True Love Way

by Mary Elizabeth

  I look away from Penelope’s curtain-covered window and turn toward my sister. Sopping wet rainbow hair dribbles color-tinted water to her feet. Soaked clothes stick to her skinny body, and black mascara is smeared all around her eyes.

  “What happened to you?” I laugh, pulling my beanie over my head.

  “The Beetle won’t start. I tried to fix it, but I think I made it worse.” She shrugs, wringing her hair on my carpet.

  “Is it raining?”

  She shakes her head. “No, but it’s wetter than a whore’s panties.”

  I kick my sister a towel from the floor and grab my backpack before passing her at my bedroom door. She smells like dank grass and smoke, and after getting a closer look, Risa’s eyes are bloodshot, and the smile on her lips is lopsided.

  “I’ll ride my bike,” I utter.

  Under the influence holds up two fingers and replies, “Peace.”

  Waterlogged grass squishes under my shoes as I walk through my lawn over to Penelope’s. My breath turns white with each exhale, and the pulse inside my chest speeds up when I approach the front door.

  Since the week of our thirteenth birthday, I have lost count of the amount of days Pen’s seat has sat empty in class.

  The weather keeps us from riding to school on bikes and blades, like we do when the sun’s out, so most days I don’t know if Pen’s going to show up until the pledge starts and she’s not at my side. Other mornings, like today, when the rain stops long enough for me to make it onto her porch, I’m told excuse after excuse.

  “She’s got a touch of the flu,” Sonya lies.

  “Pen has a doctor’s appointment today, honey.”

  “My little girl’s staying home, but will you get her homework?” she’s said with a forced smile.

  I cross my fingers behind my back and knock.

  Mrs. Finnel opens the door, oversized in king-sized sweats and a sweatshirt. The normal fake grin she usually greets me with is missing, and the bags under her eyes are dark enough to pass as bruises.

  Sonya exhales heavily and drops her shoulders before moving to the side to let me inside the house.

  “Maybe you can get her out of bed, Dillon,” she says with exhaustion in her voice. “Because nothing we do is working.”

  I pull the beanie off my head and stand at the bottom of the stairs, unsure of what to do. Penelope’s mother closes the door with her foot, shutting out the dim natural light. The house is closed up, stuffy with wet-scented air blowing out of the heater vents. With the exception of the chugging coffee maker, it’s silent.

  “You can go up there,” Mrs. Finnel says. She walks toward the kitchen. “Wayne isn’t here, sweetie.”

  The man of the house made his rules very clear to me when I started to come over on a regular basis: Stay out of Penelope’s bedroom, and don’t ever touch my television control.

  “I’ll know if you do, boy. I’m always watching,” he said.

  Ape-man doesn’t know about the first time I was in Pen’s room, and Sonya keeps him in the dark about the few times she’s let the rule slide. The door has to stay open, and we only listen to music and flip through Rolling Stone magazines—it’s blameless.

  This feels different.

  The door is cracked, and I can see the shape of her body under a pile of blankets on the bed before I step into her bedroom. The purple curtains that hang over her window are tightly closed, and Pen’s room is nearly pitch-black.

  A part of me wants to tear the drapes down entirely for keeping me from this girl, but I only open them enough to let some gray light in.

  “Penelope,” I whisper from the edge of her bed.

  Mostly hidden deep beneath quilts and sheets, deep-set in a cotton pillow, she inhales and exhales soundlessly, and there’s dark hair fanned across her face. Her chocolate-covered eyes move behind her thin, blue-veined lids, and the roundness of her cheeks flushes pink.

  “It’s time to get up,” I say a little louder.

  The laziest girl in the world rolls to her side, but doesn’t wake up.

  I tug the blankets away from her face, exposing the length of her throat and the tops of her bare shoulders. More of Pen’s long hair lies across her prominent collarbones, and her rosy lips part.

  A flash of heat forces me to take a step back.

  Instead of touching her again, I kick the bed. “Get up,” I say boldly. “We’re going to be late for school.”

  Nothing.

  “Pen.”

  “Pen.”

  “Penelope!”

  She snores.

  I kick.

  Her forearm slumps above her head.

