Bea and Beth jump into the cab of the truck and slam the door. I tighten my fingers on the handle in case I need to hop out and save Seung’s life, but Toby turns and walks toward Gold Nugget. He grabs his crotch and says, “Maybe you can enjoy this some other time.”
My heart races. Unable to sit still any longer. Not when Toby propositions me. Not when he assumes every female wants him. Not when he’s hurting Bea. How can I do nothing? So I don’t. I attack.
Not Toby, but the ground. I launch from the car and reach into the dirt. I pick up a pile of earth. Gravel, dirt, dog shit. I don’t care, as long as it’s a handful. I sling it at Toby’s face, right there in front of Seung and Reed. Then I fly back into the car and lock the doors.
Toby slaps both palms against the window, and I push the button twice to make sure the door’s locked. He pounds the glass once with his fist and pierces me with his eyes. I can’t help but notice the handprint outlined in red on his cheek.
The sight of his face makes me laugh, almost hysterically. His eyes squint and he pounds the glass like a monkey beating plexiglass at the zoo. I can’t resist laughing. I mean, I try. I really do. Until Bea climbs out of the truck and stands next to Seung. She reaches for his arm and squeezes and suddenly looks the most relaxed I’ve seen her.
I glare at Toby, then slap the glass and shout, “How does it feel to get hit by a girl?”
Bea whips around and stares. Her relaxed look replaced with fear.
Reed strolls over to my window and shouts, “What did you just say?” His face is like stone, solid and firm.
I shake my head and shrug my shoulders, my palm still spread against the glass. Reed flattens his hand against the window to shadow mine, and I feel the heat. His eyes stare deep, focusing, centering me in his cross hairs. My hand slips and falls onto my lap. Reed grins and begins another Jack Kerouacian rant, “A pain stabbed my heart, as it did every time I saw a girl I loved who was going the opposite direction in this too-big world.”
Toby pounds Gold Nugget’s hood, interrupting Reed, and shouts at Bea. “Get in the truck!” She obeys him. She always fucking does.
Toby climbs into the cab of his truck and points in my direction. I want to say something about eating dirt and dying, but instead I slither my hand toward the door handle and triple-check the lock.
Reed marches to a picnic table and climbs on top. He starts regurgitating The Dharma Bums and Seung stands still, waiting for Toby to put the truck into reverse. Bea stares at Seung through the window while Toby flaps his lips, yapping something at Bea, but she’s not listening. She’s busy looking at Seung and he’s smiling at the truck and kicking at the dirt.
I pound the windshield three times to remind Seung I’m here, waiting, ready to go, and he glares for three-point-forever seconds before stomping toward the car. He jerks the driver’s-side handle and it snaps back. Oops. I hit the button to unlock the door.
Seung climbs into the car without a word. He turns the key and checks his mirrors three times before backing out. I glance at him twice but he doesn’t look back, so I accentuate a sigh. Clearly he’s ignoring me. It takes three head slams against the seat to finally trigger a scoff.
“What? What’d I do?”
Seung shakes his head. I tap my fingers on my knee and try again. “Aren’t you sick of him always pushing you around? Pushing everyone around?”
“I can take care of myself, Linden.”
“He tried to run you over. Kill you. Remember?”
“You threw dirt in his face. What are you, five?”
“I think he beats Bea.”
“So this has nothing to do with me?”
“I’m sending him a message.”
“What message?”
“Don’t mess with my friends.”
“And Bea’s your friend?”
“Yeah . . . no. . . . Well, I was mainly talking about you.”
“You should have walked away, Linden.” He pauses. “But I guess the best way to destroy your enemy is to make them a friend.”
“That’s original,” I say, folding my arms and slamming my back against the seat.
“Not really,” Seung says. “Abe Lincoln said that, or maybe it was Al Pacino in The Godfather.”
I roll my eyes. “So now you’re friends with Toby Patters? Or maybe just Bea. She looked real cozy standing next to you.”
“I don’t need you to fight for me, Linden.”
“And I don’t need you to fight for me.”
Seung punches the brake at the stop sign and I jerk forward. He turns sideways, his face wrapped in concern. “What are you fighting for, Linden?”
