Peas and Carrots (18 page)

“I'm sure he's from the same club,” I whisper. I know the motorcyclist can't hear me through the glass, but I can't find my voice. I pull my hood closer to my face.

“Hang on, Dess,” Mr. Carter says, signaling a turn. “Breathe, girl. Breathe.”

When the light changes, Mr. Carter makes his turn, then turns again into the parking lot of a drive-through coffee shop. The motorcyclist shoots past, and I lean forward to follow his turn into the parking lot of the grocery store down the block, then out of view.

Mr. Carter joins the line for the coffee drive-up and glances at me.

“You all right, Dess?”

“No.” My breathing is rough, and I'm shaking worse than Trish off her crank. “I hate this.”

“What ‘this' do you hate?” Mr. Carter asks as we inch closer to the order window.

I shrug. Right now I kind of hate everything. I even shake my head when Mr. Carter offers to order me a mocha. I smile a little bit when he orders a double-tall latte, a mocha, and a child-sized hot chocolate instead. Hope and Baby will be happy when we get home, anyway.

When we move away from the pay window, Mr. Carter hands me the cardboard container that holds the drinks and pulls around the back of the coffee shop and into a parking space. He leaves the engine humming and looks out at the cars coming and going for a moment before he turns to me.

“Your social worker said your father was arrested on drug charges in Arizona two years ago.”

I nod, fiddling with the cardboard handle of the drink tray. “Yeah?”

“They arrested him, and if he escapes, he's got the bounty hunters and the police chasing him. He's already made threats against your mother, and if a hair on your head gets touched because of him, he's in twice as much trouble. That's a lot of risk, just to chase down one little girl he hasn't seen in years.” He leans forward to catch my eyes. “I know that when you were small, he—”

Damn it, this again? I jerk to face him. “I don't care if you don't believe me—”

“Wait!” Mr. Carter interrupts. “I know you're taking this seriously, Dess. So am I.” His voice gentles. “I know the man is scary. I know he terrorized you and your mom when you were a kid. I just don't want you to let him get to you. He wants you scared. Don't give that to him. Your mom's going to testify, and for once the bad guy is going to be put in jail for good.” He takes another deep breath. “Remember when I told you that your name, Odessa, is from the word ‘odyssey'? You have a long life full of adventures and experiences to look forward to, just like the Greek warrior Odysseus. Your whole journey is ahead of you, Dessa. But you can't keep moving forward down the road if you keep looking behind you.”

I lick my lips and stare at the gray carpet on the floor of the car. It would be so good if I could believe him, if I could stop jumping at every shadow and waiting for—expecting—those big hands with the hard-callused fingertips to grab my arm and yank me away from everything. It would be so easy if I could stop waiting for it all to go to hell.

“Dess?” Mr. Carter's voice is quiet. “I know I'm just an old dude to you, but I'm an old dude with a fast finger. I can have the police here before you know it, and if anything threatened you, I'd have your back. You know that, right?”

I relax a tiny bit. He's old, but I'm pretty sure Mr. Carter's okay. “Yeah, I know.”

He half smiles. “Okay. So, would you be willing to do an experiment?”

“Like…?” I raise my eyebrows.

“Like we follow that guy.” Mr. Carter jerks his chin toward the road. My eyes widen as the guy on the motorcycle drives out of the store parking lot down the block, turns, and stops at the light.

“I'm right here, Dess, and we're safe in our own vehicle. I would stay two cars back, and he would never see us. We could follow him, see where he goes, and you could let yourself relax a little if it turned out he wasn't who you thought he was….Or we could call the police and report him. Either way, Dess, you'd know. You could act, and you'd
know.
”

“I—I…” The words I want stick in my throat. He's right there—
just right there!
I could—I could—

I clench my sweaty fists.

The light changes. The motorcycle roars through the intersection and out of sight.

I slump, relief mingling with disappointment. I glance at Mr. Carter out of the corner of my eye. He is watching me, sipping his coffee patiently.

“Sorry,” I mumble.

He shakes his head almost before the word is out. “No, no, no,” he says. “Don't
you
be sorry.
I'm
sorry that you don't feel safe.”

“It's…He sent someone after me when I was eleven.” The words come out in a lightning-fast blur. I haven't told anyone this—not even Farris. I'm blinking fast, and my mouth feels dry. I pick at a bump on the cardboard tray. “He didn't, like, come after me on purpose, but I was in Arden, after Granny Doris said she didn't want me, and I was living—well, I was in the mall sometimes during the day, but I couldn't always sleep in there. I would get under a bed or something in the furniture department, but you can't always do that. So I was living rough, and this lady had helped me in this one neighborhood, so I was kind of hanging around this little Mexican market, and then a bunch of guys rode up on bikes. And one of them decided to…to take me into the market with him. To get me a little something, he said.”

