Shelter

by Stephanie Fournet

  I shook my head. “Elise, you’re not dumb,” I insisted, wanting her to believe it.

  She dropped her chin and eyed me under flat brows. “Summer school? Every year? Repeating seventh grade?”

  I held back a sigh. This was why I couldn’t help her. Helping her would mean caring about her. Caring about her feelings. Caring about her success. I already couldn’t take care of the people who relied on me to protect them. How could I take care of anyone else?

  “Trust me,” I said, letting the bite of my frustration shape the words. “Ava will be a lot nicer than I’d be.”

  She flinched at my tone, her eyes flaring just a little.

  To my surprise, my stomach fell about three inches.

  “Right,” she said, nodding, the familiar scowl sliding back over her features. “How could I forget?”

  Chapter 7

  ELISE

  With the help of Ava Whitehurst, I finally passed seventh grade. Though I hated to admit it, Cole had been right about her. She was a good student, and she was patient with me. And, yes, she was a whole lot nicer to me than he’d ever been.

  Even better, she stopped ignoring me.

  At first, she’d come down to the kitchen to help after finishing her homework in her room. But after a few weeks, she started doing her homework at the kitchen table with me. When my mind and my pen would start to wander, and she’d catch me doodling a diamond ring in the margin of my math notebook, Ava would clear her throat and give me a pointed look, but I could always see that her mouth would be in a fierce battle against a smile. So, I’d smile back and put my eyes to my work.

  I still hated math, and I detested reading, which meant that English, science, and history were all lumped together in one stinking heap of confusing boredom. But I quickly figured out that if I did my math work first — the least of all those evils — I’d finish up about the same time as Ava wrapped up the last of her work.

  How that girl could read so fast, I’d never know.

  But I soon appreciated her reading speed. Because to help me go fast, she’d read my science unit or my history assignment or a chapter from my English book. And when Ava read to me, it made sense.

  A book in front of me was like an obstacle course. It was like trying to belly crawl under barbed wire with my hands tied behind my back. I was just as slow. Because the letters and words would slither around and trade places. And sometimes, even when I could figure out what the words said, my mind would picture something else. Like if I was reading To Kill a Mockingbird — like I did two years in a row for seventh grade — and I got to the sentence, “Uncle Jack was a prince of a fellow not to let me down,” I’d understand all the words individually, but I’d picture a prince with a gold crown and yellow hair in a tower high on a mountain. And then I’d start wondering if he lived alone in that tower or if he had a princess with him. And then I’d wonder about the princess’s crown. And before I knew it, I’d be drawing the crown instead of reading To Kill a Mockingbird.

  But when Ava read to me, I never even thought of the prince. I thought of Scout listening in on her father’s conversation and the wisdom Atticus had all along. When Ava read me To Kill a Mockingbird the second time through seventh grade, it was a completely different story.

  And that was why when I got to ninth grade, I wanted her to read Jane Eyre to me. For once in my life, I liked my English teacher, Miss Winston. And Miss Winston’s favorite novel of all time was Jane Eyre. And if we read it and passed a test on it, we wouldn’t have to take the final exam. We’d be exempt.

  The summer after I repeated seventh grade was first one in years that I didn’t have to go to summer school. And now, looking at the opportunity to start my third free summer a day early, I jumped at the chance.

  So, I begged Ava to read Jane Eyre to me.

  We started the book at the beginning of Easter break. And even with Ava reading to me, I have to say, Jane’s life made me want to walk into traffic. I was so cold just listening to Jane’s time at Lowood I had to ask Ava if we could sit out by the pool.

  So that was what we did. It was early April and still too chilly to swim, but the afternoons were warm enough to sit on a lounger in our bikinis and try to work on our pre-summer tans while we read Jane Eyre. By the third afternoon, Jane had found work at Thornfield, Ava’s nose was sunburned, and I was ready to hurl something at Mr. Rochester.

  “How dare he ask Jane if her sketches are copies,” I said, offended on our heroine’s behalf. “And I wouldn’t play the piano for him. He’s a rude, obnoxious bully!”

