Part of Me (12 page)

She read
The Grapes of Wrath
so she'd have something to say to him that sounded smart and sophisticated, not like a thirteen-year-old. She listened carefully to everything that came from his mouth so that she could research the topics that most interested him. Now Mrs. Grant greeted her by name since Annabeth took refuge at the library every day after quickly eating lunch.

During the school day, she began to feel numb each time Melody or one of her friends gave her a dirty look. Instead, she concentrated on her new life after school at the park. By mid-October the harassment faded. Melody was too busy campaigning for homecoming court votes.

One November night, Annabeth was so wrapped up in Edward's talk about the political issues in
The Grapes of Wrath
that she didn't see Melody and her friends at the park until they'd passed by the bench. When she discovered the girls, their backs were already to her. What a close call, she thought. They hadn't noticed her. But then Melody turned her head and tossed a wicked smile Annabeth's way. A feeling of doom fell over her. What could they do? She'd done nothing wrong. She didn't hear another word Edward said that evening.

The next day at lunch, Cora had been unusually quiet. She fiddled with her cross necklace between bites. Finally she said, “God will forgive you if you ask Him.”

Annabeth scowled. “What's that supposed to mean?”

Cora folded her napkin and returned it to her lunch bag. “I don't like to gossip, but I heard about you and that man.”

“What man?” Annabeth asked.

“Edward Connors. His mom belongs to our church. She's always putting her son on our prayer list. You better be careful.”

Annabeth studied her salad. She still didn't know much about Edward except how he felt about books and writers. But Cora's remark made him sound like a mass murderer.

“Edward came back from Vietnam two years ago, and he's never been the same. His mom said he's not stable. That's why he doesn't have a job. He just hangs out at the library all day.”

Annabeth stabbed a tomato with her fork and stared hard at Cora, who had started to remind Annabeth of an old bag lady.

Cora leaned over and whispered, “You shouldn't let him do those things to you. It's not right.”

Dropping her fork, Annabeth said, “I don't know what you're talking about. We haven't done anything.”

Cora sighed and touched Annabeth's arm. “I'll pray for you.”

Annabeth pulled away, returned her lunch tray, and went to the library. By the time the last bell of the day rang, Annabeth learned that she was pregnant and that her parents were sending her to a home for unwed mothers. If the rumors about me are untrue, she thought, maybe these things about Edward are, too. But she didn't know anything about him. On the bus ride home, it was all she could think about. She decided she'd ask him somehow. If they could talk about Steinbeck and McCullers why couldn't they talk about other things?

When Annabeth came home that day, her dad was sitting on the couch dressed in a business suit.

“How was your day?” Merle asked.

“Fine. Did you have an interview?”

“Yep, a pretty good one. Who knows?” He loosened his tie and lowered the knob on the television, muting Rachel's voice on
Another World.
“Annabeth, do you have anything to tell me?”

“No. Why?”

He smiled, but his eyes looked sad. “Nothing, just a weird phone call.”

“Who called?”

“They didn't say. Don't worry about it. It was probably just a prank.” He patted her leg and stood. “I'm going to change clothes. Want to help me make dinner?”

“Sure.”

While she chopped the carrots for the beef stew, Annabeth wanted to ask more about the phone call, but she was afraid. She wondered if Melody or one of her friends made the call. Or maybe it was Cora. But Annabeth quickly decided Cora would have left her name along with an invitation to church. How did Mo Dean handle all the pressure during John's testimony?

After dinner, it was Ryan's turn to do the dishes so Annabeth excused herself and headed toward the front door, intent on going to the park. She decided she'd ask Edward what he thought of the war as a way to open the subject.

Just as she turned the doorknob, Merle's hand covered hers. “I'd like you to stay in tonight.”

“But it's Ryan's turn—”

“You don't have to do the dishes, just stay home.”

And even though her dad's voice was gentle, it was also firm and she knew better than to argue. She turned away but not before noticing the metal detector in his hands as he left the house. She tried to convince herself that he was just looking for change, though she felt uneasy, waiting for his return.

