My hand shook so I placed the hot mug on the floor near the sofa. “Mom was on drugs back then?”
“You look surprised,” he said.
“No … it’s just … I thought my stepfather turned her on to them.”
Frank downed his beer quickly. “I should’ve tried harder. Back then, I mean.” His full mustache almost hid the quivering of his lip.
I didn’t know how to feel about this remorse bubbling up after twenty-plus years. It seemed out of place for someone who hadn’t seen his sister in so long. Still, I didn’t need Frank to process his shit in front of me.
“We can’t fool ourselves into thinking we had any control over her,” I said.
“How old are you again?” His smile was weaker now.
I’d figured out a long time ago that I couldn’t change her actions. All I could do was manage the chaos that surrounded us to protect us in whatever way I could.
“Do you know how Mom ended up in Albuquerque?”
“I don’t know when she moved. I couldn’t take any more of the lies so I cut her out of my life. For good. Guess that’s why she didn’t tell me about you.”
“Well, I didn’t know I had an uncle. That makes us even.”
“Yeah, maybe,” he said.
We sat without talking for a couple of minutes before I spoke again. “Could I ask you why you wanted to help bury Mom? I mean, I thought the funeral home handled stuff like that.”
“It’s kind of a ritual in our family,” he said. “That’s what my parents did at my grandparents’ funerals. And I did it for Mom and Dad too. I guess it’s a more personal way of saying good-bye.”
Frank got a faraway look in his eyes. I cleared my throat to end the awkward silence.
Without looking at me, he grabbed the book he’d been reading earlier. I took it as a sign we wouldn’t be talking about Mom or funerals or anything more that night. He couldn’t answer all my questions anyway. I’d never know who my real dad was, or why Mom and he didn’t stay together, or how she hooked up with Lloyd. She’d deprived me of all those answers.
“Think I’ll watch something on my laptop. Don’t feel like reading.” I sloughed off the afghan and made my way to the opposite side of the trailer.
Frank looked up from his book. “I’m not going to buy you a TV so you’ll like me more.”
“Whatever. I can tough it out.” As I shut my door, I heard him laugh.
CHAPTER 6
Over the next few weeks, Frank and I eased awkwardly into daily routines that sometimes clicked and sometimes tested our tempers. We both had zero experience in our new roles of guardian and orphan.
This morning, he blocked the door to the trailer, making me late for school. “What did I say to upset you?” he demanded.
“I said I didn’t need any money for lunch, but you kept pushing it,” I said.
“All I said was that you didn’t have to borrow from Mo anymore. That I was happy to give you spending money.” His cheeks flared and I could tell he was struggling not to raise his voice.
“It’s fine, Frank. Really. Just let me go to school.”
He followed me out the door and into the yard. “We’ll talk later then?”
I nodded and waved him off. His hovering was suffocating at times, but I had to remind myself that for the first time in my life, I was not worried about money and how many odd jobs it’d take me to earn enough for groceries.
Mo met me at lunch. It was the one time of day we had time to talk since the only class we had together was American history. Today she was worried I’d back out of trying out for choral. I couldn’t remember why I’d let her talk me into it in the first place. Now I sat with my arms wrapped around my waist, sure I was going to throw up before my audition, which was just forty minutes away.
“I don’t know any of the students in choral,” I said. “I wish you could be there.”
“Cody from your English lit class is a member.”
“He’s in the choral society?” An odd mix of fear and excitement tightened my chest.
“Yeah, so you do know someone. Stop being so nervous.” She flicked a piece of her sandwich at me and I batted it away.
Cody and I had spoken only a handful of times, mostly about homework assignments or other students who clearly hadn’t done their reading before class. But he was one of the few people who’d been openly nice to me since I was forced to go back to school.
Mo usually called him “the hot blind dude” because she always described guys by their looks first: height, build, eye color, hunk factor. I saw so much more: the sureness of his steps in navigating the halls and classrooms at school, the way he’d bite his lower lip for an instant before he flashed a smile, the long strands of dishwater blond hair that fell across his forehead.
