Ana of California (12 page)

“The Hex. Great band,” he said, pointing to her T-shirt. “For a girl band, that is.”

“You're kidding, right?”

“I'm not being sexist, I just prefer my punk with a male bravado.”

He had one of those smiles that curled up at one side, purposefully sly, she thought to herself, dangerously confident.

“Let me guess,” she said. “Henry Rollins?”

“Ha. Typical. Ian MacKaye.”

“Not ruling out a Black Flag T-shirt hidden somewhere in your gym locker, but Fugazi's an obvious second if we're talking old-school American punk.”

“Minor Threat, actually,” he said. “Fugazi's post-hardcore.”

“Unlike you, right?” she said.

“Wow. Burn. Let me guess,” he continued, moving a little closer. “Frida Kahlo.”

“You saw me reading it.”

“I didn't. Like you said, it's the obvious choice. Also, I know that shelf doesn't have much beyond Monet and Norman Rockwell. Which Frida are you looking at?”

She shut the book.

“Why are you so curious?” she asked.

“You don't remember me?”

“No. Should I?”

He repeated a slow-motion wave.

“I don't understand what—”

The bell clanged and Abbie walked through the door, stopping for a moment at the counter.

“We had a moment a couple weeks ago,” he said.

“Look, dude, I don't know if this is your go-to pickup maneuver or whatever, but I'm not from here, so there's no possible way we've ever met.”

“C'mon, Curls,” he said. “
Think.
” He smiled and did the slow-motion wave again.

“
What
did you just call me?”

“Ana!” Abbie said, making her way to the back of the store. “What did you find? Oh, Frida! Love her. Hand it over.”

Ana remained silent, still eye to eye with the stranger.

“Hello, Ms. Garber,” he said, turning toward Abbie.

“Oh. Hello, Cole,” she responded, looking from one to the other.

“How's everything over at the farm?”

“Fine,” Abbie said, her shoulders suddenly stiff with tension.

“And how's Mr. Garber these days?”

“He's fine,” said Abbie, in a tone that did not invite further discussion. “Please give my best to your mother. Shall we, Ana?”

Abbie headed to the front counter, so Ana followed, glancing once over her shoulder.

“Seriously, you don't have to do this,” Ana whispered.

“I want to. It's your birthday, hon.”

Between this and the stranger—Cole—still somewhere in the back of the shop, Ana was at a loss for words. The way he'd said “Curls” echoed in her head.

“Happy Birthday,” the bookstore clerk said. “How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“Sweet. All I got on my sixteenth birthday was a cow
and a black eye. I'll go ahead and throw in a bookmark for free. It's not like anyone ever buys one.”

“How kind of you,” Abbie said. “Tell Grandpa Henry I hope he feels better soon.”

“He has a headache every Friday, you know. He's probably over at Sal's downing a pint. . . . You ready?”

“Just this,” Cole said, suddenly standing behind them, placing a book on the counter.

“
The Beats: A Graphic History
!” The bookstore clerk beamed. “I've been waiting for someone to buy this! You won't be disappointed, I promise.”

There wasn't much room to move between the counter and the front door, but Abbie turned and made her way toward the exit. Ana stood wedged in between the counter and Cole.

“Hey, man,” the store clerk continued. “I'll call you when
The Subterraneans
comes in. Still don't know why you don't just order it yourself, but thanks for actually giving me work to do.”

“I like to support local business,” Cole said, turning to look directly at Ana. Did girls really fall for that sort of thing?

“Kerouac,” she said, looking right back. “As obvious as it gets.”

She squeezed past him to the door, willing herself not to turn around at either his “Hey” or “Wait.”

Abbie held the door open and glanced inside the bookstore before shutting the door with purpose and giving Ana a look.

“How did the meeting go?” Ana asked, not making eye contact.

“Great. We're in business. How was your conversation with Cole Brannan?”

“Who?”

“Cole. The boy in the motocross getup.”

“Oh. We didn't converse. At all.”

“Seems like I interrupted something.”

“He was asking about the book.”

“Was he,” Abbie said, peering through the window. “Well, he's not someone you should be interested in conversing with.”

“I have like no interest.”

“Good. Let's head home.”

