“Me, too,” she says. As I start for my room, Mom reaches out and takes my hand. “I feel better when you’re not out after dark.”
“It’s only a few more weeks, Mom. Then the play is over.” I don’t tell her there’s no time I feel better anymore.
She takes my hand, then lets go and drops onto her usual chair at the kitchen table. Rubbing her temples, she opens a book. “See you in the morning.”
Quicken pads down the hall in front of me and into my room. THen she jumps onto her cushion and carefully runs her tongue down her side and along her tail. Her ritual has a calming effect as I lean against the closed door. Wake up your computer, check your email, then do your chemistry assignment. Focus, Carlie. Calm down and stop being so wired.
I follow my advice and open my inbox. The first message is from Sean. About time.
“Had some problems with Mom these past weeks. When can I see you?”
I type: “How about I come over on Saturday?” Send.
Lena has left three messages: #1 He’s calling tonight. #2 Did he call? #3 Well?
The sharp rap on my door shoots my heart out the top of my head. So much for calming myself, and when I look at Quicken’s cushion, it’s empty. She’s probably under the bed and who can blame her? We’re both on edge.
“Call for you.” Mom pushes open the door and hands me the phone, mouthing, Nic-o-las.” She blows me a kiss and leaves, closing the door behind her.
“Hi,” I say.
A voice says, “This is Nicolas.”
I hear the way his mouth forms the O in his name. I often feel like calling him Nic to see how he’ll react to the missing two syllables. Then I picture his blue eyes set deep under dark honey brows, his hair like the sun, the way his appearance in any class changes the room. That’s one kind of chemistry I do understand. Any girl in Channing would pay him to take her out.
“Sorry you’re not still at Channing.” The rich sound of his voice reminds me of what I don’t have anymore.
Nobody’s sorrier than I am, Nicolas.
“I made debate captain this year. We’ll be going to Washington D.C. if we win the state level. Are you on the team at Las Pulgas?”
“Uh. No.” Las Pulgas doesn’t debate. They use fists to settle disputes. “No time.” I don’t want to hear about Nicolas Benz and his fabulous year at Channing. Is he going to get to the point? “I’m glad you called. What else is new?”
“I talked to Lena, and I was thinking maybe if you didn’t already have a date for the spring dance we could double with her and Eric.”
“Double. That’s sweet. I’d like to go.”
“Great! I’ll call you before and get directions to your new—”
“You don’t have to do that. I’m, um, going to stay at Lena’s, so you and Eric can pick us both up there.” I hate the chirpy sound in my voice.
“Right. Okay. I’ll still call you. I guess I need to ask what color dress you’re wearing. You know, for the corsage.”
“Sure. Thanks, Nicolas. It’ll be fun.” I click the phone off and drop onto my bed. I’ve got a date for the spring dance. And not with just anyone—with NicOlas Benz, next to Sean, the hottest guy at Channing. I can put up with a bit of ego if I get to go to the dance.
Do I finally have something I can write about in my journal? Maybe. I open my desk drawer, but the space I usually keep it in is empty. That’s when I remember putting it on the closet shelf.
Next door in #147, a door opens and closes and heavy footsteps enter the bedroom. The woman yells one of her favorite cuss words. He yells back. From a few doors down music blasts familiar hip hop song.
I cradle my head between both hands. I’ll think about my journal some other time.
Keith’s familiar footsteps come down the hallway, then I hear the scrape of the dead bolt and our front door opens. “Shut that damned thing off!” He shouts and his voice echoes around the apartment complex and the music goes quiet.
I see Juan’s shrug. I hear him say, “People get upset. They yell, No big deal.”
Then I hear my voice. “We don’t do that.”
“We do now.”
“Carlie.” Mom calls from the kitchen.
“Yes?”
“Check your room and see if Quicken’s there. I thought I saw her run through the living room.”
I kneel to look under the bed. The space is empty. She's not behind the desk and the closet door's been closed since I dressed this morning. I can't believe she's run off again. And it's way too late to look for her tonight.