If he only knew. Some days I fight for dignity; other times, self-respect. I shrug my shoulders and lean my head against the glass. I’m tired of this fight. Unwanted attention is wearing me down.
Seung stares straight ahead. I swear I see a tear in his eye, but it could be the one I’m looking through. I bat it away before more show up.
The blinker clicks and Seung turns onto his street.
“I can’t come over,” I say. “I’m already late.”
“I’m not taking you home,” he mumbles. “I’m taking me home. Sorry, Linden, but I’ve had enough of you tonight. You’ll survive.”
I fight back the tears. Yeah, Seung, I’ll survive. I always do.
I climb out of the car and march down the road. I shouldn’t expect him to drive me to my fake home entrance, but I do. I shouldn’t expect him to say he’ll see me tomorrow or thank me for looking out for him, but I do. Don’t friends do those things for each other?
My stomp becomes a jog as I try to remember what exactly I am fighting for. My friends. My future. Friends who are my future. Friends who’ve become family.
When I first arrived in this town, I had a clear mission. Do whatever it takes to survive. This meant making friends with people I thought could help me. Of course, they didn’t know they were helping me. It wasn’t like I could shout out my circumstances. Hey, my mother was murdered by a guy who came knocking on our door once a month for money, or sex, or possibly both. A guy I should have protected her from, but I was too busy hiding in the closet with buds in my ears, doing what I was told and pretending to be invisible.
In the distance, headlights bounce off the sidewalk and tree trunks. I turn around and wrap my forearm around my eyes. The gold shimmer refracts off a porch light. I smile on the inside, purse my lips, and march like I’m still pissed off, not done fighting. In other words, like a big damn baby.
Seung pulls up beside me and the window lowers halfway. “I need to ask you one question before I go home,” he says.
I stomp to the tempo of my own stubbornness, occasionally glancing over when Seung calls my name.
“Linden,” Seung says on repeat as the car creeps beside me. “Linden. One question. No. Make that two.”
More stomping. More Linden, please stop.
I finally slap both hands on the window and snap, “What?”
Seung’s face softens. “You referred to yourself as my girlfriend? And I’m the hottest fucking guy in school?”
Chapter Ten
“ONE MORE QUESTION AND I could quite possibly die,” Ham says, doubled over with one hand on his heart, the other on his brow.
“You need stamina, Ham,” I say. “Keep studying. We’re going to miss three days of SAT prep thanks to homecoming.”
“If it takes you three days to get ready for a dance, Linden, you’re not the girl I thought you were.” Ham sinks his teeth into a popcorn ball stuffed with candy corn and chocolate chips. Mrs. Rhee’s newest creation of food art.
I pick at the sticky mass of popcorn and pretend to ignore Seung’s eyes, all over me. He’s been staring so much, so often, since the girlfriend comment, since I declared him the hottest guy in school. Seung’s organizing puzzle pieces in his mind, determining the fit, wondering why they don’t quite link together the way they should. I mean, friends becoming more than friends. Does that actually
work? Seung’s organizing a puzzle, struggling to fit a piece of the sky into the ocean because they’re both blue and look like they belong together. He wants them to fit, but he’s unsure I feel the same. I haven’t exactly been clear with my feelings. One minute I want to let Seung wrap his arms around me, the next I’m stomping down the street, baffled and scared. How does a homeless girl date a guy who doesn’t know she’s homeless? And if I come clean now, will he hate me forever?
I look up, trying to meet his eyes, but he whips his head toward the wall. We continue this cat-and-mouse game most of the night.
Seung’s not the only confused person in this relationship. My identity crisis caused me to spend five dollars buying lotion and lip gloss at the Four-Quarter Store. I chose makeup over food. I repeat, makeup over food. I’m uncertain who I am anymore.
“My parents want pictures of us dressed to the nines,” Ham says, a piece of popcorn dangling from his upper lip.
“My mom wants us to meet here,” Seung says. “She wants pictures, too.”
“Yeah, yeah, well, I have a date,” Ham says, all matter-of-factly. “So you’ll need to meet at my house.”
Seung and I lock eyes. Finally.
“Who?” we snap.
