Once Tess was settled on the floor of my closet, she took off her hat, and her hair had enough static in it to start floating up toward my clothes. “Sorry,” she whispered. Her cheeks were still pink from the cold. “I couldn’t get to the Queen before the end of your shift.”
This is what it had come to. She had to come to my window to talk to me, like we were Romeo and Juliet. She couldn’t even call or text. After the Arch Incident, Aunt Jenny checked my phone bill, the one I was paying, every month for Tess’s number, and she said if she saw it again, she’d take it away. It was like taxation without representation. Completely unfair, but what else was new? The plan was expensive, and Tess was the only person I really talked to, so when the contract ran out, I canceled.
I lowered myself to the floor, facing her. Nervous as I was, I was so grateful. She’d come to visit me in prison.
She pushed a sweater sleeve away from her face. “I wanted to tell you I’m going to Puerto Rico tomorrow. My mom has to go there for work, and she’s taking me. It was all kind of last minute. I won’t be back till Friday.”
I couldn’t tell if she was joking. It seemed like a crazy thing to say for a Sunday night in early January. Or anytime, really. But Tess was always getting to go places. The summer before I met her, her parents had taken her to France. She’d been to Holland, too. There’s a picture of her standing in a field of red tulips on the Villalobos refrigerator. I’d been to Kansas, Arkansas, and Oklahoma, but only because their borders are all within an hour’s drive from Joplin. I’d never even been to Illinois, and it was just across the river from Hannibal.
“What about school?” I asked. “You’re going to miss a whole week?”
“My mom said she’d make it educational. She’s going to take me to an art museum in Ponce to see her favorite painting.”
I had to fake a smile. It would be annoying of me to act all pouty and jealous, and I especially didn’t want to act that way in front of Caleb, who was just sitting there and watching us like we were having the most exciting conversation in the history of the planet. But I did feel jealous. I’d never even heard of Ponce, and the city’s name had rolled right off Tess’s tongue. That was probably because of her mom, who’d been an art history major. She’d been a nude model when she was in school and said it was fine, not embarrassing, because it was about art. Now she did indexing for some journal and still packed Tess a lunch every morning before school.
It made me kind of crazy sometimes, to think how different Tess’s life was from mine. She didn’t have to go to Berean Baptist. She had her truck. She lived with her mom and dad. She drove up to see her aunt and uncle in Omaha sometimes, by herself, just because she felt like it. And all because she got born into a different family than I did. That was it. But when I got to feeling too screwed over, I knew to get ahold of myself. I know I’m lucky, relatively speaking. I mean, all kinds of Mexicans and Central Americans were always dying of heat and dehydration trying to cross the border into America through the desert, and that’s when people weren’t going down to shoot at them. And lucky me, I just got to live in this country because it happened to be where I was born. It’s not like I did anything to deserve it. So, you know, everything’s relative.
“I’m sorry,” Tess said. “I didn’t know if I should tell you.” She looked up at Caleb. “Did you know as soon as your sister turns eighteen, we’re going to travel all over the country together? We’re just going to go, for the whole summer. It’ll be like Jack Kerouac, part two.”
Caleb doesn’t know who Jack Kerouac is, but he just said “Really?” and looked excited for me. I was grateful she’d gotten his mind off the Muslims, but I didn’t know what I thought about this Kerouac plan of hers. Tess had been talking about this future road trip for a while, how we were going to go out to California, then up to Washington State, then back across Montana and North Dakota, down to Chicago and then all the way up and east to New England and down again to New York City, because that’s probably where she’d be in college. We’d save the South for a winter trip.
I’d told her I would do it if we could take her truck, or if I could save up enough by then to buy my own. But she had this crazy idea of wanting to hitchhike. She said Kerouac hitched, and so did Bob Dylan. I pointed out they were both men, and that a couple of girls hitchhiking were likely to end up raped and murdered.