Chapter 29
“You have half an hour of free writing today.” Mr. Smith leans against his desk. “This is your midweek treat. No grammar exercises, no tests. Just the opportunity to express yourselves on paper. Make it a short story, or nonfiction. Maybe some would like try poetry. He looks over at Jamal. I will be available to help with any questions.”
The rustle of notebooks and pencils coming out of backpacks subsides as students settle over blank papers. Across the aisle K.T. writes, erases, then writes some more while I twirl my pencil, waiting to come up with an idea.
I lean my head into my hand, doodling, absent-mindedly. All I manage to get down in words is the familiar date: October 22.
“Carlie love, you have to start sometime.”
“You’ve told me that before, Dad.”
“Did you listen?”
I sigh and mumble. “No.”
Jamal leans toward me from behind and says, “What?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
K.T. shushes me.
“Grr!” I bend over the paper, so my nose is only inches away from it, my pencil pressed at the start of a blank line. Make it fiction. Change how his father dies. Avoid writing two words: guilt and anger.
The story falls out of my head onto the paper. I’ve filled almost two pages without stopping when Mr. Smith says, “That’s time.”
At the sudden sound of his voice I press my pencil too hard and snap off the point.
“I’m hoping some of you will share your writing aloud. The rest of you can do my job and be editors. There are no grades, only comments. Who will begin?”
“I wrote a poem about homework,” I hear from behind me as Jamal clicks open his notebook and shuffles papers as if he’s preparing for a congressional filibuster. “Ahem.
‘English Homework.
I read my English homework steadily,
Reviewed it with my eyes,
To see that I made no mistake,
In any clause or part—’”
“Wait. Wait. Wait.” Mr. Smith tugs the paper from Jamal’s hand. He reads and then looks up. “Very nice, Jamal. However, Miss Emily Dickinson is not totally unknown to me. Now if you want to play with her poetry and work it into something humorous, I have no problem with that. That’s called parody. You’ll simply have to say that’s what you’re doing.” He returns Jamal’s paper.
K.T. shoots her hand in the air. Sometimes I think she wandered into high school by mistake and should really be in a fifth grade classroom.
“All right. K.T. what do you have for us?” Mr. Smith asks.
“Got a short story idea.” K.T. clears her throat and her eyes cut to me before she holds up her paper and reads. “This is gonna be about a girl named Gloria and she can draw pictures that’s so real, people who see them think they are real.”
I cup both hands over my eyes to keep from staring at her. When I peek between my fingers, Mr. Smith is giving K.T. his full attention. I drop my hands and fold them on top of my desk. How can he listen to this and not laugh?
“I’m gonna make her draw a big dog and that dog is gonna get up off the page and run away. Then I’m thinking about her drawing a lion and the police will come to the house and shoot it. Gloria’s mom knows her daughter has to stop drawing animals because it’s too dangerous. That’s what I got so far.”
She drops her paper on the desk and crosses her arms as if to say, “Tell me what’s wrong
with that.”
I’m beginning to wonder how much K.T. plays with our heads. Hard rapper who can read Desdemona when she thinks about what she’s doing. Kick ass fighter when she’s wronged. Penitent and saintly girl when she’s close to being expelled. Her story idea definitely puts her in grade school.
Why is she staring at me? Why is Dolores staring at me, smiling like she’s waiting to see me trip over an invisible wire.
Jamal whispers, “Better tell her something. She’s got that look on and this time it’s aimed at Y. O. U.”
Mr. Smith removes his glasses and rubs his eyes. “Comments? Remember there’s always something good to find in someone’s writing. Then there’s always a way to improve it. Who will start?”
I pull out binder paper from my notebook and pretend to take notes. No way am I saying word one about K.T.’s story. I look back at Jamal, who noisily flips pages in the book of poetry I now realize he always carries under his arm. A few rows away Pavan Gupta is bent over his own paper, erasing. Dolores leans back in her seat, looking at K.T. with a bored expression.