“Home,” Ana thought. She liked the sound of it. Though most of her guardians had used the word from time to time, none of them knew what it meant for a foster kid to hear it. Ana had learned not to get her hopes up long ago, as “home” was always a temporary state or place, and usually not particularly appealing. She forced herself to dismiss the comment as they crossed Main Street and, instead, she wondered what it was about Cole Brannan that Abbie didn't like. His lopsided smile was fixed in her mind's eye. Not that she hadn't been infuriated by boys her age before—or teased, for that matter—but—

“Curls,” she thought to herself again . . . at least that word wasn't as revolting as “gangbanger.”

“What is
wrong
with people?” Ana said.

“Where do you want me to start?” Abbie answered.

When they got back to the farm, Abbie suggested Ana head up to her room to freshen up for dinner, which was never something she'd suggested before.

“Your room,” Ana repeated to herself, hearing Abbie's voice, trying not to let it mean anything as she ascended the
stairs and tossed the paper bag on the bed. She pulled out the Frida book as well as a blank sketchbook and a box of colored pencils. Had Abbie meant those for her? She slipped on Abbie's work shirt and pulled her hair back, braiding the curls away for dinner. “Just one look,” she said to herself as she flipped through the Frida book, taking in the images, pausing at the one with the flowers in her hair and thorns around her neck, until the book fell open to the middle where the guidebook sat unfurled to the map of Hadley.

“Oh no,” she whispered as her stomach sank and chills crawled up the back of her neck. She threw open the armoire and stuffed the book behind her backpack. “Adding thief to my list of wrongs,” she said to herself.

“Ana!” Abbie called.

She grabbed the notebook and pencils and made her way downstairs, creeping into the kitchen, her mind tumbling over itself trying to come up with what she should say.

“I did something—” Ana blurted as she entered the kitchen.

“Ah, you found your gifts!” Abbie said. “I always see you doodling around the house and thought you might want some fresh paper and pencils.”

“I can't accept this.”

“Nonsense. Set it there and come outside.”

Ana followed, trying to speak, but Abbie shushed her as they walked outside to the picnic table in the garden. There were sunflowers in a watering can in the center of the table next to a pie with the number 16 written in haphazard yellow icing. The fairy lights in the trees were on, throwing a halo of light over the table. Emmett and Manny stood by the table, holding their hats in their hands.

“What's all this?” Ana said.

Emmett cleared his throat. “Happy birthday.”

“We didn't have a ton of time,” Abbie said, “but I called Emmett and ran into the pie shop while you were in the bookstore. I hope you like chocolate cream.”

Ana didn't know what to say. There was a part of her that wanted to hug Abbie—something she told herself she should
never
do—and another part that wanted to run through the fields, back into town to the exact location of the bus station, wherever it might be—suddenly thinking that maybe the stolen map was good for something—even though she'd be going back to nothing.

“I don't deserve—”

“I got the last one,” Abbie said, shushing her again. “Lemon is the best, but it was sold out. Come and sit and have a slice. I don't want to embarrass you with a big deal or anything, but we must celebrate your sweet sixteen.”

“I love chocolate,” Ana said, taking a breath.

They all sat down, Emmett and Manny next to each other, and Ana opposite them. Abbie handed out plates. Manny winked as Emmett reached into his vest pocket and pulled out an envelope.

“Your pay from the last couple of weeks,” Emmett said, sliding the envelope across the wooden table. “I suggest you put it away and use it wisely.”

“Good work,” Manny said, nodding at her. “You earned it.”

She put the envelope in her back jeans pocket and went quiet again, not knowing how to relay her gratitude for the only birthday party she'd had since she celebrated her sixth with her abuela. She could hardly believe that ten years had passed since everything changed. It had been sunny that day, and they'd had
pan dulce
for breakfast, she remembered, along with a mug of hot chocolate with cinnamon and vanilla. “Too sweet for every day,” her abuela had said, “but
just right on your special day.” Ana was promised a piñata, so they'd headed out to pick one up a few streets away. She yammered on about which one she was going to get—“The rainbow donkey or the white kitten with the pink bow?” she'd asked. But they never made it past the shots at the end of the block.

“
Feliz cumpleaños, mija
,” Manny said, forcing her to look up. There was a single lit candle in the middle of the pie.

“Make a wish,” Abbie said.

