Peas and Carrots

by Tanita S. Davis

  Hope felt twisted inside. She hated this. Unlike Mom, who loved to meet new kids, Hope was usually unnerved by the revolving door of foster kids. Her impulse was to cling to each and every baby, every toddler and scared-of-the-dark seven-year-old, and keep them safe. She wanted them to stay forever. This time, though, with this foster sibling, Hope couldn’t wait to get her out of the house.

  “Just us this morning?” Mom asked, jogging out to the garage as Hope watched Austin buckle himself in. She was wearing a long gray hoodie over her teal yoga pants.

  “Yep. It’s just us,” Hope chirped, feeling a real smile break free for the first time in days and her shoulders relax. “Hey, Mom, since we’re by ourselves, on the way back can we—”

  The door to the garage opened, and Dess stumbled through, her blond hair gathered in a messy ponytail, her sheet-creased face twisted in irritation.

  “Defsa!” Austin cheered.

  “It’s Dessa, little man. Find your esses,” Hope managed to say, though her throat was constricting with disappointment. She sighed, glaring at Dess’s clear skin and sexy-shaggy bedhead. Even half-asleep, her eyes ringed with dark shadows, Dess looked somehow as if she’d just popped in from an all-night party, not as if she’d just rolled—without a shower—out of bed and into probably dirty clothes.

  And speaking of clothes, what about that outfit? Hope glowered down at her own white leggings and navy hoodie. Dess was wearing almost the exact same thing but looked totally different. More…put together…better. How did she do that?

  “Good morning,” Mom said, smiling at Dess, who had shoved on sunglasses and pulled up her hood.

  “God,” Dess grumbled as she slammed her body into the backseat. “Why would anybody be up this early on a Saturday?”

  “God. Good answer.” Hope’s mother chuckled and backed out of the garage.

  Dess kept grousing. “Who goes to church on a Saturday?”

  “Um, Jewish people go to temple,” Hope blurted, then rolled her eyes. Don’t engage, she warned herself.

  “Not to mention Anabaptists and Adventists,” Mom added, smiling.

  “What, so now you’re whatever-baptist and Jewish? I don’t know any black people who are Jewish.”

  “Like you know the whole world,” Hope muttered, then bit her lip. Ignore her.

  Mom sighed and rubbed her forehead. “You may not know any, but there are many people of African descent who are, in fact, Jewish, Dess. We are not Jewish, however. We’re going to my friend Geri’s church, which meets on Saturdays, because Geri does songs and stories for the little guys, and Austin loves her. After that, I’m going to my yoga class, and Austin’s going to his play group. You can join my class, or there’s a coffee shop and a bookstore next door, or you can walk around the lake downtown—”

  “Seriously?” Dess interrupted. “I got up this early on a Saturday for a walk?”

  Hope opened her mouth to retort but closed it when Mom blew out an explosive breath and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Y’know, Dess, I’m not sure why you got up.” There was a slight edge to her voice. “I assumed it was because your brother asked you to or because you felt like it. No one forced you out of your bed this morning. If it makes you happier, stay in the car and go back to sleep.”

  And suck it up. Hope flicked a glance behind them as Dess took this in.

  “Whatever,” she said sullenly.

  Hope’s mother exhaled again and said in a lighter tone, “Okay, then. How’s your homework this weekend, ladies? Do you need anything from the mall? I’m going to look at booster seats, and I can drop you off by the Sears entrance this afternoon.” She glanced into the rearview mirror to include Dess in her invitation. “You’re welcome to join us for anything or nothing at all this weekend.”

  “Hey. Where’s your dad?” Dess poked Hope in the shoulder, ignoring Mom.

  Hope half turned. “Last I saw, he was in bed, reading and holding Maira. Why?”

  Dess looked as if she’d bitten something rancid. “Why doesn’t he have to go to church?”

  “I repeat: Nobody in this family has to go to church, Dess!” Mom was practically yelling. “You’re in this van because you chose to get in when I was ready to go to a church, and to yoga. Now I’m going to drop you and Hope off at Moschetti’s, so you can maybe get some juice and a muffin to hold you until the coffee hour.”

