Before, After, and Somebody In Between (35 page)

Zelda leaves a note on the door while I’m at the library:
Just wondering how you are. I’ll stop back soon.
Then children’s services pops up on the caller ID. Zelda again, but what do I do? If I answer, I’ll have to fake my way through a lie. If I never pick up, she’ll get suspicious for sure. I let the machine take over, and she leaves message after message, commanding Momma to call her back ASAP.

Emilio leaves a few jumbled thoughts of his own, wondering why I haven’t shown up at any meetings. But I’m too afraid to leave the house, even for my lessons. What if Momma comes back while I’m gone? What if she’s hurt, or in trouble, or deathly ill? Not only that, but I’m running out of food and the smell from Mamma Mia’s makes me want to crawl into their Dumpster and scavenge for leftovers.

I hate, hate, hate this! And I hate being alone.

The third morning, Zelda tries again. “Lou Ann, this is Zelda. I got your message.”

Message? What message?

“Are you there? Hello? Um, Gina?”

Now
she remembers my name, now that pigs are flying.

“Well, please, one of you call me back as soon as you get this, hmm?” She leaves her cell phone number, and it’s easy to remember because the last four digits make up the year I was born. A minute later, though, she calls back. This time her tone is sharp and her accent even sharper. “Never mind. I will be there by noon. I want to know what’s going on, and one of you had better let me in!”

I don’t budge, I just stand there, my brain sharp as glass and vibrating with ideas. Can I hide under the bed and wait till she leaves? Unless, of course, she brings legal reinforcements. I picture myself on
Cops
with my face fuzzed into tiny cubes, hustled into a cruiser, news cameras flashing. I can’t go to Emilio’s because I don’t know where he lives, and all he’ll do anyway is start spewing that prayer.

No, that’s not fair. At least he has more sense than me.

Ten fiftyfive on my digital clock—one hour and five minutes till Zelda shows up. Would Josh help me out, let me hide in his van? Maybe. But how will I have to pay him back?

WhatdoIdowhatdoIdowhatdoIdowhatdoIdo?
Will it be a group home again? Another foster home? I highly doubt that the clown house wants me back, seeing as I didn’t exactly leave there on the best of terms.

Bang!
Momma stumbles through the doorway, a jug of Jack Daniels in one hand, a bag of goodies in the other. Her filthy entourage follows close behind.

“Hey, Lou Ann.” One biker dude—Virgil or Verne or possibly
Vermin—jiggles like a kindergartner who can’t find the potty. “You said we’d get the place to ourselves today.”

“What are you doin’ here?” Momma seems truly, incredibly, undeniably stunned to see me, and that’s when I know—she thought I’d be gone!
She’s
the one who tipped off Zelda, hoping Zelda might pick me up before she got back.

I crunch my teeth. “I live here, remember?”

“Lou Ann!” Vermin whines impatiently as the other maggots set up shop on my perfectly polished coffee table. I see a huge vintage bong, tidy plastic Baggies loaded with, well, whatever, cigarette lighters, homemade pipes, and—

I stop my mental inventory when Momma hisses in my ear, “Go somewhere, you hear me? I got stuff to do, and I don’t want you around.”

“Better listen to your momma,” says a familiar voice behind me. With a knot of dread, I spin around and bump smack into Satan.

“Hey,” Wayne greets me, looming unsteadily in the doorway. “Long time, no see.” I stick my arm out to send him a seriously significant finger, and he cocks his head in surprise like, oh gosh, I hurt his feelings. “Aw, c’mon. That any way to greet an old friend?”

Momma slaps my arm down. “I said beat it, Martha.
Now!”

“Make me!”

As her mad-dog eyes glaze over, I dash for the stairs, knowing she’s too sloshed to follow. Breathing hard, I hover in my puny room, thinking and thinking, and then gather up all the spare change I can find. I flip open my black trunk and pick out my most recent journals, jamming as many as I can into my backpack. If Momma decides to throw another bonfire in my honor, at least my latest memories will be safe.

I peer back at my alarm clock—11:03—and stick my feet into sandals, sling my pack over my shoulder, pick up my cello case, and move slowly back downstairs. Everyone’s huddled around the coffee table, smoking and snorting and doing whatever else professional stoners do. I think of all the beer I’ve had over the past couple of days and how great it made me feel, at least for a while. Now it scares me to death, only because I can see why they do it.

For one second I’m tempted to smash their bong into the wall. Ha, what could they do? Call the cops on me? But the expression on Momma’s face is the one thing that stops me. Leaning into Wayne, who already has a greasy hand on her thigh, she sucks in smoke, releases it, and then shuts her eyes with a dreamy, satisfied smile.

I can’t make her smile. But she’s smiling now.

She mumbles when she senses me standing by her shoulder. Something like, “You still here?” Or maybe it’s, “See you, dear.” But she never calls me dear. Only sugar pie.

Momma, Zelda will be here in less than forty-five minutes. Hide the drugs! Make everybody leave! You’ll end up in jail, and then they’ll put me someplace again, and you can’t let that happen, you can’t, it’s not fair!

But I don’t say it out loud. I don’t even want to try.

With my free arm, I hug her clammy neck. “I love you, Momma.”

She answers vaguely, not bothering to look up, “Why, I love you too, sugar pie.”

