by S R Savell
“Hey.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry.” I scratch at some unidentifiable crusty stuff on the tablecloth.
“For what?”
“For being an asshole.”
He sort of nods, apparently not knowing what to say.
I go to the trash and push the mess off my plate with my napkin. The fork falls in, and I root it out of the coffee grounds and tuna fish stinking on top. I walk to the sink.
Cold water crawls up my feet.
“Damn it!” I jerk my sock off but fall against the counter, which knifes between my ribs.
I squeeze my eyes against the pain, pressing the palms in harder and harder until my hands are cramping from the strain. “Michelle?”
I feel his hand slip over mine.
Through the blur I can see colors: a ripped gray shirt, a smear of brown skin, and two charcoal eyes.
“I’m not crying, okay?” I rub my eyes with the backs of my hands, trying to take the sting out.
“You all right?” I barely catch the words on their way down.
I nod, digging my knuckles into my bruised side. It occurs to me that this is the second time I’ve injured myself with him around. I’ve turned into a clumsy, tittering idiot. Just lovely.
He hands me a napkin, pats my back.
I wipe my eyes. “Thanks.”
He just smiles.
In a few minutes he’s working on the leaky pipe. It’s kind of funny, watching him squatting in front of my sink in wet socks. It’s endearing somehow.
I’ve recovered from my melodramatic meltdown and am sitting on a kitchen chair, heels spooning my ass. Crying because I got a boo-boo is as humiliating as it gets. I’ve publicly crapped myself with less shame.
He wipes up the rest of the water and balls up the towels, shutting the door on the way up. “Where’s your laundry room?”
“I got it.” My feet are cold when they touch the floor.
“Michelle?”
“Hm?”
“What happened”—he studies the grease filling the grooves in his hands, rubs at a spot—“to your dad?”
The tag on a towel scratches my inner elbow. I shift the load to my hip. “Runaway Blue Bell truck creamed him while he was crossing the street.”
No laughter.
I shrug. “Yeah, that one’s usually a killer.”
Still nothing.
“I’m sorry.”
His head droops, a sunflower with no rain.
“I’m not going to keep doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“Making you sad. Your life is hard enough without hearing my sob shit.”
“You don’t make me sad. And it’s not sob shit. It’s important.”
I walk, hugging the towels closer. “Fine, it’s not sob shit.”
I click the light on.
“You think my life is bad? Why?”
I take my shoes out of the washer and drop in the towels. “Because people treat you like a freak. Because you work hard all the time and don’t get half of what you deserve. Because your grandma is sick. And because you’re the best person I’ve ever met, but you get shit on the most. That’s why.” The lid slams, and I turn. “Care to argue?”
He shrugs. “I have you and Grandma, so I’m happy.”
“Yeah, well, you shouldn’t be.”
“Happy?”
“Happy that you have me. And it’s the second time you said that, you know.” I throw a dryer sheet in with the shoes, then lean back against the machine. “That I make you happy.”
“You do.”
“You say that, but somehow I don’t believe you.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not the easiest person to deal with.”
I see confusion again.
“Your reaction proves my point. You’re entirely too good.” I push off the dryer and smile at him. “Anyways, sorry about the drama-mama bullshit earlier.”
When I turn back from cleaning out the dryer lint, I don’t like what I see. It’s the expression from that day with the little girls, the one that’s looking past everything else, past the world, and into the worst parts of me.
“You don’t treat me like a freak. You don’t make fun of me or call me stupid.” His right heel rolls something underfoot. “And, well . . .”
“And?”
“You make my life good,” he murmurs.
My heart is rattling my rib cage, threatening escape.
It doesn’t quite make it out.
“Yeah. Me too.”
Chapter 8
Intentions and results don’t always match. I mean, that’s why they’re called intentions. Otherwise they’d be called . . .
Uh.
Point is, after my promised visit to Nathaniel’s grandma’s, I found I wanted to go back. And that time turned into another time, which turned into another one.
Mrs. Stotes is like your best friend’s mom and your favorite teacher infused into one badass human being. She knows everything about everything. She makes prank calls and invents word games with made-up words, tells it like it is, and laughs like a hiccuping hoot owl. She speaks random things in different languages, reads books upside down, and sneezes in threes.
She makes me want to call her Grandma.
You’re surprised? Yeah, I know I’m the ice queen, a brat, a bitch wallowing in my self-imposed exile; I don’t like people. But it’s like this. There’s what I call the human goodness scale. It goes from Ghandi to Dahmer, the three groups being goods, bads, and ’tweeners. Most people are ’tweeners, those too selfish and sick to be a good but not psycho enough to be a bad.
Once in a lifetime, when the moon and stars align and hell itself gets a chill, you’ll meet an honest-to-God good—someone who’s not Ghandi status but close enough to swipe at his tunic.
I’ve met two of them. And I think you know who.
Mrs. Stotes and Nathaniel are the real deal. Like give-the-shirt-off-your-almost-naked-back, donate-your-kidney-to-a-stranger sort of people. Genuine. Kind.
