She’s right about Shoal, and we share a chuckle before Mary gets serious again. “So what’re you going to say once you get there? ‘Don’t mind me while I rummage through Lucy’s shit’?”
“I’ll figure something out,” I say, hoping I do. Mary’s usually the one with solutions.
“Aren’t you worried she’ll find out you went through her stuff?”
“Her car isn’t called the Slaabmobile for nothing. I’m sure she keeps her desk like she keeps her car.”
The gray clouds make good on their threat. A drop of water lands on the lone fish stick in my Styrofoam container.
“It’s starting to rain,” Mary says. “We’d better go.” With both hands, she shovels up her stuff, then disappears across the field before I can catch her.
• • •
I’ve heard stories about the olden days, when schools were wide open and everyone came and went as they pleased. No gates, no security guards, no metal detectors. All you needed to skip school back then was a free hallway and enough guts and confidence to walk out.
It’s not like that anymore. Now you need phone calls and passes and all sorts of proof that you have business outside of school. Del Vista is actually easier than most. It’s public, so the entire faculty is overworked, underpaid, and eager to get you out of their face if you hang around long enough.
When I arrive between fifth and sixth periods, the office is quiet except for the clacking of keyboards hidden behind cubicle dividers. Every wall is covered in student artwork—none of it very good—but the overwhelming display makes for a good show when parents come calling.
Ever since Mary and I dodged the rain during lunch, it’s been pouring. Outside, angry bullets of water pelt the single office window, creating a blurred view of the faculty parking lot.
The door closes behind me with a click that announces my presence. Mrs. Shoal greets me with an eye raise, meant to ask, What do you want?
I rest my elbows on the counter littered with graduation announcements and ticket forms. I’ve already got two for Lucy and the Dud, who will probably sit in the back of the Miami-Dade County Auditorium willing the time to pass quickly.
“I have a dental appointment.” I point to my mouth as if she needs a visual to understand.
“Pass?” She extends her hand, palm up.
“I don’t have one.”
“Ms. Velvitt, you’ve been at this school for four years. You know the drill.”
“My mom’s sick,” I say, which is sort of true. “That’s why she didn’t call or send me with a note.”
The secretary dips her head, pulls down a pair of glasses that had been hidden in a tuft of frizzy dark hair, silver at the roots. I know that look—she thinks she’s struck gold, caught me in a lie. “Then how are you getting to the dentist?”
“I have my license,” I shoot back.
“But you don’t have a car,” she says, and holds up a small metal box at the front of her desk. “See this? Contains vehicle information for every pass issued to a car on the student parking lot. I know it by heart.” Her frosty lavender lips curve into a grin. “Just the kind of girl I am.”
“I didn’t say I had a car here,” I clarify, matching her attitude. I stroke the side of my jaw, up and down, then across. “My tooth is killing me. The appointment is in like thirty minutes and I have to catch the bus home. My mom said I could take her car.” I do some fake grimacing, rub my temples to show I’m getting a headache.
Mrs. Shoal grabs the phone from the cradle on her desk. “Dentist’s number?”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.” Mrs. Shoal’s on the north side of sixty and icy about it. She probably hates young girls like me that don’t need to color their hair or wrap their legs in cellophane to combat cellulite.
I struggle a bit, huff and puff, then say, “I don’t have it. It’s . . . you know, that dental office in the strip mall near . . . oh, what’s that grocery store with the funny name?”
Mrs. Shoal’s not playing. She’s propped her head in her hands, enjoying the show.
“I really need to get going, Mrs. Shoal.” Trying a little respect, even pulling out the sad-puppy-dog face that used to work on Ray when he was mad at me for no reason.
“Tell you what,” she says. “I’m feeling generous today. Bring me a slip tomorrow from the dentist. How’s that?”
Terrible, but I say, “Sure,” then scramble out of the office so I don’t miss the 2:15 bus.
