The Princess of Las Pulgas

by C. Lee McKenzie

  The woman flicks her cigarette over the balcony and shakes Mr. Smith's hand. “Pleased to meet you.” To Mom she says, “Nice talking to you, Sarah.” She walks to her door and steps inside, then she pokes her head out again. “Stick to your guns. He needs an education if he wants out of this dump.”

  Mom blushes. “Sorry about all the shouting.”

  I can't be hearing this. My mom's apologizing to that woman for making noise? And what is this “stick to your guns” stuff? I must be more tired than I know. Nothing’s making sense tonight.

  “Please come in, Mr. Smith.” I can make coffee.”

  “Our player is tired, but believe me, Mrs. Edmund, so is her director. It’s time for me to go home, and it’s absolutely time for me to get to sleep. May I take you up your offer another evening?”

  “Of course. Thank you for seeing Carlie home.”

  “My pleasure,” he tells her. Then to me he says, “I will see you in class Monday.”

  Mom and I lean on the railing until his car drives away.

  “So,” she says when Mr. Smith's taillights disappear, “how was the evening? I can’t tell from looking at you whether you had a good time--or not.”

  I don’t answer.

  “How bad was it?”

  “If you don’t count the jerks from the track team scaring Nicolas back to Channing before we even left the auditorium, an if you don’t count their giving Lena a cheap slumming thrill, and if you don’t count my being totally humiliated, you could say I had a super time.”

  “Oh, honey.” She sighs and looks across the pool area. “My evening wasn’t that good, either. You can now officially call me a shrew. I did lots of yelling earlier.”

  “What happened?”

  “Keith and I had a huge argument. He wants to drop out of school.”

  Chapter 47

  This is the first Sunday in weeks I don’t grab my playbook to study lines. I don’t take my chemistry book out and struggle to stay up with Doc either. Today’s a free day for me.

  The phone rings as I push two pieces of bread into the toaster. When I answer it, I hope Sean’s on the other end. But no.

  “Hi, this is Nicolas,” he says. He doesn’t wait for me to say hello. He doesn’t even have to tell me the reason for his call. He doesn’t even have to bother making up some lame excuse. He’s calling to cancel our date to the Spring Fling.

  “Carlie?”

  “Yes.” My voice is flat and dull, just like I feel.

  He coughs; it’s not a symptom of a cold, but rather one of nervous retreat. “I’m in kind of a bad spot,” he says. “My mom . . . well she thinks . . . It’s about the dance—” Another cough. “Lena’s mom told her about . . . the—”

  “Not a problem, Nicholas. I was about to call you to back out of our date. I think I’m pretty much finished with Channing.” Why didn’t I pick up the phone before he called? Cancel first? Keep some self-respect?

  “Really, it’s not me. Okay?”

  “Sure. I understand. Goodbye, Nic.” Nicolas Mr. Full of Himself Benz is out of my life. I jab the End button and toss the phone on the counter.

  “Punishing the communications equipment this morning, are we?” Keith’s at the refrigerator, reaching for the milk.

  I snatch the milk carton from him and pour myself a glass. For the first time in weeks, I have time to catch up on the rest of my life and I have absolutely no life to catch up on. After I chug the milk down, I grab one piece of toast. Then, without buttering it, I slam my way back to my room.

  I sag onto my bed, too exhausted to eat, so I toss the toast into the wastebasket and take down my Jack-in-the-Box from the shelf. Crawling under the covers and pulling them over my head, I curl around the square metal box. I want to sleep; I need to sleep, and in the close dark, space under my blankets, my breathing slows down. I pretend I’m in my Channing room with the ocean sweeping in and out, in and . . .

  Salt water breaks over my head and tumbles me onto the sand. I try to stand, but another wave knocks me down. Before I can get up from my knees, the sand is sucked from under me and when I scream, the sound tastes bitter. Another wave lifts me and I’m tossed far from the shore surrounded by a rising sea. Salt stings my eyes and burns my nose as I sink slowly below the surface into—

  I bolt from under the covers and sit upright, choking. My cheeks are wet and my eyes really do sting. Returning Jack to his shelf, I pluck a handful of tissues from my desk drawer. I can’t believe my clock reads almost noon; I’ve been asleep for over an hour.

