Mr. Smith locks the auditorium door and comes toward us with K.T. and Dolores. “So will you be following me?” Mr. Smith asks Eric, who has his car keys in one hand and his other arm still around Lena. “We'll be driving west, then south. Stay behind me and I'll take care not to lose you. Come, Dolores. Miss Edmund. K.T.?”
“I’m riding with Jamal.” K.T. says and stumps her way across the parking lot as Mr. Smith marshals me toward his car. I so don’t want to go to this party, but it’s too late to bail now. Mom, Jeb and Keith are gone; I don’t see the Tercel anywhere.
Juan is still in the parking lot, talking with Grits.
So who’s he driving with?
“Juan? Do you need a ride tonight?” Mr. Smith asks.
“No. Thanks.” Juan says. He’s standing next to a shiny new Camero, and when Grits takes off, Juan opens the driver’s door and gets in. “My car’s out of the shop, so I’ve got wheels again.”
How many punches to the midsection can I take tonight? The Las Pulgas scum have terrorized my friends. Nicolas has pealed out of the parking lot, and I’ll probably never see him again., and Juan not only has a car, he has a new Camero. Can’t anything around here make sense?
Chapter 45
Scrunched down in the passenger seat, I haven’t paid attention to where Mr. Smith’s driving until the car comes to Escondido. This is the street with Juan’s crummy hotel. Eric’s classic Mustang is behind us with Lena nestled next to him. My desire to disappear is so strong, I believe I might actually turn to dust and blow away. If I don’t, disaster is about two minutes away. I go to twist my bracelet out of habitual anxiety—but it’s gone. I feel around on my lap for it, and on the seat. And it’s not on the floor. Somewhere between K.T's ridiculous costume check and now, I've lost my favorite possession. Can this night get any worse?
Mr. Smith passes the hotel, then turns right on the next street. Where’s he going?
I start paying attention and gradually the neighborhood changes. Small aluminum-sided houses with cluttered yards give way to ranch-style homes and wide green lawns. As Mr. Smith drives up the winding road, I glimpse a sign—Barranca Canyon Road. That’s where Lena said her mom’s friend lives. We climb the hill and Las Pulgas switches from a congested, noisy city to a sparkling panorama of lights. Trees become a leafy capony over our heads and our headlights sweep across tall, gated entrances. Lights blink through trees from stately homes set far from the road, a Mr. Smith slows and turns into a driveway that is outlined by low lights on either side. We sweep along a wide curve up to the house at the top.
Dolores leans forward from the back seat. “Wow! That’s so pretty.”
“The Pachecho’s home is quite beautiful, isn’t it?” Mr. Smith stops the car in front of the high arches that frame the entrance. Before my brain catches up with my mouth the passenger door opens.
“Hey, Des. Long time no see.” It’s Juan, and I can’t move a muscle.
“Party’s inside,” he says and reaches for my arm as Dolores gets out of the back seat and takes the steps to the front door.
“I don’t need your help,” I say. He’s tricked me—he lied about where he lived, and probably laughed with is friends about how I gave him, the poor Mexican kid without a car, a ride in that beater of a Tercel. I swear I’ll go inside this house and find a way to get even with him for mocking me.
As I climb from the car, Lena and Eric join us beside Mr. Smith’s car. I glance down the driveway in the dim hope that Nicolas might have changed his mind and made a U-turn to follow Eric after all, but there are no cars are behind us. So in addition to being blindsided, I’m also dateless. Can this night get any more embarrassing?
Although Lena clings to Eric’s arm, she never takes her eyes off Juan. Drool does not become you, Lena. I avoid the three of them and follow Mr. Smith up the steps and into the house.
“Mr. Smith. This is such a pleasure,” says a woman who greets us with a breathtaking, slightly sideways smile. Her ebony hair is smoothed tightly against her head and gleams under the entry lights.
“You must be the wonderful Desdemona.” Juan’s mother holds out her hand. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t stay to congratulate you after the curtain call, but I wanted to get back and be sure everything was ready here.”