“Wow. This is . . . too much,” Ana said, biting her lower lip, not looking at anyone. “But thanks. It means more than you could ever possibly know.” She blew out the candle, and they all clapped.

“Dessert for dinner!” Abbie sang as she handed out slices.

Manny took a bite and chewed, oblivious to the meringue mustache on his upper lip. “What's the matter?” he said, looking around the table.

Ana couldn't help but laugh; Abbie did too, though Emmett did the usual and shook his head. Ana wondered if he ever laughed, or even smiled enough to show his teeth, if he had any, the very thought of which made Ana laugh again. Conversation floated around the table, mostly about the day's work, to which Ana listened. She felt strangely comforted by the easygoing timbre of the voices around her. The sounds were soothing enough to keep the waking visions away, at least for the rest of the evening and all the way to bed that night, where her lingering smile, like a gentle bell, lulled her to sleep in placid
waves.

S
he'd been dreaming about worms, small white ones burrowing into the space behind her earlobe, whispering messages into her ear. It wasn't the kind of nightmare she wanted to wake up from, more mysterious in the way that she wanted to hear what the worms had to say. There was a flash of light, and then a loud bang, so she pulled the covers over her head.

“Are you awake?”

It took a moment for Ana to realize her room was flooded with sunlight and someone was at the door.

“What day is it?” she said, speaking to the voice she thought she'd heard in her sleep.

“It's Saturday morning, almost six fifteen,” Abbie said through the door. “Why aren't you in the fields?”

Ana sprang out of bed, pulled on jeans and a work shirt, and grabbed her sneakers before throwing the door open.

“Is everything okay?” Abbie asked, standing in the doorway, eyes wide.

“I don't know what happened,” Ana answered, deflecting Abbie's concern and heading straight for the stairs. “I didn't set the alarm because I never need it.”

She ran down the stairs. Abbie followed close behind.

“Slow down . . . are you sure you're feeling well this morning?”

“I'm fine, I just overslept. Emmett's going to kill me.”

“I've been out in the shed since early morning,” Abbie said. “But I thought you beat me out there, otherwise I would have checked on you. I'm worried. This isn't like you.”

“I had a nightmare,” Ana said, not wanting to tell Abbie the real reason was that she'd been up most of the night sketching.

“Emmett will be furious.” Abbie sighed. “It's entirely your responsibility to follow the farm rules, and that begins with being on time. He was very strict about my not intervening in that regard.”

“He's going to kill me.”

“Probably. But if it makes you feel better, I had trouble sleeping last night too. Must be something in the air . . . but that won't be a good-enough excuse. You need to run out there and apologize, then offer to work late. Say you'll do whatever it takes. He'll be angry, but if you keep quiet and do as he says, it'll be fine.”

Ana ran out the back door and sprinted toward the fields. Dolly shot out from behind the barn, barking and loping alongside her as if they were in a race. Ana passed Vic and Rolo, already busy with work. They both bowed their heads in unison, signaling the extent of her transgression. René and Joey were at the truck, but there weren't any other
workers in the fields, which had been more typical lately. She couldn't see Emmett or Manny anywhere, so they had to be in the hoop houses—exactly where she was supposed to be. She'd only very recently earned the opportunity to be working in there with them. She continued running toward the white-tunneled houses, stopping in front of the one with the shadows of two figures inside.

“Grovel,” she told herself, hoping her heart wouldn't leap out of her mouth. “And then shut it.”

She peeled back the plastic flap. Manny glanced up, then back down again, disappointment mixed with something she couldn't quite detect. She walked toward Emmett, whose back was turned, his hands buried in the wire tomato cages.

“I'm late and I'm sorry,” she said, out of breath, making a point to be direct yet remorseful. Emmett continued working as if she weren't there. “I don't have an excuse because I know you won't accept one. I usually set the alarm, even though I don't need it, but I forgot to last night for some reason. I slept deeply, unusually deep, and thus I overslept. I'm willing to work late every day this week—the rest of the summer—weeds and compost duty too. I've already spoken to Abbie, who was not happy about my tardiness, either. It's entirely my fault, and I'm willing to do whatever it takes to fix it because I know it's wrong. Did I say I'm sorry? I'm truly sorry.”

“Is that all?” Emmett said, the small hole in the back of his blue work vest ripping farther apart as he made a point of continuing to do Ana's work for her.