Explaining it would be like using that metaphor people use to describe God. You know the one—how God is like the wind, how you can’t see the wind or Him, but you know they’re both there?
I can’t tell you how they’ve made me care for something more than my immediate happiness. They just have. And I just count myself lucky for it.
I rap on the open door. “Anyone home?”
“Come on in.”
She looks pretty okay today. Her color seems richer, her eyes a bit more alert, which is somewhat relieving because it’s hard enough knowing that someone so kind is being fucked so badly. Must be a family curse or something.
“Brought you a Coke.”
“Good girl.” She winks and stretches her arms for the mandatory hug.
“So how was school?”
“Eh.”
“Just eh?” She pours me a cup.
I take it, grateful. “Yeah. Tanya stabbed me with a pencil in the hallway. Hurt like a bitch.” I rub the back of my arm at the graphite under the skin.
“And what did you do to her?” Mrs. Stotes looks like a peeved mother hen.
I take a drink to hide my smile.
“I said, what did you do to her?”
“Nothing. Yet.” I offer a toast. “To vengeance upon my enemies. May all their contraception be faulty!”
“I wouldn’t go that far, but all righty, then.” Mrs. Stotes toasts but gets serious again. “Why didn’t you tell the principal?”
“Ha. Very funny, Mrs. S.”
She’s not being funny.
I try to redirect. “So h—?”
“Michelle.”
“Oh, gee, can we not talk about this? I really don’t wanna.”
“Too bad.”
I rub my temples. Bite off some lip skin. “Well. I was walking to third period—”
“Not that. Why didn’t you say anything? To a teacher, your counselor?”
“Because it’s not worth it
. I have it under control.”
“Yes, being attacked in the hallways is controlling the situation.”
“Can we drop this?”
She leans forward, eyes a pyre. “Michelle, you listen to me. Things don’t look good for you. You’ve got a temper, a record, and a smart mouth. Three strikes that mark you as a delinquent brat.” She holds a hand up. “Now, I don’t expect they’ll listen very much to what you have to say, things being as they are. But you can try. And you’ll know you did what you could, and they’ll know that if something happens again, you gave them fair warning. They have to hear you out. Understand?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
She reaches, palm up, for my hand. “Try?”
I lean back, cross my arms. “Try how, exactly? Because they’re going to want names. And if I give names, then they’ve won. After four years of work, they’ll be getting the payoff: knowing I couldn’t take it anymore. And that’s not going to happen, all right?”
“Why not? Is your pride so important?”
“I don’t think it’s that serious, is all.”
“Not that serious?”
My hands drop.
Hers are balled into fists. “No one, and I mean no one, has the right to put their hands on you. Do you hear me? Your body is sacred. Any damage done to you is the desecration of your temple.”
“Desecration of my temple?” I try to smile.
She glares, quits speaking altogether.
I let the silence build a wall to hide behind. I won’t be the one to tear it down; I refuse. She herself can’t destroy what I’ve spent years learning how to construct. No matter what she says.
But she tries anyways.
“I spent years watching my grandson suffer at the hands of other people. I watched him die inside a little more every day—and I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t make him fight. I couldn’t make them stop.”
She reaches for my hand again. I still don’t care to reach for hers.
I watch her hand fall.
“I don’t want to see that happen to you. You’re wrong. There are people who want to help. You can fix this. But you have to get past this petty notion that letting them torture you makes you the winner. You’re no one’s martyr, Michelle. ”
The wall between us fissures.
She doesn’t understand. No one does.
So I don’t answer.
She puts a hand over her mouth, her elbow held by her other hand. She looks like she’s going to cry or maybe yell.
My chest feels tight, my heart bruised, like a hand is pressing me into the floor.
I should leave.
I should have never come.
“It doesn’t matter what I say, does it? You’re going to let this continue as it is.”
Her voice, not much louder than the hum of the machines, is screaming in my head. You’re no one’s martyr.
“You think this is some kind of game to me? Well, it’s not.” My voice rises. “I’ve spent four years taking their shit and dishing it right back. I’m not afraid of what they can do to me now. But if they know they’ve finally gotten to me? It’s blood in the water to those sharks.” The words explode, fighting their way out of my mouth. “You don’t get it. I’m the bad one. Tell the principal? The principal is on their side. They’re the goddamned chosen ones of the school!”
Her heart monitor starts to beep fast.
I want to move, but I just keep seeing her chest rising and falling, too quickly, painfully, and my own heart thuds in my chest.
“I—” I jump from my chair.
A nurse comes running in. I stand like an idiot and watch her go to Mrs. Stotes’s side.
“I’m fine, Gloria. Just got excited.” Mrs. Stotes gives her a winning smile.
“Now, Elena—”
“I know: don’t get worked up. I’ll be good. Scout’s honor.” She pats the woman’s hand, as if she’s the one who needs comfort.
Gloria shoots me a dirty look.
“Can I help you?” I say.
