by Anna Shinoda
“Hi, kids.” Wait. Who’s that?
“Oh, shit. Ms. P.” Omar looks up.
Drea’s mom is standing over me. She shakes her head and sighs. “Dump your drinks, guys, and grab yourselves some water. Drea, in the kitchen.”
I don’t like the way the room is spinning. Skeleton is sitting on the chair. How is the chair moving? Stop. Stop spinning. Stop, please, stop. My stomach. Oh, no. This is bad, bad, bad.
I spring up from the floor.
I hate puking. Stop, stop, stop. Drea’s here now. She’s got my hair. She’s rubbing my back.
“Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Do you still like me?”
“I love you, Miss Clare.”
Vomit again.
In the morning I’m snug on Drea’s trundle bed. A huge bottle of water and aspirin are on the bedside table.
There’s a note from Lala. Baby doll, I’m covering your morning shift. Try to be there by 2:00. I don’t want Lucille going crazy on you.
I look at the clock. It’s noon already. I drink the water and take the aspirin. I lie down again. My head is pounding. I feel like shit.
Do a half walk, half crawl to the living room. Drea’s mom is on the couch with Skeleton, an ice pack on his skull.
“Hi, Clare.” She pats the cushion next to her. “Have a seat.”
Please don’t yell at me.
“Clare. I love you,” she says. “I know sometimes you have to learn by doing.” She sighs. “But you have to be more careful. We were lucky you were here, with friends. We were lucky that the worst thing that happened is you got sick and have a hangover. You are worth too much to do this to yourself.” She pauses, then adds, “I was hoping I’d never have to worry about things like locking up the liquor cabinet because I can’t trust Drea and her friends.”
I feel like supershit. Ms. P is the best mom on this planet, and I’ve broken her trust.
“Sorry,” I say.
“Well, it’s locked now.” She shrugs, then continues,
“I called your parents last night after we talked.”
“We talked?” I remember her coming home, me throwing up.
“Yes, we talked. I told your parents that you were very emotional. After all, Luke being home is a big deal for everyone in your family.”
“Are they going to kill me?” I ask. “Did you tell them I was drunk?”
“No, they aren’t going to kill you. And I didn’t tell them you were drunk. I wanted us to talk when you were sober first, then decide if they need to know.”
“Ummm, I can’t remember everything we talked about last night,” I admit. This is so embarrassing.
“Well, you told me a lot about your feelings about Luke being in prison all these years. Things you are afraid of. Bad memories of things that you’ve seen him do.” She takes my hands in hers. “You told me a lot that I didn’t know. I wish things could be different for you. I’m here. You can talk to me about anything, anytime.”
“Thanks.” What exactly did I tell her last night? “I’m sorry.”
Pound, pound, pound. I never realized how loud her grandfather clock ticked.
“If you want to be responsible, and make me happy, you can clean the bathroom before you leave,” she says.
“Got it.” I’m glad to have something to do to make up for being a huge ass last night.
“But first, Drea’s in the kitchen putting together a greasy power breakfast for you. Go eat; you’ll feel better,” she says.
I head to the kitchen.
“Toast for the woman who was supertoasted last night.” Drea plops down a plate of bacon, eggs, and toast in front of me.
“I am so sorry. I feel like a complete idiot,” I tell her. “Not to mention, I don’t remember the heart-to-heart I had with your mom.”
“Don’t worry about it. Everyone was silly and drunk. You were funny. Except that puking. That was disgusting. But overall you were just funny.”
“I feel like shit,” I say, moving the food around on my plate and eventually taking a bite out of the thing that looks the safest: toast. It’s warm and just the right amount of soft and hard. I take another bite and try the eggs. Not bad. Looks like my stomach might want to eat after all.
“You should; you drank enough last night. And don’t worry. I stopped you from drunk-dialing anyone. You’re safe.”
Well, that’s one good thing. After finishing as much as I can eat, I grab the bathroom cleaner and head to the war zone.
Disgusting. Apparently I have terrible aim when drunk.