Leaving the house, I hit the sidewalk and walk block after block, street after street, on and on till I lose track of time. At one point I notice a stray dog with one ear, and I think of Luther Lee Washington and his missing mutt, Ole Marvin.

I whistle once. “Here, doggie, doggie.” That one ear pricks up as he dangles a happy tongue, but he won’t come any closer. It’s just as well.

I continue my trek till I’m almost downtown. The clock on the tower of the West Side Market says 1:33, so whatever was going to happen must have happened by now. Hoping nobody sees me and thinks I’m planning to jump, I study the muddy water of the river as I trail across that same Bob Hope bridge. How far would I fall if I jumped—maybe a thousand feet? And do you really get to see everyone who died ahead of you? Are they surprised when you show up, or were they waiting for you all along? Watching you your whole life, knowing exactly when it would happen.

I never thought I’d say this, but if I see Emilio again, I think I’ll tell him about Bubby. Then, while I’m at it, I’ll let him know that, yes, I’m gonna do the twelve steps after all.

Not in order, though.

Leaving the bridge, I zigzag the streets till I find a phone booth that miraculously works. I think about Zelda and how she tries to be so nice, even when she’d like nothing better than to knock me to the moon. Man, you’d have to be crazy to have a job like hers. Whatever they pay her, it’s not enough.

My cello case is silent as I plant it to one side. A small
woof
makes me swing my head around, and I spot that one-eared dog creeping up from behind. I call, “Hey, I thought you were dead!” He cocks his head, tail wagging fiercely. Cute as hell, but I bet he’s loaded with fleas.

I pick up the receiver and dial my birth year. When Zelda answers, I don’t even have to explain. She just tells me to stay put so she can come pick me up.

Jerome, I’m not ready for. I bet he wrote me off forever and
thinks I did the same to him. Did I? I’m not sure, but there’s no way I can do this now. Maybe someday. Or maybe real soon.

So I try Shavonne next, but her phone’s out of order, probably for good this time. Maybe she went to live with her Aunt Bernice, and I don’t know her aunt’s number or even her last name. But I bet I know somebody who can help me find out.

I squash the button and release it once more. Guess old Ninth-Step Nikki did a number on me, for real. I pop in another coin and dial slowly, and listen to the ringing over the thunder of my heart.

By the time Richard answers, my tongue is glued to my tonsils. “Hello? Hello?” Then, “Gina, is that you?”

I suck in my breath, scared he’ll hang up before I can utter one word—and then finally, finally, I find my voice.

“No,” I say into the mouthpiece. “It’s Martha.”

Acknowledgments

So many people have been involved in the creation of this novel, and I’d like to thank each of them, for many different reasons.

My fabulous agent, Tina Wexler, of ICM, for falling in love with Martha and making my lifelong dream come true. Jill Davis, my editor at Bloomsbury Children’s Books, for her endless dedication, advice, and support, and for miraculously keeping me sane throughout the editing process. My husband and life partner, Clarence Garsee, for helping me raise an unbelievably “normal” family, and for all his love and patience. My daughter, Elizabeth, my first reader and biggest fan, and my son, Nathan, who always cheers me on.

Karen Margosian, my sister and best friend, who can always make me laugh even when we’re crying. My brother, Milan Nerad, the first person ever to hear my stories—and, more important, the first to beg for more. My extended family: Leah Koson, Matthew Margosian, Mary Nerad, Mary Nerad Junior, Kenneth Johnson, and Tom Nerad for reminding me what a “real” family is. Genevieve, Sophia, and Lydia Koson, for allowing me to steal their names. Ruth Ward, my “adopted” sister. Don’t forget:
“We’re gonna make it …!” My dear friend Melody L., for her unconditional love, and for helping me better understand the twelve steps of AA. Janet Walsh, for her support, motherly advice, and the occasional well-aimed kick. Tangela Lindsey, for teaching me the true meaning of “soul sister.” My crit group members and online friends who have supported me over the past several years: Holly Farriman, C. J. Parker, June Phyllis Baker, Donna, Tinny, Sher, Kate Harrington, Kat, Jade, Laura, Yvonne Grapes, Sharolyn Wells, Kathie Carlson, Nadine Laman, Jenny Mounfield, and Pamela Reese, my first face-to-face writing buddy, who deserves a special thanks for her generous help with the social-service advice, and for all our parking lot conversations about psychotic mommas and “nekkid” elfs.

Copyright © 2007 by Jeannine Garsee

Published by Bloomsbury U.S.A. Children’s Books
175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010
Electronic edition published in October 2011
Distributed to the trade by Holtzbrinck Publishers
www.bloomsburykids.com

All rights reserved. You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Garsee, Jeannine.
Before, after, and somebody in between/by Jeannine Garsee.—1st U.S. ed.
p. cm.
Summary: After dealing with an alcoholic mother and her abusive boyfriend, a school
bully, and life on the wrong side of the tracks in Cleveland, Ohio, high school sophomore
Martha Kowalski expects to be happy when she moves in with a rich family across town,
but finds that the “rich life” has problems of its own.
e-ISBN-13: 978-1-59990864-9 (ePub)
[1. Alcoholism—Fiction. 2. Drug abuse—Fiction. 3. Family problems—Fiction. 4. High
schools—Fiction. 5. Schools—Fiction. 6. Cleveland (Ohio)—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.G1875Bef2007 [Fic]—dc22 2006027975

www.bloomsburyteens.com