  Hope recoiled. “Wait, Mom. I was going to the youth group—” she began.

  “Hope.” Her mother’s voice carried a warning.

  “Well, I was,” Hope mumbled. This was so beyond not fair. The youth leader, Alex, was cute and funny and, like, ten years older than her, and Hope liked to hang out and wish they were together. She’d planned to maybe stick around after the meeting and help clean up—a total kiss-up move, but the more time she got to spend with Alex, the better.

  “Do we need to talk about this?” Mom asked in a low voice, and Hope rolled her eyes. Her mother wouldn’t remind her in front of Dess of her earlier snooping, but Hope knew if they “talked about it,” it wouldn’t change anything. No youth group. There was no getting away from the caustic presence that was Dess. For today, and for as long as Mom said so, where Dess went, Hope went. She was stuck, and it was her own fault.

  “Fine,” she said heavily, not looking forward to an uninterrupted forty minutes of Dess’s company. She silently promised herself a mocha with extra chocolate.

  When her mother dropped them at the corner, she leaned across the van and gave Hope’s shoulder a firm squeeze. “Sweetheart, thank you,” she said, shoving a twenty-dollar bill into Hope’s hand.

  “Sure,” Hope said, stuffing the cash in her pocket in a daze. Mom wasn’t usually big on handing out funds without effort, but Hope wasn’t going to argue. “No problem.”

  Her mother gave her a serious look. “Buy Dess something tasty. And please, Hope—for Dess’s sake—try to keep an open mind. Practice kindness?”

  Kindness. Right. Could anybody really live by that rule, even the Dalai Lama? Hope grimaced and waved to Austin. As the van pulled away, she took a deep breath and turned, trying to find a friendlier expression. “Okay, so the coffee shop—it’s got pretty good pastry. Savannah and I used to—”

  Dess interrupted. “Don’t be hanging on me like we’re friends or something. You don’t know me that well.”

  “What? I—I don’t—” Hope stuttered.

  “Look, your mommy’s not here, all right? You don’t like me, I don’t like you, so let’s drop the act. Okay?” Dess strode up the path to the shop, head high, sunglasses between her and the undesirable world that included foster sisters.

  Hope ground her teeth and seethed. Keep an open mind. Ha! That snooty heifer could buy herself coffee and a muffin with her pocket lint, as far as Hope was concerned. The money Mom had given her had been for both of them, but not anymore. Hope was going to buy herself a muffin as big as her head…and she wasn’t going to share and she wasn’t going to feel bad.

  Kindness? Please. You might as well try to make friends with a rabid dog.

  Sometimes when Rena took me to the doctor’s, we’d go by the coffee shop while we waited for the pharmacy to get done. They played nice music and gave away broken cookies for free, and there was always some guy on a laptop, probably pretending to write a novel so he could pick up women. I loved it. I love coffee shops. Usually.

  Hopeless is right behind me, practically breathing down my neck, even though I told that heifer to get off me. God, can’t she take a hint? What, did Foster Lady say we had to buddy up and hold hands like in kindergarten? It is too early for this. Sighing, I adjust my earbuds and turn up my tunes. Never mind Hopeless. I’m gonna get my weekend on.

  This is actually a cute little shop. The floors are black and white tiles, and all the specials are handwritten on a little chalkboard that is leaning against the glass pastry case. They have quiche and something called pierogi as well as scones and little fried doughnut-looking things, powdered with sugar.
That’s what I want—maybe two of those. Good thing I’ve got my pitiful little allowance for this month already.

  When the scruffy dude in the tight burgundy pants in front of me is finally done making his order for a double nonfat half-caf whatever, I saunter up to the counter. The fried thingies are actually kind of small. I point at a muffin under a glass dome.

  “What kind are those?”

  “Rhubarb and apple, and the ones in the orange paper are pumpkin,” the counter guy says. The stud in his nose winks as it catches the light.

  “Uh, okay. I want an extra-tall hot chocolate, double cream, a chocolate-chip Danish, a mixed berry one, and a postcard.” I point at the rack of cards illustrated with a line drawing of the coffee shop.

  “Yep. Your name?”