Less than half an hour later, she heard someone unlocking the front door. From the den, she saw Merle put the detector away in the closet. Instead of going straight to the pickle jar in the kitchen, he went to the living room where Lily was knitting. Annabeth traced his steps through the hallway and stopped outside the living room entrance where she could hear without being seen. Soon, her mother asked, “What did you say to him, Merle?”

“I told him to leave her alone. She's thirteen years old.”

“Good,” Lily said.

They were quiet then except for the squeaking sound of her father settling into his vinyl recliner and the
click-click
of her mother's knitting needles.

Annabeth slowly made her way down the hall and climbed the stairs to her bedroom. She felt as if everyone were dictating her life. Later, she lay in bed and thought not of Edward or Melody or the rumors surrounding her, but of Rick Hanson. As she fought sleep, her mind drifted to the Watergate hearings. She was sitting in Mo's place, but not behind John Dean. She was sitting behind Rick, just like in social studies class. Rick leaned into the microphone. He answered the senators' questions, brave as always.

That night she did something Cora had been nagging her to do for the whole semester. She prayed. But she did not pray for forgiveness or for Jesus to come into her heart. She prayed that for just one day she could have the courage of Rick Hanson wash over her body like water in a baptism.

The next morning, Annabeth picked out her clothes. She decided on her bell-bottomed jeans and a red turtleneck Gamma Rose gave her. She rarely wore the sweater because red made her feel conspicuous. But today red was the perfect color.

At school she marched down the central hall. A small crowd hung out near her locker, their talk ceasing as they watched her approach. Annabeth yanked off the pacifier taped to the locker door, gathered her books for the first class, and walked to the cafeteria where Melody and her friends sat in a circle. When she reached their group, she threw the pacifier at Melody. It bounced off her chest and landed in her lap.

Nervous gasps and giggles scattered around their circle, but Melody just stared, wide-eyed, as if she'd never seen Annabeth in her life.

“I believe that's yours,” Annabeth said. “Why don't you try using it? It might keep you out of trouble.”

Annabeth stared at Melody, holding the look for a long moment. She was tired of being pushed, teased, and lied about. The harassment might not be over yet, but one thing was for sure. She would not hide or stay silent any longer. She'd fight back even if that meant squealing. Annabeth turned on her heel, walking away with a skip in her step and Rick Hanson's courage tucked deep inside her.

Kyle

Summer Job

(2004)

A
NNABETH RAPPED GENTLY
on her son's bedroom door. “Wake up, Kyle, Kyle, Crocodile.”

Kyle turned over. When he was five, his mother read
Lyle, Lyle, Crocodile
to him. The twist of the words had become her pet name for him, especially when she wanted him to do something like get out of bed.

Next came a loud knock. “Get up!” Paul Koami ordered. This time Kyle opened his eyes and sat. People would have thought his dad was a marine the way he barked out commands.

Kyle looked at the alarm clock: 10:13 a.m. First day of summer vacation. Can't they give a kid a break?

He swung his legs over the side of his bed and slipped on a pair of shorts he found wadded on the floor. If it weren't Saturday he could get away with no shirt downstairs, but his dad was home and Paul Koami didn't put up with sloppiness. Kyle dug in the top drawer of his chest for a Pink Floyd T-shirt, one of seven he'd bought at thrift stores. Three of them didn't fit anymore. He was thirteen years old and as big as some hefty sixteen-year-olds. His gut hung over his waistband and his legs were thick as tree trunks. Kyle suspected they had a sumo wrestler somewhere in his family's past. When he'd asked his dad, he'd said, “You'll have to talk to your grandfather. He knows more about our ancestors.”

Pappy had gotten excited about his grandson's sudden interest in family history. He was a first-generation American but still took pride in his Japanese roots. “No,” Pappy said, “we don't have any sumo wrestlers,” then added proudly, “but three generations were thread merchants. I guess you got that belly eating too many Twinkies.”

Kyle put a rubber band around his hair and went to the bathroom, peed, then splashed cold water on his face at the sink.

