Ana of California (8 page)

Rye rolled her eyes, though her mother didn't notice, and pushed open the door, not bothering to hold it open for Ana. They walked down a long hallway past a locked door. Ana noticed a striped silk handkerchief hanging out of one of Rye's back pockets.

“Is that for random sneezes?” Ana asked.

“What, my hankie? Nah, just for show, but it does come
in handy when you need to clean your sunglasses. Not that we're burning with sunshine up here.”

“Tell me about it,” Ana said. “It bleeds sunshine where I'm from.”

Rye continued walking, so Ana continued to follow as they ducked under hanging pieces of printed fabric into a storage room full of boxes stacked in precise rows.

“FYI, no one in this town likes the Hex,” Rye said, pointing at Ana's T-shirt before settling into the only chair in the room. Ana had no choice but to lean up against the wall. “You're the first person I've seen wearing one of those around here.”

“Are you serious?” Ana said, hesitating, not knowing if Rye was taking a dig at her favorite band or at Hadley's residents. “I'm not ashamed to say they're my favorite, and they're not afraid to shout what's what. I happen to think that's a miraculous thing.”

“You feel very strongly about this.”

“I do. So what?”

“So nothing. So, you're a fan then?”

“I think I just made that clear.”

“Why are you so touchy?”

“I'm not,” Ana said, reminding herself to calm down.

“But you are,” Rye said, crossing her legs and leaning back in the chair. “So, what's your deal?”

“My deal?”

“Yeah, what are you doing here?” Rye crossed her arms.

“Why are you asking so many questions? What's
your
deal?”

“My deal is I'm a Chinese Native American named after a type of grass who has a short attention span and a penchant for the absurd. This is where I work, those people
outside are my parents, and I can't wait to get the hell out of here. Your turn.”

Ana didn't know where to begin.

“Isn't the whole point of this setup to get to know each other?” Rye continued.

“I guess. I don't know. It was Abbie's idea.”

“Just like it was my mom's idea.”

They were quiet for a moment, the sounds of Della Moon's laughter echoing from the counter down the hallway.

“Have you ever even
seen
the Hex play?” Rye asked.

“I saw them at The Smell a few months ago.”

“Where's that? The Smell?” Rye said, scrunching up her face and bobbing one foot up and down.

“Back in L.A.”

“Wait. What? You're from Los Angeles?”

“Yeah, so what?”

“Holy lady balls, woman, you need to tell me
everything
!” Rye's entire demeanor shifted as she slid to the front of the chair and gestured for Ana to sit down on one of the boxes. “Okay, full disclosure? They're my favorite band too.”

“For real?”

“Yep.”

“Weird.”

“Supremely.”

“I thought you said no one here likes them?” Ana said, sitting down.

“People in this town don't get it. I was trying to see if you were a real deal fan or not because I've been duped once before. Anyway, I wanted to see their show in San Francisco last month, but the 'rents wouldn't let me go. They're the only band that matters in my life, but my mother can't seem to see the importance of experiencing them live and in
person, even if she did run off with Abbie once to see Stevie Nicks.”

“Don't knock The Stevie; she's a gold—”

“Dust woman, yeah, yeah, yeah. So, tell me about this show. You have no idea how lucky you are. Details.”

“It was in this tiny club in downtown L.A., walls covered in crazy paintings, and the place is all ages too,” Ana said as Rye's eyes widened. “I kid you not; Rosa Hex effing shredded the place. It was so packed there was sweat dripping off the ceiling. Not that I need to explain this to you since we've established that you're a fan, but it was one of the most monumental moments of my existence. She looked out over everyone—and I'm standing in the back, right—and she points and says, pretty much directly into my eye sockets, ‘Stay calm, surrender, and always pretend you're wearing a raincoat of mace.'”

“Holy Shesus.”

“I know. It was a religious experience.”

“I bow to you,” Rye said. She stood up and bent over gracefully. “So, your parents let you go to the show?”

