No way she was walking into that trap.
After stopping off at her locker to grab her phone, she snuck out the side door into the bright sunshine, walking quickly, hoping no one would notice a student going AWOL. Now that she’s safely around the block, she continues to listen to the messages from Hannah, throat tight, heart pounding in her ears.
It’s after nine, where are you?
Theo? What’s going on?
I just talked to Jeremy. He’s really pissed, Theo. Please call.
The last call came in an hour ago:
Jeremy’s on his way. If you’re not here with the money, I don’t know what he’s gonna do. I’m scared. Please call.
Theo tells herself she is not going to feel bad for Hannah. Not going to be worried. Not going to imagine Hannah being slapped around by some money-hungry, drug-crazed asshole.
“She made her choices,” Theo says out loud. She swallows hard. Remembers tracing her fingers over Hannah’s collarbone, down her neck into the small valley at the base of her throat. She remembers resting her fingers there, feeling Hannah’s pulse, being unsettled at how strangely vulnerable Hannah had seemed, naked in her bed, blood thumping under her pale, freckled skin.
“Forget it,” she tells herself and hurries home. She starts desperately looking around the house for money knowing it’s hopeless, that she won’t find more than spare change, but she’s got to try. She tries the pint-size kitchen first, searching the junk drawer, which is full of rusted screws, dead batteries, broken pencils, and some change (pennies mostly); then moves to the hall closet, where she looks through the pockets of coats (she finds an expired bus pass, thirty-two cents, and half a roll of breath mints); and goes to her room and empties her piggy bank (six dollars and twenty-two cents). She’s got the debit card she and her mom share, but that’s linked to Mom’s checking account, which never has much in it at all. Theo is supposed to ask before she uses it to buy anything over ten dollars.
She opens her closet, reaches for the cowboy boots way in the back that she never wears, and pulls out the plastic bag tucked into the left one. It’s where she stores the drugs she doesn’t bring with her to school. There’s not much left—a handful of uppers, a little weed, a couple of eighths of mushrooms. If she sold it all, she’d get maybe a hundred bucks, tops. There’s a small roll of cash stuffed into the toe—the money she’s been saving up to go away with Hannah. She counts it. Sixty-three dollars. She was sure she’d had more. But she’d used it to buy some yarn. And a necklace at the hippie gift shop that Hannah had said looked cute on her. And sweet potato fries at the Koffee Kup. And all the other stupid nickel and dime crap that added up.
“Shit!” she hisses, heading back to the living room.
She starts scanning the apartment for anything of value she might be able to pawn, but there’s nothing. No family silver, no antiques. The jewelry she and her mom wear is all from the dime store and craft fairs, and their TV is old and crappy. Her laptop is pretty ancient, too.
She and her mom don’t have much, but they’ve learned to do just fine in spite of it. None of their dishes match. Their kitchen table wobbles unless you put little squares of cardboard under one of the legs. They’ve had the same couch all her life—a crappy old futon that’s always sliding off the frame and is leaking stuffing in places. Still, she thinks, there are people who have less. Like the Fire Girl. She’d probably walk into the apartment—see the beds, the TV, the food in the kitchen, the warm clothes in the closets—and think Theo had everything.
Theo lets herself imagine the Fire Girl in her apartment. She’d get her bag back. Ask why the Fire Girl killed that guy. Say that she was sure he must have deserved it. “Guys can be such assholes,” she’d say, as if she had experience with such things.
Theo’s cell phone rings. Another call from Hannah.
Deciding she can’t put off the inevitable, she picks up. There’s nothing to do now but tell Hannah the truth: I’ve lost the money. What now?
“Theo?” a male voice snarls.
“Yes,” she says robotically. She knows this voice at the other end. She doesn’t know his face, doesn’t have a clue what he looks like, but his voice she knows. Jeremy. Jeremy, who called Hannah Babe. Just hearing his voice makes her stomach feel like it’s full of snakes. She remembers being in Hannah’s closet, the feel of the clothing on hangers brushing her face and shoulders as she crouched there, listening to this man with the voice kiss the girl she loved.