“That’s what they want you to think,” Tess argued. By they she meant the media. “They like to keep us scared, making a big deal of the few girl hitchhikers who get killed, and ignoring all the ones who get around just fine.”
I guess she had her own experience to consider. She’d hitched all over Holland no problem. She said lots of people did over there, men and women alike, and that even over here we would be fine, especially if there were two of us. She said the trick was to ask for rides at a gas station, so if somebody said yes, you’d have the chance to check them out and decide if they were drunk or high or a creeper. And you let them see you take a picture of their license plate and text it to somebody, just as a precaution, before you even got in. She said if it would make me feel better, we could just get rides with women, and that Gloria Steinem herself said she didn’t drive because that way the adventures could begin as soon as she left her door.
I don’t know. I knew I could definitely use an adventure. I’d even say I was in desperate need of one. But I’d rather do it in my own car. I was thinking it would take me more than a few minutes of talking at a gas station to know if somebody was dangerous. A person with bad intentions can fake it for a while.
Tess stretched her long legs out of the closet, and a nugget of melting snow slid off the toe of her boot. She looked up at Caleb, and then at me. “So what have you all been up to?”
I glanced at my computer. The screen had gone dark, thankfully. I wasn’t going to bring up the video, or how Caleb had been upset. Tess told me once that she knew some Muslims. Her aunt by marriage in Omaha is black, and she was never Muslim, but she had a couple of black Muslim friends, and then those friends had Muslim friends who were from Syria, either recently or a few generations back. Tess said the Muslims she’d met at her aunt and uncle’s were all fine, even the ones from other countries. But this is coming from someone who’d prefer to get into a stranger’s car when she has her own, who never thinks anything bad will happen to her, probably because nothing ever has.
In any case, I didn’t want her telling Caleb how nice these Muslims in Omaha had been, because he’d just get more upset. He was being quiet, resting his chin on the back of the chair.
“Same old, same old,” I said.
I hated how boring I sounded, but what was I going to say? At school, I sat in my little cube all day, working on Light and Learning. After that, I fried onion rings and french fries for a few hours, unless I got lucky and my manager put me on drive-thru. That all sounded pretty pathetic compared to going to Puerto Rico to see some painting. Plus I was getting nervous. Aunt Jenny could move fast and quiet sometimes, wearing just her socks, and if she came back and found Tess in here, my life would get even worse. She’d probably put an alarm on my window or take my bedroom door off its hinges.
I stood up. Tess got the message and held out her hands for me to pull her up too.
“I’d send you a postcard.” She pulled her cat hat back over her hair. “But I guess I better not.”
“Just bring back some sun.” Through the window, even in the dark, I could see a frozen layer of snow in the yard. “Lucky you. It’s going to be all warm and lovely there, isn’t it?”
She nodded, but she didn’t smile. I shimmied the window open and got Caleb’s sundae out of her way. But she just stood there, looking back at me with her big eyes, the icy air drifting in.
“I wish I could rescue you,” she said. “You’re a whole lot of fun when you’re not stuck in here. But you won’t be stuck in here forever.”
It almost hurt, how good it felt to hear her say that. Sometimes, sitting in my cube, I sta
rted to feel like nobody cared about me at all, except for Caleb, who cared about everyone. And I was glad to know Tess remembered that I’d once been a lot of fun. I felt my eyes go hot, and I lowered my head. I didn’t want Caleb to see me cry either.
“All right,” I said, when I was okay again. “Just come by when you get back. You can send me a postcard in your head. And I’ll send you one from hell.”
After she’d gone, I held the sundae out to Caleb. “You want this or not?”
He nodded and got up to take the cup. I turned back and left the window open for a while, my hand resting on the sill. It was true. I wouldn’t be stuck here, or at Berean Baptist, forever. But a part of me wanted to climb out the window too, right out into the cold night, and just start walking. I didn’t need to go to Puerto Rico. I just wanted a little freedom, to be able to make my own decisions about how I lived. I knew Caleb would forgive me if I left him, because that’s the way he is. I wouldn’t forgive myself, though. And anyway, Aunt Jenny would call the police.