“I can work every Sunday too. No more afternoons off.”

“You're an hour and a half late, and I don't condone tardiness. The one rule you had to follow, without exception, was arriving to the morning meeting five minutes early every day. That rule is for everyone.”

“You have to believe that I had trouble sleeping last night and—”

“I have trouble sleeping, but I'm never late; neither is Manny or any of the workers out there, a few of whom don't have a comfortable bed like you do to sleep in every night.”

“But what does this mean?”

“It means compost and weeds, no arguments,” Emmett said, pulling his hands away from the tomato cages and wiping his brow. The month was almost over, he reminded himself. If anything solidified his decision to let Ana go, it was this.

Emmett stood up and brushed off his jeans. He looked at her and then looked away. Ana knew there was no changing his mind. Manny gave her the look that meant she should say nothing more. He had an uncanny way of shifting his eyes ever so slightly, enough that the reprimand fell harder on her than words.

Ana nodded, turned around, and pushed the flap of the house open to walk back out into the fields. She scarcely felt her feet moving forward, but let them carry her back to the composting station. She kept her eyes focused ahead, ignoring the looks from her fellow workers in the periphery, ignoring the barks of an enthusiastic Dolly, who darted to and fro behind her knees and paid no mind to the odd chicken wandering by itself through the cauliflower. “This is it,” she told herself. “You're done.”

Ana thought about the evening before. She'd been hanging out with Rye Moon on the front porch of the farmhouse drinking lemonade and talking about their favorite band for an hour. It was what Rye called a proper hang session. Della Moon dropped by ostensibly to bring Abbie some new tea
she made, but Rye divulged to Ana that she'd been begging her mom to bring her over ever since the day they'd met on Main Street, not that Ana had had much time off since then.

“You're the only person I've met who cares about this stuff,” Ana said, hoping she hadn't said too much. Any time she'd opened up to someone before, they eventually fled in the other direction. “The Hex is something I've always kept to myself. That and pretty much every other band I like or book I've read.”

“Ditto, woman,” Rye said, twirling a strand of purple between her fingers. “No one in my stupid school gets the impact of a monochromatic ensemble onstage, or the power of the goddess who is Rosa Hex. We were meant to find each other.”

“Fated.”

“Belated.”

“And maybe possibly related.”

They both laughed and pushed on the rocking chairs, rocking in opposite tandem as they watched the golden moon peek over the treetops. “Seriously, you're the most interesting person in this town by far,” Rye said, pushing the chair back with the heels of her oxford shoes. “You've seen more than most people in this pinprick of a place.”

“I've only ever lived on the east side of Los Angeles. It's not like I've traveled the world or anything.”

“That's more than anyone else I know, except for Abbie, of course.” Rye went quiet and stopped rocking. “So, now's probably the best time to tell you that I'm the big L.”

“Huh?”

“Lez. Lesbiana or whatever your people call it.”

“Okay.”

Rye waited for another response, but Ana continued rocking. “That doesn't bother you or anything?” Rye asked.

“No, why would it?”

“Because it's something everyone in this town seems to not understand. Not that anyone would in Hadley, population Homo sapiens zero. My parents are fine with it thus far, but they don't ever ask me any questions. And it's not like I've had a girlfriend before, not that I'd ever be able to have one around here. I'm not professing anything major to you FYI—”

“I didn't think you were.”

“Good. It's just . . . I don't need to explain myself to people, you know? Still, I'm not exactly popular in the amigo department since word was blasted all over school last year.”

“Well, you're popular with me,” Ana said. “But you and I should never go anywhere near Monarch Mansion. Deal?” Ana put her hand over her left breast.

“Deal,” Rye said, doing the same. “So, tell me about the Lolita girls hanging out in Little Tokyo again. I need details on their ruffled dresses, if any of them carried parasols, and if you were ever compelled to squeeze one of them like an overstuffed human doll baby.”

Though they'd spoken for only about an hour, Ana knew she'd quite possibly found a friend. It was the first time she'd ever had a visitor at the house she was living in, someone who came over to see her for good reasons rather than bad. She couldn't help it if she'd been amped up enough not to be able to sleep the night before. But Emmett would never understand. The very thought made her churn the compost harder.