If I could pry my jaw loose, I’d come up with something charming to say to Mrs. Pacheco. I know how to act in someone’s home—I’ve been to parties before, and Dad always said I was the best hostess in Channing. He used to have me answer the door, greet guests, get people situated. But here, all I can manage is reply is, “No problem.” Brilliant.
Juan is suddenly beside his mother, and he’s making introductions. “This is Lena Knudson and Eric Johnson, Mom. They’re friends of Carlie’s from Channing.”
Mr. Smith’s my only hope now. I’ll stick with him for the rest of the evening. I back away from Mrs. Pacheco and catch up to him, saying, “Thank you for the ride.”
“My pleasure.”
“You’re a great driver.”
“Thank you.”
“And a great director, too.”
“Carlie, dear,” he says. “What is the matter? You remind me of one of those jumpy Tennessee Williams characters.” He pats my shoulder and says, “Go and join your friends. Have a good time.” Then he leaves me in the entry
Suddenly I hear, “Yo, Des.”
I whirl. “K.T?”
“Hey, who else?” She gives me that shifty-head move.
I can’t believe the relief that floods through me. It’s K.T.! Someone to talk to. “Am I glad to see you,” I tell her.
“Whoa.” K.T. holds out one hand like a traffic cop. “Don’t go getting all cozy on me, now.” She hops back on her rubber stump. “So’s this your first time up to the mansion? Mr. Juan hasn’t introduced you to his family before?” K.T. transfers her weight onto her rubber heel. “For a rich kid, he ain’t bad, you know.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Tell you what?” K.T. does her shifty-head move again and folds her arms across her chest.
“About this!” I sweep my arms wide.
“Didn’t think you was in-ter-ested.” K.T. hobbles into the living room toward Jamal and Dolores.
I have no choice but to follow her. Lena’s already cornered Juan. So, who cares? Definitely not me, but poor Eric’s alone, leaning against a side table. It’s easy to guess what’s churning through his head.
I stroll over to him and say, “I guess Nicolas really meant it when he said he wouldn’t come along.”
“Yeah. He had that early tee-off time.” Eric glances over my shoulder at Lena and Juan.
I don’t care about that, but I’m holding on to Eric. Lena can have Juan all to herself if she wants him.
“Want something to eat?” I ask.
Eric shrugs and follows me into the dining room, where a long table is covered with plates of sandwiches, fresh fruit, and a large glass container of chilled drinks. We manage a lot of conversation about food.
Just as I’m out of witty comments, Lena appears and latches onto Eric’s arm.
“I wondered where you disappeared to. There’s dancing in the living room.” She grins at me and leads him away, passing Juan who walks toward me as if he expects I want to talk to him.
“Did you get something to drink?” he asks.
I’m ready to fire off several angry rounds and tell Juan Pacheco just what a jerk he is for letting me think he was a poor kid, living in a dump, no car, and having to work at Sam’s Shack to help his family.
“Come on,” he says. “I’m thirsty.” Juan takes my hand and pulls me behind him, grabs two sparkling waters from the ice and pushes open the swinging door into the kitchen. He unscrews one bottle and hands it to me. “Before you start screaming, let me say something.”
My face stings with what I know have to be red blotches, and I don’t want to look at him. My heart is pounding in my ears, and instead of yelling, I gulp water.
“You
never asked why I didn’t have a car. You never asked why I worked at Sam’s. So I didn’t tell you.” He pulls out two stools from the center island. “Sit down, Carlie. Please.”
I take him up on the offer. My legs are rubberized from exhaustion after being on stage for hours, followed by the run-in with the track team low-lifes and Nicolas’s’ hasty departure. On top of all that, discovering the truth about Juan has pretty much done me in.
“I did mislead you about the hotel, and I was going to explain, but, well, I never got the chance. And then you were here and it was too late. I knew you’d blow when you saw the house.” He touches my arm but I jerk away.
“Okay. Here’s the truth,” he continues. “I work at Sam’s to cover my car expenses—repairs, insurance, gas. That’s my parents’ deal with me. The mechanic lives at the hotel and I went to pay him for working on my car.”
