Ever since Seung aced the driving test—on the first try, by the way—he acts like he’s my personal chauffeur. As much as I’d love Seung to pick me up every time I metaphorically hail a cab, my life doesn’t operate like that, you know, on want and desire. Besides, Seung’s acting suspicious. First questioning my internet usage, then begging to get himself killed. Now, insisting on driving me home.
“I’ll drop you off at the trailer-park entrance, then. Watch you walk to your door. Make sure you get in safe.”
“No, Seung!” I slap the seat, harder than I should. “You’re not hearing me. I said behind the school.” Read the memo, Seung. Chivalry’s dead.
Seung bites his lip. “Fine,” he mumbles.
More silence, except for the engine purr as we turn onto the gravel road behind the high school. He stops near the red-cinder track and I zip my jacket, slide my phone into my pocket, and open the door. The crisp high-desert breeze blows my hair into my face, and suddenly I’m colder than I was at the park. I whip around to tell Seung I’m sorry, that I wish he’d refused to stand up to Toby, that I hope he wasn’t showing off for Bea, and that I wish he’d run when his ass was almost pancaked. But I clamp my lips shut, because he’s staring straight ahead. Probably wondering why I’m refusing a doorstep delivery.
“I’ll see you tomorrow?” I ask, and wait.
After a long pause, Seung nods and rubs his forehead, still staring at the road in front of him. I push the door closed with my hip and walk toward the track, pretending to march to my fictitious trailer park.
Gold Nugget crawls to the first cross street and stops. Seung taps the brakes, and the taillights fill up the road. I stop, too, and wait, longing for Seung to put the car in reverse, back up, and shout, “Get in, Linden! Drive around with me again.” I imagine us falling asleep beneath the black sky. Snuggling to keep warm.
After several seconds, the car crunches gravel and the turn signal flashes. I stand in the middle of the road and wait for Seung’s car to hit the highway, and then I backtrack toward the chain-link school gate.
My stomach rumbles and my temples pound. It’s not so much the idea of the night ahead that bothers me as it is the hours behind me. Seung standing up for himself. Seung begging to drop me at my doorstep. Seung, in general.
I hate lying to my best friends. Spending the night huddled on a wood bench in the dugout is easy compared to camouflaging the truth.
And there’s also first period tomorrow morning. My ass-sucking class with Bea & Associates. Reed probably won’t notice me, but Bea and Beth and Toby won’t forget tonight. Especially after trying to scare-kill us.
When I reach the baseball dugout, I push the button on my phone to check the time. Two hours before the next security check. I pull my notebook from my backpack and light it up with my phone.
I write:
Seung = 1 dinner. 1 slushie. 1 car ride home.
I tuck my knees to my chest and cover them with my jacket. I wrap my arms around my legs, lean against the plywood, and close my eyes.
Visions motorcade through my brain.
Because I’m exhausted. Because I’m huddled in a corner. Because I often remember, even—and especially—when I want to forget.
There’s Mama with her feral curls and lipstick I want to smudge like finger paint.
There’s five-year-old me.
Hush, Linden. Time for sleep.
Yes, Mama. (I’m whispering to her. My head bobs up, then down.)
No talking, remember? He’ll hear you. You have to keep silent.
Yes, Mama.
When you close your eyes, you disappear. You can’t see anyone. No one can see you.
Yes, Mama.
I haven’t yet learned to question anything she says. Haven’t learned that Mama’s right only sometimes.
Something rattles behind the dugout and I jump off the bench, ready to grab my bag and run. A cat shoots across the field.
I exhale relief and scan the track for moving shadows. I tuck myself back into the corner of my wood shelter, yearning for a restful night, but every few minutes the wind blows and my eyes pop open.
I’ve trained myself to hear every sound, even while I’m asleep. This year has heightened my senses—made me smell more, feel more, see more. I smell the dash of vanilla Mrs. Rhee used in her cookies, the hint of lemon left on Seung’s skin after he’s showered. I feel the weather shift from autumn to winter with one breeze, the warmth of velvet when the theater curtains cloak my legs. And tonight, when I shut my eyes, I see headlights. Toby’s headlights, Seung’s headlights, a patrol car’s headlights. I snap open my eyes.