 • • • 

A
bbie tried to pay attention to the road, but she was distracted by her own noisy thoughts replaying her latest meeting with Will Carson. She had walked into the café
that morning to drop off a selection of fruit he'd requested, along with a new batch of smoked tomato jam. The back wall had been painted charcoal gray since the first visit, and there were new black leather booths installed along one of the walls with windows. Though Will was nowhere in sight, his music of choice, late eighties heavy metal, blared from an unseen stereo. Abbie knew the song all too well. She'd sworn off ever listening to it following her lost decade. But hearing it had so surprised her, so uprooted the suppressed memories, that she had left the box of produce on the counter without a word. She sat in the van for a moment cursing herself, seconds away from going back in, when Will appeared in the window across the street with a furrowed look of confusion on his face. He held his hands up as if to say, “What gives?” and then waved at her to come back in. And with that, Abbie sped away, the image of his dark features, perplexed and shaded in morning stubble, playing on a constant loop ever since.

Forcing herself back into the present, she focused on the road. Ana sat beside her staring out the window. Ana's tardiness that morning was ammunition for Emmett. Abbie knew she'd eventually have to fight him on whether Ana should stay. She drove up over the forested hills behind Garber Farm, nearly forgetting where to turn. Abbie jerked the van onto an unmarked road, slowing the vehicle as it bounced up and down erratically along the slippery rock path.

“Where are we going?” Ana asked.

“The Honey Pot,” Abbie said. “We're dropping off and picking up.”

Not many people knew the whereabouts of Alder Kinman's honey farm, and those who did kept it secret. Alder was a man dusted in mystery—by his own choosing, of
course—and his business, though modest, resulted in the kind of profits that garnered many a head scratch. He never explained beyond “My bees are hearty.” His family owned a portion of the land adjacent to Garber Farm, and the two families had been neighbors for generations. Abbie and Emmett grew up running to and fro in the shared woods, and Alder was often a willing playmate. Children loved him, however odd the adults in Hadley found him to be. Both families had suffered misfortunes over the years, so they'd agreed together to sell a portion of their adjoining land. It had pained Abbie's father, she remembered, and quite possibly catalyzed his death. Alder, a faithful friend to the Garbers, was the only real family Abbie and Emmett had left.

The road twisted and turned as they drove farther down into the trees, which were covered in dust and were an eerie shade of grayish green. They finally made it to a wide clearing. At the bottom, surrounded by the tallest of redwoods, an ominous cabin sat lopsided in the middle.

“Don't let the creep factor scare you,” Abbie said. “He built this place for that very purpose.”

They got out of the van, and Abbie watched as Ana took in the wall of antlers lining the front porch. Abbie waved to Alder, who rocked back and forth in an imposing high-back chair as he puffed on a pipe.

“What's doin'?” he called to them as they approached.

“We have your pickles and veggies, came for some honey,” Abbie said. Ana trailed behind her. “Thought you might give us a peek at the hives before we're on our way.”

“Who's that?” he said, scrutinizing Ana, who was hiding behind Abbie.

“Ana, this is Alder Kinman,” Abbie said.

“We've met,” Ana said. “I mean, I saw him on Main Street on my first day.”

Alder rose from the chair. His whole body rattled from the various necklaces, dangling arrowheads, and beaded chains hanging off his overalls.

“Where ya from, Squirrely?”

“Los Angeles,” Ana said, assuming he was speaking to her.

“Thought so,” he said with a huff. “Why don't you leave the box on the side steps, and I'll meet ya 'round back.”

He opened and shut a noisy screen door and headed inside.

“What's it like inside that place?” Ana asked.

“More antlers, heavy wood, books, tobacco, and some unusual paintings, if I can remember correctly. He hasn't let me inside in about thirty years.”

They walked around the side of the dark house with a box of produce and pickles and set it on the steps leading up to a chipped door with a hand-painted sign that said
KEEP OUT.
Ana thought it strange that the sounds of birds were much louder than what she heard regularly at the farm, even though the atmosphere was much gloomier. It was like the place existed on its own, separate from the world, a planet in and of itself tucked back into the forest. There were more than a few signs marking the area as private property. Abbie and Ana came to a tall wooden gate and pushed it open, walking out into a much larger field, which was clear and open to the sky, covered in multicolored flowers and several towers of white boxes.