.

  We sit in silence for a moment, and slowly, so gently I almost don’t feel it at first, his pinkie brushes against my hand. I wait, and a few seconds later, his hand touches mine, lightly. I’m staring straight ahead, afraid to move, but out of the corner of my eye I see Dave watching me.

  “I keep waiting for the movie to start.” He laughs, and I vaguely comprehend that he’s making a joke about this room being like a theater. I smile and let out a slow breath as he places his hand on top of mine, then twists my hand over. He rubs my palm lightly with his fingertips. I start to relax, but cringe as I hear voices out in the hallway. There’s laughter and yelling, and it’s coming closer, and I quickly realize that the winning team is about to burst into the sanctuary and destroy this moment. Dave threads his fingers though mine and gives me a quick squeeze. I think he’s about to pull away, but as the Pigs burst through the door and start storming down the aisle, he simply holds my hand.

  40

  I’m practically skipping up the walkway toward my house, but I try to control myself so Papá, trudging up the path behind me, won’t suspect anything. If he found out that I held a boy’s hand at church tonight, I’d never be allowed out of my room again. Luckily, Papá seems distracted and doesn’t notice much of anything as he unlocks the door to the dark house, then locks it behind us. He walks off to his bedroom without a word.

  You’d think that if you can afford a house this big, you could also afford some lamps, but for some reason there are never enough lights on in our house. I replay the scene in the sanctuary over in my mind as I walk into the kitchen, flip on the light, and pour a tall glass of Diet Coke. He really held my hand. And he sat next to me for the rest of the evening, even when we went back into the youth room. And he promised to e-mail me tomorrow. I giggle a little and dance around, picturing his face in my mind, then take a long sip and jump around some more.

  I’m so full of nervous energy, I can’t go to bed, so I take my glass and begin to head toward my bedroom. I wonder if anyone is still on IM. I can’t wait to tell Christine about what happened. But as I leave the kitchen, I see a strip of light under Maria’s door and decide to stop in and fill her in first. She’ll be so excited for me.

  I knock quietly on the door, then push it open, and freeze. Maria is in her bathrobe, her hair in curlers, bent over her suitcase. Her clothes are strewn about the room, and there are boxes everywhere.

  “Anita,” she says, straightening up slowly. “You weren’t supposed to see all of this.” Her face is pale, and there are dark circles under her eyes. Has she always been this frail?

  “What’s going on?” I set my glass down on Maria’s dresser quickly so I won’t drop it. The air is suddenly gone from my lungs, and my heart falls. I don’t know what’s happening, but I know this is not good.

  “I thought you were out tonight,” she says.

  “I was. I just got back.” Goosebumps raise on my arms. “Were you trying to leave while I was gone?”

  Maria turns and lowers herself onto her bed slowly. She sighs as she sinks into the flowered comforter. “Your parents thought it would be better if you didn’t have to see this,” she says. “I’m not leaving for a while, not until after your quince, but I’m shipping most of my things ahead.” She gestures around the room vaguely. “I wanted to have it all packed up by the time you got home.”

  “What?” Suddenly, Mom’s insistence that I go tonight makes a lot more sense. She wanted me out of the house. “But . . .” I swallow and bite back the tears. “Where are you going?” Even as I speak the words, I know the answer.

  Maria touches my arm. “I’m old. I’m sick. I’m tired.” She runs her hand across the bedspread. “It’s time for me to go home.”

  “But you are home.”

  “My heart will always be where you are, but Mexico is my home.”

  “But . . .” My bottom lip trembles. “But you can’t leave. You’re sick! All the best hospitals are here. Here, you’ll get better. If you go back there . . .” This is madness. My parents won’t let her do this. They came to America because they wanted the best treatment for me. They’ll put a stop to this.

  “Anita, you don’t need me anymore. And I’m a huge drain on your parents.”

  “I need you!” I shriek. I know I’m starting to sound a bit hysterical, but I don’t care.

  “Now, with the lupus, I’m costing them so much. It doesn’t make sense,” she says quietly.

  I am stunned. Maria is a member of the family. I can’t live without her. How could my parents just let her go? Is it really because of the high cost of her medical bills? I can’t believe them!

  “Oh, that’s it,” I say. I turn on my heel and storm to the door, flinging it open. The hypocrites! All their talk of love and God, and then when someone finally needs
their help, they just let her walk away. As if they can’t afford to pay for a few pills. I’m going to drag their sorry butts out of their big soft bed and scream at them until they realize what horrible people they are and change their minds.