  Ava lowered the book to her lap. “I don’t know. I think maybe he likes her.”

  I sat up on my lounger. “What?” I asked, screwing up my face. “What makes you say that?”

  Ava shrugged. “He keeps saying she’s like a fairy. Why would a guy say that if he didn’t like a girl?”

  I felt my lip curl. “Why would he be such a jerk if he likes her?”

  She laughed. “Sometimes, if a guy likes a girl, he’s mean to her to get her attention.”

  My mouth fell open. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “Sometimes it works,” Ava said with a shrug.

  I realized then that while most people might be smarter than me at school stuff, that didn’t mean I lacked sense. I would never fall for somebody who’d ever been mean to me. And if a boy was doing that to get my attention, I’d give him my attention — in the form of a baseball bat.

  “If Jane Eyre falls for Mr. Rochester, I’m gonna be so mad,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “Please keep reading.”

  Ava kept reading.

  And two days later, I had to eat my words about Mr. Rochester. When Jane cried in the orchard when Mr. Rochester told her he’d soon marry, and she thought he would send her away, I nearly cried with her. And then he’d proposed.

  “I ask you to pass through life at my side — to be my second self, and best earthly companion.”

  I wanted to clap when Jane said she would marry him. I even squealed.

  Ava set down the book, a frown creasing her brow.

  “What is it?” I asked, suddenly worried. “What does it say?”

  “Well, they just got engaged, and the weather’s changing,” she said, still frowning.

  “So?”

  She held up the book, showing me its top, marking our place with her thumb. “A storm just came up right after she accepted him, which can’t be a good sign, and we’re only just past halfway,” Ava said darkly. “Something bad’s going to happen.”

  “Ugh!” I groaned, hating the knowledge in my gut that she was right. “I hate this book.”

  But that was now a lie. I loved it. I wanted Ava to keep reading. She usually only read for about two hours a day, complaining that her voice started to hurt if she went on longer. And Ava had grown a little hoarse over the last two days, so she stopped then.

  On the Thursday after Easter, I went into the kitchen at noon, ready to meet Ava for lunch before we went out to the pool. I had my bikini on under a cover-up because while Ava was allowed to sit at the kitchen table in her bathing suit, Mama would have strangled me for that. She complained enough because my cover-up was a sheer aqua-blue material, and it still showed off my orange bikini underneath.

  But my argument was that if Mrs. Abigail didn’t mind Ava sitting at the kitchen table in a bikini — the woman almost never set foot into the kitchen in order to see it, anyway — then she wouldn’t object to my cover-up.

  Mama would grumble a little at my back-talk, but I knew she wasn’t going to push me too far. After all, I was doing schoolwork over spring break, and when had that ever happened before? I felt all kinds of smug about that, and I was ready to pull out the big guns and threaten to drop the whole project if she wouldn’t get off my case. But I didn’t have to. And I was glad I didn’t have to. Because I would have been bluffing.

  I loved reading Jane Eyre.

  So, in my bikini, cover-up, and flip-flops, I wa
ited at the kitchen table, eating the egg-salad sandwich Mama had fixed for my lunch. Of course, it wasn’t just any old sorry excuse for an egg-salad sandwich. Mama cooked for a living, and that meant that anything she made — for the Whitehursts, for me, or for herself — tasted divine.

  This particular sandwich came on toasted sourdough bread. The egg salad was seasoned with a pinch of celery salt and a hint of curry powder. And during the spring and summer months, Mama would make her own mayonnaise. I didn’t know what her secret ingredient was, but nothing that came from the grocery store could ever measure up. Winter and fall months seemed long and sad affairs without her homemade spread.

  On my plate next to this superior sandwich, Mama had placed a bunch of green grapes and a handful of kettle chips she’d made with a mandolin slicer and a deep fryer. She only made them on special occasions, and these were left over from Easter. Just as I hoped there’d be some leftover peach ice cream.

  I munched on a chip and heard a door open and close upstairs. Finally, I thought, taking a hearty bite of my sandwich. I opened my paperback to the page where we’d left off yesterday and set the book face down, knowing Ava would read while Mama fixed her plate.

