Before, After, and Somebody In Between (22 page)

“Did what?”

“You know—it!” Exasperated, I spell it out. “I had sex, Shavonne! Oh Go-od. I am so in love.”

“You liar. You did not.”

“Oh, yes I did. Shavonne, he’s awesome! We have so much in common, and he’s so-o-o good-looking, like a movie star or something, and he’s rich, and he’s got these amazing blue eyes, and—”

Shavonne fakes a gag. “He that good-lookin’, he gotta be gay.”

“What? He is not!”

“Well, if he ain’t, then he gotta have some kinda anterior motive to be hangin’ ‘round you. You might be lookin’ pretty slick these days, but sister-girl? You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog.”

I can’t believe she’d try to use Elvis against me. “It’s ulterior motive. Ulterior! God, don’t even try to insult me if you don’t know how to speak English.”

“Okay, okay. Ul-ter-i-or motive.”

“You don’t even know what that means.”

“You just come over here to piss me off?” she demands.

“You’re pissing
me
off,” I shoot back. “Why are you being so nasty to me?”

Shavonne leans forward to scream in my face. “ ’Cause I don’t give a shit about your faggot boyfriend! My mom is sick! She could die any day.”

“Well, mine’s sick, too. She almost died herself. She OD’d on pills, okay? Why do you think I can’t go home?”

“It ain’t like she got AIDS. And everybody knows about it, too, thanks to Aunt Bernice’s big mouth. I got people at school who don’t even want to sit down next to me. You think that’s fun? Gimme your crazy old lady any day of the week.”

This is the stupidest argument I’ve ever been in.

“You got something to drink?” I ask abruptly.

“Help your own damn self. I ain’t no freakin’ waiter.”

I find an Orange Crush in the back of the fridge, and then rack my brain to come up with a neutral topic. “You still painting and stuff?”

“Not much. No money for supplies, ob-vi-ous-ly,” she adds with a resentful glance at my coat.

This is so not working out. “Um, is Chardonnay still around?”

Shavonne relaxes a fraction. “Nope. After you sliced her up that day, they canned her triflin’ ass.”

Canned mine, too, but no point in reminding her. “I didn’t slice her up. I didn’t even nick her.”

“Ain’t what I heard.” Shavonne’s lips twitch in an almost-smile. “Hey, did ya hear she finally squeezed out that two-headed fetus of hers? Girl, that thing’s uglier than a busted boil. Kenyatta saw ‘em at Eagle Mart, and Blubber Butt was stuffin’ rubbers in the stroller.”

Well, thank God for that.

“And Jerome’s been by. He keeps asking about you, wondering why you ain’t called him. Why don’t you give me your number and I’ll give it to him?”

Just what I need. My nonexistent black boyfriend calling the Brinkman house.

I squint nervously at the clock. “I can’t stay too long.”

“You just got here,” Shavonne points out.

“I know, but I’ve got to get back before dark.”

“Aw, Aunt Bernice can take you home when she gets back from the hospital.” Shavonne’s already scrambling for paper and a pencil.

“Seriously, I gotta go—” I stop. “Where’s my purse?” Where’s my obscenely overpriced one-hundred-percent-calfskin, Juicy-freaking-Couture handbag? Did I leave it on the bus?

“Got any money?” I ask, feeling horribly faint.

Shavonne scoffs. “Yeah, millions, if I can dig up the combo to my safe.”

I’m dead meat without any bus fare, and I thank God over and over that my ritzy new cell phone is still safe in my coat pocket. I dial the number with dread, praying Nikki doesn’t pick
up. All I can do is tell Mrs. Brinkman the truth, that I’m stuck in the ghetto without a way home.

Shavonne fixes me with a laser stare. “You didn’t give her the address.”

“I didn’t?”

“No. All you said was, ‘I’m at Shavonne’s.’ “

I try to think of a way out of this. Like, duh, of
course
I gave her the address before I even came over here. That would be perfectly reasonable, perfectly believable. But it won’t keep Shavonne from finding out where I live now that Mrs. Brinkman herself is already on her way.

I have no choice but to confess, and Shavonne blinks in astonishment. “The Brinkmans?”

“Yeah.”

“My mom’s Brinkmans? With the yappy little dog and the snotty daughter?”

“Yeah.” I give her the CliffsNotes version. “And I didn’t tell you at first because it’s just so weird.” And I didn’t want you calling me! But how can I say that?

“The Brinkmans,” she repeats. “Wow. I mean…wow.”

“Yeah. And did you know they had another kid who died?”