The cardboard has twisted in my fingers. I smooth the pulped edges. “He told me to go in and talk to the lady at the checkout and ask her to help me, at the back, and then he'd get me something. And I was hungry. He said he would get me a burrito, so I did what he said. I asked her to help me…way in the back. And they all got in there, and they had guns, and they shot the lights.” My throat constricts at the blur of memories from there—the sound of breaking glass, the blood on the lady's lip from where her cheek was gashed, the stink of sugar as they tipped soda bottles on the floors, the smell of exhaust and gasoline as the ringleader pulled me into his lap and roared away. And the lady's voice rising.
¡Dejarla! ¡Dejarla! Pobrecita…

“She tried to stop them from taking me on the motorcycle, but they hit her. And one of them had a tat on his hand like Eddie's, but he wasn't wearing the jacket, so I didn't know, I didn't know, and…even the lady gave them money, everything out of the cash register. People did that—everyone did. Even Trish did what they said. I knew I had to go with them, because Eddie sent them. I—I— They let me leave the next day.”

The terror of those hours returns—being fed candy and treats like a favored pet from a man who bragged what a good little girl I was, how he stroked my hair and touched my face while he knocked back bottle after bottle of some cloudy brown booze. It was almost like being with Eddie, with that gimlet-eyed attention focused right on me. When he had a girl come to brush my hair and “fix me up,” I'd told her I was Eddie Griffiths's kid. The girl was scared.

While she and another girl were arguing about what to do with me, I climbed out the bathroom window and hid in a muddy drainage ditch. I ran all night—and I hid every time I heard a motorcycle. I shoplifted in a drugstore with a security guard, just so I could get caught, just so they'd lock me up, so I'd be safe from ever having to be that scared again.

I feel tugging on my hands. It takes me a moment to realize that Mr. Carter is trying to take the mess of the coffee take-out tray from me. He's already taken out the other coffee, which is good, because there's not much left of the holder.

“Shit,” I mutter, grabbing the teetering hot chocolate and putting it into the car's plastic cup holder in front of me.

Mr. Carter pushes it into my hands. “Drink it. You need something sweet.”

I warm my hands on it a moment, surprised they're so cold, then sip gingerly. He arranges the other cups in the cup holder as I drink down the sweet chocolaty heat and feel my spine start to thaw.

Mr. Carter sits for a moment, sipping his coffee. Outside, it begins to sprinkle. “You know what I think?” he says quietly. “I think your mother is one of the bravest women in the country. I think you should be proud to be her girl.”

I blow out a long exhale. What I think about Trish is a mix of stuff, like always, but her telling them she's going to testify and finish Eddie once and for all makes me hope a little. Like maybe she's going to go through with it. Maybe we're going to be okay for real.

She's got to be freaked out of her mind, knowing Eddie could mess her up so bad, but she's going through with it. She's doing it anyway. They say that's courage, right?

Am I proud to be Trish Matthews's kid?

“Yeah,” I tell Mr. Carter, after a long pause. “Yeah, I am.”

Thursday at chorus, Hope realized the best person to talk to about Dess taking her spot in Stillwaters was probably Dess.

“I have to talk to you,” she whispered as Mr. Mueller moved students around the room for one of his free-form rehearsals.

“What?” Dess whispered over the boys beginning their slow do-be-dos.

“Is chorus your favorite class?” Hope blurted.

Dess wrinkled her face. “It's okay. Why?”

Hope gave a quick shake of her head. “Never mind. Later.”

Dess shrugged and went back to her music.

Mr. Mueller rearranged the chorus lineup three times, mixing and listening. Hope was exhausted when the chime rang. As she joined the group returning music folders, Mr. Mueller called out that he'd see the class next week and that the Stillwaters list would be posted Friday morning.

Crap. Hope winced. She'd run out of time.

Hope followed Dess to her locker. “Did you try out for Stillwaters?”

Dess shrugged and fitted the tiny locker key in the padlock. “Not really. I didn't audition or anything, but Mr. Mueller had me sing after chorus the first day. Why?”

“Do you really want to get in?”

“Did you read your text? Are you coming to our party, or what?” Rob Anguiano whined, trying to get Dess's attention. He glanced at Hope. “Hey, Carter.”

Hope raised her eyebrows as Dess covered Rob's whole face with her hand and shoved him away, looking annoyed. “I'm talking here, Anguiano.”

Rob ducked her hand and crowded her. “Look, just tell me if you're coming to the party.”

“Party?” Hope asked. “Whose party?”