  She snores again.

  “Please, wake up,” I finally beg, taking a chance and touching her side.

  Long eyelashes flicker against her lightly freckled cheeks, so I shake sleeping beauty. Softly at first, but with more force once her eyes strain to open. Grogginess triumphs, and then not even rocking this girl makes a difference.

  Taking a step back, I spot a glass of water on her nightstand and consider dumping it onto her face when Pen pulls the blankets over her head. Ten little, red-painted toes show at the end of her mattress, curling in before they relax. Small ankles and exposed calves make me so nervous I almost run out of the room. Instead, I pull all the blankets off the heaviest sleeper I know.

  She’s sleep lines and pink panties.

  I squeeze my eyes so tightly shut I may never open them again. Blind and searching for a way to escape, I hold my hands out in front of me and quickly shuffle toward where I think the door is. My shoe kicks the bedframe, and I trip over my backpack.

  She’s soft-spoken and curious.

  “Dillon, what are you doing?” Penelope asks. There’s a drop of laughter in her sleepy tone.

  Sonya said the room Nazi isn’t home, but it would be just my luck that Wayne would show up while I’m in his daughter’s room when she’s in nothing but a sleep gown and underwear. While most of me wants to see her face because it’s been a few days, the tiny part that wants to live shoves me toward the door.

  She’s begging and sad-sounding.

  “Don’t leave me,” Pen says tenderly.

  I stop, but don’t turn around. I don’t open my eyes.

  “I had a dream that you were here,” she says. “Then some soulless jerk pulled all the blankets off me, and it was you.”

  “You haven’t been at school,” I say in the dark.

  The springs in her mattress bounce and squeak, and I listen to her yawn.

  “You can turn around,” she says.

  Penelope sits on the edge of the bed; her bare feet dangle an inch above the carpet. She has tangled hair and dark circles under eyes that are almost as shady as the ones below her mom’s. The pale-yellow nightie covers every inch of skin to her knees, and this girl is slouched, like she’s about to collapse back into dreamland.

  “I came to walk you to school,” I say.

  Drowsiness yawns again as she stretches her long arms above her head, but then she stands to her feet. My nervous heart pounds against the inside of my chest.

  “Throw me those jeans,” Penelope says. She points to the pile of clothes on the floor beside the door.

  I toss the faded denim to her and turn around as she slips them up her legs.

  “I need a shirt and a hoodie,” she says. The zip of her zipper zipping makes me nervous all over again.

  Passing her whatever from the pile, I say a quick prayer to the man above when she goes into her closet to change. While she’s in there, I straighten out her bed and fluff the pillows. My mouth feels like it’s full of cotton, so I drink the glass of stale water I almost used to wake Pen with in one gulp.

  Penelope comes out of the closet with the hoodie on, but with the actual hood tucked in. Her hair is stuck inside with it, and the hoodie’s string is pulled longer on one side than the other. Expressionless with her palm over where her heart beats, this impossible girl sits on the bed and looks up at me with helpless
eyes and sweat above her lip.

  “I don’t know if I can go,” she says. “You have no idea how hard it was to get dressed.”

  I set the glass down and ask, “What’s the matter?”

  She’s shrugging shoulders and tight lips.

  Searching around the room for anything that might help, my eyes land on the most obvious answer. She’s surrounded by the things that make everything better, but they’re out of reach from the bed I have a feeling she hasn’t really left since the last time I saw her.

  Red frames fit snugly above her ears and on the bridge of her nose, and black lenses cover her glossy eyes. I pull her long hair out of her hoodie, and set the hood straight. After correcting the strings, I straighten the sleeves and pull it away from her neck so she can breathe.

  “Better?” I ask.

  This girl wipes sweat from her face with the back of her hand and nods.

  Her hair is bedhead knotted, and if it was the weekend and we were only headed to the beach or for a hike in the woods, I wouldn’t mention it. But I don’t want Pepper to have more reasons to make fun of her, and Penelope’s still a girl. She cares about how she looks.

  I think.

  While she puts her socks and shoes on, I sit behind Pen in bed and brush the tangles out of her hair.