21
I HAVEN’T MISSED coming here. Scrap Metal Mania is a filthy place, crowded with parts of things I can’t identify, piles and piles of junk I can’t imagine being good for anything. And yet it’s been a Miami fixture for over twenty-seven years and has lined the Potillo brothers’ pockets for just as long.
My father had already been working at Scrap Metal Mania for about a year when the owner, Roland Potillo, promoted him to machine operator helper. I was five and starting my first day of kindergarten when he dropped the bomb on me that his new wife—the pretty lady with shiny gold hair he had recently married—was my new mom and would be picking me up from school. Since he was starting a new position, he didn’t know when he’d be home. He’d made me promise to remember every detail of my day, but when he finally came through the front door, it was dark outside, and he was too tired to prod for more after I’d told him It was good.
I remember wondering why he wasn’t simply a machine operator, instead of a machine operator helper. I was a helper—at home, at school, even when we visited a strawberry patch in Homestead and I helped by carrying the bag. Surely my father was more than a helper. But I didn’t have to wonder for long. It seemed that with every new school year, my dad was being promoted to a new position. And for the last two years before he died, he was quality assurance manager, and we ate out twice a week and had a new car in the driveway.
Because I need to stay focused, I’ve shoved any memories of this place into the back pocket of my jeans as I approach the office—a squat, faded green building with a sign that has always had two letters missing. If you didn’t know better, you’d think the name of the place was Scrap Metal Man, complete with the logo of a cartoon character whose body was made of kitchen appliance parts.
The rain has stopped, but the afternoon remains ugly and gray, and I have to avoid muddy puddles so as not to ruin my favorite wedge sandals, which I found for two bucks at Goodwill. Cars aren’t lined up neatly in spaces, but parked haphazardly at odd angles. Half-dead palm trees do their best to provide a welcoming entrance on either side of a set of double doors, one of which is always locked. Even now, after a few years of not having visited, I know not to pull on the left one.
The right one opens how I remember, with a struggle at first, and then a quick release. Cold air and the smell of Lucy’s cigarettes blast me when I walk through the door. For a scary second, I fear she’s here, that she ended up coming into work, of all freaking days. But when my eyes dart to her desk—the largest one, near the back wall, littered with business licenses and community service awards the Potillo brothers won—a slim, athletic-looking black woman is sitting in Lucy’s chair, inspecting her face in a silver compact.
She finally looks up when I make a humming noise and tap my banana-yellow fingernails on the counter. “Can I help you?”
“Hi, is Roland here?”
She gives me a blank stare, fusses with the collar of a sleeveless shirt that shows off well-toned shoulders. “Roland?”
“Mr. Potillo. The owner.”
“Short, fat man? Wears a tie?”
I bring the side of my hand up to my chest. “About here?”
She nods.
“That’s him.”
She scoots out from behind the desk to join me at the counter. She takes long, confident strides, and I imagine muscular legs under her snug slacks. “Sorry. I’m a temp,”
she says. “Just filling in for the secretary.” Oh, how pissed Lucy would be to hear herself referred to as a simple secretary. She prefers administrative assistant, and then leans in close to whoever’s listening and adds, I totally run this place.
“Rosie? Is that you?” Roland comes waddling out, looking older and fatter, but beaming like the sun. As usual, his tie is too short and ends halfway down his chest. It’s bright and colorful, like him.
The temp strides back to Lucy’s desk to answer a phone that started ringing. Without even giving me a chance to certify his claim, Roland wraps me in thick, hairy arms and hugs me tight. “I thought I heard your voice! Been a long time, but I’d never forget the sound of Clint’s baby girl.” He holds me at arm’s length to inspect me. “Can’t call you that anymore, though, can I?” Roland makes an exaggerated frown, as if he’s sad that I’ve grown up and am no longer interested in the candy jar he keeps on his desk.