  “Mary Jane,” I say. I don’t even want to hear him try and mess up “Odessa,” and every time I tell the people at Starbucks “Dess,” I get “Jess” or “Lexi” or “Tessa” or something else stupid.

  He writes “MJ” on a cup with his grease pencil. “Right. Need a stamp?”

  I nod.

  “Nine seventy-five, please.”

  I uncrumple a ten from my pocket and smooth it between my hands before passing it over. It feels good to stand at the counter, getting back a quarter change and dropping it into the tip jar with a little clink. I take my postcard, adjust my hood, and put my earbuds back in, losing myself to the beat of the music, the amazing aroma of roasting coffee, and the press of the crowd. I feel like I can handle myself, live in the world and be there, without the group home hanging on me, without the whole social services thing. No housemother, no foster lady, no social workers. I could be anybody, giving money to the cashier and waiting my turn. I could be anybody.

  Behind me, I hear Hope make her order. Two spinach-and-cheese pierogies and a tall cranberry cider. Ugh. What is with these people and vegetables first thing in the morning? Ignoring her, I move to scope out a table, making a beeline for someone’s abandoned newspaper, and settle in, my back to the rest of the crowd. I scan the contents on the first page of each section until I find it, nestled at the end of the auto sales section. I ignore the word scramble, the crossword, and the sudoku puzzles to get to my favorite part.

  The infant of the zodiac, the Aries is passionate and enthusiastic, but also confused and hasty. Today your jump to conclusions can land you in hot water! Your day may start in disaster, but you have the skills to tame it. It’s a good day for lateral thinking and flexible actions, so get ready for almost anything. Keep your cell phone on and your battery charged. You have the power to solve your mysteries, so ask the questions in your heart.

  Satisfaction hums through me. Okay, so maybe I don’t exactly believe in my horoscope, but it doesn’t hurt to look, and besides, I have the skills to tame my disasters and solve my mysteries. It’s not like you know that kind of thing just automatically.

  I tap my fingers on the table, watching scruffy tight-pants guy sprinkle crap on his half-caf. As much half-and-half, cinnamon, sugar, and chocolate sprinkles as he’s putting in there, he should have just ordered what he actually wanted. He’s pissing people off, too. There’s a big guy behind him in a worn biker jacket and stained jeans trying to reach around him. Scruffy’s totally clueless. It’s not like guys like that, posers, ever pay any attention to anybody—

  I duck behind my raised paper, my body half turned toward the door. God, my hands are shaking and I’m strangling for air.

  It’s the jacket that holds me first—the fat black spider with the red-tipped fangs against the worn black leather. My eyes flick next to the hands, with grease under the nails and that familiar cobweb tattooed on the web of his thumb. It’s one of them—one of the men from the Felon’s motorcycle club.

  How is he here? He didn’t even know we moved to North Highlands. Farris says my father, Eddie Griffiths, is in Eyman State Prison in Arizona—for at least the next twenty-five years. It’s a common tattoo, that’s all. A spiderweb tattoo between your thumb and first finger is common, right? It’s just some dude, probably picking up coffee for his old lady, nothing to do with me. Sucking in a deep breath, I close my eyes. God, I wish I could call Farris. Bradbrook doesn’t know shit about me or my life. My left eyelid twitches to the beat of my heart. It’s not him. It’s not him. I know that. But I just want to get out of here—

  “Mary Jane?” I jerk. The way he says it, I know he’s said it, like, six times. The counter guy is leaning over the counter, waving my bag. “Mary Jane, right? What, you don’t want it now?”

  “Sorry,” I say, my voice coming out in a dry croak. It takes everything I’ve got to get up from the table. My neck is so stiff I can’t turn. Where is he? Where did he go? I force myself to reach for the paper sleeve around my hot chocolate, and my hand slips. It’s shaking too much to hold the cup straight, and scalding liquid spatters over my hand. I swear and lick away the burn.

  “Day-um. Looks like you need this,” the counter guy says, and hands me my bag.

  A nervous giggle erupts as I turn away. I’ve got to get out of here.

  Outside, the cool air chills my face. I walk, stiff-legged, to the end of the parking lot, to the sidewalk, and keep going, faster and faster. At the corner I turn right, nearly running.