  The Très Elégant box pokes from under my bed, but I won’t look inside.

  I won’t. Well, maybe just a peek.

  Go ahead. Untie the ribbon. Remove the lid. Fold back the tissue. Just don’t touch it.

  Blotting my eyes with a tissue, then blowing my nose with another one, I lift the dress by its slender straps and hold it to me.

  Get your act together, Carlie. You’re not going to the dance. You’re not wearing this perfectly perfect dress. There’s nothing you can do about it.

  I tuck all the pizazz back into its box and tie the ribbon. Once that’s done, it’s easier to think. I’ll return the dress to Miss Lily, and then I’ll run away and join some foreign army. I pat the Très Elégant top and go to get the car keys.

  Mom’s in the kitchen rummaging through one of the still unpacked moving boxes. “Apple crepes sound good, don’t they?” She pulls out her pastry cookbook. “I thought we’d enjoy them for dessert.”

  “Any kind of crepes sounds good. We haven’t had those—”

  The click click of the old stove clock marks off empty seconds of quiet.

  “Since before your father got sick. I know.” Mom flips to a slightly spotted page. “Well, that’s about to change.”

  Seeing Mom with flour on her hands, her handheld electric beater ready and her measuring spoons lined up on the counter is like opening a special present.

  “Can I have the car?” I ask. “I’m taking this--” I hold up the Très Elégant box. “--back.”

  “What?”

  “NicOlas cancelled.”

  “Oh, Carlie, I’m so sorry. Isn’t there someone—”

  I shake my head. “I don’t want to go.” I don’t fit there anymore. This not fitting in is becoming a familiar feeling. Maybe I’ll get used to it.

  She takes the car keys from her purse and presses them into my hand. “I know this doesn’t help, but there will be other dances.”

  She’s right; it doesn’t help, but I hope it’s true.

  “We’re eating at Jeb’s tonight, so can you be here by four thirty?”

  I start to say, “Count me out,” but she turns on the mixer and loses herself in batter making.

  I guess if I want dinner, I’ll have to be at Jeb’s.

  I tuck the Très Elégant box under one arm and sling the strap of my bag over the other shoulder.

  At the mall when I walk into Tres Elegant Miss Lily is with a customer. I leave the dress and tell the sales woman I’ll be back. I’m on my way past the accessory section when I hear my name called and I stop.

  “It is you.” Lena’s holding three blue evening bags, and Paula, the exchange student from France, is next to her.

  Lena’s the last person on this planet I want to talk to right now, but there’s no escaping. Smiling, I walk down the long line of couture handbags. “Have you found what you wanted?”

  “I’m thinking this one.” Lena holds up a small clutch with a blue bead fastener.

  “Um, that’s . . . pretty,” I tell her.

  Lena nudges Paula. “See. I told you.”

  Paula shrugs. “I am still not fond of it.”

  She has a lot better taste than Lena does. “But it’d be all right with her dress, don’t you think?” I ask.

  Paula’s eyes cut to mine for a second, long enough to understand what we both think about Lena’s blue Spring Fling dress.

  Lena waves a clerk over. “Well, I don’t care what anyone sa
ys. I’m buying it.”

  “Did your dress come from Paris?” I ask Paula. “Lena told me you ordered it.”

  “It came,” she says.

  “It’s soooo beautiful, Carlie. You should come see it.” Lena signs the credit card slip and picks up her small Très Elégant bag. “You know—since you won’t be at the dance.”

  Kaboom! Everybody at Channing already knows that Nicolas dumped me. “Thanks, BFF. Very sweet of you to spread the word.”

  Lena tries for a shocked expression, but it doesn’t work. Gossip is all over her face.

  I turn my back on her and only speak to Paula. “I won’t have time for a trip to Channing, but I’m sure your dress is a knock out. What color did you get?”

  “Red.” Paula says.

  I rub one eye as if I have a speck of something in it. “Strapless?” I ask.

  “But of course.”

  “Carlie! Come. I am free for a short time. We must talk.” Miss Lily wraps an arm around my waist. “What is this my assistant is telling me?”