It was a free country, but not for everyone.
“She’s gonna come back,” Caleb said. He was still at my desk, and he paused to slide a spoonful of sundae between his lips. I could tell by the way he’d said the words, like some kind of prophecy, very serious, that he wasn’t talking about Tess. “She is,” he said. “I’ve been praying about it every night. She’s going to come back and get us.”
I didn’t say anything. Even I had hope. If he had his own way of going about hoping, good for him.
And I still think it was just a coincidence. I mean, nothing happened the next day, except the sun came out and melted all the snow. But the day after that, Tuesday, Mrs. Harrison tapped me on my shoulder and said Aunt Jenny was on the phone, and that I could take the call in the office, which is the little room where Jeremiah had been spanked. I was scared, thinking maybe something happened to my mother, but when I got on the phone, it was my mother.
“Act like I’m Jenny,” she said.
“Okay,” I said. Pastor Rasmussen was at his desk. The paddle hung by a hook on the wall. DO NOT SPARE was stenciled in black across the spanking part.
“I’m leaving Denver now, driving.” She sounded out of breath. “Dan turned out to be no good. I’m getting a late start, and I’ll have to stop for the night. I don’t want Jenny to even know I’m coming, so don’t say anything. I know where that crazy school is. Get yourself out by the Kwik Shop on the corner by two o’clock tomorrow. I’ll be there to pick you up, and then we’ll get your brother.”
2
I TOLD CALEB to pack light, to make it look like we were just going to school for the day. I was hoping that we’d have a chance to come back and get the rest of our things—I hated to leave behind my nice clothes that I had worked to pay for. But I was more than a little excited about the next day being my last at Berean Baptist. I’d walk out with nothing if that’s what it took.
Fortunately, the things I really couldn’t leave behind were small enough to get in my backpack. My money didn’t take up much room, though I had over eight hundred dollars saved. I’d been keeping it in a fire-safe file box I’d bought at Walmart, which I’d padlocked to the underside of my bed, tucked up in the box springs so you couldn’t see it unless you got right underneath. I would have kept it at a bank, but they said I needed a guardian to cosign, and then Aunt Jenny would have had access. It’s not that I thought she would steal from me. I don’t think she would. But I didn’t want her watching over. I could cash my paychecks at the 7-Eleven for a dollar, and that seemed a small price to pay for a little privacy.
I packed two shirts, an extra pair of jeans, three pairs of underwear, my pepper spray, my toothbrush, my comb, my fake ID, and the lipstick, mascara, and eyeliner I kept hidden in my closet. I also brought my old phone. It couldn’t make calls anymore, but it still had all my old pictures on it. I thought about taking the computer, as it was small, but Aunt Jenny had paid for it.
Before I went to bed, I wrote a note.
Please excuse Sarah-Mary at 1:50 today. She has a dentist appointment downtown at 2:00, and I told her she could walk, as I’m not feeling well enough to drive.
Sincerely,
Jenny Veer
I was ready to make several attempts with the signature, but it wasn’t that hard to make the big loop on the J the way Aunt Jenny did, and all the e’s like i’s. On the first try, I got it exactly right.
On the ride to school, Aunt Jenny asked Caleb if he was sure he was feeling okay. She was used to me not talking in the morning, but she and Caleb would usually chat on the way. Caleb said he was just tired, and he sounded convincing, even throwing in a little yawn, but when I turned around to look at him over my left shoulder, he had his arms crossed tight in front of him like he was literally holding himself together. The night before, when I’d told him our mom was coming, he’d put his hands flat against his ears and started breathing hard, and I worried he would have some kind of attack. Before I turned forward again, I bulged my eyes at him. I always got dropped off first, so he’d have to keep himself together, and his mouth shut, a while longer.
