Before, After, and Somebody In Between (17 page)

I don’t have enough energy to shrug. “Well…” Should I say it? Does it sound really, really lame? “I kind of used to want to be a cellist.”

“Why?”

Why? Nobody ever asked me this before, not even Mr. Hopewell. I sit there silently, buzzed from the espresso, and think about this long and hard. I have no clear answer, other than the way I felt when I heard
The Four Seasons
that day with Shavonne. But you can’t describe that kind of feeling. Words don’t exist.

“It sounds stupid,” I begin, tearing up the last of my bread crust. “But I touched one once, like for the very first time? And after that, it was the only thing I wanted to do.” And before he can fall out of his chair, choking with laughter, I add, “Anyway, I kinda gave it up, so…”

He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even smile. “Why on earth would you do that?”

I twitch a shoulder and pretend to study the dessert menu because I’m sorry I opened my mouth, and yes, I’m tired of his questions.

I guess he can tell, because he switches gears. “You know, legally speaking, I could be in a lot of hot water. What I’m doing in a sense is harboring a runaway.” He flashes a Hollywood smile, but a cold panic rises inside me, pushing food up to the back of my throat.

I’m not going back to the clown house. I’ll kill myself first.

It must show in my face because he lays a hand over mine. “You wait here. I’m going to make a few calls.” I jerk in alarm, but he gives my fingers an extra squeeze. “Don’t worry. I’m not turning you in.”

In total wonder, I watch him whip out his cell phone again and troop out of earshot.

And as hard as I try not to, I feel myself hoping.

27

Shaker Heights is one of those la-di-da suburbs on the east side of Cleveland, and the Brinkmans’ house is about as la-di-da as you can get. An ivy-covered mansion all decorated for Christmas with white lights, a candle in every window, and a wreath on the front door. Inside, it’s immaculate with lots of dark wood and bright chandeliers, a curving staircase, and not one single mouse trap or roach motel in sight.

The lady of the manor steps forward, and Mr. Brinkman announces, “My wife, Claudia.”

Blond and gorgeous, like she belongs onstage at the Academy Awards, Mrs. Brinkman touches my shoulder with a warm, “Hi, Martha. Welcome.”

“And our daughter, Nicole,” Mr. Brinkman continues.

Yes, it’s that Nikki chick from the car on Halloween night. I hold my breath, waiting for her next words:
Daddy! Isn’t that the little hooker who fell out of your car?

“Nicolette,” she corrects her father, showing off dimples the size of peas. I notice her pale blue eyes and wispy brows, and cheekbones that could’ve been carved from a hunk of glass. Relaxing my
jaw, I force a smile as she eyeballs my smelly sneakers. I must look like a war orphan from the mountains of Afghanistan, which I guess is a step up from looking like a drunken underage hooker.

But wait. I was black, I had braids, and I doubt she saw my face. Did Mr. Brinkman call me by name that night? I don’t remember. I barely remember the ride.

Mrs. Brinkman tells Nikki to lend me some clothes and show me where I’ll be sleeping tonight. Hoping not to leave dirty footprints on the thick pale carpet, I creep upstairs behind Nikki’s shining hair, watching it ripple and swing like a shampoo commercial. Taffy, their silky cocker spaniel, sniffs my grubby shoes for hillbilly contraband as she follows along, tail wagging.

Opening a door to a sunny blue room, Nikki announces, “I’m right next door, through that bathroom, and Mom and Dad are way down at the end of the hall. And that’s Daddy’s office, next to the music room.”

The
music
room? Well, double la-di-da.

“Who’s down there?” I ask, pointing toward the other end.

“Nobody. That’s Rachel’s room.”

“Who’s Rachel?”

“My sister.”

She heaves an armload of clothes at me, and I tuck them into drawers lined with thick, scented paper. I’m glad it’s her stuff she’s watching me put away, not my own raggedy underpants and stretched-out bras.

“Did my dad tell you I dance?” she asks out of the blue. “I had an audition today, and I’m so excited! I really wanted to try out for Odette, but they wanted a pro, so I got stuck with the ensemble. But I’m glad I got in.” At my uncomprehending look, she adds, “It’s
Swan Lake,
Martha. Odette’s the lead, the principal dancer.”

Well, gosh darn it all. I shove the last drawer shut, nicking my pinky as Mrs. Brinkman appears and wraps her arms around Nikki. “I’m so proud of you, honey. You were wonderful today!”