  “Anita,” Maria calls, but I ignore her as I stomp through the door. I hope the noise wakes up their pitiful selves. I hope they never get back to sleep. “ANA!” The pained tone in Maria’s voice sends chills down my spine, and I freeze. I turn back to look at her. She holds out her arms to me, and she looks so small and frail there on the bed that I walk back to her. She stands up and wraps her arms around me and holds me like she did when I was a little girl.

  “Anita. Your parents have been very generous.”

  I sniff back the tears and drag my sleeve across my eyes.

  “Being here, watching you grow up, has been the best thing that’s happened to me. But you have grown into an amazing woman. You are not a child. You don’t need me anymore.”

  “Of course I need you,” I say, hot tears running down my cheeks. “We can’t survive without you. Please don’t leave me with those horrible people.”

  “You don’t need me. You need your parents, and they need you.” She wipes a tear away from her eye. “With me gone, you’ll all finally realize that.”

  “I’ll come with you,” I say suddenly. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. “You took care of me, now I’ll take care of you.” It’s perfect. I’ll finish high school via correspondence course. I’ll learn to make real tamales. I don’t like this cold weather anyway.

  “Your place is here. And mine is there.” She sighs. “I miss my home.” She says it so quietly I almost think I’ve misheard her. “I miss my family.” I gasp, and she shushes me. “You’re my family here,” she says, rubbing her hand on my shoulder, “but I miss my kids, too.” She pulls back and looks me in the face. “I have grandchildren I’ve never met. It’s time.”

  I watch her face, lined and pale. When did she get to be so old?

  “Seeing you cry breaks my heart,” she says, stroking my hair softly. “Please, let me go quietly.”

  41

  It’s Monday at lunch when we come up with the idea. Well, I guess technically the idea was born in the high school gym at the dance last Saturday, when they were having such a good time that they decided to schedule a big night out, but it’s when we’re talking on Monday that I resurrect the idea of camping on the beach.

  “I don’t know.” Zoe crunches into a Nutter Butter. “I don’t think my parents would go for it unless we had an adult with us.”

  “We don’t need an adult.” Riley rolls her eyes. “Nothing bad’s going to happen.”

  “Besides, that’s the whole point,” Christine says, sucking on the end of a Dorito. “To get away from our parents.” Christine’s feelings for her dad don’t seem to be cheered much by the fact that she apparently danced with Tyler for a little while on Saturday. They didn’t dance to any slow songs, but still, dancing is dancing. I was so happy for her when they told me. And apparently Riley spent a good part of the night dancing with Zach, which didn’t make me quite as happy. That guy rubs me the wrong way.

  Zoe looks unsure, and I feel a bit uncertain, too, if I’m honest. I know my parents would never let me camp on the beach, even if I weren’t grounded for life. I guess maybe that’s part of the appeal. I don’t feel any need to follow their rules anymore. I’m an adult and it’s time that they respect that.

  “I can’t do it this weekend.” Christine’s hair is now a light shade of green, which doesn’t go as well with her skin tone as the red but still looks pretty cool. “I have to babysit The Bimbot while my dad takes The Bimbo to Napa.” She rolls her eyes. “But the weekend after that?”

  “Sure,” Riley says, polishing off a cheese sandwich. “I’m always free. My parents are so busy running Michael to therapy these days, they don’t care where I am.”

  “You guys, I’m not sure it’s a good idea.” Zoe is so plaintive and sincere, it’s hard not to feel bad for her.

  “You can all tell your parents you’re staying over at my house,” Christine says. I nod, though I’m not sure how well that’s going to work. For one thing, that would mean talking to my parents, and for another, I’m grounded, but I’ll figure this out before then. I don’t owe them anything.

  “But what about all the camping equipment? How am I supposed to sneak that by my parents?”

  Riley waves the question away as if it’s an annoying bug. “Say we’re camping in Christine’s yard.”

  “I don’t want to lie,” Zoe whines.

  “Besides, we won’t need nearly as much stuff as last time,” Christine says. “It was freezing then. But it’s warm enough now that we’ll only need a few blankets.”

  “I—” Zoe looks around at us. She tries to smile, but she still looks unsure.

  “Come on, Zo. It’ll be okay,” Riley says, her face breaking into a smile. “Nothing’s going to happen. We’re the Miracle Girls. We’re invincible. God will always be on our side.”

  Zoe pops the last of her Nutter Butter into her mouth and chews thoughtfully. She swallows, then takes a swig of her soda. Finally, she seems to make up her mind. “I guess so.”