Shit.
I crouch on all fours and crawl along the bench toward my bag. The patrol car flips a U-turn on the back road. Twenty seconds to do what I need to do. Run.
I stuff my notebook into my bag and race toward the fire escape on the other side of the school. I turn once for a status check. The cop car stops; the door opens. Headlights illuminate the track and make it look like day.
I sprint toward the dark side of the moon. If I avoid light, he won’t see me.
At the fire escape I flatten my body against the brick. I’m not sure there’s enough time to run up the stairs and check the door. Something I should have done when Seung dropped me off.
I grab the railing and speed-walk the stairs on tiptoes, so the metal doesn’t clank. At the top, I hear the patrol car’s engine idle, then hum. He’s back in the car, heading my way.
I jerk the door handle, and as expected, it’s locked. I drop to my knees and pat the metal grate until I find the wedge of wood I normally use to prop the door open. I stuff it into my pocket to avoid leaving clues, then hop to my feet and haul ass down the stairs, jumping two at a time.
I stick the landing with both heels digging deep into the dirt. I crouch in the dark spot beneath the fire escape and hold my breath while the police car creeps alongside the building. I drop to my knees and elbows and slink beneath the stairs, pausing until the car stops, the door shuts.
According to schedule, the officer will check the gym and fire escape first. I listen for boots on metal. Sometimes, depending on who the officer is, I won’t hear footsteps. Deputy Boggs, despite his 350-pound frame, insists on checking the fire-escape door, but his partner, only tipping the scales at 120 after a plate of spaghetti, won’t risk becoming breathless.
Pound-clank-pound-clank. Officer Boggs. Nice. I can outrun him if necessary.
I wait until Boggs reaches the top of the stairs and count.
One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand, four one thousand, FIVE.
I sprint to the far side of the building, slipping into my backpack as I pump my arms. It feels good to run, with the cold breeze blowing sweat beads from my forehead, clearing my clouded mind. My adrenaline surges. The run makes me reckless, my moves less calculated.
This is our nightly cat-and-mouse game of tag, except Deputy Boggs is always it and doesn’t know we’re playing. I move, he moves, I move, he moves. Every night that I don’t make it indoors, the game is on. I dart toward the building one last time and huddle under the fire escape until the patrol car pulls away. I wait an extra twenty seconds just in case Deputy Boggs makes a sudden stop.
And so commences my night of hiding in plain sight.
I trudge to the wood shelter, kicking rocks along the way. Not long until I’m forced to wake wide-eyed, ready for class.
I cover my knees with my coat, wishing for the theater curtains as I fall against the dugout wall, and anticipate another nightmare.
When I wake, the morning sun wraps me in a blanket of warmth and softens my stiff back. I shake my limbs to loosen the last drops of adrenaline in my blood, then press out the wrinkles in my pants. The seams push at the hips, ever since my body decided it wanted to become a woman. As soon as I collect another ten bucks from my cleaning gig at Bea’s, I’ll snag heavier jeans from a yard sale before winter. Maybe something denim, corduroy. Another scarf, too
. I run my fingers through my hair to work out the webs of tangles and pinch my cheeks for color.
In thirty minutes the buses will back from the barn. If I’d chosen to live in a larger town, even a city, I could sleep in like normal kids, maybe hit the snooze two or three times. But in the wide-open spaces of central Oregon, some students live on ranches in the middle of nowhere and the bus drivers begin routes at the crack of dawn. It takes time to drive from Bumfuck, Oregon, to Bumfuck, Oregon.
My summer schedule was less complicated than the school year. Last summer, I’d slink out in the mornings and return late afternoon without notice. Most teachers vacate or work from home in late June through August. It’s only the overly dedicated ones like Mr. George who cause problems. They work hard, and by hard, I mean they show up unannounced at all hours of the day. After careful observation, though, you learn their schedules and predictabilities. Even teachers are creatures of habit, and I’ve become a master of other people’s itineraries.