“Where the fuck is my money?” She can practically feel his spit hit her face, his breath hot as a bull’s.
She takes in a breath. “I don’t have it. It got…lost.”
“Do you think I’m stupid?” Jeremy snarls. “Do you think I’m some kind of fucking idiot?”
“No.”
“Here’s what’s gonna happen, Theo. You’re gonna get me my money. If it’s lost, you’re gonna find it. If you can’t find it, you’re gonna borrow it, steal it, sell your fucking left kidney for it, whatever it takes. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Theo squeaks out. Her legs have turned to rubber and she lets herself sink down onto the couch.
“I knew you would. Hannah says you’re a smart girl,” he says, and the snarl has left his voice; now his tone is teasing, cocky. “You have until tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock. If you’re not at Hannah’s with the money by then, I’ll come looking for you. And trust me, Theo, you do not want me to come looking for you.” He hangs up before she can respond.
Her heart pounds so hard she can feel her whole body vibrate with each beat.
What is she going to do?
She could tell her mother. Go find her at the bank and tell her the whole story, ask her mother to help her come up with the two thousand. Her mom has no savings, but maybe she could apply for a loan, use her credit cards for cash—something. But telling her mother would mean admitting to everything: the drug dealing, having an affair with a college student she’d met at the library (a girl college student, even). It would destroy her mom, who has such a perfect picture of Theo in her mind. Theo, who’s always such a good sport about the long hours Mom has to work to keep the two of them afloat, to keep paying for Catholic school because it’s so much better than sending her to the public schools, where she’d meet the wrong sorts of kids and get a less than wholesome education.
So where does that leave her?
A girl who’s out of choices. A girl who’s got to get herself out of town, as far away as possible. She’ll pack up some things, and disappear. It’s the only way.
She goes into her room, turns on the music, and throws her backpack on the bed.
She starts to pack on autopilot: socks, underwear, jeans, a couple of T-shirts, wool sweater, rain parka, notebook and pen. Ancient, cranky laptop. Her felted knitting bag with her favorite needles, pouch of knitting notions, and assorted yarn. She takes the photo of her and her mom out of the frame and tucks it into the notebook. She grabs the bag of drugs from the boot and pockets the cash. Then she heads to the kitchen, grabs a spoon and fork, can opener (her mom won’t miss it—there’s an electric one on the counter), and a steak knife, which she wraps in a cloth napkin. It doesn’t have the same deadly weapon look the Fire Girl’s knife had, but it’s the best she’s got for now. She searches the cupboards, comes up with a couple of old granola bars, a can of cling peaches, a sleeve of saltine crackers, and an unopened jar of peanut butter. Into the backpack go all her kitchen finds, along with her cigarettes and lighter, lipstick, deodorant, toothpaste, and toothbrush.
She hoists the bag onto her back and is unpleasantly surprised by its weight.
She’ll head to Aunt Helen’s for the night. Aunt Helen is her mother’s aunt, and lives alone in an old house at the edge of town—the house her mom grew up in. Helen never locks the door and is deaf as a stone. Theo is confident she’ll be able to creep right in and find a dark corner to sleep in—Helen will never know. She feels a little bad, taking advantage of an old person, a per
son she’s related to even, but what choice does she have? And it’s not like she’ll be harming Helen in any way.
She heads for the front door, pausing in the kitchen at the dry-erase board on the fridge—this is where she and her mom leave each other notes. Should she write something? What would she say?
Her eyes tear up, and before she can change her mind about all of this, she marches her ass out of the apartment, down the stairs, and out onto the sunlit street; a girl on the run.
Pru
More. More. More. This is the vague threat looming at the edge of the horizon. The crowd is always pleased with how the circus dazzles them, but next time, they want more. Something bigger, better, with stunts even more death defying. They want to see that the fat lady has put on weight and learned to play the accordion. The woman who hangs by her hair has to spin longer, have a few more sequins on her costume. And there must be new acts. Without them, the circus goes stale.