  42

  If Mom calls it “Bloomies” one more time, I might scream.

  “What about this one, Ana?” Mom holds up what basically amounts to a wedding dress. It’s white, ankle-length, and pouffy. “It’s by Vera Wang.” She nearly drools as she says “Vera Wang” and the saleswoman—pardon me, personal shopper—looks like she might pop a button on her suit.

  The dress is too expensive and too . . . bridal. I’m not getting married; I’m becoming a woman. Well, theoretically I’m becoming a woman. I’m flattered that in Mexico I could be considered a woman at fifteen, but here in the good old U. S. of A, I’ll be a baby until I graduate and go off to Princeton and get far, far away from my parents. That’s just the reality of things. I’m surprised Mom and Papá haven’t looked into putting bars on my windows so I can never leave.

  “It’s okay,” I say. I might hate my mom right now, but I do still want to look good at my quince, so I’m trying to play along a bit here. If you had asked me before Valentine’s Day what I was going to wear to this thing, I probably would have said a burlap sack and a bag over my head. But now, Dave is going to be there.

  We only see each other at youth group, and sometimes at Stonehill Manor when we hang out with Ms. Slater, but we stay in constant touch over e-mail. Dave can write an e-mail that will make your socks melt. And I’m learning so much about his family, like the fact that his dad restores old cars and his mom makes her own stationery. She actually makes the paper. I was blown away by that. And Dave dreams of doing special effects animation for Pixar movies someday

  Plus, I’m trying to play ball with Mom because she caved in on the whole Ritz- Carlton idea. We’ve compromised on having it at home, but in huge tents in the backyard. Mom finally decided it would be more “intimate.” Personally I think she just decided that showing off her palace would be a good way to impress people.

  Bloomingdale’s is our first stop in the city today. Up next is Nordstrom, and then we’re off to hit up a few boutiques, most of which are bridal shops that do a small side business in quince dresses. It’s not like I’m the only Latina in the Bay Area, after all. I suppose I should be thankful for that. I’ve seen some pretty hideous dresses online in my research. Just be thankful you don’t live in Nowheresville, Ana.

  “But what about this really cute pink one?” I walk across the immaculate Bloomingdale’s floor and unhook a hot pink and black lace number that is . . . maybe a bit low-cut. She’ll never go for it, but maybe we can compromise on something that doesn’t look like it’s from the 1800s.

  “Good taste, my dear.” The personal shopper crosses her arms across her birdlike chest and grins at me. “That’s a Betsey Johnson.”

  Mom glares at her. “But I don’t think it’s quite what the occasion requires
.”

  “Right.” The personal shopper comes over and twists the hanger under my neck so that the dress drapes against me. “Your mom is absolutely correct. However, some of our quincean . . . quinceanaararara girls prefer to change into something more fun after the dinner portion of the evening.”

  I smirk. Even if she can’t pronounce quinceañera to save her life, this woman is good. She’s trying to sell us two overpriced frocks now. “Well, I could just go with that one, frankly.” Why did Mom insist on shopping for dresses in San Francisco? It’s so pricey here. I don’t even want to think what the party is costing poor Papá now, between the rented tents, the DJ . . .

  “You are having a dinner, I presume?” The personal shopper’s tone drips with snottiness.

  “No—” I say firmly.

  “Ana! Yes, of course we are.” Mom glares at me like I’ve forgotten my manners entirely.

  “It really is expected.” The personal shopper nods with Mom. Any minute now, these two are going to make it official and become BFFs.

  “Well, it’s my party, and I don’t know if I want a dinner.” I hang up the cute pink dress and put a hand on my hip. Maybe if I make it seem like my idea, Mom won’t be embarrassed by not having a full sit-down meal. And no meal would save Papá thousands of dollars. “I read online that appetizers are what’s cool now,” I say, lying through my teeth.

  Mom flares her nostrils. “Let’s discuss this later. Today, all we need to do is find the dress of your dreams. The party is just three months away now.” Mom walks over with the white Vera Wang dress and holds it up to me. A jaded smile crosses her face.

  I pick up the pink dress again. “Great. I found it. Let’s go ahead and get it.”

  Mom takes the pink dress from my hands. “I said no, Ana. You must choose something else. That dress is too skimpy.”

  “Why can’t I just have ‘the dress of my dreams’?”

  “I’ll just give you two a moment.” The personal shopper splashes a fake smile on her face and disappears.