“I heard that once,” she says absently, still stuck on the idea of me at the Brinkmans.

“So what happened to her?”

“Ma never said. Probably she got her head sucked into that fancy bathtub of theirs.” Shavonne giggles. “Or maybe Nikki slipped her a poisoned apple.”

“Not helpful, Shavonne.”

“So ask them, why don’t you? I don’t know, and I don’t care.”

The conversation dwindles, so Shavonne digs up a battered drawing pad and a tiny piece of charcoal. She sketches in silence,
forcing me to stare at the wall—her cable TV has also been cut off—till Mrs. Brinkman shows up and toots the horn.

Shavonne sneers through the window. “Oooh, a Jag-you-ah-h? What she do, make you ride in the trunk?”

Ignoring this, I throw an arm around her neck. “I’m really, really sorry about your mom.”

She hugs me back tightly, hanging on a couple seconds longer than necessary. “I know. And I’m sorry I’m such a bitch.” She bops me in the head as I duck out the door.

Mrs. Brinkman attacks me before I get a single foot in the car. “You better have a good explanation for this, Gina.”

“I lost my purse. I said I was sorry.”

“I don’t mean that. I mean, what were you thinking? Riding a bus through a neighborhood like this.”

A neighborhood like this? This used to be my neighborhood in case she forgot.

“If you wanted to visit Shavonne, why didn’t you ask me? I could have driven you myself. My God, don’t you read the newspapers? Where’s your common sense?”

“I couldn’t!” I burst out. “I was afraid—” I bite my lip.

“Afraid of what?” She looks genuinely flabbergasted. “That I wouldn’t let you come?”

“It’s not that, I just—” Dammit, Gina, say it already! “I didn’t want Nikki to know where I was.” Then, in a teeny voice, “You didn’t tell her, did you?”

Mrs. Brinkman sighs. “Of course I didn’t.” I fall limp with relief, till she adds, “Let me ask you something. Don’t you find it tiresome, this cloak-and-dagger routine of yours?”

“Huh?”

“Pretending to be someone else. I mean, really, why bother? You’re smart, you’re funny, and you’ve got a very good heart. You
shouldn’t have to lie to feel…accepted.” She says it as an afterthought, like it’s not important at all.

“I don’t lie,” I lie.

“No? Well, have you gotten around to telling Danny you’re not from Columbus?”

Hell, I haven’t even told Danny I’m only fourteen. Like Nikki, he must think I’m fifteen because I’m already a sophomore. Going on sixteen, too, since I have a birthday coming up in March.

“Well?” She waits, and I can hear the humming of her bullshit detector.

“Not yet,” I finally admit. “You didn’t say anything, did you? To his folks or anything?”

Mrs. Brinkman tugs on her leather-gloved fingers. “No. But only because, to be perfectly honest, I didn’t think you’d be with us this long. Now don’t get me wrong,” she adds quickly. “I’m glad you’re here, and you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. But if you’re going to be part of our family, you need to be honest. And the longer you wait, the harder it’s going to be.”

I twist a button on my coat.

“Gina?”

“I heard you!” It comes out kind of snarky, so I quickly add, “Okay. I’ll do it. I just have to, um, figure out what to say.”

Mrs. Brinkman nods, satisfied. “And I think now might be a good time for us to have a talk about you and Danny. I know you really like him, and he certainly seems to like you. But he’s what, three years older? And boys, if you don’t already know it, can be,
mmm,
a bit pushy at times. I’m not saying Danny is, but—well, I’d hate to see you in a situation you don’t feel you can get out of.”

I nod with the seriousness of any fourteen-year-old virgin. “I’ll be careful. I promise.”

“I know, and I trust you. I just wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t get on your back about this.”

Okay, I believe her, but I’m getting sick of the lecture. “Shavonne’s phone got disconnected. She says they can’t pay the bill.”

Mrs. Brinkman throws me a look. “Are you changing the subject?”

“No! But doesn’t that suck?”

She thinks for a moment. “Yes. I’m sorry. I’ll take care of it tomorrow.”

“You will?”

“Of course I will. It’s the least I can do. Mrs. Addams was with us for five years and, well, I feel terrible I didn’t think of helping them out before this. Anything else you think they need?”

“Everything,” I say, elated that Mrs. Brinkman’s not going to kill me after all, and on top of that she really wants to help Shavonne!

“I’ll talk to my husband,” she promises, smiling now, which makes me smile, too. “We’ll do whatever we can.”

“Thanks! And I really am sorry, you know. For sneaking off, and—” Being my usual snotty self. I really do have to watch that.