I force a smile because seeing him makes me sad, too. “I know it’s been a long time,” I say, struggling to push down the frog in my throat. Where did that come from? Stay on course, Rosie. Think of Mac. Your mission.
“So, big news!” Roland bellows, still clutching my hands. “Your mom and Judd. Those two are finally getting hitched!”
I now remember how everything out of Roland’s mouth sounds exclamatory, like it should be on the front page of the newspaper. “Yep,” I say dully, but what I want to say is, Judd’s a pervert, he attacked me last night. You’re connected, Roland, can’t you hire someone to break his legs or something?
“Came over here like a real gentleman, took your mom out to lunch. Well, you know the rest.” Roland’s expression shifts again. His face is like a roller coaster, up and down, adjusting with the height of the conversation. “How long’s your dad been gone, Rosie? Two years now?”
“Over three.”
“Can’t believe it’s been that long. Seems like yesterday . . .” He’s misty-eyed and his voice evaporates into the space between us.
“Judd’s been living with you two a long time,” he says, as if stating this fact helps the situation make more sense. “Nice fellow. A little young, if you ask me, but his heart’s in the right place. I remember when he took you all camping to . . . what’s that place up there?”
“Ocala,” I say, instantly reminded of the marshmallows we burned and our tent that collapsed. Frustration led to laughter, and within an hour we were on our way to a hotel where we ordered room service after swimming in the pool. Recalling a good memory feels weird, and I shake it off.
“Ocala. Right. Maybe I should bring my own girls up there one day.” He smooths the short tie while pushing out his barrel chest. “So, what brings you by, young lady?”
“Speaking of them . . . getting hitched,” I repeat, reaching into the side pocket of my backpack. “I wanted to leave her something. It’s a surprise.”
Roland gazes at me skeptically, but not like Mrs. Shoal, who always stares you down with the assumption you’re up to no good.
I pull out a sealed white envelope. “It’s only a card,” I say, hoping to take the big mystery out of it. There’s nothing inside, only a blank piece of paper I won’t be leaving, anyway.
He almost plucks it out of my hands. “I’ll give it to her.”
“No, no, it’s . . . private.”
“I can see that, honey. It’s sealed.”
“Would you mind if I left it on her desk?”
Roland hesitates, rocks back and forth on his stubby legs, cramped in a pair of snug khaki pants. “What’s going on? Why wouldn’t you just give her this at home?”
“Because it’s—”
“Private,” he repeats. “I got that.”
I dip my head, muster up the puppy-dog face. Twice in one day. It’s getting a little old, even for me. “I don’t want Judd to see it. It’s a . . . you know, mother-daughter thing.” Slam dunk.
He’s thinking again, weighing my words against his own, then says, “I know. Got three of my own, and Lord, how those girls love their mama.” With an extended arm, Roland motions to the woman at Lucy’s desk. “Ms. Cornish, would you come with me? Got a job for you in the storage room.” He leans his chubby face into mine and whispers, “Give you a little privacy.” Mental note to include him in my prayers tonight.
As they’re leaving the main office, Roland turns back to me. “How’s she feeling, anyway?”
I’m caught off guard, my heart already beating with anticipation, my head focused on scouring Lucy’s desk as fast as possible. “Huh?”
“Your mom. She’s sick, isn’t she?”
“Getting better” are the first words that fall out of my mouth.
“Good. Don’t know what we’re going to do without her.”
• • •
Without her? What? His parting comment has me spinning, but I can’t dwell on it. I’ve got limited time before this office starts buzzing with activity. I remember late afternoon is when a lot of the workers come back from the field, and passing through here always seems to be a pit stop.
Nothing is locked. That’s a good thing. All five drawers are open. Sift, sift, sift.
Nothing is here. That’s a bad thing. Only stuff you’d expect to find in desk drawers—files, catalogs, service manuals.