More importantly, he’d figured out a way to fit in despite being different and almost made it look effortless. I wondered if Cody’s confidence was partly an act, and if he sometimes still felt as alien as I did.
At the choral audition, a group of ten or twelve students sat at the back of the music room, most too busy talking to notice I’d entered. They’d all seen me at one point or another during my first couple of months at school, so my disfigurement wasn’t likely to cause odd looks and whispers. The absence of stares almost unnerved me more.
A girl with a hot-pink stripe in her hair called me over. Claire. She was also in my English class and clearly a friend of Cody, who was sitting next to her.
“Have a seat,” she said, patting a chair.
“Good luck, and don’t be nervous.” Cody leaned across Claire’s lap as if his words wouldn’t reach me otherwise.
Miss Browning, the choir director, was petite and unassuming, but with a voice that had a wicked range. When she entered the classroom, everyone stopped talking. She motioned for me to join her by the piano before she spoke.
“This is Arlie Betts,” she said. “She’s joining us a little late in the year, but I’m sure we can bring her up to speed in time for the community concert in a couple of months.”
Miss Browning had stumbled upon me singing with Mo in the gym parking lot one evening after a basketball game. She and Mo had double-teamed me, badgering me until I agreed to try choral. Try, I emphasized to Mo. As director, Miss Browning had final approval on who got in, but she liked the group to weigh in concerning the elite show choir. And that meant an audition.
Now, standing in the practice room, my throat dry with panic, I almost hated Mo for her zealousness in trying to make me fit in. Not that she resented being my only friend, but she worried I wasn’t interested in connecting with anyone else.
I spotted Brittany, the girl who hated me. Mo hadn’t warned me that she too was in choral. I eyed the door, my escape should I really mess things up. I pictured myself running toward it in slow motion, then kicking it open with one push and running down the hall.
“So, are you ready to sing for us?” The choral director sat at the piano, waiting for me to gather my wits. She had the sheet music we’d chosen earlier in the week when we practiced the number. We’d settled on “Jar of Hearts” by Christina Perri, a song that would showcase my vocals. She’d done everything in her power to make sure I understood how much she believed in me. Her attention made me uncomfortable, yet here I was, sweating profusely and worried that I would disappoint her somehow.
I stared past the faces of the students in front of me, purposely blurring my vision and blocking out everything around me, including Cody. To squelch my nerves, I kept telling myself none of it mattered: not Miss Browning, not these students, and definitely not Brittany.
Being afraid of singing in front of a group was laughable considering all I’d been able to handle in the past. Like answering our apartment door at 2 a.m. when my stepdad’s dealer friends and junkies came begging for a fix. Or hiding in a closet, clutching Lloyd’s handgun, when an angry gang member stopped by to dispute the size of a meth delivery.
Even though I knew the song back
ward and forward, I started out shaky, my throat catching at the end of the line: And don’t you know I’m not your ghost anymore? But then my voice grew stronger and stronger until I gave it my all during the chorus.
And who do you think you are?
Runnin’ ’round leaving scars.
After a few more lines, I dared to look at the students. Most were smiling, moving their heads in time with the music. Cody swayed from side to side almost imperceptibly. His full lips stayed fixed in a soft smile for the entire song.
As I neared the end, my vocals were overshadowed by clapping and whistling so I just let the last few lines of lyrics drop. Miss Browning mouthed “Good job” as she too clapped.
I mumbled “thanks” a few times and sat down in the chair Claire had saved for me.
“Looks like we have ourselves a new mezzo-soprano, although I bet you could do alto too,” she said. “Hope you can handle the classical stuff.” She gave me a serious stare. Then a huge smile broke across her face.
“Yeah … I mean, I’ll try my best,” I said.