K.T. breaks the silence. “I see you writing lots of stuff on that paper you got. What does it say?” K.T.‘s staring at me.
“Some, uh, ideas?”
“Let’s hear ‘em.”
“Umm. Uh. Well, . . . I like the theme of your story.” I take a quick look at the doodles on my paper. A dog with a wide grin. A lion on its back, its eyes crosses, and a smoking gun lying next to it. “It’s . . . magical.”
“And?”
K.T. isn’t letting me off, so I might as well tell her what I think of that piece of junk. “Yes, magical. So when you write it you’ll need to develop the magic more. Maybe another animal that befriends the artist?” Making the story longer isn’t going to improve it. “One more thing—you need to show us the girl more. How she looks, how old she is, why she likes to draw. That would help your story come alive.” Or not. “The mom isn’t really . . . what I mean is we need to know a little more about her, but the girl should make her own decision about drawing.”
When I look across at K.T. she’s still got me in the crosshairs of her dark eyes. “I always make my own decisions.”
So she’s Gloria. I got it. “Well, then,” I fiddle with my pencil, “. . .you know exactly what Gloria would do.”
K.T. uncrosses her arms and writes on her paper.
“Well done, Miss Edmund.” Mr. Smith points to Pavan. “Next.”
Pavan has written a new version of Cassio’s part. In his revised story Cassio speaks up and ruins old Iago’s plot to make Othello jealous.
“How come we can’t use that guy in the play?” I flinch at the sound of Chico’s voice.
“Then your part would be quite short,” Mr. Smith says.
“Sweet,” Chico says.
“What about your free writing? Do you care to read it?” Mr. Smith asks him.
Like K.T.’s story, Chico’s is short; but unlike hers it’s good. In a page he tells about a kid who runs the 10k and pushes himself to win. His reputation is more important to him than anything. When he loses, he’s bitter and takes out his anger on a close friend with unexpected results.
Chico is definitely a low-life who writes. Maybe he’ll stab me with a pen when he decides to do me in.
“That’s one good story, man.” Jamal says.
Pavan Gupta twists in his seat and says, “Hey, Chico. I like the part about revenge. It makes the guy kind of sad even if we don’t like him.”
“Excellent work, class. I’d like to see your writing, make some comments and give you a chance to rewrite for extra credit. Still no grade, and a rewrite is not required. Homework is on the board. Cast, don’t be late for rehearsal tonight.”
K.T. stops me at the door. “How come we didn’t get to chew on something you wrote?” She shows her teeth, but it’s not because she’s smiling at me.
“I didn’t write much.”
“There you go again, thinking I’m stupid. I heard all that scratchin’ your pencil did and I seen those pages full of writing.”
“It’s a rough draft.”
She snorts and shakes her head. “Right. And the other ones the class heard were of a polished nature.”
I inhale and I’m sure my eyes go round. Of a polished nature?
She shifts her head and looks as if she’s very satisfied with how she’s shocked me.
“So long, great writer.” She’s off her crutches and hobbles on a rubber-heeled walking cast that’s already covered with more graffiti than the gym after Keith redecorated it.
Chapter 30
Keith’s court hearing is set for 9 a.m. on Thursday. I shower early so I can have hot water to wash my hair, and so I won’t have to hurry because the delinquent wants to look good for the judge. Mom has to drop me at school, then speed back across town to the civic center, so it’s going to be a rushed morning.
“Carlie, can you bring me some coffee, please?” I can tell from Mom’s voice she’s stressing.
I dress, then take coffee to her in her room.
“Oh, thanks, Honey.” She takes a quick sip. On the bed she’s laid out the dark suit she used to wear for fund-raising auctions. “What do you think?” She holds the jacket up. “Subdued was a good look for extracting money from reluctant bidders. Maybe it will work to extract a light sentence from the judge.”
I can tell she'd like me to say the suit will work the miracle she wants, but I guess my expression tells her what I'm really thinking.