Rob barely glanced at her. “Me and my brother Levi's birthday, same as last year.” He prodded Dess's shoulder. “You coming, Dess? Say yes.”

Dess threw up her hands. “Jeez, Rob, yes. Yes, I am coming to your party. Happy now?”

“Thank you.” Rob threw up his hands, too. “Why is it so hard to get a straight answer out of some people?”

Dess turned her back on him and smiled at Hope. “What are you wearing?”

“Wearing? Um, I—” Hope stalled. She couldn't think about a party. She needed this Stillwaters thing settled. She wished Rob would go away. “I'm not going. Look, Dess—”

“Anguiano!” Dess barked, grabbing Rob's arm and digging in with her nails.

Rob widened his eyes in pain. “Ow! What?”

Hope sighed. Maybe she could catch Dess after school. “Later, Dess,” she said.

“No, wait, Hope. Rob, you didn't invite Hope to your party?”

Hope widened her eyes. “Dess!” she hissed.

“Well…I didn't text her. But Hope knows she's invited. Everybody's invited. I mean, you came last year, right?” Rob squinted at Hope, rubbing his arm.

She gave him a sick smile. “Yeah, sure. I guess.”

Dess sighed loudly. “Moron, say it right.”

“What?” yelped Rob, cringing from her nails again.

“ ‘Hope, would you come to my and Levi's party?' ” Dess asked in a robotic voice. “Repeat, idiot.”

“I'm not an idiot. Hope knows she's invited to our house,” he grumbled before stomping toward his locker.

“Dess, why would you do that?” Hope demanded, her eyes stinging.

“Do what?” Dess looked bewildered.

“Why would you force Rob to invite me to his party?”

Dess's jaw dropped. “What? I didn't—”

Hope blinked back tears of anger. “Look, it wasn't a big deal. I've known Rob and his twin brother, Levi, since the first grade. I could go to any party of theirs if I wanted to.”

“Yeah, except they didn't tell you about it,” Dess pointed out.

Hope opened her mouth to rebut this, then closed it. “Whatever. Forget it.”

“Yeah, whatever, fine. I'm going to be late for math.” Dess ducked around her and headed for the hall.

Sighing, Hope turned back toward the choir room.

“I'm sorry to hear that, Hope,” Mr. Mueller said, his forehead wrinkled. He looked a little confused. “You've been an anchor for the chorus for a long time. Can I get you to reconsider?”

“I don't think so,” Hope said, feeling as if a rock was stuck in her trachea. Her hands were shaking. She'd thought and thought, and this was the best thing she could do—for everyone. “I just need a change.”

“Hmm.” Mr. Mueller frowned. “Well, how about we talk again next Tuesday?” he asked, signing his name on the yellow hall pass and ripping it from his pad with a flourish. “Okay, Hope? I'd really,
really
like you to just take your time with this decision.”

“But—” Hadn't she just said she didn't want to reconsider?

“Just take your time,” Mr. Mueller repeated. “Don't make a decision today, all right?”

Hope sighed heavily. “Fine,” she muttered, and trudged out of the room.

Now Mr. Mueller wouldn't let her drop choir and join band as her elective. How dumb was that? She'd taken flute lessons and could at least play as well as the worst freshman. Music wasn't a requirement, but Hope needed another elective or she'd have two study halls. First Mr. Mueller wanted her to give up Stillwaters for Dess. Now he wouldn't let her drop chorus, even though doing so would mean she wasn't eligible to be in Stillwaters at all, and Dess could have her spot—as he'd
wanted.
Why were teachers always so
difficult
?

Though she was supposed to go straight to her next class, Hope went to her locker instead. She stared at herself in the mirror, rubbed her face until it tingled, then gave herself a swipe of lip gloss. She didn't want to look how she was feeling, which was depressed and sad and stupid.

C'mon, Hope. Cheer up,
she admonished her reflection.

If she didn't want to look the way she felt, she couldn't think about stupid Rob and his stupid birthday party and stupid Dess, who, even though she hadn't even
meant
to this time, had gotten on her last nerve. She couldn't think about Stillwaters, either, and regardless of what Aunt Henry said, Hope
refused
to think about talking to her mother about it, especially now that she'd found the best solution for everyone. It had made total sense: join band, which had separate concerts and separate practices, and she wouldn't have to hear Dess sing her part with Stillwaters. Done.

It was the perfect solution. Why couldn't Mr. Mueller just agree with it?

Hope slammed her locker.
I want you to take your time with this,
she mouthed to herself, her lips twisted in a mockery of Mr. Mueller's “worried teacher” face. He didn't get it. She didn't need
more
time to understand that everyone wanted Dess around more than they wanted her.