“You were making fun of me. You were hiding the truth at my expense—”
“No, really, Carlie. I wasn’t doing that at all. But I guess I did want to make a point. Now that I see how upset you are that point isn’t important. I’d rather you like me and not look like you’re ready to rip my throat out.”
“You’re wrong, Juan Pacheco—about the point, that is. You wanted me to admit I was an uptight prejudiced Channing snob. That’s a very important point—for you.”
He sets his water on the marble island. “If you think it’s important, then it is. Are you an uptight prejudiced Channing snob?”
The growl I’ve developed since leaving Channing is lurking at the back of my throat again. How can he ask me that question? He doesn’t know a thing about me.
“No. I’m someone who doesn’t even have enough . . . money to buy a dress for a school dance. My mother has to work at a—a” I poke my finger in a direction that’s supposed to be Las Pulgas. “—supermarket, and studies nights and weekends to get her real estate license. My juvenile delinquent brother—” I take another gulp of water because my throat’s shutting down again. I think I have some kind of Las Pulgas throat disease. “You know—the king of graffiti— is suspensed and hates everyone in this world, especially me.” I stab a finger at my chest. “And I’m the one who spends a lot of time wishing her life wasn't a total mess. I live in the . . . slummiest apartment in this city because my dad . . . my dad . . . took months to die and when the insurance didn’t pay his medical bills, we had to . . . sell our home.”
Juan reaches for me, but I slap his hand away.
“No.” I wrap my arm around myself. “My bedroom backs up to a couple from hell. Half the track team plays a cat and mouse game with me every time they see me, and I no longer have friends. I’m about as popular in school as a, as a . . . cockroach. And I am totally a snob, because I refuse to let anyone from Channing see where I live now. I am uptight—because absolutely nothing—nothing is the way it should be, anymore. I hate my life. I hate me. The only person I’m prejudiced against is, is the person I’ve turned into!”
I don’t realize I’m crying until I shut up and Juan reaches for me.
“Carlie. I’m so sorry.”
I stop him from pulling me close. “I don’t want your pity!”
“That’s not what I meant. I’m sorry I didn’t know anything about you. I didn’t bother to ask, so I was being a total jerk.”
“I need to blow my nose.” Humiliation just keeps coming, but Juan opens a drawer and hands me a tissue.
“Carlie, I like you a lot. And I apologize for making assumptions about you.”
Now I let him pull me to him. I’m too tired to push away, and besides, my nose is running and I have to hold the tissue under it so at least I don’t get snot on his sweater.
“Please give me another chance,” he says into my hair. “I want you to trust me, to believe I’m someone who’ll always be there for you—really.”
I’ve believed that promise, before, and when Dad couldn’t keep it, my life fell apart. There’s no way I’m ready to believe that again.
I shove him away. “I need to leave.”
Chapter 46
I I fasten the seatbelt in Mr. Smith’s dark sedan. Dolores gets in behind Mr. Smith, and Juan stands at the passenger door, his eyes riveted on me, willing me to look at him. Meanwhile, Lena and Eric walk to the Mustang; his hands are shoved in his pockets and the distance between them is big enough to fit another person. My guess is Juan Pacheco. That's perfect. Lena and Juan will make a cute couple.
Mr. Smith rolls down the passenger window and leans across to speak to Juan. “A pleasurable evening, Mr. Pacheco, and a wonderful performance. I don’t believe I have said that to you yet. It has been a very full evening.”
Juan smiles in that special way he shares with his mother. “I learned a lot doing that part—mostly, that I don’t think I’ll go into acting as a profession.”
“Then you have already made a significant life decision. Until Monday,” Mr. Smith says and he starts the car, still keeping the window down.
“Goodnight, Carlie,” Juan says.
Pivotal moment, my mind screams. How I answer him will decide so much. I can look away and be a Channing Princess or I can be Carlie Edmund saying goodnight to Juan Pacheco.
