Getting Somewhere (11 page)

Jenna slides over a little on the log, even though there was plenty of room before, and Sarah moves gingerly forward, sits carefully beside her. “Are you okay?”

Jenna looks at Sarah sharply, then away. “I'm fine.”

They are quiet for a moment, and then Jenna says, “I'm sorry about the party. I just . . . I couldn't do it.”

“That's okay. It was really just a cake.” Sarah has, of course, been wondering what made Jenna leap up from the table like that, never actually heard if Grace found her that night or if Jenna just came back by herself. Though she hadn't been aware that she was thinking about it, she felt a rush of relief when she looked out the front door the next morning and saw Jenna in the garden.

Ellie had tried to bring it up at the next counseling session, saying that there must be some feelings about what had happened at the party, “inviting” the girls to talk about it. No one had responded, of course, but since then, Sarah has been chewing it over in her own mind. She can't help but notice the irony of Lauren getting exactly what she wanted. Sarah can't yet determine how much impact Jenna's little outburst and the resulting failure of the party has had, but it feels like everybody is talking a little quieter, stepping a little more carefully, as if they are carrying something they've just realized is extremely fragile. Sarah is caught between her sympathy for the others who were hoping for a nice little party and a rather uncomfortable itch for something to happen, a craven attraction for whatever Lauren might do to expose the fatal weaknesses.

But she hasn't been able to ignore the realization that she
is
a little mad at Jenna, not so much because she ruined the party, or could possibly be in league with Lauren, but because of the way the attention has shifted, kind of like when her stepfather had a temper tantrum and then everybody else had to tiptoe around like he was the one who got hurt. It hadn't even occurred to her to feel sorry for Jenna or to imagine that Jenna's behavior was anything but a total lack of interest in, even scorn for, the rest of them.

Until now. Jenna seems completely deflated, guilty about ruining everything and Sarah realizes that something must be hurting her, too, that she didn't leave because she wanted to but because she had to, something inside her making it impossible to stay.

“Do you still hate being here?” Sarah asks.

Jenna doesn't speak for a long time. “Not as much, I guess. You?”

Sarah is instantly sorry she has asked the question. She wanted to hear from Jenna, not think about an answer for herself. Before she can formulate any words, images blink through her mind like those flip books where the movement of the drawings comes from turning the pages: the clink of warm clean plates, steaming brown rolls that melt the butter the instant the knife touches the crumbly surface, the splash of ducks into the creek, Ellie's smile and the way she lays a hand on your shoulder and squeezes gently without looking at you or even saying a word. All of Lauren's words—that they have been sent here only to work, that lesbians shouldn't be allowed to have a program for girls, that the counseling is bogus—echo in her head. And what about the street, her friends there? How can Sarah even allow herself to imagine belonging anywhere else? She glances down at the old scars on her wrists, clasps her hands together to stop herself from reaching under her shirt and running her fingers over the tender, raw place just above the waistband of her shorts.

Finally, Sarah shrugs, unwilling or unable to commit herself. “Well, at least it got the attention off Lauren.” Sarah glances at Jenna to check her demeanor, but she is sitting perfectly relaxed, doesn't seem to have reacted to what Sarah has said. “Um, or maybe, you know, Lauren's thing is no big deal.”

“What thing?”

“Has she been talking to you?”

“I don't know. She talks all the time. I guess I don't pay much attention to her.”

They both nod slightly, grunt at that.

“What is she saying to you?” Jenna asks.

Sarah hesitates. She's spent nearly three years living on the streets, struggling to be a part of a world that had almost stricter rules than the one she came from. The first rule she learned, the one most ingrained, was about loose lips. Nobody knows anything they don't need to know, nobody says anything they don't need to say. Friendship wasn't intimate sharing. It was loyalty: loyalty to the street and its rules, loyalty to the people and habits that meant safety.

Sarah doesn't realize how anxious she has been to talk until the words are backed up in her mouth, ready to spill out. She was hoping Jenna would catch on, not require her to explain, that the code would have stretched far enough to include her here. She doesn't know how to apply what she's learned, who she has become, in this place. She's not sure if Jenna can be trusted, if the conditions call for her to violate her own standards. Somehow, without really understanding why, she wants to believe Jenna herself can help her make sense of it.

“About Ellie and Grace and I guess even Donna being lesbians,” Sarah blurts out.

“What about it?”