  But the footsteps I heard on the stairs sounded heavier than Ava’s. Mid-chew, I frowned at the kitchen entrance and nearly choked on egg salad when Cole Whitehurst’s shape filled it.

  Our eyes locked for an instant, and I noted his surprise at seeing me in his kitchen before I pulled Jane Eyre to me like a life vest in open water and put my eyes on the pages.

  “Welcome home, Cole,” Mama greeted him cheerfully. “You got back from Destin last night?”

  I didn’t look up, pretending to fall straight back into my novel and blindly plucking a grape off my plate. Ever since the night two years ago when Cole had refused to help me with my schoolwork, pawning that job off on his sister, I’d mastered the art of ignoring him.

  Well, maybe I hadn’t exactly mastered it, but I practiced it without fail. The difference being that Cole Whitehurst was so good at ignoring me that even I sometimes doubted whether or not I was in the room. Whereas, when I did it to him, I kept my gaze pointed away from him no matter where he went, sometimes clumsily so. I always tried to be smooth about it, but it probably looked like I had some kind of neurological disorder the way I jumped around in my seat just to pivot away from him.

  I swallowed the food threatening to choke me and told myself to keep still for once. At least with the book in front of me, I didn’t need to look anywhere else.

  Cole cleared his throat. “Hey, Flora. Yeah, I got in late last night.” I heard him step into the kitchen and halt right in front of the table. “Is that your egg salad?”

  The awe and reverence in his voice made me look up, and sure enough, he was eyeing my sandwich with a worshipful gaze. And then that gaze flicked to mine, and I watched his eyes narrow with a mix of mischief and triumph, and I tore mine away. I’d failed at pretending he didn’t exist, and he was letting me know it.

  Asshole.

  I took another bite of my fantastic egg-salad sandwich and sighed with satisfaction. Or at least, I pretended to.

  “It sure is. Would you like some?” Mama asked.

  “Yes, thank you.” Then I heard the scrape of a kitchen chair as he pulled out the one directly across from me. “Hi, Elise.”

  Only he didn’t just say “Hi, Elise.” He said it loud and drawn out in a tease.

  I slowly raised my eyes to his, knowing my mother couldn’t see my face, but that she was watching me all the same, waiting for me to be polite to this Whitehurst.

  I pulled my mouth wide in a deranged smile and blinked at him three times. “Hi,” I said, making the word two syllables. Then I let my face fall and looked back at my book. I heard Cole sniff, and he might have been laughing soundlessly, but I didn’t give him the gratification of glancing back.

  Running my eyes over the page in front of me, I looked for words that seemed familiar from the day before. St. John had just asked Jane to marry him, and I was terrified she would. What about poor Edward Rochester? Surely, I could focus hard enough to fall back into the story and leave Cole Whitehurst with the feeling that he was now just an annoying ghost.

  “You want some sweet tea with that, Cole?” Mama asked, destroying all my concentration efforts. Looking up, I threw her a frown. Not just because she’d distracted me, but because I was drinking water. Where was my sweet tea?

  “Yes, ma’am,” Cole said, his manners syrupy. “Elise, would you like a glass of sweet tea, too?”

  I ground my teeth together. Well, now I couldn’t say I wanted sweet tea because Cole would be able to give himself credit for it. If he would’ve kept his mouth shut, I could have asked for my own damn tea and let Mama know I didn’t like the fact that it had been withheld in the first place.

  “No, thank you,” I said, sounding far from thankful. I grabbed my glass of water and took a sip.

  Aah, I told myself. Good ole water. Nothing like plain water…

  “This looks delicious, Flora,” Cole praised as Mama set the plate in front of him. “It’s good, isn’t it, Elise?”

  I swear, I was going to kill him. All seven-hundred-twenty pages of Jane Eyre were about to be sacrificed for the destruction of his smug face. Somehow, I figured Charlotte Bronte would approve.

  Instead of looking up at Cole, I spun away from him in my chair and faced Mama at the counter. “It’s the best egg salad in the world, Mama.”

  I watched Mama fight a proud smile, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Cole lift his sandwich and take a greedy bite.