“You’ll have to do better than that,” Brittany said. “We’re a competition choir. You have to look good and sing good.”
“It’s sing well, not sing good. And stop being such a bitch.” Cody whispered the words, but everyone heard him anyway. Most chuckled, which made Brittany’s face turn a raging red.
“Don’t think we need a vote, right, Miss Browning?” Claire asked. “Arlie’s in as far as I’m concerned.”
The rest of practice was a literal blur. My eyes teared so badly that I kept my head down. I thought I’d feel only relief after finishing the tryout number, but emotion pounded in my heart and head. I wanted to be part of this group, but I wanted to run away. And Brittany. I already had to suffer through calculus class with her. Now, she threatened to ruin something good in my life.
Thinking about her and the audition was too much at once. When Miss Browning dismissed us, I was the first one out the door even though Claire and Cody called for me to wait up.
I met Mo by her car and asked her to drive me straight to Frank’s.
“What’s wrong? What happened at choir?”
I was crying so hard I couldn’t find enough breath to talk.
“You’re freaking me out. Tell me what’s wrong,” she said.
“I did great.” My sobbing muffled my words. “I mean, they all said I did great. Well, except one, but I’m in. I … I’m just a little overwhelmed.”
Mo threw her arms around me, shouting her congratulations. Her enthusiasm buoyed me instantly.
“I told you they’d think you were awesome.”
For a moment, I remembered what it was like before the explosion, before people stared, before the ugly words and awkward silences. Today, I wasn’t my scar. The students had listened to my music; they’d listened to me. Just plain Arlie. Not poor, disfigured Arlie. Not Arlie, the homeless girl whose mother killed herself.
“I feel like a crazy person,” I admitted as we drove up North Main.
“No, you mean you feel normal,” Mo corrected me. “This is how it feels when you don’t have to worry about your mother getting high or if you have enough money for rent.”
I winced at her words. She was wrong. It had been a messedup sort of normal to be with my addict mother, sleeping in our car, living by our own rules. Sitting in classrooms all day, auditioning for a choir, making friends—those things didn’t even approach normal.
“Let’s not talk about Mom now, okay?”
She glanced over at me. “Sorry. You know what I mean. I want all this to feel normal now … for you to feel good.”
“It’s just been weird for me. All of it. Especially school.” I fanned my flushed face, which felt taut from salty tears. “And on top of it, I’m living in a trailer with someone I just met.”
“You haven’t just met him. And from what you’ve told me, Frank sounds like a good guy.”
“He is a good guy.”
“It’s only been a couple of months. Get to know him better and it won’t feel weird.”
Mo stopped the car in front of Frank’s trailer, but I didn’t get out.
“I’m trying,” I said. “What more can I do? I feel like he watches my every step.”
She hugged me fiercely and I remembered why I’d fought so hard not to push her away. I needed Mo.
“I know you’re trying,” she said. “I didn’t mean anything. Except give yourself a break. You did something pretty courageous today. It’s all about the baby steps, girlfriend.”
“Frank should pay you instead of my therapist. I swear you do me more good.”
“I think you need both of us.” She licked her thumbs and rubbed the mascara smudges from beneath my eyes. “Now pull yourself together or Frank will give you the third degree.”
“I’ll text you later,” I said and got out of the car.
“Yep, I want to hear what Cody thought of your performance,” she said.
“Cody?”
“Don’t play dumb. I know you like him. You just won’t admit it. But now that you’re in choral together, who knows what will happen.”
I felt a new sensation in my stomach, one that was wonderful and unbearable at the same time. Yet I didn’t want to admit to Mo how much he occupied my thoughts. She would just try to convince me that Cody and I could be more than friends. She’d try to tell me he wouldn’t care about my physical scar.
But she could never convince me that Cody or any other guy would be able to look beyond my other scars—my mom’s addiction, her suicide, and the ugliness of our lives these past years. Those things would be with me always, keeping my dreams small and unspoken.