When Pru is at work in the ring, she forgets her other life. She forgets the cruel whispers of the teenage girls on the number 10 bus she takes home from work, how they laugh and sometimes say things like If I ever get even half that size, shoot me. She forgets climbing the two flights of stairs up to her apartment. Her knees screaming; bone on bone, rubbing, grinding. Her chest heaving, her breath whistly, musical. She sweats. God, does she sweat. And her whole body aches. If she had only one of the tiny red pills, then the pain would go away, she’d have energy to do shows all night.
But there are no pills. Pru poked her head around while kids were leaving for the day, scanning the halls, but she never caught sight of Theodora. Pru snuck into the office and got Theodora’s phone number from the files, but it would seem so…so desperate to call her, wouldn’t it?
She doesn’t need the pills after all, she tells herself as she begins her climb up the apartment building stairs. She can do fine without them.
“Rent was due yesterday, Pru,” comes a voice from the first floor. Tiny Wayne, mouse of a man, sticking his head out the door of his apartment. He’s in a stained white undershirt and smells of the Old Grand-Dad bourbon that he sips all day out of a coffee cup.
“Payday’s tomorrow, Wayne.”
“Tomorrow, then. Got to pay the bills, Pru. Got to keep the creditors off my back. People don’t pay their rent, I can’t pay my bills. There’s heat, electricity, insurance, trash. It’s a well-oiled machine. Everyone’s got their role to play.”
“Yes, Wayne. I understand. Tomorrow’s payday. I’ll bring the rent then, I promise.”
Wayne nods up at her and shuts his door. She takes the key from the string around her neck and lets herself into her apartment. Her home. Her haven. Pru’s own little big-top house.
Emmett dances at her feet, warming up. Does his flips, thinking it might earn him a treat.
“Wait a minute, sweet boy. The show’s just about to start.”
Emmett is a black-and-white Jack Russell terrier named for Emmett Kelly, the famous clown. Pru has a picture of Kelly on the wall in the hallway, and sometimes she points to him, tells her little Emmett, This is the master. This is who you were named for. Do right by that name. The circus is full of such legacies.
She has taught Emmett several tricks. He can sit, dance on his hind feet, jump through a hula hoop, and do flips. The flips were the hardest to learn, but now it seems he can’t get enough. He seems to crave dizziness, her Emmett. And he’ll do anything for a hot dog. Oscar Mayer, cut up into little bits. She’s even taught him to do his business in a cat box. Smartest little dog that ever lived.
Pru leaves the golden elephant and the ringmaster to get acquainted and follows Emmett into the kitchen, where she fixes them both a snack. Emmett gets Mighty Dog. Pru has a box of jelly donuts and two glasses of milk. The whole time she eats, she’s thinking of the pills. Of the number at the bottom of her purse.
“Stop it, Prudence Elizabeth Small,” she tells herself in a voice as close to her father’s as she can make it.
“Come on, Emmett,” she calls. “Time to put on our costumes.”
Pru changes in front of the full-length mirror in the bedroom, proud of how easily she fills it. She has caught her breath. Regained her stature. Getting ready for a show always gives her a rush of energy. Her knees feel springy, strong, well oiled. She puts on the tutu and feels light as air. She takes the accordion from its case and straps it across her mammoth chest, pushes a few keys, forces the bellows closed. The note is loud and sure.
The circus has begun.
Pru dances out into the living room to start the show, Emmett at her heels in his ruffed polka-dotted collar and pointed hat with chin strap.
She is a giant, her own kind of God, towering over the three rings she has built in her living room. They are up on a series of tables side by side. It is a perfect model, each detail surviving Pru’s careful scrutiny. All the players are clothespins with painted faces, wire arms, wooden legs, and tiny costumes that Pru has sewn by hand. The cages are wood and wire. The high wire is a string running across the center ring, held up by wooden dowels with matchstick ladders for the acrobats to climb. The two trapezes hang from the chandelier above the center ring. Pru has put colored bulbs in the chandelier for circus ambience. The walls of the living room are covered in circus art she’s collected and collages she’s made. In her favorite, a replica of an actual poster, a fat lady is sprawled on a chair. THE LARGEST LADY ON EARTH! proclaims the sign, and Pru has taken a photo of her own face and pasted it over the other woman’s. The other woman is bigger than Pru, but Pru knows this is nothing. There’s still time. She’s getting there.