  “You better not tell Herb and Kyle I’m doing this,” I say, pushing the bristles through her wavy strands.

  Her laugh is small, but it makes me feel ten feet tall.

  Her hair seems fluffy, but she doesn’t look in the mirror at all while she brushes her teeth. Slowly fading sleep lines mark the side of her face, and dirty untied shoelaces almost trip her as she walks.

  I follow her down the stairs with our backpacks over my shoulder. Pen holds on to the rail with both hands, stopping every couple of steps like this is actually painful for her. She glances up at me, and I can see her dark, wide eyes over the red rims of her sunglasses.

  There’s something wrong with this girl, but I don’t know what it is.

  “Baby, you’re out of bed.” Sonya, who was staring out into space as we came down the stairs, slowly lowers her coffee mug.

  She carries her large body around the counter and approaches us before bringing Penelope into her arms. Her daughter lays her head on her mother’s shoulder and exhales softly. I stand back, unsure of what to do, while Sonya soothes her only child by running her hand down the length of her fuzzy hair.

  Mrs. Finnel turns her face into the side of sorrow’s head and whispers, “Are you sure you want to go to school today?”

  Pen nods.

  Sonya takes a deep breath and stands straight, pushing her daughter out in arm’s length. They go back and forth about the need for breakfast, and what about lunch? The older of the two offers to drive, but Penelope wants to walk.

  As Pen and I rush out the front door, she refuses instant oatmeal and a bruised banana.

  “Mom, I don’t want anything. I just want to get to school,” she insists, closing the door behind us.

  The dim outside light doesn’t bring much out in Pen’s complexion. She’s almost as gray as the dense clouds hovering above the tops of trees, and moisture in the air makes her fluffy hair frizzy.

  She’s reaching for her rollerblades when a drop of rain plummets from above and lands on my forehead; smaller ones mist my face.

  “Crap,” Pen starts. “It’s going to rain again.”

  “The sidewalks are under water. You shouldn’t blade anyway,” I say, wiping away raindrops from my face.

  She shoves her sunglasses to the top of her head and meets my eyes with large pupils and tears that are about to fall heavier than the rainstorm. With her palm on her forehead, Penelope rests against the house and says, “I’m not really up for a ride in the car, Dillon. Maybe I should stay home.”

  “Wait here,” I say, running through the sloshy lawns, past my sister’s mint green Volkswagen, and up my front porch where my bicycle is posted against the rail.

  Rubber tires bounce down wooden steps and roll across puddles and wet grass. A light sprinkle becomes a heavy drizzle in the minute it takes me to ride my bike over to Penelope. I have to get this girl out of here before Sonya realizes the sky is about to open.

  I’m not up for a ride in the car either.

  “Jump on,” I say with my bike between my legs. My backpack sits high on my shoulders.

  Penelope lets her red shades fall back over her eyes, and she actually smiles. “Where do I sit?”

  “Right here.” I pat the handlebars.

  “Are you sure?” she asks. Pen swings her book bag over her shoulder and walks this way.

  I keep the bike steady as my neighbor steps onto my front tire and sits on the chrome handlebars. Her bag hits me in the face, and the sudden weight change wobbles both of us. My passenger screams, leaning too far to the right, and then too far to the left.

  “Stay straight.” I laugh, standing to give us a push-start.

  Beside mine, her knuckles turn white from gripping the bar so tightly. As we pick up speed, Penelope’s hair tickles my face, and the drizzle turned heavy shower soaks our clothes and falls into our eyes.

  She’s loud laughter and pretty smiles.

  “Go faster, Dillon. Faster!” she shouts as we race down the street.

  We run over pond-like puddles, washed-up sticks and leaves, and the back tire kicks up wet dirt and small rocks. The bottoms of my shoes press hard into my bicycle pedals, and the muscles in my legs burn.

  I breathe in her laughter and rainwater.

  Penelope tilts her head toward the clouds and extends her arms at her sides.

  Swerving my bike side-to-side, misery turned easiness soars like a bird.

  Mrs. Alabaster can’t get rid of us fast enough.

  On the last day of school, she shoos Penelope and me out of class, throwing our report cards at our backs as we run down the hallway one last time. Rushing through double doors, we race toward the bike rack where my bicycle’s locked up.