At least Dess wasn't in her sixth-period study hall. Hope slouched into the classroom and handed Mr. Nash her yellow slip. She folded her arms and lowered her head to her desk. Mr. Nash never let anyone sleep in study hall, but Hope decided that if he bothered her, she was going to say something about her period, which usually freaked out the male teachers, or that she was seeing black spots and had a migraine. She actually kind of
did
have a headache. Her
life
was making her head ache.

“So, we're doing this party next weekend?” Dess asked Hope as they stood in the pickup area on the sidewalk above the parking lot. Below them the traffic warden tweeted on his whistle as cars threaded through a crazy maze of orange cones and high school students.

Hope kept her eyes on the cars. “Nope.”

“You're mad at me because I asked Rob.” It wasn't a question.

Hope ground her teeth. “I'm not mad at anyone. I'm just not going.”

“I'm not going, either.” Dess shrugged and put in her earbuds.

Hope turned her head stiffly to glower over at Dess. “Yes you are.”

Dess shook her head, a brow raised. “No I'm not.”

Hope sighed, resentment sapping her energy for argument. “You can't not go just because I'm not going.”

“Who says that's why I'm not going? Maybe I just don't want to go. You can't tell me I can't.”

Hope sighed again, loudly. “Dess…”

“Hope…,” Dess mimicked, and Hope scowled, her temper igniting.

“Look, don't be stupid, all right? Just go. I don't need you feeling sorry for me.”

“I don't feel sorry for you,” Dess said reasonably. “I feel
pissed.
Rob was an ass. We should go and be completely hot and not even
talk
to him. Plus, Hope? Jas is going to be there. You like Jas, right?”

Hope ignored the jolt to her stomach and looked back at the lines of cars, pretending she hadn't heard that last question. It was nice that Dess was pissed for her, but—“It's
Rob's
party, Dess.”

“Your point? We'll go shopping after school and make outfits, and it'll be cool.”

Hope raised her chin. “I didn't say I'd go.”

Dess groaned. “Oh, come
on.
”

“I'm not the party girl in this family,” Hope said, a little bitterly. “Just go, Dess. You're the one everyone wants anyway.”

“Oh, jeez, Hope, seriously? That's not even true. Forget it, we're going.
Please?
”

Hope stared. Dess was looking at her, right in the eyes, a little wrinkle in the middle of her forehead. Her almost invisible blond eyebrows were twisted in entreaty, her pale blue eyes pleading.

Hope bit back the questions that wanted to shoot out of her mouth, like
Why?
and
Seriously?
and
Is it that you need someone to hang with or what?
Instead, she imagined herself and Dess, gliding superciliously past Rob, noses in the air, dressed like the runway models from glossy magazines. Studying Dess's wistful expression, something eased in Hope's chest, and she sighed, feeling her shoulders settle.

No matter what Dess said, Hope wasn't going to look like a model or anything. No matter how glam she got, people would probably not really notice she was there, as usual. But who cared? Hope wanted to go—she wanted to dress up and go and hang out—even if Rob
hadn't
invited her.

“Okay.” She gnawed her lip, noting with relief the familiar minivan idling in the procession of cars. “Okay, I'll go. But I don't need to shop or anything. I'll wear jeans.”

“Everybody needs to shop,” Dess corrected, and added, smiling happily, “I'm glad you said yes. Seriously, we're going to rock that boy's world. Ooh, there's the van. I call shotgun.”

Hope gave Dess a dry look. “I don't know why you bother calling it. You always get shotgun.”

“If you ever remembered to call it,
you
could have it.”

Rolling her eyes, Hope hefted her bag and schlepped across the parking lot behind Dess, pondering parties and boys and worlds that would be rocked. At Dess's startled “Who's that?” she looked up and squealed, feeling her whole life improve.

“It's Grandma Amelie!”

“Hey, girl! Hop in!”

Hope bounded into the van, and Grandma Amelie leaned across the driver's seat to give her a hug.

Hope beamed. Her grandmother visited frequently from her condo in the city two hours away, but every visit was still a treat. She had a big voice and big gray curls shellacked into a high bouffant. Today she was wearing a big cowl-necked aqua sweater with pink, yellow, purple, and navy geometric designs on it. Except for her height and long, straight nose, Grandma and Mom looked as alike as a bowl of granola and a pile of sequins.

“Well, hello,” Grandma Amelie greeted Dess, who hung back, her body stiff with wariness, and her expression sullen.

“Grandma Amelie, this is Dess Matthews, my foster sister. Dess, this is my grandmother, Amelie Larsen,” Hope said, reaching out and dragging Dess forward. “Dess is Austin's birth sister.”