She reaches over and squeezes my hand. “I know. Just please, please, Gina—”

“I know. Be honest.” I make a face. “Okay, I’ll tell Danny.”

She squeezes harder, with an edgy glance in my direction. “This isn’t just about Danny, Gina. You need to start being honest with yourself.”

36

On Valentine’s Day, I have my first counseling session with Zelda because that’s the one thing Judge Monaghan refused to throw out. First she bulldozes me with what she considers good news: Momma finally made it to a halfway house, so it’s just a matter of time before they dump her back into society—after she finds a job, of course, and some place to live. Not with Wayne, Zelda assures me. Momma decided that for herself.

That’s about the only good thing I’ve heard so far. “Well, if she’s so much better, then how come I can’t see her?”

“She’s recovering, Martha. She needs to concentrate on herself.”

“Well, maybe
I
don’t want to see
her.
Anybody think of that?”

“I understand,” she says.

Understand? Ha! It wasn’t her mom who OD’d under her nose, never mind that I would’ve been the one to find her cold dead body.

“So,” she continues, “how are you doing, hmm?”

“Well, I’m playing the cello again. I’m in the school orchestra
now, and I’m taking private lessons. And—!” I pause for effect, saving the best for last. “I’m auditioning for the Great Lakes Academy of Music.”

Yes, it’s true. I’m officially signed up, and my audition’s in April. Mr. Brinkman was thrilled when I told him I want to do this, got me the paperwork and stuff, and made a big deal out of the whole thing. Even Professor Moscowitz says I should give it a shot. Funny, since he’s the one who’s been telling me I’m about as coordinated as a gorilla.

Zelda seems pleased, too. “Well! Congratulations.”

“Yeah, isn’t it cool? I’m even composing my own piece.” Not from scratch, exactly—I’ve based it on some old seventeenth-century tune Danny dug up—but still, it counts.

“Wonderful, Martha. I’m sure your mother will be very proud of you.”

“Man, I can’t believe you said that with a straight face.”

“You don’t agree?”

I ignore this. “Look. The Brinkmans think it’s cool I play, and they’re, like, spending all this money on my lessons, and—well, they
expect
me into get into that school. It’s just different here, you know?”

“So how do you think you will feel,” she asks slowly, “when the time comes for you to go home?”

What is she talking about? I am home.

That’s when I realize the truth for the first time.

Yes, I love my mom, because she’s my mom, okay? Yes, I do want her to get better, and, yes, I want her to be happy. But even if that happens, I don’t want to leave the Brinkmans. Whether Momma gets better or not, whether she stays sober or not, I am so not leaving this house alive.

Once again, Zelda zeros in on my exact thoughts. “Ma-artha …”

“Gina,” I remind her through clenched teeth.

“You remember this is temporary?” She watches me wind a strand of hair around my finger, examining it for split ends, and takes the hint. “Well, keep up the good work. I’ll see you in a couple weeks.”

Well, at least she didn’t make me talk about Bubby. And now, thinking about Bubby makes me think about Rachel. I’ve been here two months, and except for Nikki that first day, and at Natalie’s party, not one single person has mentioned her name.

I know she existed—there are hundreds of photos of her around, from baby pictures up to, well, almost my age, I guess. Dark hair like Mr. Brinkman’s, not blond like Nikki’s, but with the same arctic blue Brinkman eyes, same dimples, same dazzling red-carpet smile. I even peeked in her room once, but it didn’t tell me much. Most of her stuff is gone. It kind of made me sad in away.

Do they feel about Rachel the way I feel about Bubby? Like, if I do think about him, it’s like picking open a scab. I start to remember little things, like that Labor Day barbecue, how Bubby smelled like barbecue sauce and sweet baby sweat, how he fell asleep in my arms…

The memory threatens to choke me like a massive hairball. God! If thinking about Bubby can make me so suddenly depressed, what’ll happen if Zelda starts making me say this stuff out loud?

Back home, I swallow one Percodan to ward off a migraine. Danny’s taking me out to dinner, and I want to enjoy myself and not be in pain. And I think I’ll ask him about Rachel, too. He
never brings her up either, but maybe I can work her into the conversation. Too bad I didn’t think of this before.

…

The restaurant Danny picks is so incredibly fancy, I spend the first two courses gawking at the tuxes on the waiters, and wondering why nobody thought to stick the prices on the menu. By the third course, I make more of a point to pay attention to Danny and unfortunately don’t think of Rachel till it’s time for dessert.