“Well, exactly. But Lauren wants to make a big deal out of it, like, she thinks that if she can get us all to agree on it she'll be able to get out of here some way. That they shouldn't be allowed to run a program for girls, if somebody found out that it could get them all in big trouble or something.”

Jenna doesn't say anything. Sarah sees her look away, down the river, as if checking a route she is planning to take. Everything is just as it was a moment ago, and yet Sarah has the sense that she has scraped open an ancient scar, the edge of the horny scab revealing the pinkest, most vulnerable skin below, and soon it will begin to itch. She feels like she is waiting to see if Jenna will scratch it.

“Lauren isn't going anywhere. There's nothing she can do about being here, and the sooner she figures that out, the easier it's going to be on everyone.”

Jenna's voice has a lecturing quality, a distance, as if the words have been read out of a manual—
Prison Alternatives for Dummies
. Somehow, it seems to Sarah, Jenna hates the sound of her own words, is mad at herself for reconfiguring the truth so it is palatable and innocuous, like patting a vicious dog on the head with your feet planted firmly just inches away from his smiling jaws, knowing all the time that his chain won't allow him to reach you.

But Sarah is satisfied, happy to avoid the danger. She is willing, for the moment, to be placated, to believe that Jenna isn't worried, doesn't take Lauren's threat seriously, or at least has forged a path around it that Sarah is anxious to follow. Lunch is being served, the sun is shining, their muscles are growing stronger each day, their hearts are steadily pumping, and Sarah knows she has old scars, too, some of them healed over, nearly invisible, and some she still picks at sometimes, causing them to bleed.

TUESDAY, JUNE 19

LAUREN HAS A TERRIBLE, POUNDING HEADACHE. HER
temples are throbbing and the pain, the sheer weight of her head, has made her neck stiff and uncomfortable. The headache is just one symptom of her period, which also includes acute abdominal cramps, bloated hands and feet, and heightened sensitivity that makes her skin feel bruised.

At least that's what she told Grace and has almost convinced herself. That's why she's up here, first lying on her bed staring at the ceiling, then in the bathroom, examining her face for blemishes just inches from the mirror, now back in her room and killing just a bit more time to be sure everyone has gone out, is as far from the house as possible.

Lauren can't see them from her window right now, but she can see the huge garden and the sight of it makes her not even want to look out. She is certain she has been assigned the worst room since it's always sunny in here, extra hot, and she can hear everything that goes on outside, making her feel like she has absolutely no privacy. It seems like all the heat from the kitchen comes right up the stairs and through her door, too, and Lauren is sure she can smell the lingering odors of cooked food, going sour and fetid in clouds of heavy air in the corners of her room. One corner is actually higher than the surrounding landscape of her cluttered floor, filled with an ever-expanding mound of dirty clothes, growing with all the enthusiasm of toadstools on a compost pile.

Lauren eyes the heap warily. She can hardly believe that, on top of everything, she is supposed to carry her clothes all the way down to the horrible dark damp basement of this god-awful creaky, old house, and that she is the one who is supposed to wash and dry them. She's almost out of clean clothes again, actually wore the same pair of shorts two days in row, not that anyone around here would even notice, and the pile of laundry taunts her like the ultimate betrayal. She'll just have to talk Cassie into doing her laundry again, though she hasn't found her nearly as retiring or compliant as she was at first, and Lauren has wondered if the girl might even be avoiding her.

Not that Lauren could care less. It's not like she wants to be friends with someone like Cassie. There's something weird about her. Lauren is pretty sure she's not retarded, doesn't think she'd be here if she was. Lauren doesn't even know what Cassie did to get herself here. She's mentioned some creepy uncle Gordon visiting her and her grandmother and it could have something to do with him. Maybe she killed him. Lauren figures, if she did, he probably deserved it. But, then again, she's pretty sure this program wouldn't be open to a murderer, no matter how justified the crime. Besides, Cassie doesn't seem capable of sticking it to anyone unless maybe they were threatening to hurt her dear old Gram. Maybe she was an accessory to the demise of the Big Bad Wolf.

She's still working on Sarah, but she knows better than to trust a street kid. Sarah's sweetness is all a ploy, Lauren is convinced, a way to be sure adults never suspect her of anything, though she would, as Lauren's mother likes to say, steal your coat right off your back.