I kick my leg onto the wood bench and stretch my hamstrings. I need circulation, more heat, so I jog in place for several seconds before realizing how ridiculous I look. I smooth over the dirt footsteps as I traipse backward to the grass. If I take my time and walk the long block encircling the school, I will blend in, looking like I was dropped off early for class. I might even be able to convince an early-arriving teacher to let me inside to use the restroom before the bell rings. I hate using the dugout “bathroom.” Even animals don’t shit where they sleep.
I climb onto one of the cement platforms at the front of the school. It’s where cool kids sit when they arrive, but cool kids wouldn’t be caught here this early in the morning. Instead they’re at home enjoying a steamy shower, eating a balanced breakfast. That’s how I define the word cool.
I lean against the wood beam and tap my phone, pretending to check something, anything, when Principal Falls, I mean Falsetto, marches up the front steps.
“Early morning, Linden,” she asks more than says.
“Yes, ma’am. My stepdad needed to get on the road.”
She tilts her head and looks at me sideways. I make eye contact with my phone. I won’t bother asking if I can use the bathroom. Her answer never varies. Now is probably not the best time to ask about her sister, either, or why the two were discussing my home address. I’m not sure there is a good time for that talk.
Cars pull into the parking lot. Coach Jenkins and Mr. George exchange good-mornings, and Coach jogs to the front of the building. Shouldn’t he be using the gym door? The portal to his kingdom. He bobs up the steps, and by bob, I mean full-body-belly bounce, in classic coach form. Chicken-bone legs, bell-shaped belly. Coach looks my way, but since I don’t play football, his glance is abbreviated. I won’t ask him to use the bathroom. He’d just grunt and bang his knuckles on the steps.
Mr. George is my best possibility. My boss, English teacher, mentor. Plus, he wears T-shirts that say Love Is Love and doesn’t care what small-town parents whisper behind his back. To me, Mr. George is like Seung, a work of art in a humdrum school.
“Good morning, Linden,” Mr. George says, jogging up the steps. He flashes his teeth and I’m all over it.
I leap from the platform and tag behind him.
“Mr. George? May I use the restroom? I’ve been here awhile and my bladder’s about to burst.” Not to mention my bowels.
Mr. George glances at his watch, nods, and winks. Normally I use the restroom before anyone arrives. Make sure my hair’s in place and my face is fresh. But this morning’s schedule is out of whack. Sleeping outside wrecks my day if I let it. Mr. George motions for me to move fast, make it quick, and just as I’m slipping inside, Principal Falsetto opens the door, heading back to her car.
“Oh, Linden,” she says, each word increasing in octave. “You know the rule.”
I spin around on my heel and sigh. “No students indoors before the buzzer,” we sing in unison.
I shuffle back to the platform, watching the principal return with her briefcase. She nods in my direction and I shoot her a scowl. She’s not really looking at me anyway.
Thirty minutes until everyone arrives. I wish Seung and Ham would show up earlier, but it’s not their habit. Since Seung started driving, they kill time at the convenience store or zigzag side streets until first period. Last year their parents dropped them off at school on their way to work, so I never sat alone for long.
Bea drives up in her convertible. It’s tan and white and never topless. Her hair might tousle and that would blow. Her convertible doesn’t fool anyone. She’s not rich. No one in this blue-collar town has money, or a lot of it, except Ham’s white-collar parents. Bea always pretends to be something she’s not. I mean, her mom pays me twenty bucks to clean their entire house. The rates suck, but they pay for cans of refried beans, peanut butter, and minutes on my phone. Bea’s convertible is fifteen years old and the paint’s overwaxed.
Kristen arrives in her mom’s minivan. She slips into her backpack, scoops a stack of books from the backseat. I watch as Beth climbs out of Bea’s car. They exchange hi’s and fake smiles with Kristen, then beeline toward me with Bea leading the march. I shoot my chin down, poking around the cracked screen on my phone.
“You’re unfortunately alive,” Bea barks, walking up the steps.
“I am,” I say, still staring at my phone. “Thanks for noticing.”
Beth stops behind Bea, awaiting her next move, and Kristen waves and nods in my direction before walking into the school like she owns the place.
Someone yells, “Hey! Where are you going?” and Kristen snaps, “I don’t just go to school. I work here, too.”