Once the bathroom is clean, I shower, replaying what I remember over and over. Wishing I could recall even a little bit of what I said to Ms. P.
I am never getting drunk again.
To my surprise Peter is in the living room when I get out. He’s holding my work bag, complete with sunblock, sunglasses, hat, and bathing suit.
“Thanks for coming by, Peter,” Ms. P says. “I really appreciate it.”
“No problem,” he replies. Then jokes, “Clare, you owe me big. Let’s go.”
Neither of us says a word until we’re almost to the lake. Then Peter breaks the silence by saying, “I don’t know what Ms. P said to our mom, but somehow you aren’t grounded anymore.” I look over at him. “You still have to go to Tennessee, but you have a few days of freedom first. She must have said something about Luke’s last sentence. You know how Mom gets about that. She was probably so embarrassed, she would have agreed to anything.”
I nod, hoping that was it.
“Thanks for taking me to work,” I say. “Thanks for being a nice brother,” I want to say, but I just think it instead.
Chapter 24
Unpredictable Peter
THEN: Age Twelve
Gazing up at the sky and the pine treetops, I tried to guess how long I’d been floating for. Five minutes? Maybe even more. If there were a world record for floating, I bet I could get it.
Then the water heaved, crashing over me. I sputtered to the surface. Peter had jumped in, practically on top of me. “Clare, you won’t ever pass the swim test if all you do is float.”
“Shut up, Peter. Leave me alone. I can swim.”
“Doggy-paddling doesn’t count,” he replied. “You’ll never get to swim in the deep end that way.”
“I said, ‘Leave me alone.’” Drea tricked off the diving board and then swim toward the little island, to join Omar on his plastic silver raft.
I was stuck on the shallow side surrounded by water wings, mounds of sand claiming to be castles, babies in “waterproof” diapers. Lucky me.
“I’m not here to make fun of you; I want to teach you.” He nodded toward the boogie board he was holding.
I dragged my toes along the bottom, sand and slime.
“Really? No jokes?” I asked. Peter was so unpredictable. Was he going to be nice to me today? My eyes searched the shore, water, even trees for signs of Peter’s friends.
“No jokes. Promise.”
“Aren’t you on duty?” I glanced toward the lifeguard stand, surprised to see a new girl, copper-toned skin, a huge fake daisy holding her long blond hair back.
“My shift’s over.” Peter waved at Daisy Hair, then turned back to me. “C’mon. Let me teach you. I’ve taught all your friends. None of them has drowned yet.”
Drea was pulling herself up onto the island. Could I really go out there with her? Could Peter really teach me to swim? I guessed I could try.
“Okay.” I took the board.
“Kick from your hips. Point your toes. No, not like that. Think more like ballet or something. Better. Keep your knees straight.”
I felt like a baby kick, kick, kicking my way around the shallow end. Embarrassing.
“There you go!” Peter shouted after me. “Try a couple more laps—shore to the rope. You need a great kick to be a good swimmer.” Peter watched from the side as I did laps, pointing at me as he talked to Daisy Hair. So that’s why he was being so nice to me.
“You’re a quick l
earner,” he announced as I kicked my way to his side.
“What’s next?” I handed him the boogie board.
“Arms.” Peter put his arms up in the air. “I want you to pretend we are picking apples— Don’t roll your eyes. This really works. Pick an apple, put it in your pocket. Yep, like that, but floating on your stomach with your face in the water. Oh, yeah. Don’t forget to breathe every couple of apples.” He took my arms and showed me. Then as he and the golden girl made small talk, I practiced each stroke.
“Now put it together!” Peter jumped into the water and held me with one hand on my belly, one on my back. Then no hands.
I didn’t care if Peter was teaching me just to impress her. The water was now lighter, easier to control.
“You’re doing it!” Peter yelled.
Luke would be so proud of me. I wished he were here.
I swam back to Peter. He gave me a high five, and then we celebrated with an ice cream sandwich. Sometimes Peter could be the best brother in the world.