Frustrated, I snort an angry breath through my nose. I rock back and forth in her chair, scanning the framed photos on her desk: zero of her and my dad, two of her and Judd, and one of us taken last year. It was a good day. We’d gone to the mall and bought matching outfits—white sundresses and sandals with rhinestones—then eaten lunch outside while birds pecked at our food. The waitress had taken the picture. I stare at the frozen moment trapped in a pitted gold frame and remember something else and think, no, it wasn’t a good day. Mary came by after. She scowled at the dress, said Lucy was probably just drunk, and that she’d return everything when she sobered up. I was heartbroken, and even kept the tags on the dress, in case she was right. Had Lucy snuck a drink without me noticing? I just thought she was in a good mood.
I set down the frame when a phone stops mid-ring. The call must have been picked up somewhere else, but it’s only a matter of minutes before Ms. Cornish returns to fulfill the only duty Lucy allows temps to do in her absence, which is answering phones.
Think, Rosie, think. There’s got to be something here. I rock harder in Lucy’s chair, part of me wanting to bust it, the other part of me knowing better. When I almost tip back into the wall, my foot knocks into something at the very bottom of the desk. I steady myself, then lean down to inspect. It’s another drawer, but recessed and super-slim, which is why I must have missed it. Smack in the middle is a lock. I yank, but it won’t budge.
I pull open all the other drawers again, looking for the key. My fingers shaking, I check inside folders, between catalog pages, even open up a stapler because that’s where I’d hide it. Then I scour the drawer right beneath her desk, the one that’s usually full of office supplies and emergency makeup. Tons of paper clips fill the entire plastic valley of a full-length organizer. I pull it out farther. In the very back, behind a clump of tampons (genius!), I spy something shiny. A single silver key—small enough to fit that lock, big enough to give me the break I need.
• • •
I text Mac on the bus ride home.
Found something
It takes him ten minutes to respond, which annoys me. Is he with another client who happens to be older and more beautiful and exactly his type and not an orphan who is on some crazy hunt for her long-lost mother?
What?
can i come by 2morow aft school?
Of course.
k
See you then.
Mr. By-the-Book. He can’t even use text language. I force out a deep breath to calm myself. I’m still shaking from those last minutes at Lucy’s desk. Crunched for time,
I didn’t question what I found. It was locked up—reason enough to take it. Then I quickly relocked the drawer and put the key back where I found it.
It wasn’t a moment too soon. The clicking sound of Ms. Cornish’s heels had me shoving the papers into my backpack. I thought Roland had seen, so I kicked the waterworks into high gear, blubbering about how hard it was to be there, missed my dad, blah blah blah. Roland bought it, wrapping a chunky arm around my shoulder and giving it a healthy squeeze. I think the temp was suspicious, though. I caught her staring at my backpack with curious eyes, then she asked in a clipped way if I wouldn’t mind giving her chair back. Her chair. I did so gladly, then made Roland promise to keep my visit a secret until Lucy found the surprise envelope—which, of course, wasn’t even there. It was already back in my bag.
I check my watch, make sure I’ll be home right around the same time I’d return from school. A little after four o’clock. Close enough. Sometimes, Lucy actually pays attention to my schedule, especially if it’s early enough that she hasn’t had a chance to hit the sauce.
This afternoon’s mission has worn me out. My brain is fried from combating Shoal and dodging Roland. I allow the bumpy rhythm of the bus to lull me into dreamy thoughts. Thoughts of kissing Mac. Better yet—Mac kissing me. It’s the first time I’ve been attracted to someone since Ray. It feels different, too. Cleaner, softer. With Ray, from the moment we met at the beach, everything felt hard and rushed. It had only been a couple hours since his Frisbee had hit me in the head and we were out in the ocean where he tried to untie my bikini top. He was always trying to get down my pants and up my shirt. With Mac, it’s nice that we can just sit and talk, maybe laugh a little. Not that there’s been any official notice of interest on either of our parts. But it definitely feels like something is there, beginning to bubble beneath the surface.
Rosie Girl Page 14