Nikki rolls her eyes over her mother’s shoulder. “Thanks, Mom.”

Wow, when was the last time Momma said that to me?

“You girls get acquainted, and I’ll start supper.”

“Want me to help?” I ask, hoping to suck up.

“Thank you, Martha. But you relax, take it easy.”

When her mom’s out of the room, Nikki winks. “Well, that’s one brownie point.”

“I’m not looking for brownie points,” I lie. “I like to cook.”

“Whatever.” Nikki shakes away a long strand of hair. “So, like, what grade are you in?”

“Tenth.”

“Really? I’m a junior. I thought you were younger.”

Well, I am, since I skipped second grade. But maybe if she thinks I’m closer to her age, she won’t try to intimidate me so much.

“How old is your sister?” I ask, hoping she’ll forget about me for a sec.

“Rachel? She died.”

“Oh. When?”

“A couple of years ago.”

“Oh,” I repeat lamely, then, “Sorry.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not like we were close or anything, but … well, thanks.”

That’s kind of a weird thing to say, and I wait for her to throw in some more details, but she does no such thing. She just looks at me, and I look back, seeing nothing in her face that says she knows who I am.

“Think I can take a bath?” I ask, since obviously I won’t be hearing any more about Rachel.

“Knock yourself out. There’s extra towels in the hall.”

On my way back from the linen closet, I hear my name through the door of Mr. Brinkman’s office. I trip to a halt, ears standing straight out. “Tim, I don’t care how long those people have been at this. That kid looks like she hasn’t had a bath in a week.”

Great. Tell the whole world, why don’t you?

“Yes, I know the mom’s a head case. That’s beside the point. I want these people investigated, and, no, I’m not sending her back…Yes, it’s fine with them, too. You’ll make the calls?… Thanks, Tim.”

Flying to the john, I rip off my clothes. Not a single speck of green mold caked around the faucets, and the tub is so clean, so sparkly, it’s a shame to grub it up. Water shoots out in jet spurts from every side as I sink down into the warm bubbles, scrub my skin raw, lather my hair, and then bob in the suds with my heels anchored to the rim.

Normally I don’t believe in fate or destiny. But what happened today is too eerie to be a coincidence. I feel so out of place in these fancy rooms, and yet—even weirder—it’s like another part of me feels completely at home.

Ha! My heels slip off the edge and I spit out suds. The only reason I’m here is because Mr. Brinkman knows I’m friends with Shavonne. Well, he’s the lawyer. There must be some way for him to fix it so I can go stay with the Addamses.

…

Dinner is awesome. For once I eat at a table with a real tablecloth instead of out of my lap in front of a parade of reruns. The silverware matches, the china matches, and I sip bottled water out
of a crystal goblet with crushed ice and lemon. Thanks to Nikki, nobody bombards me with questions because they’re too busy listening to her blab about her audition. I squint up at the chandelier, marveling at how
totally fantastic
I feel…and then I realize why: for the first time since Bubby died, I don’t have a single twinge of a headache.

Later, Mrs. Brinkman hands me an extra blanket at the door of “my” new room. “It gets chilly in here at night, so bundle up. And if you need anything, just give a knock on Nikki’s door.”

“I won’t need anything.” I hug the soft blanket, and she waits, watching me with a half-smile, like she knows I have something to say. “Um, thanks. A lot. You know, for—”
Saving me
sounds goofy, but what else can you call it?

She touches the side of my head. “Sleep tight, hon.”

I sleep tighter than tight.

No dreams. Nothing. The best sleep I ever had.

28

The dog wakes me in the morning, shoving its wet nose into mine. Amazed, I stare at the sky-blue walls striped with sunshine, at the leaded-glass windows and lacy drapes. Big TV in one corner, with a built-in DVD player, no less. Artwork on the wall—Degas, Monet, obviously not originals, but not those cheap drugstore prints, either—and the kind of gleaming wood furniture that comes as a set.

Wow, I’m still here. Nothing changed overnight.

Nikki pokes her head into the bathroom as I’m brushing my teeth with a brand new toothbrush, and toothpaste that doesn’t taste like it came from a dollar store. “Hey.”

I spit into the sink. “Hey.”

“You want to go riding with me this morning?”

“Riding? You mean horses?”

“Yeah, I have two of my own, and one’s really sweet. A baby could ride her. C’mon, it’ll be fun.”