“Did I say date?” Ham backpedals, shaking his head. “Not what I meant. I meant Jarrell. He’s meeting us for dinner, then heading back to school for the game.”
Seung chuckles. “So your date plans never formed, huh?”
“No, Seung,” Ham snaps, and falls over on the side of the couch, groaning and covering his head with a pillow.
“Well, I was thinking,” I say nervously, “couldn’t we get ready here? Your parents take pictures before we go to Ham’s house for the same song and dance.”
“Sounds like a huge hassle to me,” Ham says, his voice muffled beneath the pillow.
Seung bounces his foot on his knee. “Linden?” he asks. “Are you worried about your stepdad?”
I immediately see the open window and leap. “Yes!” I slap my lap with both hands. “Totally worried. He blocks all my plans. He’s always in my way, complicating everything.” Which is not entirely false, if my stepdad were a metaphor for my life.
Primping in a mildew-infested locker room surrounded by gray light is not how I imagined homecoming night. Although I never thought I’d care about a dance as much as I care about this one. Details drop into my mind like bombs. How do I curl my hair when I don’t own a curling iron? How do I make my eyes pop with liquid liner when I can’t afford eye makeup? How do I shave my legs when my razor blade’s over a year old? I have to solve these mammoth problems just to feel normal, just to fit in.
“We should ask Kristen to join us.”
Seung’s face scrunches and Ham lifts the pillow from his face and shouts, “Kristen? Why?”
“I think it’d be nice to have another girl around. Maybe you’ll end up with a date after all, Hammy.” Plus, I need help with my makeup, my hair.
Ham laughs. “Date Kristen? No way. No thanks.”
Mrs. Rhee taps the door and pokes her head around the corner.
“What?” Seung snaps, and we all jump.
“You’ve got to stop doing that,” I say.
Seung leans back and tucks his arms sexily behind his head. He pauses, whispers, “Sorry,” then winks. “Bad habit.”
I toss a pillow at his face and he catches it, wraps it in his arms, and squeezes it to his chest. He smiles and I smile back. Puzzle piece securely locked in place. We’re fitting together.
Mrs. Rhee trots over to the ottoman and sits. “How’s the studying going?” she asks as she yanks her front bangs from her ponytail and masters another work of art—the side braid. Her fingers flicker like butterfly wings.
“Good, Mom,” Seung says. “But homecoming’s taking precedence.”
Mrs. Rhee smiles at me. I smile, then zoom in on the popcorn casing stuck on Ham’s lip.
Seung shifts in his chair and clears his throat like he’s ready to say something, but Mrs. Rhee interrupts. “Anything new happening at school?”
“Same shit,” Ham says, “I mean, same crap, different day. Sorry, Mrs. Rhee.”
Mrs. Rhee nods like a mother who’s okay with her kid swearing once in a while.
“Linden’s working on a big story for Mr. George and the school blog,” Seung says.
Mrs. Rhee perks up. “Seung’s shown me your pieces, Linden, and they are wonderful. You’re a good writer.”
Now it’s my turn to shift in my chair and clear my throat. “Well, I’m not exactly working on a big story, yet. Still in research mode.”
“What’s the topic?” she asks.
“Oh. Well. I’m still unsure if I’ve actually committed to the project. What were we talking about, Ham?”
Ham stares at me blank-faced. Two pieces of popcorn remain fixed to his bottom lip. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Linden.”
I huff. “We were thinking of doing an article on gender-based violence. Ham’s helping me.” I wink at Ham. “It’s a scholarship piece.”
Ham snaps his fingers. “Oh, yeah! That’s what we’re doing. Research on gender violence.”
“Heavy stuff,” Mrs. Rhee says.
“Seung’s helping, too,” I say. “It’s a group project.”
Seung shrugs, and Mrs. Rhee walks beside him and drapes her arms over his shoulders. “That’s my boy.” She kisses his cheek.
Seung flings himself back against the chair and groans, but his rosy cheekbones display nothing but love for his mom.