  “Mmm… mmm… mmm,” he hummed. “They just don’t make egg salad anywhere near as good as yours at Tulane, Flora. None of the food in Bruff comes close to yours.” He was laying it on thick now just to get a rise out of me, and in spite of myself, it was working.

  So well I didn’t hear Ava’s approach until she dashed, full-speed, into the kitchen.

  “Flora! Abby Meyer just invited me to go to her camp at Grand Isle. Mom said I could go. Are my white shorts clean?” Each sentence ran together in a breathless rush. “They’re gonna be here to pick me up in an hour.”

  “But what about Jane Eyre!” I blurted the words before I could stop myself, and Mama shot me a stern look.

  “Elise Nicole!” she hissed.

  Ava turned her pretty pout to me. “I’m sorry, Elise.”

  At the same instant, Cole asked, “What about Jane Eyre?” And I knew I’d made a terrible mistake.

  Ava ignored her brother, but I could feel his eyes as soon as they landed on me.

  “I know I said we’d finish it this week,” she said, a guilty wince pinching her voice. “But Abby really wants me to go, and I haven’t done anything all break.”

  Anything? I flinched at the piercing word and all it meant.

  Cole looked between us, wearing a frown of confusion. “Y’all are reading Jane Eyre together?”

  I stood so fast, my chair raked across the floor. But before I could catapult myself across the kitchen table and tackle Ava, the traitorous words were already hanging in the air.

  “I’m reading it to her. She understands it better.”

  And that was the moment I died of humiliation.

  Cole’s gaze swung to me. “She reads it to you?”

  I couldn’t bear to look at him, so I collapsed back into my chair and stared at my knees. If a smile of devilish delight had overtaken his features — as I was sure one had — I didn’t want to see it.

  “Yeah,” Ava said. “It really helps. We’ve been doing it for years.”

  And then Mama just had to chime in. “It’s why she’s passed the last two years and now has a B average.”

  I dropped my face in my hands, realizing I’d been wrong. I had not yet died of humiliation. Death by humiliation could never be sure and swift.

  “Elise…” The sudden hush that overtook Cole’s voice made me look up at him. His brows creased over his now intrigu
ed ice-blue eyes. “…are you dyslexic?”

  “No!” I denied, getting to my feet again. I knew what the word meant. Sort of. It was just a fancy way of saying too dumb to read.

  “Elise.” Mama’s tone told me everything. “Lower your voice. Don’t speak to the Whitehursts that way. Remember your place.”

  “If you’re diagnosed with dyslexia, there are a lot of things your school has to provide for you,” Cole said, his tone one I didn’t recognize. “Thomas, my roommate, is dyslexic. He gets all of his textbooks on audio, and he takes his tests in the student services office where an aid reads to him.”

  Skepticism had me studying his face for signs of deception. “Someone with dyslexia got into Tulane?” I asked, annoyed disbelief dripping from my voice. I might not have been book smart, but I had sense, and I wasn’t gullible. Taking Cole Whitehurst’s word on anything was idiocy.

  But he just chuckled under his breath. “Yeah, people who are dyslexic can be really smart.” He popped a grape in his mouth and talked around it. “They just read and see the world differently.”

  I didn’t know what to say then, and I hated not knowing what to say. I also hated that Cole, Ava, and Mama were now all watching me. My face was hot with embarrassment, and since I couldn’t scream at them to stop looking at me, I did the only thing I could do.

  I picked up the plate of my half-eaten lunch. “I’m gonna change and go to Alberta’s,” I announced before turning and heading for the trashcan. I knew it was a crime to throw away the rest of my food — especially since it was so good— but I couldn’t stay there feeling like I was half-naked under their eyes.

  It didn’t help much that I really was half-naked in my bikini and see-through cover-up.

  I was about to tip the contents of my plate in the trash when Cole spoke.

  “Wait a minute,” he said, giving me a look of disappointed surprise. “If you let me finish my lunch, I’ll read to you.”

  I froze. He couldn’t be serious.

  “Well, Cole, that is so sweet of you,” Mama cooed, her voice dripping like honey.