CHAPTER 7
THREE MONTHS AGO—GOOD-BYE, MOM
Mom didn’t have an off button. Asleep, drunk, or high, she made noises without even knowing it. Snorts, snuffles, mumbles, cries. Not today. Today, she was the absence of sound.
I’d been with Mo all day and had just returned from buying groceries to find Mom lying on the bedspread, her face to the wall. I stared at the bottoms of her feet, cracked and dirty from walking on the black asphalt in the motel parking lot. She rarely wore shoes, even in winter.
“Mom?” I placed the bags of groceries down on the table and sat in a chair. I didn’t call out her name again because her body no longer rose with breath. Instead, I grabbed my phone to call Mo, but then set it down again. I didn’t want Mo to see this. I was supposed to see this. No one else.
I took a few deep breaths and mentally went over my to-do list: flush anything flushable; throw the rest in the dumpster. Lately, she’d been smoking more than shooting up, but today a half-filled syringe and a spoon were on the bed. On the floor were her glass pipe and a small, open plastic bag of rock meth. Why both and why so much?
I carefully wrapped everything but the meth in a pillowcase and then stuffed the bundle in a trash-can liner before tossing it in the dumpster. Next I flushed the meth.
I watched hundreds of dollars go down the toilet, wondering where Mom could have scored the cash needed for that amount or if she had a new friend who liked to share. But even that friend would have taken the rest of the dope once he realized Mom was dead. Had someone helped her end her life, or was this just an ugly accident?
Nothing made sense. For the first time in my life, I wanted someone to tell me what to do next. I could leave. Leave Durango. Someone would find her eventually. Other long-term motel guests would tell police she had a daughter, but no, they hadn’t seen her in days.
If I called the police, I’d no longer be invisible. I’d be a sixteen-year-old who didn’t go to school. A child without a guardian. I’d lose everything and nothing. Mom had always hoped Mo’s family would take me in if something happened to her. Mo’s mother might have agreed, but her dad would never welcome me into their home. After he found out Mom used drugs and that I didn’t go to school, he thought of me as a bad influence on Mo. That wasn’t giving either of us any credit.
“Fuck!” My voice rang out in the silent space.
Leaving was my only real choice. I packed a small duffel bag; a suitcase would have looked suspicious. Jeans, underwear, my Doc Marten boots, a map of Colorado, and the nonperishable foods I’d just purchased. Where did I think I was going with these basics?
I reached behind the television and groped for the envelope that was taped there. I opened it—only forty dollars remained in our emergency fund. I folded the two twenties in half and stuffed them inside the bottom of my sneaker. Maybe I should have kept the meth and sold it. I’d need more money wherever I was going.
I looked back at Mom. I couldn’t leave her like that. In the bathroom, I ran the hot-water tap until it steamed the mirror above it. I held a threadbare washcloth under the stream until it burned my hands, then wrung it out.
My mother’s body shifted slightly when I sat on the bed near her legs. Gently, I washed the grime from her feet, returning to the sink to rinse the cloth when it became soiled.
I turned her onto her back, straightened her arms at her sides, and pulled down her sleeves to cover the needle marks. I lifted her denim skirt and checked. Yep. Panties were in place.
Her mouth hung slack. I didn’t want others to see her stained, crumbling teeth, so I pushed her chin up to close her mouth. It opened again, no matter how many times I tried. I smoothed her hair and tucked still-tangled strands behind her ears. She’d left a pair of gold hoops on the nightstand, so I fastened them to her lobes. I’d bought them from Walmart three years ago for her birthday, and she wore them almost every day. I think she knew I’d shoveled more than a few driveways to be able to afford them.
The clock read 4:30 p.m. when I’d finished.
I wondered if I should stay the night and set out in the morning. It’d be safer here than on the streets, but I couldn’t bear the thought of falling asleep in the same room as my mother’s body.
Burn Girl Page 5