I close the window and look straight ahead.
Before the sedan reaches the bottom of the driveway, regret I’m filled with regret, which travels from my head into my chest, and then drops into my stomach.
I glance back at the big house, where lights shine from every window, and where Juan remains standing, staring after us. I'll see him again, but when I do, nothing will be right between us again.
I suddenly understand that I’m losing someone who’s very important to me, and it’s too late to do anything about it. This is another moment in my life that I’m ending badly, and somehow I don’t think a phone call and an apology is going to work the way it did with Sean.
We drive without talking until Mr. Smith winds down Barranca Canyon Road and comes to the Las Pulgas that I hate so much. I despise the clapboard houses and grit my teeth as we pass the hotel with its barred windows. The teacher stops in front of a modest home with a small front yard littered with plastic toys and two tricycles.
“Thanks, Mr. Smith,” Dolores says as she gets out. She peers in the passenger side and waves at me.
I roll down the window. “Sorry I blew my lines in that scene. Thanks for not strangling me yourself, Dolores.”
“Don’t sweat it. You it covered up pretty good. So long, Des,” she says, then hurries across to the house.
Once she’s inside and porch light goes dark, Mr. Smith pulls away.
I need to think about something besides returning to that apartment complex. “I meant it when I said you were a great director.”
“Not great, but I’ve learned to provide adequate guidance to my pupils over the years. I succeed because I am blessed with talented students.”
“Like K.T?”
“K.T. is only one student I think is special, but, yes, she is talented.”
There isn’t that warning in Mr. Smith’s comment, not like there was that first day, when he’d said, “I think you’ll like this bunch once you get to know them.”
I have gotten to know them. I’ve managed to keep K.T. from beating me up, and I’ve even somehow built a shaky relationship with her. Dolores and Jamal don’t exactly crave my company, but they do talk to me and what they say is nice, not snarky. Pavan Gupta compliments me on my writing. I don’t want to think about Juan or the track team.
“Can I ask something? It’s kind of a nosy question.”
“How nosy?” he asks, glancing at me.
“It’s about Channing. Why did you leave?”
“I was not needed at Channing anymore.”
He’s still the master of, as Dolores would say, innuendo—a good and decent version of Iago. I was not needed at Channing really means I’m needed a lot more at Las Pulgas.
I should know better than to ask my next question, but it’
s out before my brain censors it. “Aren’t you sorry?”
Then the word, discretion, pops into my head, along with other memories of that first day in Mr. Smith’s class; the class applauding when he entered, the way he encouraged K.T. to read Desdemona’s part, and how the time passed quickly because I, Carlie Edmund from Channing, was enjoying Mr. Smith’s English class in Las Pulgas.
“Do you remember what I said that day on the auditorium steps about taking the journey?” he asks me.
“Yes.”
“What I didn’t say was that many journeys, often ones you didn’t plan to make, take you to an unexpected destination that turns out to be exactly where you want to be.”
I’m about to ask what he means, but we’re already at the apartment complex.
He slows the car next to the chain-link fence and stops at the back gate. “I’ll add one more thing, since I’m in a philosophical mood and you don’t seem to be completely satisfied with my answer. I chose Las Pulgas, Carlie. It didn’t choose me. And what I do here is my life.”
“Don’t you have a fam . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“Carlie, I’m an old bachelor with many wonderful children. So, yes, I have a family, a very large one.” He opens his door. “And speaking of families, I believe your mother is waiting for you.”
He walks me across the pool area and Mom’s at the railing, waving. Next to her is the woman from Apt. 147, leaning over the iron railing and blowing smoke into the air. I don't believe it.
“Mrs. Edmund, hello again,” Mr. Smith says. “I trust we are not so late that you were concerned.” We climb the steps and walk across the shaky, iron-railed balcony.
“Not at all,” Mom says. “I needed some fresh air." Mom turns aside to include the smoking woman. “This is Georgia Callahan, our neighbor. Mr. Smith is Carlie's English teacher.”
The Princess of Las Pulgas Page 20