Bea’s not budging. She’s busy scanning me and my slushie-stained shoe. I kick one leg over the other and smile. She shakes her head, laughs, and says, “Nice hair.” She clutches her nose and keeps the compliments flying. “I can smell you from here.” She squeezes her nostrils. “Used tampons and campfire.”
Beth gut laughs and Bea squints her eyes at me, then hikes her backpack onto her shoulder and stomps off, with Beth walking like a cadet behind her.
Sometimes I piss myself off. I’m slow with comebacks, especially in the morning. They fully form in my brain but refuse the ride to my mouth. I’d like to tell Bea her lip is healing nicely, her boyfriend is a douche, and we all know her bullshit secret. But my own secret’s more important. Besides, Bea’s pain surfaces, with or without my comeback. Slinging sarcasm would only make me feel better for a moment. But sometimes, I live for that moment.
I brush my hand over the top of my hair and feel a crunch. When I shake my head, a leaf falls onto my thigh. There’s the campfire Bea was talking about, ready to ignite. I twist my hair into a knotted bun, lick my fingers, and smooth my eyebrows.
Just as I’m completing my makeover, Reed drives front and center into an unmarked parking spot. The one with his name written in invisible ink. The one no one else dares park in, ever. It’s not like he’d hurt them or anything, but at this school it’s all about respect. Some argue the qualifications for admiration are predetermined. One flaw, one false perception, and you’re swept from the top shelf. Except that some students at the top don’t seem to want to be there, and those at the bottom aren’t fully aware of the ceiling they’re up against. Well, except for Bea and Beth. They seem to savor their bird’s-eye view of Hinderwood High. But like everyone else, they, too, strive for departure. I’m just here to learn and get the hell out before anyone finds out I live here.
Reed waits on his bike for what seems an eternity. Bea’s friends glance over at him two thousand times while tugging their shirts and skirts into even tighter form fits. I don’t know why Bea dumped Reed and fell face-first into Toby’s brutish arms. She always has one eye on Reed, that’s for sure. She won’t stop watching him. Maybe she’s bent on making him jealous. But at what cost?
Bea catches me staring and shoots another eye dart. I force a smile. The sting hurts no matter how hard I pretend it doesn�
�t.
Tires squeak and my knights in shiny gold armor finally appear. Seung and Ham sail through the parking lot, gliding Gold Nugget over speed bumps at moderate velocity. Seung drives like he’s seventy, centering the Volvo in the middle of two spaces to protect the paint job in the unlikely event someone slams a door into his prized possession.
I jump from the cement platform as the bell rings. Everyone stampedes for the front doors. My belly pinches and cramps and reminds me I need a bathroom in the worst way. But I push the pain aside and wait outside for the guys.
“Linden,” Ham says. “You’re looking boyish as always.”
I squeeze a smile out of the side of my mouth. God, am I happy to see them. So happy, in fact, that I grab Ham’s neck and he grabs Seung’s and we squish together while Ham recites his morning epigram: “Time for a Ham sandwich.”
Seung pushes Ham back, clearly not ready for our morning mash, and I stumble into the back of Reed Clemmings.
“Hey,” he says. “Watch it.”
I whip around and try to act aloof. “Whoops. Didn’t mean to, you know, do that.” And then I smile because Reed has that effect on people, on girls, and I guess that’s what I am, contrary to what Ham says. But who the hell cares? Can’t a girl smile at a hot guy if she wants to without it meaning something? It means nothing. I mean, does it?
Reed smiles with his eyes. “No problem here.” He licks his bottom lip and I feel sort of squeamish. He looks different than he did when he blocked my exit, more relaxed, composed, and he smells like the inside of a department store—espresso beans stacked on scented soap. Now I smell the same. Clean. Caffeinated. And—I’m not going to lie—damn good.
The crowd pushes and shoves, and Reed steps to my side. He reaches into my hair and picks out a piece of bark. I repeat, Reed Clemmings reaches into my hair and picks out a piece of bark. He rubs it between his fingers, smiles, and flicks it over my head.
I give him the guy nod that says I’m cool with him reaching into my hair uninvited. I think?
Where I Live Page 6