Chapter 25
Responsibility
NOW
“You weren’t here this morning.” Chris is glaring at me, his arms crossed in indignation.
“I know. Lala covered my shift.” I grab two more aspirin from my purse, wash them down with nearly an entire bottle of water. My stomach twists. I hope I don’t throw up again.
“Not for your shift. For you know . . . before.” He leans close to my ear and whispers the last part of the sentence, “To teach me to swim.”
Of course Chris shows up the one morning I don’t.
“I wasn’t feeling well,” I growl. Literally, like an animal.
“You look hungover.” My mouth drops. Is it that obvious? I’m about to snap at him to go away and leave me alone, when he lowers his voice so only I can hear, “Don’t think you can fool me. I know all about drunks.”
Chris knows all about drunks.
I want to be responsible, take my sunglasses off, look him in the eye, and tell him that he can talk to me about anything, that I can help because I know about addicts and what they do when they are out of control. But I don’t, because I am aware of how sour my sweat smells, the bad cotton taste in my mouth. I’m aware of my actions last night, how hypocritical it would be to say anything to him. So I stay quiet.
“And Mandy says you quit. So I guess that means you aren’t teaching me to swim.” Chris pouts.
“I’m going to visit my grandma. She’s old and she needs our family to help her.” The sun glinting off the lake is burning my eyes. I just want to go home and lie down in a very dark room for many hours.
“But what about me?” His whiny voice makes my head pound even more.
He’s not my problem. He’s not my responsibility. But still . . .
“I have two weeks. I’ll be here. You promise to show?”
“Deal,” he says.
As he walks away, I wonder who the alcoholic is in his family. The Jordans have done a very good job keeping that skeleton in the closet.
When I return home that night, I’m braced for yelling, for Mom to scream at me about sharing family information. I sneak in the back door, safely making it to the bathroom without encountering my parents.
The cool shower feels so good; my dark room even better.
At family dinner, all together, Mom sets her lips into a deep frown, saying to me, “We will talk later this evening.” Then she drones on about Tennessee and flight options.
Before bed Mom treads into my room and drops my car keys and cell phone onto my desk.
“Here. I hope you’re happy,” she says. “In the future use a little more discretion when discussing our family with others. I am extremely disappointed in you. Luke is trying to make a fresh start. He needs all of our support, including yours. Airing our dirty laundry to Drea’s mother is not supporting your brother and our family. Don’t do it again. Ever.”
Mom stops at the fish tank, gazing in, watching Melanie’s dark body glide back and forth. Her brow wrinkles smooth. “You need to ask Dad and Peter about watching your angels while we’re away.”
“I’ll talk to them tomorrow.” I say my first words to Mom since I stormed out last night. “And I’ll clean the tank before we leave so hopefully it won’t be too gross when we get back.”
She nods. “That should be fine. Remind Peter to check the water level and the temperature, too. You’re doing a good job caring for these fish. Their colors are so vibrant.” I can almost feel the compliment, almost enjoy Mom’s words, until she adds, “I’d hate for anything to happen to them.” She leaves me with that final positive thought. Thanks, Mom, for giving me one more reason to hate this trip.
My cell phone is dead. I pull the cord from my desk, plug it in, and wait for a sign of life. The screen lights up. I’ve got some bars. I text Drea: “What’s on tonight?”
Drea texts back immediately: “Movie night at Skye’s. You free?!?”
After getting Mom’s permission, I’m sitting in the driver’s seat.
I turn the engine. The car rumbles. Dad put the battery back in. The happiness that floods me actually makes my eyes tear. Two weeks. Two weeks of friends. Of work. Of escape.
Chapter 26
Haunted Farmhouse
THEN: Age Twelve
Haunted. I was sure Granny and Papa’s second floor was haunted. Walking up the steps from the tiny kitchen, an invisible hand reached in to squeeze my heart, every time.
Alone, because I was the youngest and it was bedtime for me.
Lightning flashed every few seconds through the window, helping the single ceiling bulb illuminate the staircase. I stood at the bottom, looking up to the first landing, wondering what was past the corner. If I ran, I’d be past the stairs, in the big room, empty except for two beds and the single wardrobe, left over from Mom’s childhood. Then I could hide under the covers.