“Ladies and gentlemen, children of all ages,” shouts the ringmaster, Wayne, who sways in Pru’s right hand, four inches tall, body of wood, wire, and cloth. “Tonight’s special attraction, the newest addition to our circus family, all the way from the Far East, land of mystery and intrigue, the world’s only golden elephant, Priscilla, a baby, a miracle calf. There is none like her.”
Pru takes the elephant and walks her around the ring while the audience applauds. The vibration of their clapping fills her ears, her heart and lungs, and she breathes easy. She plays a few notes on the accordion, does a clumsy pirouette, and the golden elephant trumpets beside her. Pru squints up at the lights and thinks, See, Daddy, you were right. I’m a star.
She’s off today, missing her cues, not so light on her feet. More! More! More! the crowd chants in her ears, a dull rhythmic throb that starts to make her head and teeth ache.
She stumbles, catches herself on one of the tables, sending an earthquake through the center ring. The lion falls from his perch. The clowns collapse. Even Wayne the ringmaster has toppled. He peers up at her from the ground, a disappointed look in his painted-on eyes, his hat oddly askew.
“Intermission time,” she calls, righting the center ring, picking up Wayne and apologizing, bringing out the clothespin vendors with their carts full of peanuts and popcorn, and bundles of tissue-paper balloons wired to their hands.
She backs away, dabbing at the cool sweat on her forehead. Her legs wobble.
Water. She needs a glass of water. And to sit down for a minute.
And a pill.
Just one pill and she’d be good to go.
She can see it so clearly in her mind, the tiny red dot, like bright candy. Like the candy buttons she used to buy by the roll when she was a child. She can practically taste the pill on the back of her tongue, bitter and slick.
She finds her purse, digs Theodora’s phone number out. Thinking it would be best to call her on her cell, that’s the number she copied from the records in the office. She goes to the phone on the kitchen wall and punches in Theo’s number before she can talk herself out of it.
“Hello?” the girl says. She sounds frantic. Out of breath.
“Theodora? It’s Mrs. Small. From the cafeteria at school.”
She waits. The girl says nothing.
“I was wondering if I could get another delivery. You
know, of the vitamins?”
Theodora blows out a breath, hissing like a dragon into the phone. “Sorry, Mrs. Small, but it’s not a good time.”
“Please,” Pru says. Sweat trickles down her cheeks, tiny rivers cutting through the thick powder she’s put on for the circus. “I could meet you somewhere. I could pay extra. I’ve got money. Whatever you need.”
It’s quiet for another beat. Pru watches as a drop of sweat falls from her forehead to the linoleum floor.
“See, the thing is, I’m kind of in trouble, Mrs. Small.”
“Trouble? What kind of trouble? Tell me, I might be able to help.”
“Bad trouble. There was…an incident. I owe a man some money. And if I don’t get it to him…” Her voice cuts off.
“I can help,” Pru says. “I can get you money.”
Can she? Where? Where on earth is Pru going to get the money? Payday isn’t until tomorrow, and then all of it goes to rent, bills, food for her and Emmett. It’s always so sad, watching it go so fast. Here one minute, gone the next; its own magic trick.
“I don’t think you could get me enough,” the girl says. “Thanks though.”
“You don’t know that,” Pru says. She’s the circus fat lady. Not to be underestimated. “You’d be surprised what I can do. Let me help you. I can give you a loan. A loan in exchange for more vitamins. Let’s at least meet to discuss it. It’s a business proposition. I’d become a sort of silent partner in what you do.” She can hardly believe the words that are coming out of her mouth, but they flow so naturally. And she knows about business. About budgets and numbers. She knows enough to not be taken advantage of. She can help this girl and in the process, help herself. It’s a win-win proposition.
“I don’t— Yeah, okay, maybe,” the girl says. “We could at least meet to talk about it.”
“And you’ll bring more vitamins?”
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