I don’t remember shying from my mother’s kisses. Ever. When she tucked my hair behind my ear and pecked at my cheek with her beaky nose. She’d nuzzle a path from my cheekbone to the bump above my nostrils, then drop a kiss on the tip and swaddle me with both arms. She’d say, “You’re going to do something, be someone, make something of your life.” When I was younger, I’d just stare at her with owl eyes, but when I got older, I’d squeeze her back and say, “We are, Mama. Both of us.”
Mrs. Rhee continues chatting about the paper I’m supposed to create for Mr. George, like I’m writing it, doing it, making strides and pages come alive. But I’m stuck on inspiration. Where it’s supposed to come from? Ham thinks it’s Bea. And maybe it should be. But if this were true, and it’s not, my mind wouldn’t go blank every time I tried to craft the words.
“So homecoming plans are brewing?” Mrs. Rhee asks, and I snap back into the middle of the change in conversation.
Seung clears his throat again. “Can Linden get ready over here?”
Cue the flushed face.
“Of course,” Mrs. Rhee says. “Why don’t all of you get ready here?”
Ham kicks at the carpet. “Can’t. My parents invited relatives to dinner and expect me to be home. Besides, Jarrell’s coming over, too, so you guys can pick me up. I’ll be the white guy stuffed in a tux looking like pre-diet Jonah Hill.”
The week crawls toward Friday. Classes move in slow motion.
My sleep is broken with dreams of Seung, followed by nightmares starring Bea and my mother. All this talk of violence churns up my past. Every night I shut my eyes and watch Bea run while I chase her—or am I running away, too? Once in a while my mom joins us, but she’s always behind me calling for me to slow down. I never do. Then Seung shows up to rescue Bea. But never me . . .
Today the only thing keeping me awake in class is Toby Patters. Ever since I smacked his cheek at the park, I’m fixed in his crosshairs. He seems to be watching me in the halls, tracking my whereabouts. Every time he passes my locker, he scratches his crotch—and I make the mistake of looking down, then wish for a scalding shower. I’m not proud of the slap, but I’m not sorry, either. If he’s hitting a girl, then maybe his antidote is to be clobbered by one.
The buzzer rings and I run to the newsroom to steal a nap in my safe place, away from anyone with eyes. With homecoming, work in the newsroom has mushroomed, but since I’ve slammed the brakes on the scholarsh
ip story due to lack of inspiration, I have nothing but time.
I open the homecoming folder and add captions to photos that need to be uploaded. Hinderwood High is ravenous for homecoming buzz.
Tuesday was Pajama Day, which I refused to participate in because pajamas do not exist in my wardrobe. When you sleep in the same clothes you wear to school, every day is Pajama Day.
I click through thirty pictures Ham snapped of Bea and Beth wearing matching silk cotton-candy-colored robes. I stop on a photo of Reed looking like he borrowed a robe from either King Arthur or Hugh Hefner. I zoom and stare at the frown on his face. Apparently Reed chose Pajama Day as his moment to suffer from an existential crisis. He should be the happiest guy on earth with Bea and Beth hooked to either arm. He’s picture-perfect for his arrival at the Playboy Mansion, but a closer view of his face makes it look more like the gates of hell.
I push delete. Homecoming’s supposed to be happy.
Wednesday was Eighties Day. Halls filled with students in hair-sprayed bangs and rubber jewelry in neon colors. Everyone in school took part except me. I barely have money for everyday clothes, let alone things I’d only wear once.
On Eighties Day, Ham wore gold, rust, and purple pants that fit tight at the ankles and wide at the hips. He claimed they accentuated his hourglass figure, but in actuality it was the breakdance attempt outside Mr. Dique’s room that accentuated his everything. He gathered quite a clapping crowd. Typical Ham.
Thursday was Thursday U, where everyone wore college favorites. This was the day I showed school spirit and wore my prized possession. A Willamette University hoodie. The sweatshirt that wraps me in my goals, warmth, and possibility. I also wore the hoodie on Pajama Day and Eighties Day, but on Thursday I finally blended in with everyone else.
Today is Friday. Homecoming. School Spirit Day.
The halls burst with purple and gold, which is royal and regal and shitty on the eyes. No one matches, yet everyone fits in. Well, everyone except me. I’m still wrapped in my college hoodie.
Where I Live Page 11