I ran. Up the stairs. The thunder rattled the old windows.
Into the room. Into the bed. Without drapes I could see far across the cornfields, could watch the lightning touch down. Please, please, let the lightning hit the rod and not the farmhouse.
I wished I were home. I wished I played soccer like Peter so I could be at camp this week instead of stuck in Granny and Papa’s haunted farmhouse.
With eyes squeezed tight I held my breath and waited for sleep. That was when I heard the creak. The creak of the floorboards. Someone was in the room.
It was a demon, rising into a black form through the floor, coming closer. Clawing its way toward me, pulling itself up with nails sunk deep into the ancient bedpost. Staring straight at me.
Cringing, I forced an eye open. And nearly fainted with relief. It was only Luke.
“Luke?” I whispered. “I’m scared up here all alone.”
“Squeaks, what are you afraid of?” He turned on the lights, sat on the edge of my bed. It didn’t help much. Yellow patches on the ceiling, discolored and never repainted from past leaks, made eerie designs of twisted faces. The wardrobe loomed massively. Anything could be hiding inside it.
“Everything,” I whispered. “I’m afraid of everything.”
“I’ll protect you,” Luke said, hugging me close, “from everything.”
With Luke in the room sleep came quickly—until the sound of Skeleton’s bones came clanking. In the shadows I could see Luke’s empty bed. Could hear the creaks of a door opening and shutting, directly under our room. It must be Luke, I told myself. There are no such things as ghosts. I wanted to fall back to sleep, but my bladder wouldn’t let me, no matter how hard I tried to ignore it.
I climbed from my bed, tiptoed down the stairs, pushed the bathroom door open.
Luke didn’t see me at first. An empty pen connected his nose to the counter.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
He looked up.
“Shut the door!” he spat. Frozen, I stared at him. “I said get out!” he yelled. He rushed the door, pushed me back, slamming the door in my f
ace.
“Clare Bear, go back to bed,” Dad’s voice said from behind me.
“But, Dad, I—”
“Go on.” He gently steered me by my shoulders to the stairs, then headed back to the bathroom.
I sat on the bottom stair and waited my turn. I really had to go. But Dad didn’t wait; he flung the bathroom door open.
“What in the hell are you thinking?” he sternly said to Luke. “Bringing this into your grandparents’ home! Get out of this house!”
An animal roar from Luke. Then he charged. Right at my father. Dad jumped out of his way.
The hall was full now, with Mom, Granny, and Papa, fresh from bed.
“Get out!” Dad shouted this time. “Get the hell out of this house!” He pushed Luke into the living room. Luke pushed Dad back. Hard. Dad fell, and Luke fled.
While the adults were arguing over what had happened, I snuck off the stairs to the bathroom. As I opened the door, I heard my mom gasp. “Oh, no! Clare!” She pushed past me into the bathroom.
“Mom! I have to go, bad!” I protested.
“In just a minute,” she said, grabbing the pen, wiping off the counter, looking under the sink. “Okay. All done. Bathroom, then straight to bed!”
Skeleton and I lay awake for a while, thinking about how it had all started—the pen and counter—knowing it had to be something to do with drugs. I thought about Dad yelling at Luke, and another memory tugged at me, one that started with broken windows. But I shut it down as soon as the trail of red circles appeared.
Papa’s rooster was cock-a-doodling, and although I was really tired, I rolled over and looked at Luke’s bed. Empty. I tiptoed downstairs. Everyone else was still asleep.
Luke was lying on the couch, dried blood coming from his nose and a crack on his forehead. He was still. I didn’t know if he was alive.
I ran to Mom and Dad’s room, then tiptoed to Mom’s side of the bed and gently touched her arm, careful not to wake up Dad.
“Mom,” I whispered. As her eyes fluttered open, I whispered again, “Luke.” She pulled on her robe and followed me to the living room. After checking Luke, she nodded.