  Without bothering to say goodbye to Lena and Paula, I let Miss Lily lead me away.

  “You are returning my fabulous dress--before the dance?”

  Leaving out the details of why my date cancelled and trying not to sound too pitiful, I explain, and then thank her say,ing, “I really appreciate all you’ve done. You’ve been so kind, and I’m sorry—”

  “No one feels so bad as I do. I wanted you to be beautiful and bring me many new customers,” Miss Lily says. “But there will be another time. June, no? Prom?”

  “Maybe.” When carefully translated that means, not too likely.

  “Oh, and, Carlie, Michael and Sean called yesterday. They are back tomorrow.

  “That’s . . . that’s great.”

  “I must go. Please come to see me. I will find you again the perfect dress. I promise.” Miss Lily kisses me on both cheeks and hurries to her next appointment.

  I have nothing to do now except feel sorry for myself and keep from running into anyone else I know from Channing. Taking my time, I stroll along the main gallery, looking at my reflection in the wide display windows, wondering where the girl with the long black hair and jeans is headed. Is there even a chance one good thing could happen today?

  I'm day dreaming about pizazzy dresses and Sean, and about how my life sucks and— “Ooof!” I’m almost nose to nose with K.T.

  “Whoa! Do not tell me I’ve almost run down the great writer also known as the great Des!”

  “K.T. What the—Are you always at this mall?”

  “Ex-cuuse me.” K.T. put her hands on both hips.

  “Sorry. You surprised me. I was . . . thinking.”

  “What about?”

  “Gee, I don’t know, suicide?” I suck in air. “Oh, K.T.--I didn’t mean—”

  “That’s not funny.” K.T.’s mockery vanishes and in this moment I see another K.T.—a younger one, a girl who might stammer or be afraid of the dark--but that only lasts for a second; then she’s back to her usual, hostile Las Pulgas self. “You got in your head to say somethin’ to me, huh?”

  “No. I’m sorry—that slipped out.”

  “That’s something you don’t let ‘slip out.’” K.T. punches her words hard. Then she does her shifty-head thing. “So?” In one word she demands an answer to her question.

  “I was thinking that if I had a real life, I wouldn’t have just returned the most beautiful dress I’ve ever had. I’d be going to the dance Saturday night with a hot date instead of—You fill in the blanks.”

  Why am I saying this to K.T.?

  “The guy dumped you? You took back that—”

  I look down so K.T can’t see my watery eyes. “He did, and I did.”

  “Seems like you got what my grandma calls a case of the miseries.”

  “Actually, I think I’ve got several cases of them.”

  “Once you got the miseries, my grandma says you got to go on a long dark journey before you come out the other side.”

  “Gee, thanks for cheering me up, K.T. I feel a whole lot better now that we’ve talked.”

  “You don’t have to thank me.”

  When I look over K.T’s shoulder Lena and Paula are headed our way. “Merde.”

  K.T. turns to look behind her. “Your Channing buds, huh?”

  Lena makes a point of changing direction when she sees us, and she steers Paula away with her, leaning close to tell her something. Paula glances back. If Paula didn’t know about the Las Pulgas “incident” before, she does now.

  “Guess I was wrong. They don’t act like buds. Must be two of your miseries.”

  “Yes, they are.” With K.T. the easiest way to make it through a conversation is to say it straight out.

  “Looks like you be in for one long journey, girl. I’ll catch you later, Des.” She says this and hobbles away.

  My desire for window-shopping evaporates, so I slouch onto a bench, my legs out, my head leaned back, staring at the domed mall ceiling.

  Forget everything in your ruined life. Forget Chico and Anthony who lie ready to pounce from every shadow. Forget Nicolas and Lena and —

  “So!”

  “Yikes!” I jump to my feet, yanked from my gloomy thoughts by Grits, who’s plunked on the bench next to where I was sitting until he screamed in my ear.

  “You move pretty fast,” he says.

  “Right. And now that you’ve shortened my life by a decade, what do you want?”

  He tells me: “Since I finished my stint at Cal Works last weekend, I won’t see Keith before school next week. So give him a message, okay? Tell him I’m working on damage control with Chico and some other butt-heads. You know, for when he comes back from suspension. Okay? Catch you later.”