Downstairs everyone was dressed for the day. Kyle's slender dad wore a white button-down shirt and khakis, his I-have-to-go-into-the-office-even-though-it's-Saturday uniform. His mother and sister wore floral sundresses. He knew his mother was pretty, and everyone said Emma was beautiful. Though he liked to call her Barf-face.

He opened the frosted blueberry Pop-Tarts box and pulled out a package. Then he settled at the kitchen table across from his dad, who frowned at his T-shirt. “I didn't like Pink Floyd when they were popular,” he'd said to Kyle once. When Kyle had first worn the shirt to school his friends didn't even know who Pink Floyd was and it kind of pissed him off. But that same day, two of his teachers said they thought his shirt was cool. He had paid more attention in English and world history ever since.

His dad cleared his throat. “I'm going to the office this morning, but we need to talk about something. I told you back in April, you are not spending this summer like last.”

Kyle had loved last summer. He'd slept till noon or so, ate, lay on his bed listening to Led Zep or Pink Floyd or any of the other 70s groups he liked. At night he logged online and conversed in chat rooms with other hard-rock freaks. It excited Kyle to think that there were a million other people crazy about hard rock.

“Are you listening to me?” Paul snapped, waking Kyle from his daydream.

“Yes, sir.”

“I found this on the door today.”

Kyle looked down at the flyer his dad held out to him.

Mowing—Good Work. Reliable.

Yards: $20 and up. Flowerbeds included.

Call Michael B. Turner at 555–7046.

“Now you have competition. If you'd been as industrious as this young man, you'd already have a business lined up for the summer.”

Kyle opened his blueberry Pop-Tarts package and took a bite. He knew a Mike Turner from school who was the eighth-grade vice president last year. He wondered if this was the same guy as Michael B. Turner.

“Another thing,” his dad said, “you might think about cutting that hair.”

Annabeth walked over and tugged at Kyle's ponytail. “Oh, Paul, I like Kyle's hair. It reminds me of yours when I met you at LSU.”

“I washed mine every once in a while, Annabeth.”

Paul stood and took his plate over to the dishwasher. “Your sister works.”

“Yeah, but she doesn't get paid. What kind of job is that?”

Emma scowled. “At least volunteering at the library looks good on my résumé.” His sister planned to apply to all the Ivy League schools in the country. She wanted to be a doctor. Kyle could already see it—his dad at parties with his arm around Emma. “Have I introduced you to my daughter, the doctor? Oh yeah, I have a son, too. That's him in the corner with the earphones, listening to some rock crap. One of these days he's going to start a lawn service or maybe become a sumo wrestler.”

Paul filled his travel mug with coffee. “You better have some work lined up by dinnertime, young man.” Before leaving, he walked over to Annabeth and embraced her. His parents could be so mushy.

His mom left soon after his dad to attend a meeting. Once someone asked Kyle what his mom did for a living.

“She makes lists,” he'd said. In truth, Annabeth was on about a dozen committees. Most important to her was the Algiers Point Historical Society, where she served as vice president. His mom was all about making the neighborhood look like it did two hundred years ago.

Kyle ate his Pop-Tarts slowly, thinking about what his dad had said. He really sounded serious this time.

Emma took off for the library. He listened to her old orange Volkswagen's putter fade away. The only thing cool about his sister was that car. He hoped he would inherit it when she went off to her Ivy League college.

He went upstairs to brush his teeth and practiced his pitch in the mirror. “Hi, I'm Kyle Koami, your neighbor. How about letting me mow your lawn?” Too forceful, he decided.

“Hi, Kyle Koami here. That lawn looks like it hasn't seen a lawn mower in quite a while.” Kind of insulting. Oh well, he thought, I might as well just go for it.

He left the house and scoped out the street. Algiers Point was one of the oldest neighborhoods in the New Orleans area. His parents had moved there right after they married, buying one of the few camel-back houses, meaning it had half a second story. They said back then the neighborhood consisted mainly of run-down shotgun singles and doubles. Now, almost all the colorful houses had been fixed up. Kyle liked the postage-stamp–size yards. Mowing this street ought to be a breeze, he thought. He could even do it with a Weed Eater. Of course now he'd probably have to include the flowerbeds because of Michael B. Turner.