She kicks at the pile of clothes, shifting it ever so slightly, sneers at the actual dirt on her favorite camisole. Who, in this day and age, doesn't have air-conditioning? She reaches her hand through the open window, lays her palm against the screen, proving to herself that no breeze is blowing, that the air in her room is just as stifling as she thought even with the fan they gave her on high, blowing hard enough to flutter the pages of the
Teen Vogue
magazine, the one she's read a hundred times now, with every oscillating pass. Lauren picks up the magazine and throws it and herself onto the bed, lies sprawled there on her back, tears filling her eyes and spilling down her cheeks into her ears.

It's all Jason's fault.
She repeats the words in her head like a mantra. The thought pulls her into a current where she likes to float. She's been here before and likes the story that starts this way. It was Jason, not her. He made her do it. It was his greed and his imagination and, yes, even his pride in her, that made him believe she could do it, could do almost anything. He knew she was good, and it wasn't even her fault she got caught.

It was those mirrors, those stupid mirrors. The clerk never would have seen her slip the pendant off the counter into her bag, never would have noticed that one missing out of all the ones she'd laid out to show Lauren, if she hadn't seen the reflection of the movement in the mirror, just the barest glimpse of something out of the corner of her eye, and got suspicious. Lauren had been in that particular store dozens of times, taken things, little things mostly, from right under that same girl's nose. She was a total dunce, nowhere near alert enough, under normal circumstances, to cause the least problem for Lauren. There was no reason for it to have gone wrong this time.

But, no. Lauren doesn't like when the story goes this direction, gets away from her. She likes it orderly, step by step. She escorts her mind back to the jewelry counter, sighs to see herself sitting on one of the high stools, a real customer, someone they have to pay attention to. She'd bought the watch, the one with the turqoise inset, kind of pretty but nothing she'd ever wear, snapped her credit card smartly on the counter, forged her mother's name, nearly the same signature as her own. And then, oh! Look at that lovely pendant. Do you mind showing that to me? Lauren is so polite, so demure. They never suspect a thing. Her clothes and her makeup and her hair and jewelry all show that she's got style, money, that she's someone who can really appreciate the beautiful things they have here, but she's not bossy or patronizing. If they remember her, which they always do, it is with delight. Remember that nice girl, that lovely blonde? A compliment here and there, apologies for taking so much time. She can't get by with being invisible, that's a given. So she lures them in with impeccable manners and, of course, flattery.

She can feel the cool, smooth gold in her palm, the light brush of the girl's fingertips as she fastens one of the other pendants, one Lauren doesn't want, around her neck, the barest movement of air on her neck as she lifts her hair to admire the necklace in the mirror, all the while watching the one she does want, the one she's going to take, as if it might slither away. And that's when she decides. She sends the clerk to another case and while her back is turned, Lauren acts. It only takes a small movement, a slight shifting of balance, a little help from gravity, for one of the chains to slip over the edge, for the links to slowly sink from sight. The girl gasps, rushes to retrieve it from the floor and, in that instant, the gold pendant slides across the glass and is safely nestled in the bottom of Lauren's bag.

Lauren is sure the clerk has seen nothing. There were way too many pieces out on the counter for the girl to notice one is gone, several having been brought from another case. Too confusing and the clerks are not that familiar with the stock anyway. Lauren is walking through the store, still in the part, still pretending to herself that she might have been interested in buying one of those others, as if her thoughts can be seen, and she can fool everyone if she just thinks the right ones. She lingers for just a moment among the handbags, casually fingering the stitching on a mahogany-tinted leather bag without bothering to consult the tag. Even as the security guard steps into her path, she doesn't believe it is for her. She thinks he is opening the outer door for her, acts as shocked as she might have if she hadn't stolen anything—she is that surprised she's been caught.

Not that it hadn't happened before, but she was an amateur then. They'd dropped the charges the first time, and the second time her dad just paid the fine and she had to attend that class. The third time, the lawyer somehow got the charge reduced to a misdemeanor, bigger fine, still no jail time, maybe because the stuff wasn't valuable enough. She was going to quit, or at least stick to little stuff, just for fun once in awhile. But Jason had said he could sell anything she got, especially gold, the good stuff. That she had a special talent, they'd save up, maybe get married or something and she wouldn't even need her stupid fucked-up parents anymore. Lauren didn't believe a word of it, and yet it mattered that he said it, thought maybe he might believe it and so pretended she did, too.