She shakes her head, checks on Mrs. Stotes one more time, and leaves, closing the door behind her—hard.
I feel my anger puncture, feel it drain and seal itself from the moment, to a place where it can fester with all my other regrets and shame.
“I’m sorry.” Self-disgust stays my focus toward the window.
Two little pigeons are hopping on the balcony railing, little wads of feathers tumbling in the wind. One flies off, the other following right after.
“Well.” She claps her hands. “Looking forward to Halloween?”
Our eyes lock, the moment forgotten.
A woman of her word, she never speaks of it again.
“How would you feel about getting the house painted?”
Mom looks up from the wondrous iPhone in all its glory. “Did you know that you can get an app for cow sounds?”
“Yeah, and did you hear me?”
She’s already looking at her phone again.
I thunk my mug on the counter.
“It could use a good painting, yes.”
I open my mouth to ask.
“No, Michelle.”
“Come on. He’s done great.”
Mom has been enjoying the new and improved Casa de Pearce y Yates. I caught her swinging the bathroom cabinet back and forth, staring in awe at the newly attached door that was once an unsightly wall ornament. She can act like a prick, but I know and she knows we need someone with the skill and time to fix this place up.
“How do I know he’s not a . . . a serial killer or a murderer or something.”
The last part isn’t a question, and I have to stop my hackles from rising. “They’re the same thing, Ma. And you’ve been giving him rides and you let him come over without you here so why are you freaking out now?”
“Yes, I did, against my better judgment, let him come here because, and I quote, ‘His schedule is weird, and we need it done, so just deal with it.’” Her nails click on the touch screen, and a song starts to play.
“What else do you want? The time for good mothering has been shot.”
The music cuts off.
“I want him to come to dinner. I’m taking Wednesday off, so ask him to come. If I like what I see, I’ll reconsider him working here some more. Deal?”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Dead serious.” Game music plays again, and she’s done hearing me out.
Or so she thinks.
“You really think asking him here is going to change anything? You’re just doing this so you can feel like a good mommy.” When this doesn’t get the response I want, I try another angle. “I could already be knocked up by now.”
“Michelle Leanne Pearce!”
I stand. “He’s my best friend, not my fuck friend.”
“Go to your—”
“Room, yeah, know the drill. Anything else?”
“I’m calling Peter. Keep this up, and you won’t be working anywhere for a long time.”
I’m surprised she hasn’t played her trump card before now. Yeah, she’s hinted that she may have to get serious, but nothing more.
Just like Mom: one empty threat after another.
“Whatever. I’ll just drop out and be a leech. After all, you’re taking my inheritance if I don’t graduate. And finding a well-paying job without a diploma’s going to be a bitch. But, hey, I bet Peter’ll be hiring.”
“Room. Now.”
“Bye.” I head on up with a wave.
I hit the pillow singing.
“I don’t know.”
“Please?” I maneuver around the counter and wheel over to him. “Come over Wednesday night. Unless you really can’t.”
He picks up his mop and bucket. “I should be able to. But what if she still doesn’t like me?”
“Then she’ll have to get over it. I’m just trying to do things her way for once.” I grin, holding my hand up. “It’s a date, then, weird circumstances aside?”
He shak
es my hand. “What time?”
“Uh, say six? She’s not the punctual type, so around six thirty is good.” I grin again. “No worries. You’ll be fine. No stressing?”
“No stressing.” He smiles back and heads to the bathroom.
I wheel to my post, still working on filling up a whole journal page with tiny words. As soon as I’m done, I want to read it, but not before. It’ll spoil the surprise.
My cell rings. The tone for Peter, “Barbie Girl,” makes me giggle. “Hello?”
“Michelle, this is Peter.”
“What can I do you for?”
There’s dead silence on the other end, followed by a congested snuffle.
A whirring hits my ears. “Hello?”
“Sorry, but yes, I was wondering if you could work late tonight. It’s time for inventory check, and I can’t be there.”
A woman walks to the counter. “Two number twos, please.” She points at the lotto tickets.
I twist and grab them. “I dunno, and give me a second.”
The woman pulls out her debit card, swipes it the wrong way, does it again, enters her PIN, and it pops up invalid.
I bag her stuff.
She fixes the PIN, leaving with a quiet “Sorry.”
I return her wave.
“Michelle?”
“Yeah, I’m here. But, um, I’ll have to ask Mom. How late do you need me?”
“I need you to get through it all tonight. Nathaniel too if he wants to work.”
“Why tonight?”
Nathaniel comes over. Realizing I’m on the phone, he wanders off.
“Because it has to be done as soon as possible. Give me a call when you talk to Karen.”
“All right. Bye.” I hang up, then text Mother Dear.
Have 2 work late. Pick me up?
How late?
Dont know
Past midnight?
Maybe
Maybe?
Peter didnt say. R u going to pick me up or not?
I don’t know, Michelle. That’s late.
The thud is sharp. Rubbing my eyes, I watch the phone at its spot on the floor. “I have to do inventory tonight. Peter said you could work too if you want. You in?”