When we got to Berean Baptist, it looked just like it always did, all the kids still outside in the parking lot, the girls on one side, playing foursquare or waiting a turn with their coats zipped up over their dresses, and the boys on the other playing basketball. But that was fine. After today, I would never have to play another game of foursquare again, or worry about being spanked. I’d never again have to sit in that little cube. I smiled, just thinking about it, and Aunt Jenny must have seen me and misunderstood, because she smiled back and told me she hoped I would have a good day. I could hear in her voice, how high it was, that she was making one of her efforts—Caleb told me she’d told him once that she prayed every night for patience with me, and for understanding. But right then, with the early sunlight coming in through the windshield, I had this weird moment of having understanding for her. She wasn’t wearing any makeup, and her hair was still uncombed, the sides tucked behind her ears.
Looking at her just then, I had a flash of how she must have looked when she was a girl, growing up with my mom, and with their mom, my grandma Sarah, who my mom said used to slap them across the face when she got mad and who was always telling them they were stupid. And now Aunt Jenny, who’d lived through all that, was sitting in the front seat of her car and looking at me so kindly that I started to feel bad for her. She was probably wondering why I wasn’t getting out, but she just kept smiling, blinking at me with her thin-lashed eyes, and I could see clearly then that she really did think she was helping me and Caleb, and that she thought of herself, with all her rules, as a force for good in our lives. And this afternoon she would come to Berean Baptist to pick me up only to find out I was gone, which would be embarrassing for her. Soon after that, she would learn that even sweet Caleb had looked right at her and lied.
Still, what had to be done had to be done. I thanked her for the ride, nodded at Caleb as I climbed out, and told Aunt Jenny that I hoped she had a good day too, even though I knew that by around three o’clock, her day wouldn’t be good at all.
But I guess I got back what I gave, and then some. Because I didn’t know it then, but I wasn’t about to have a good day either, or even like any kind of day I’d known before.
At 1:15, I put my Christian flag up on top of my divider and waited for Mrs. Harrison to come over. When she did, I gave her the note.
She frowned. “I didn’t hear anything about this, Sarah-Mary. And why’re you just giving this to me now?”
I looked down at my hands, and then up at the Christian flag, still poked into my divider. “I’m embarrassed to say,” I said.
She crossed her arms and leaned in closer. “What is it?” Today, her breath smelled like cigarettes and also the minty gum she was chewing fast.
“I was going to tell my aunt I forgot about my appointment. I’m scared of the dentist.” I looked down again. “I don’t want to go. But then
I felt bad about lying.”
I kept looking down, waiting out the silence. I’d thought I’d said it just right, but it was sometimes hard to know.
Mrs. Harrison clicked her tongue. “Well. I’m glad you changed your mind about lying. And I understand. I don’t like the dentist either.” Her nose wrinkled. “My teeth aren’t so good.”
She didn’t show me her teeth or anything, but still it felt like opposite day: everybody who was always mean had suddenly decided to be nice and kind of sad seeming, the very day I had to lie to them.
“They always look fine to me,” I said.
She frowned again, squinting at the note. “This is pretty unusual, just getting a note like this. Seems like your aunt should have called.”
“You can call her if it’d make you feel better,” I suggested. “You’ve got her number?”
I held her gaze, no problem. I’d anticipated this part of the conversation, which is why that morning, when Aunt Jenny was in the bathroom, I’d put her phone in airplane mode.
“That’s okay. I believe you.” She gave me a closed-lipped smile.
By 1:50, I was out the door, heading down the metal steps. I made myself walk slow and steady across the parking lot, but I was wincing the whole time, waiting for Mrs. Harrison or Pastor Rasmussen to open the door and yell at me to come back, or even rush down the steps to apprehend me. But no one did. As soon as I cleared the corner, I started to run like I was in a prison-break movie, my backpack bouncing behind me.
American Heart Page 3