“Not really. I happened to be between houses at the time. . . . I don't have any parents.”

“None?”

“Nada.”

“You're living my dream!”

“It's not really like that. And your mom seems genuinely nice.”

“It's the Wiyot way.” Rye sighed. She sat back down and stared down the hallway.

“What's that?”

“My mom's birth tribe. They're native to these parts, the very first people here
ever
, until the settlers massacred them. Not that my dad's people weren't totally driven out during
the gold rush too. Hadley's full of the descendants of money-gobbling marauders, FYI, so watch yourself. Why are you living with the Garbers if you're from L.A.?”

“They're my guardians at the moment, I guess, and my bosses. Well, Emmett is. I got sent up here to work on the farm for the rest of the summer.”

“But you're from L.A . . .”

“Born and raised, well, semi-raised, I guess. I grew up in East L.A.”

“What are you, Chicana? Homegirl type of situation?”

“Wow. Um, I'm Mexican, if that's what you're getting at.”

“Unreal. So did you see cholas and everything? Because their style is rad.”

“Yeah, it's not really a style so much as . . . I don't know. The whole change from there to here and the farm has been monumental. So far it's interesting, but also kind of a drag. I've been told I may have to work around worms. How people find joy in composting, or whatever you call it, is beyond me.”

“Isn't Abbie the best, though?” Rye said. “She's the only person who's ever made it out of this stupid town, even if she had to come back. She's got stories, you know? Like, the real deal.”

“Abbie?”

“Oh, yeah,” Rye said, pursing her lips and nodding as if she knew way too much. “Ask her sometime. She's into music, was
really
into it at one point, not that anyone ever talks about that. So, have you heard their new cover of ‘Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now'?”

“Not yet. The Hex is my life's soundtrack, yes, but I only ever listen to them at the library, which I haven't been to in a while.”

“You're joking.”

“I'm not.”

“Well, then, you need to come over and get with this business. When do you get a break?”

“Never. It's part of the deal.”

“We're going to have to change that.”

“Not really an option . . .”

“And we've got to change whatever it is that's dimming the aura of your T-shirt, which is shamefully baggy for what is sure to be something special underneath. And apologies, but those jeans are pushing turn of the millennium, and your hair, though undeniably gorgeous, could use an oil treatment and a slash of blue. Have you never heard of eyeliner? Tweezers? You're like Frida Hayek, only desperately sans film lighting.”

“I love Frida
Kahlo
and the Frida movie. No dissing.”

“I'm not knocking a strong brow and thick head of hair, but this is a fiesta that needs to be tamed.”

“You do realize you're insulting my people.”

“Your people and my people got the bottom end of the boot, sweetheart. We're in this mess, aka town, together, and I assure you that one of us is way more of a mess than the other.”

Before Ana had a moment to decipher which one, the door swung open at the end of the corridor.

“Girls?” Abbie called.

“Back here!” Rye shouted before whispering to Ana, “Seriously? Abbie's
lived
, you know?”

“No, I don't . . .”

“We have to be on our way,” Abbie said, peeking into the storage room. “Emmett is expecting us back at the farm, so let's get going.”

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Rye said. She jumped up and ran across the room to an open box, pulling out a handful of small bottles. “Here,” she said, dropping them into Ana's hands.

“What's this?”

“Camellia oil. It's good for the hair. My mom said you're supposed to get some samples, so here's a special welcome gift from one fellow Hexagon to another.” Rye put her hand over her nonexistent left breast in silent salute. Ana tried to do the same without dropping the bottles, but she managed only to briefly touch her overflowing hands to the center of her chest.

“Thanks,” she mumbled.

“No, thank
you
.”

“For what?” Ana wanted to say, not knowing how to respond to Rye's beaming smile.

Abbie rattled her keys. “Rye, please tell your mother thank you from me.”

“No prob,” Rye said before turning back to Ana and mouthing, “Later.”

 • • • 

I
t was late afternoon when they headed back to the farm. A light fog rolled in from the ocean, dimming the light and blurring the woods and fields surrounding Hadley.

