Before, After, and Somebody In Between (16 page)

“Monday morning, nine a.m.”

“You’ll be here, right?” Momma obviously won’t.

“I’m not sure,” she hedges. “My vacation starts Monday, and I will be flying home to St. Lucia for a couple of weeks.”

Ha, so much for helping me. “Huh. That figures.”

Zelda reaches toward me and I dodge her hand, and then feel like a retard when she picks her purse up off the floor. I get another one of those “looks” as she rummages for a cigarette and fires it up blatantly under the No Smoking sign. “I wasn’t going to hit you.”

I touch my warm cheek, almost wishing she would. Hit me hard. Wake me up.

“Let me ask you something. How do you think your mother will feel when she finds out about all this?”

I blink. “How would I know?”

“Think about it, hmm?” she commands through a blast of smoke.

“I don’t have to think about it. I don’t know—”

My throat clamps shut as I’m struck by a long-ago memory. Momma, cuddled next to me on a big flowered couch, watching
The Wizard of Oz,
and Daddy nearby, tightening the strings of his violin. I didn’t get the end of the movie, so Daddy explained, “Dorothy dreamed the whole thing, honey.”

Okay, I’m six, and yes, Daddy, I know it’s a dream, duh. But how could all those people, those farm guys, that carnival man, be all the same characters who followed her through Oz? That’s the part I didn’t get.

Momma answered, “Well, sugar pie, it’s like this. You can dream you’re somebody else, like somebody on TV, right? And you think it’s real, and it’s real when you’re in it. But when you wake up in the morning, you’re you again. Now you get it?”

Kind of, but only because of the way she said it, like she
knew
this would make perfect sense to a kid. Then Daddy launched into The Lollipop Kids song, and Momma tickled me and laughed, and I laughed, too, and, well, I don’t remember anything else. Except that they were happy. They didn’t always hate each other.

And Momma wasn’t the Momma I know now.

“I don’t know how she’d feel,” I finish hoarsely. “It’s like, she’s not even my real mom anymore, you know?”

Zelda bends over to stub out her cigarette on the floor, the first thing she’s done that makes me want to like her a little. “Yes, she is. She will always be your real mom.”

I guess that’s supposed to make me feel better.

…

On Monday morning, at one minute before nine, Zelda flies into the courtroom and runs circles around my own little wiener of a court-appointed lawyer. I huddle on my chair, trying to look remorseful as she blames everything, ha-ha, on that moron, Mr. Johnson. The school administrators, she says, failed to protect me from “an adult student with a history of antisocial behavior who has no business even being in the tenth grade.”

She sure came prepared: Statements from witnesses who swear my so-called assault on Chardonnay was strictly self-defense. Notes from my teachers who insist I’m not a certified psycho, only a straight-A student who was pushed beyond the
limit of human endurance. The judge agrees, orders counseling and probation, and then, no big surprise, booms out an F-word of his own …

Foster home.

26

The Ten Commandments of the Merriweathers:

1. Thou shalt worship no other gods except Mr. and Mrs. Merriweather.

2. Thou shalt not talk back.

3. Thou shalt hold hands with thy Keepers and say a ten-minute grace before every meal whether or not thou plans to eat.

4. Thou shalt not shower more than twice a week.

5. Thou shalt do all assigned chores in a timely manner. This includes the daily dusting of the Goddess’s ceramic clown collection
without
referring to them as “creepy little suckers.”

6. Thou shalt not watch TV on school nights.

7. Thou shalt keep thy eight p.m. curfew.

8. Thou shalt not use the telephone without permission.

9. Thou shalt have no expectations of privacy.

10. Thou shalt keep these commandments, or find thy butt back on the street.

I last four days.

On the fifth day, at lunchtime, I bail out of my (twelfth!) new
school with seven bucks to my name, raided from Mrs. Merriweather’s purse, and dump my books in the trash on my way out of the building. Anthony’s money is back at Wayne’s, and I could kill myself for that. I have no idea what to do, not one single clue, but I am
not
going back to the Merriweathers with all those rules, all that mind control, all those goddamn painted clowns with their beady, satanic eyes. And only two showers a week? I stink! My hair’s filthy. My own armpits gross me out.