I picture razor-sharp hooves trampling me into a bloody puddle. “Um, no thanks.” I don’t need to be spending hours alone with this Nikki chick anyway. What if she starts asking about me?
Unless she already knows. Maybe her dad already told her the whole story.

Instead, Nikki knocks me away from the sink and goes off on like six different tangents as she layers on lipstick. Not only do I have to hear about Justin, her ultracool boyfriend, but about all her friends at Waverly, a totally exclusive school probably reserved for female descendants of the Mayflower pilgrims. Oh, and her cousin Danny “who’s like my best, best friend!” and who’d be “perfect for you!” if he wasn’t already attached.

If she wants to blab about something, why doesn’t she blab about her sister? Like, how did she die? Or maybe it’s none of my business.

Then: “Don’t you have a nickname or something? I mean, honestly—
Mar-tha?”

No shit. Same thing I’ve been saying these past fourteen years.

“I hate my name,” she goes on. “There are like three other Nicoles in my drama club, so as soon as I’m old enough, I’m changing it to Nicolette. What’s your middle name?” She makes a face when I tell her. “Georgine? Eew, that’s just as bad. Wait, wait! I got it—Gina! It’s perfect.”

Gina? Gina… Gina. The more I say it to myself, the more I like it. Gina Kowalski? Yeah! Gina Kowalski.

Over breakfast, Mr. Brinkman asks Nikki, “So are you ready to go pick out a Christmas tree this morning?”

Nikki makes a face. “Oh, Daddy. I’m too old for that stuff. Anyway, I’m going riding.” She jabs a spoon in my direction. “Take Gina, why don’t you?”

“Gina?”

“That’s her nickname,” Nikki informs him, sparing me from explaining.

The idea of tramping around in the snow in search of the perfect tree doesn’t exactly thrill me, but I go, because it gives me a chance to be alone with Mr. Brinkman. After picking out a huge, fragrant green pine tree—nothing at all like the metal pole with the tin foil branches Momma hauls out every year—we stop for lunch, and that’s when I ask him flat out how long he’s gonna let me hang around.

“I don’t know, Gina. Your mom needs to go back to rehab, and that’ll take a few weeks, so you’re certainly welcome to stay here until other arrangements can be made. Of course,” he adds, half to himself, “there’s the matter of your social worker. And we’ll have to get you registered for school.”

Other arrangements? “Well, I was kinda hoping I could move in with Shavonne.”

“That’s not very likely. They have enough going on right now.”

I chew hard on my straw. This is so not what I wanted to hear.

“Oh, I almost forgot. I have something for you.” Mr. Brinkman digs into a coat pocket, and drops Shavonne’s mood ring into my hand. “Must have fallen off in my car.”

“Wow, thanks.”

“I haven’t seen one of those in years,” Mr. Brinkman says, watching me stuff the ring into the pocket of my jeans.

“It doesn’t work,” I confess. “It stays black all the time.” I take a deep gulp of my Coke, wondering how to bring it up, and then finally ask point-blank, “So, does Nikki know about me?”

“She knows you need a place to stay because your mother is ill. I didn’t tell her about the trouble at school if that’s what you mean.”

“I mean, does she know who I am?”

“What? Oh, because you were in the car that night? I don’t think so. Why?”

“So she doesn’t know where I live, or about my dad, or—” Or the fact that I just got sprung from jail and I’m on probation for a year.

“Gina, I promise you, I haven’t said a word. I haven’t told anyone except my wife.”

“But what if people start asking?” I hear sheer desperation creep into my voice.

“What would you like me to tell them?”

I already have this part figured out. “Can’t you say I’m a friend of the family? Like somebody from out of town?” Like from Tahiti, or Hong Kong? Just not from the ghetto.

Mr. Brinkman shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “Well, one of my associates moved to Columbus recently. How would you like to belong to him?”

“Yes! And I can say that my mom’s sick. That wouldn’t be a lie.” Boy, I’m really getting into this. “And that my dad’s really busy, and that’s why they sent me up here.” This sounds perfect until I remember Shavonne’s mom and how the Brinkmans happen to know her in the first place.

Glumly, I add, “Never mind. It won’t work. Mrs. Addams knows who I am.” What am I supposed to do, hide in a closet when she shows up to clean?

“I don’t think you have to worry about Mrs. Addams right now. She’s been out sick for quite a while. My wife already hired another housekeeper.” He doesn’t mention the HIV, and I wonder if he knows. “When you talk to Shavonne,” he adds, “please let her know we’re all thinking about her.”