She sighs. “Sorry I asked.”
So I've done it again. Even when I don't say things that will upset Mom I upset her anyway, but the suit won’t make things easier for Keith. I’m sure he’ll get the standard punishment for graffiti, along with his two-week suspension from school. Mom’s already talked to the principal and promised to pay for the damages. But like everything else for us these days, the big question is how much?
She puts on her skirt and the long-sleeved blouse with the tailored collar. Turning sideways she studies her image in the dresser mirror. “Next to the kitchen the one thing I miss is my full-length mirror.”
Finally something I can agree with. “Totally,” I tell her.
“It’s going to be okay,” she says.
I pray she’s right. There’s nothing left to crash onto our heads, except maybe the sky.
As if she reads my thoughts, she says, “Your brother’s a good kid who’s done a stupid, rotten thing—the first bad thing he’s ever done. That has to count.” She picks up a framed picture from her dresser. In it Keith’s about five, holding Dad’s hand. Mom is at Dad’s side, and I’m seated in front. “An easy-payment plan would help with the damages..” She thumps it down.
I know Mom’s expressions well—there’s one about grief, one for worrying over money and us—and now this one that’s more like anger. It doesn’t come often, but when it does, it flickers across her face as quickly as a summer storm and with the same kind of threat. I’ve only seen it a few times before today—the day the movers arrived, the first time we entered this apartment, and just after Keith’s arrest.
I place my hands at my chest like I’m really praying this time. Don’t let the sky fall.
After Mr. Smith returns our free writing with his comments, he spends the rest of the period on grammar “issues” that he picked out from our papers. Since grammar is not a favorite of mine, I shield my closed eyes, trying to look as if I’m following the exercises; instead, I’m reading what he’s written on my assignment and suggested I do to revise the story.
“This is a very touching story that reveals so much about loss. I think you can heighten the empathy for your main character by showing more details about how she’s managing the tragic changes in her life.”
The truth is . . . she’s not.
I picture Keith in a striped prison uniform with chains at his ankles, Mom in her Las Pulgas market uniform, me inside my catacomb of a room with a weak flickering candle stub.
&nb
sp; In French, I doodle stars dropping from the sky, their tiny, sharp points jabbing into the head and shoulders of a cowering figure.
By chemistry I’ve switched to doodling fangs and claws.
I should have stayed home sick.
Before my next class, I’m at my locker when I spot K.T. hip-hopping toward me on her gaudy walking cast. I work my combination, watching her from the corner of my eye.
“Yo, Des.”
I’m weary of this combat, but I force what I hope is a neutral expression onto my face. “Yo, yourself, K.T.”
K.T. moves her head side-to-side, keeping time to that beat only she hears. “Got somethin’ for you to read.” She reaches inside her abused notebook and rips out a piece of lined paper from the rings. “You got opinions on everything, so give me some of those super-thoughts on this.”
I take the papers and read the first line. “‘The Artist.’ Your story?”
“No. My Gettysburg Ad-dress.”
I stop a long blink in time to avoid another collision. “You already wrote it?”
“I’m quick.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“You’re, like, the genius writer. Fix it. I’m turnin’ this in for extra credit.” K.T. holds out her hand, waiting. “Well?”
“Well what?”
“Gimme yours. You know— a trade.”
Dawning horror must register on my face.
“What, I’m not good enough to read what you wrote?”
“No. I mean I haven’t made the changes Mr. Smith suggested. I’m—
I can almost see storm clouds gathering over her head. She can slam people to the floor and rip off their clothes even when she’s on crutches. What can she do now that she’s got both hands free? She cocks her head and I jump back; then I reach into my locker and fish out my English paper. “It’s not, I mean, I haven’t—”
She plucks it out of my hand and examines it. “So it’ll be rough. I’ll see what I can do.” She swivels on her rubber heel and over her shoulder says, “I need all the extra credit I can get to bail outta eleventh grade, so make it good.”
The Princess of Las Pulgas Page 12