“So, that went well,” Abbie said, fiddling with the stereo. “With Rye?”

“It wasn't what I expected,” Ana said.

“In what way?”

“It wasn't typically how it usually goes. I'm good with kindergarteners, not so much with anyone else my age. But Rye seems intriguing.”

“I've known her all her life, and she has an interesting way about her. Something told me you two would get along.”

“She likes the Hex.”

“The Hex?”

“The band on my T-shirt? They're this all-girl band from L.A. and are my favorite of favorites.”

“Oh, yeah? What do they sound like?”

“Well, there's some yelling involved,” Ana said, wondering if she should continue, if Abbie cared about this sort of thing. No one had ever asked before. “It's sort of fused with these beautiful, guttural melodies and lyrics of poetic truth.” She figured she'd stop there, but Abbie turned the music off, so she continued. “The lead singer—Rosa Hex—has this incredible voice, but she distorts it and lets the beauty come out only when she wants it to. Each member took ‘Hex' as their last name, like the Ramones. But unlike the Ramones, the guitars aren't simple or anything. They have a complex and stubborn sound, fast and howling, and Rosa sings about standing up and facing whatever terrifies you even if it makes you shudder. Sometimes they play topless, but it's about empowerment and not giving a f—well, not caring what other people think, which is important, especially if you've got fear sprinting through your veins.”

“They sound fantastic.”

“They're sick, no other way to describe them—and so loud even when they're quiet. And they always wear black and white, which dims their outside in order to magnify what they're expressing from the inside, or so I like to think. Their bassist paints these delicate scenes that hang behind them when they play, these murals painted on tarps that are hypnotic and horrifying, kind of like the paintings by this guy Henry Darger but way less uncomfortable.”

“You know so much about art and music for someone your age.” Abbie flinched, hoping Ana hadn't read anything into the art part.

“It's weird, but sometimes it's all I've had, you know? Like the only thing I can always go back to if I need something to feel familiar . . . a song, a painting, an old movie, picture books or stories that remind me of people, I guess, since I don't have any photos of my own. I've spent so much time in the library—it's the only real home I've ever known. And even though it's open only at certain times, it's always welcoming; no matter who you are or where you come from, it's there for you without judgment.”

Abbie hadn't realized how alone Ana had been for most of her life. She hesitated to ask anything more, even though she was curious and delighted that Ana was opening up, but she couldn't help herself.

“Did you go to libraries after school?”

“Yep, pretty much every day, and then all day on Saturdays and Sundays. Sometimes I'd get dropped there with my younger foster siblings. I used to read them stories in the children's section. But on days I was there alone, I'd ingest whatever struck me in the moment, you know? Other times I would explore a little further.”

“Other types of books you mean?”

Ana didn't know if she should continue, but Abbie still seemed interested in listening. “I'd take the bus places. Nowhere far or anything, and it's not like anyone ever knew I was gone, but the city's so big and there are places like Little Tokyo where girls dress like intergalactic princesses, whole streets full of weird shops, entire neighborhoods built out of tents. There's this store in Boyle Heights that sells Frida
socks and vintage reggae records and they have poetry nights and a radio show and everything. Even though I never had any money, the guy who owns it would always tell me about stuff he thought I should learn about. He gave me a book about Chicano punk rock once too, but it was taken away, of course.”

“There's so much more to see and experience in a city like L.A.,” Abbie said with a faraway sigh. “I hope you aren't bored here. We don't have that much to offer, I'm afraid.”

 • • • 

A
na sat in one of the rocking chairs on the front porch. She listened to the breeze rustle the trees and the sound of Abbie clanging pots in the kitchen. It hadn't been such a terrible first day, she thought. The sun began its slow descent, turning the sky a dusty pink. The front door opened and Emmett walked out holding a beer. He wasn't a man of many words, but he cleared his throat to announce his arrival. Neither one of them knew what to say.