  She and I breathe in bona fide summertime air and ride away together over speed bumps through the parking lot—officially high school students. After ditching the rollerblades for good, Pen flies on my handlebars every day she’s well enough to roll herself out of bed in the morning.

  Completely trusting me not to wreck, she extends her arms like wings and angles her face toward the sun. The girl, who keeps me up for entire nights at the window, shouts the same words every time we ride.

  “Faster, Dillon. Pedal faster!”

  Wind that smells like pollen flows through her long, wavy hair. Bright sunshine makes each brown strand look almost red. Penelope’s laughter’s a tune that’s been stuck in my head for months, and I’m glad to choke on pollen-scented, nearly red hair to hear it.

  The swish, swish, swish of rubber tires striding over pavement gets louder the closer Herbert and Mathilda catch up to us from behind. Penelope glances over her shoulder, and I look up to see sunlight shine through the yellow lenses of her yellow star-shaped sunglasses. Peach-colored lips curve up as our competition passes by. She and the redhead reach out for each other, touching fingertips—The Handlebar Sisterhood.

  Sailing on his skateboard, Kyle grips onto Herb’s backpack and rolls with him.

  “Hold on,” I say to Penelope over the sound of speed.

  At the mercy of natural instinct and memory of the street I’ve lived on my entire life, I stand up and lean down low. I squeeze my eyes closed and draw power from every muscle in my body to turn pedals around faster. My passenger’s high-pitched scream drives me to thrust harder, go faster; sweat drips down the side of my face, and my lungs starve for air.

  We pass our rivals, and Pen shouts, “Suckers!”

  They blast past my house as I slow down and sail into the driveway, triumphant but out of breath.

  Pen jumps off my bars, and I drop the bike over oil stains before collapsing onto the grass, gasping for oxygen. Stars for eyes stands over me, blocking the sun. She ha
s our report cards in her right hand and a fading smile on her lips.

  “I should look at this before my parents ask for it,” she says, crumpling beside me.

  I’m not surprised to see a few A’s have lowered to B’s, and once perfect attendance is now marked with tardiness. My citizenship is no longer excellent, and there’s a small note for my parents in the comment box.

  I am concerned about Dillon’s recent behavior and decline in academic urgency. He’s often tired in class and easily distracted. Mr. Decker turns his assignments in late, and his quality of work suffered in the end. May I suggest he work hard on his summer reading list and concentrate on preparing for high school? If he can stay on track, Dillon has a very bright future ahead of him.

  Penelope’s barely passing report card also has a note from Mrs. Alabaster.

  Summer school.

  “That’s not happening,” the almost flunkie says, shoving her bad grades into her book bag.

  Later, after my parents chew me out about my report card, I’m sent to my room for the rest of the night. They don’t know there’s nowhere else I’d rather be, and I go willingly, faking shame. Penelope’s waiting for me, waving her small hand. We don’t move for hours.

  CAN YOU USE THE PHONE?

  From her bedroom window, Pen reads the note I press against the warm glass, and she shakes her head. It’s after two in the morning and my vision blurs, but I eat candy bars and drink cans of soda to stay awake.

  NO, her note replies.

  I sketch a sad face and hold it up for her to see.

  This is our nightly routine. Penelope’s sluggish during the day because she can’t sleep at night, and I raid the kitchen for whatever sweet foods and drinks we have so I can stay up with her. More times than not, I crash when my sugar does, but sleeplessness can stay up until the sun rises.

  Those nights usually lead to the days she doesn’t go to school.

  Not always.

  Sometimes she’s too sad to get out of bed.

  GO TO SLEEP, she writes.

  Sipping the bottom of a warm, flat soda, I ignore the note like I do every time she holds it up and crush the aluminum in my hand. I toss it onto my dresser with the other ones I’ve finished tonight. Months ago, I changed my room around so that my bed sits under the window. The mattress beneath me only feels like it becomes softer as the minutes slowly tick by. My eyelids are heavy, and my eyes burn between drawn-out blinks. I yawn, and from here I can see Penelope sigh.