Nobody asked if I wanted to stay with these freaks. My opinion, as usual, doesn’t count for squat.

I don’t realize I’m crying till I hear myself doing it. I duck into a phone booth in a gas station parking lot and crouch against the folding door, soaking snot into the sleeve of the itchy nylon parka foisted upon me by the clown gods. I’m mad, but I’m scared, and it’s scary how mad I am.

Mad at myself, because yes, I admit it. It’s my fault I’m here.

Mad at Zelda for flying off to the tropics instead of hanging around to make sure I survive.

Mad at the Merriweathers for turning out to be assholes instead of the perfect TV family I’ve dreamed about my whole life.

But most of all, worst of all, I’m so mad at Momma for picking
this
time to end up in the freaking hospital. Now here I am, stuck miles and miles away from my own neighborhood, with nobody at all, and not an idea in my head.

The gas station guy trades me four quarters for a dollar. My frozen finger pokes Shavonne’s number into the pay phone, but nobody answers. With a shriek of frustration, I smash the receiver back down.

Now what?

Now nothing. Only place for me to go is back to the detention
center. I guess even an eight-by-ten cell with a chicken-wire window beats going four days without a shower. I’ll make them find me a better place, or else they can just keep me there. Whatever. I don’t care. As long as it’s not the clown house.

I’m so exhausted, and so cold, I barely make it to the bus stop. I don’t know this neighborhood, but it’s close to the airport, with jets thundering overhead like every five minutes. I have to stand for fifteen minutes in my squishy Reeboks, in a sudden flurry of heavy snow, waiting for a bus to take me in the right direction. I press my forehead against the vibrating window, watching brown slush spring up from beneath the wheels, and wish I could curl up on the seat and sleep for two days.

I stumble off at Public Square and then zombie-walk the last twenty or so blocks to the detention center—too stupid to figure out which loop bus I need, but smart enough not to ask that nice policeman over there. Nervously, I hang around close to the door till two older guys stroll out, warming me briefly with a blast of hot air. Megapower attorneys in long coats, carrying briefcases and cappuccinos, obviously talking shop: “… kid’s got a record a mile long.”

Guy number two juggles his coffee to light a cigarette. “I’ll get him off.”

“Yeah, Dick. You always do.”

Hmm, that dude with the cancer stick looks a lit-tle to-o familiar. I inch away, but he notices me, too, and after his friend says good-bye, he takes a step closer. “Do you need some help?”

Do I look that pitiful, or is it against the law to stand here? “Um, no. I’m fine.” My mouth waters at the smell of his cappuccino. I think I’d sell one of my body organs right now for a good jolt of caffeine.

The man’s cell phone rings out the opening bars to Mozart’s
Eine Kleine Nachtmusik.
Forgetting about me, he pitches the cigarette and drops his briefcase to free up his hands. I peer around him at the door, wondering what I should do—just dart right in and throw myself on the mercy of the first person in uniform?

Something tells me this was a bad, ba-ad idea. Let’s see, in the past six hours I’ve ditched school, ditched the Merriweathers, committed petty theft, and destroyed school property. Four probation violations already and the day’s not even over. I go back in there now, I might never see daylight again. What if—?

I jump when Coffee Guy shouts into his phone, “Look! That kid’s a victim of circumstance, and I’m
not
going to stand by and let you railroad him into a plea. No jail time, period! I’m not discussing this again.”

He smacks his phone shut and shoves it back into his coat, then fires up a second cigarette, puffing furiously. He stares off over my head, looking mad enough to explode, and
bang!
that’s when it hits me: I know who he is! Yep, it’s that guy who drove me home from Shavonne’s on Halloween.

Not just any old guy, either. And not just any old lawyer.

A lawyer who defends kids! Victims of circumstances. Oh, there is so definitely a God, I’ll never doubt Him again.

“Wait!” I yell as the man comes to life and swings his briefcase up from the salt-splattered step. “I lied.”

“Excuse me?” He does a double take, but I can see he doesn’t recognize me. Well, how could he? I was black last time we met.