  He hauls his long body off the bench and lopes down the mall, swatting the high fronds of each potted palm he passes.

  Chapter 48

  I’m back to the apartment before four. That should make Mom feel like I’m cooperating when it comes to Jeb. I am. I’m just not doing it with much enthusiasm.

  As I climb the stairs to our apartment, angry voices come from behind a closed door. That’s not unusual, but today they’re not coming from #147; they’re coming from #148—ours.

  The front door practically bulges with tension as Keith shouts, “I told you I’m not going back to that stupid school.”

  “Yes, you will. You’ll do exactly that, Keith. You’re finishing this year and maybe the next at Las Pulgas. We’re Edmunds, and we don’t quit.”

  Mom’s using Dad’s words. She’s using him for support just like she did when he could really show up and say, “Listen to your mother.”

  As if Mom’s pushed a replay button, I’m back at one of the last grim days in the hospital. Dad, his eyes hard with pain and morphine, forces each word out. “I’ve always told you that Edmunds don’t quit.”

  That day. I stared out the window, and instead of letting him know I’d heard what he said, I watched the people outside—people who weren’t dying. I wished to be out there, with them, hurrying home for dinner, looking forward to my favorite TV program. I wished for all this to end, and I hated what I wished for.

  “I’m choosing a different way,” Dad said. “I’m not quitting.” His breath came in short gasps. “But, no more procedures”

  The window reflected the room behind me: Mom at Dad’s bed, Keith at the door, half in half out.

  “No.” Mom’s words were muffled behind her fist. “Please. Please, don’t give up.”

  When I faced the room again, Keith hadn’t moved from the doorway, but he’d turned his back to us.

  Dad had said one last thing as we’d left him that night: “I’m deeply sorry.”

  Now, so many months later, standing at the door of Apartment 148, far from that hospital room, I know what his apology really meant. He was accepting his death and asking us to do the same. He was asking us not to . . . hate him for leaving.

  He’d heard Mom beg him to
stay. He’d seen Keith turn away. He’d seen me looking out the window, not wanting to be there in that room.

  I take a deep breath and push open the door to Apartment 148 and step inside. But Mom and Keith are too locked onto each other and don’t notice I’m there. I like I’m just one more ghost in that room.

  “Your father would be so ashamed if he—”

  “Don’t trot out Dad.” Keith yells. “He’s dead. He doesn’t count.”

  “You’re hideous!” I scream. They notice me now, and I don’t care if the whole apartment complex hears me. “Don’t say that!”

  Keith whirls on me. “Cut the crap, Carlie. You hate him for dying and leaving us in this mess—just like I do. And you wanted it over, only you’re too Miss Perfect to admit it.”

  “Stop!” A sudden quiet throbs in the air, and I can almost hear Mom’s interior dams crumble as her words pour out of her.

  “I haven’t—I . . . .Neither of you is angrier about your father’s death than I am.” She covers her face with her hands, then sinks onto the couch as if her bones are melting. Her hands fall into her lap and she goes on. “Everyday I battle hating what has happened to us. Everyday I battle not resenting your dad, trying to hate the disease instead. He tried to stay with us—I wanted him to keep fighting, but he couldn’t go on. He begged me to give him permission to stop the treatments. And I didn’t!”

  She pauses, then says, “But my lungs ached trying to breathe for him. I was relieved . . . when it was over.” The expression that has baffled me for months streaks across her face and is gone.

  She’s said exactly what I’ve been feeling—what I hadn’t wanted to admit. She’s shared feelings that I thought were mine alone.

  When she’s done talking, Mom leaves. It’s more like she’s vanished from sight rather than walked down the short hall to her room.

  I expect Keith to rage at me again, but even he has no energy left for more screaming, and he closes himself in his mole hole bedroom once more.

  I sit at the kitchen table and put my head down on my arms. I think I understand how life works now. One minute you’re alive; then, in the next one you’re not. One minute you love someone deeply; then you hate them. One minute you’re safe; then you’re in danger. Those swift endings and beginnings linked forever. It’s these moments when you’re shunted down a new path, a detour you’d never take if the world hadn’t suddenly changed around you and forced you in a different direction.