When she tries to see Jason's face now, it's as if some of the features have become smudged, out of focus. He's like a figure retreating into the mist at the end of a movie, a blurred shadow. She can't remember the difference between the fantasy of him and her together and how it really was. The story is only good if the girl is always pretty, pretty enough that people can never blame her for anything, won't send her away if she does something they don't like, pretty enough to always stand in the front row, to be the first selected, to convince them she is exactly the kind of girl they need her to be. It's important to skip over the parts of the story that hurt, the parts that have a girl in them who isn't perfect, who isn't loved by everyone or is confused about what love even means, can't understand why it sometimes feels like pain; the parts that remind her that stealing came long before Jason, that she doesn't know why she does it, that sometimes she wants to stop and can't.

No. There's no question whose fault it is and no question who has to get her out of it. Isn't that always the way it is? Everybody else in Lauren's whole family is all fucked up and Lauren is the one who has to take the brunt of it. Lauren sits up abruptly and runs a finger under each eye to remove the mascara she knows is smeared there, rubs the black stain from her fingertip into the sheet. She steps to the window and peers out again. She can see them now—Grace and Ellie, Jenna and Sarah—far away in the garden, not even in the first field closest to the house. There's no reason that Donna and Cassie wouldn't be out there, too, but it bothers her a little that she can't see them. Wait a bit longer or just go? No, she's ready. At least it will be a little cooler downstairs.

Lauren is moving through the hallway quietly, placing her bare feet down carefully on the creaky floorboards, hugging the wall along the stairs. When she gets to the bottom, she tiptoes across the foyer and stands to the side of the front door and looks out, can't see anyone from there. It will be a long time before they start packing in the shed, and even if someone began walking up now, it would take them a good five minutes to get here. Lauren circles through the living room, the dining room, and the kitchen, assuring herself that the house is empty. Inside her chest, her heart beats like a memory, and she feels momentarily saved.

She's not interested in Donna's room, though she glances in as she passes by. The room used to be a pantry off the kitchen, and Donna has made it comfortable and cozy, though Lauren thinks she would go crazy in a space that small. She takes one step in to better see the items that are scattered on the top of Donna's dresser. There is a jar of coins, a little over half full, among the candle stubs, scraps of paper, pens and paperclips, a tiny statue that looks like some naked buxom goddess, a roll of antacids, and an open plastic box with index cards in it, a couple sticking up the long way, probably recipes. But Lauren has nowhere to spend money, especially small change, isn't tempted by Donna's stuff. Besides, she's not looking for things to steal. What could she possibly want from these people?

She passes by the office on the other side of the foyer from the living room and pushes open the door of Ellie's bedroom, debating whether to shut it behind her or leave it open so she can hear a little better. She decides to leave it open a crack and then turns to survey the room. There is a bureau in here, too, though the top is much less cluttered than Donna's, plus a desk and a closet. Lauren ignores the bed and the bookshelf, notes a small stand beside the bed with a lamp on top and a drawer.

She decides to start with the desk after determining that there are no photos displayed in the room. She opens the top middle drawer, but it is clearly crammed with typical office-related items and nothing of a particularly personal nature. It doesn't take long for Lauren to discover that none of the desk drawers offers anything much of interest, though she does withdraw a single sheet of stationery from a box buried under some loose papers in the bottom drawer and a matching envelope to which she affixes one stamp, hesitates, and then another from the book lying on the desk. She folds the stationery to fit into the envelope and slips it into the waistband of her shorts in the back, just barely covering it with the hem of her skimpy shirt.

She is kneeling on the carpet, already on the third big drawer of the bureau before she finds anything. It is a photo album tucked among some flannel pajamas, and Lauren pulls it out, stopping to listen for a moment before sitting back on her feet and opening it across her thighs. Lauren doesn't recognize anyone except a younger Ellie until a good way through the book and then, finally, there is Grace, too. The pictures look like they were taken on some kind of vacation. The women are wearing coats and hats and gloves. Behind them are rocky walls like canyons, and in another photo they are standing by a waterfall with icicles hanging from the rocks beside it. They look pretty much the same as now so Lauren guesses the pictures are no more than a couple years old. Usually, there is just one of them in the picture, obviously taken by the other, but there are two in which they are standing together, leaning in with their arms hooked around the other's waist, nothing really beyond friendship apparent in their stance. She stares at the pictures for a while, hoping to see something in them that isn't immediately obvious, disappointed not to have found something more explicit or incriminating.

What a stupid, boring trip that must have been. Lauren is trying to imagine what would make someone take a winter vacation, what could possibly be fun about hiking on icy trails and freezing your ass off. Why aren't there any pictures of the hot tub after the hike or the snuggle in bed with hot toddies and some vigorous sex to get the old bloodstream flowing again?