“I lied when you asked me if I need help. I do need it. Big time!”

“Oka-ay,” he says uncertainly, and I can see he thinks I’m about one grape shy of a fruit salad. “Let me give you my card, and—”

“No! I need it now!”

He glances around. “Is somebody with you?”

“No-o…”

“Do you have a hearing today?”

“Um, no, but—”

“No? Well, is there a reason you’re not in school? Does your mom or dad know you’re here?”

Attention, please: Due to a massive brain fart, Martha Kowalski will be unable to answer any further questions. Another one of my stupid ideas! I mean, what did I expect? That somebody like him in his fancy wool coat and his leather briefcase and that clunky gold watch around his wrist would jump at the chance to take on a charity case like me? Lawyers cost money, and I so obviously don’t have any.

I will myself to give up and run for my life, but my feet won’t listen. Teeth chattering, all I can do is stand there, my long unwashed hair whipping in the wind.

The man moves closer. “I’m sorry. What’s your name?”

“Martha,” I manage to squeeze out through my numb lips. “You know me, too.”

“I do?”

“Yeah. You d-drove me home one night. From the Addamses’.”

Triple take this time. “From the
Addamses’
?”

“Yes! Don’t you remember? I slimed up your car. I had m-makeup on, and, well, I guess you thought I was black, and then you p-picked up your daughter, and—”

“That was you?” Now, for the first time, he takes a good long look at me. “Oh, Chri—I mean, yes, I remember you. Shavonne’s little friend. You fell out of my car,” he adds, smiling at last. “And yeah, you slimed it up pretty good.” He tosses the cigarette away and holds out a hand for me to shake. “Richard
Brinkman. God, you’re cold. Come on, my car’s on the street. I’ll drive you home.”

Home? What home? I pull back, still clutching his warm hand. “No, I just want to t-talk to you, that’s all—”

“Well, we can talk in the car.”

Dragging my wet feet, I follow him to the long black car. Once I’m inside, the minute he asks, “What’s going on?” I blurt everything out because I can’t, I
can’t
let him take me back to that dog pile.

“And I was gonna turn myself in, but I’m in so much trouble now! And I’m really, really sorry, but I am not going back to that house, and
I don’t know what else to do!
” I finish with a pathetic wail, and sink back into the seat, half of me embarrassed and the other half not even caring.

He thinks this over, tapping the steering wheel. “Fine. Let’s grab a bite to eat, and we can discuss this like adults.” He emphasizes the “adults” part.

This, I think, has got to be a trick. Maybe he plans to roll me out onto the curb as he speeds past the nearest police station.

Instead, he drives me to some fancy east-side deli where my corned beef sandwich and café mocha with double espresso costs twice as much as a week’s worth of school lunches. I dig in, trying not to drool as Mr. Brinkman fires questions at me. I can tell he doesn’t get it about the Merriweathers. What? No TV on school nights? I have to dust clowns? Everything I say sounds stupid now, even to me.

“Do you have any relatives who can take you in till your mother gets better? Any friends of the family?”

Nobody but Wayne, and forget about staying with him. It’s Shavonne I want to live with, but I’m not sure how to bring it up.

“What about your dad?”

“Dead,” I whisper, gouging my thumbnail with my teeth.

“How did it happen?”

I don’t want to tell him, it’s too humiliating—but, well, I bet he’s heard worse. “He got murdered. In prison.”

Not even a blink. “I’m sorry to hear that, Martha.”

Most people say that automatically, but he sounds likes he means it. He gives me a break for a while so I can finish my sandwich in peace, and then I play with a crust of bread while he continues the interrogation. What do I do for fun? Read, watch movies. What kind of books? Elves and magic, science fiction, and yes, even the classics they make me read in school. What kind of movies? Fantasy, horror, almost any dumb comedy. And anything with Elvis, of course.

Then: “So what do you plan to do after you graduate?”

This throws me. “Um, I haven’t thought about it much.”

“Somehow I find that hard to believe,” Mr. Brinkman observes. “I think you’ve thought about it a lot.”