  “Wrong way, Mary Jane,” snarls a voice behind me, and my whole body jerks. My feet tangle themselves in panic, and the paper bag in my nerveless fingers goes flying.

  Oh, crap. Hope took a step backward, her pulse thudding in her throat. Nobody liked an audience when they tripped over their own feet and spilled chocolate down their arm, but this was worse. She’d only meant to mock Dess’s use of a fake name, but the way Dess had cringed and held her arm over her head, as if she thought Hope was going to hit her—

  Crap, crap, crap.

  Hope took another big step back and rubbed her forehead. Dess was just standing there shaking. What were the chances that Hope could just walk around this…like, cross the street and pretend she didn’t see?

  Crap. This was like what soldiers got, after war, post-traumatic shock or whatever. She couldn’t just walk away. She sighed, and shifted her weight. “Um, Dess?”

  Nothing.

  She tried again. “Your Danish didn’t fall out of the bag, but if someone makes a right turn, they’re totally going to run it over.”

  Dess brought down her arm and scrubbed it across her face.

  Hope shifted her weight from foot to foot. Dad was the funny, friendly one, and Mom was the organized, patient, Zen one. But Hope was useless with stuff like this. Should she ask what was wrong? Should she give Dess a hug? No, Dess would probably bust her lip. Dess probably wanted that Danish, right? Hope should get it. And she’d gotten napkins when she’d gotten her pierogies; maybe Dess wanted to wipe her—

  Dess stalked into the road, picked up her bag, and brushed past Hope, stomping down the sidewalk in the right direction this time. Torn between resignation and relief, Hope shrugged and followed.

  At the next corner Dess stopped and waited. She glared straight ahead, not looking at Hope. “Where next?”

  “Depends. If you want to go walk around the lake—”

  “Where’s the van?”

  Hope sighed. “Two blocks to the left, and she probably parked in the back.”

  Dess grunted and started walking again at a fast clip. The top of her pastry bag was crumpled in her fist, and she swung it like a weapon. Every time a car came by, she stiffened and whipped her head around, her blond ponytail making a sharp arc.

  Hope stayed a wary half step behind Dess on their march to the van. She didn’t like drama and she didn’t like confrontation, but something clearly—seriously—was wrong with the other girl. She hoped Dess would talk to Mom, because Hope wasn’t asking, no way.

  At a distant intersection, a motorcycle opened its throttle and roared toward them, barely pausing at the stop sign.

  “Seriously, Dess, what’s up?” Hope asked as Dess seemed to freeze. The motorcycle r
oared down the road, and in the quiet Hope could hear the hitch in Dess’s breathing. Her shoulders were shaking.

  “Are you okay? Dess—”

  The foster girl’s voice was ragged. “I spilled on my arm. No big.”

  The obvious lie squatted, bare, in the air between them. Hope hesitated, then dug into her own bag and pulled out a wad of napkins. “Here.”

  Dess was clumsy and dropped half the napkins, trying to sponge at her sleeve with shaking hands. Hope leaned to pick them up, narrowly missing knocking heads with Dess on her way back up. Around them the autumn morning went on. A woman walking her black schnauzer gave them a careful smile as she edged past them on the sidewalk. The schnauzer sniffed the pavement and gave the sidewalk a few experimental licks before the woman jerked on his leash and scolded him with a quiet “No.”

  Dess wiped her sleeve one last time, head down, then dropped the wet napkins on the sidewalk.

  “Jeez, Dess!” Hope picked up the napkins in her fingertips.

  Dess ignored her and kept walking.

  Hope’s face heated. “I guess a ‘Thank you’ for the napkins is too much to expect. And you’re not going to say what’s wrong with you, either?”

  “I’m fine.” Dess clearly had gotten her equilibrium back.

  Hope finally found a trash can on the corner next to the bus stop. She quickened her pace and passed Dess, dumping the sodden paper as she gave the other girl a narrow look. Dess was actually peering into her bag now, picking at her Danish with a reasonably calm expression on her face. It was as if nothing had happened.

  What had happened?

  “What scared you?” Hope asked before she could stop herself.

  Dess’s glare made Hope flinch. “I’m not scared of shit, freak. You got that?”