Peas and Carrots (9 page)

This year it would be even worse. Students would be auditioning twice first semester—once to make the cut for the winter musical and once for Stillwaters, the advanced show choir Mr. Mueller worked with all semester. Stillwaters didn't accept freshmen, but sophomores, juniors, and seniors could audition and sing for graduation at the end of the year. This year sixteen students from Stillwaters would get to compete at the Sunbelt Festival and, if they placed, perform at Disneyland. Mr. Mueller only took four of each part—sopranos, altos, tenors, and basses. Stillwaters members had to keep their grades high and their citizenship record perfect. Hope had always thought she'd get in if she auditioned. Mr. Mueller liked her, and she'd been taking voice lessons for three years. Mr. Mueller called her voice an “anchor” voice. It was pleasant and dependable, not too breathy and not too loud. She could sight-read a part and not get lost. Hope and Savannah had planned to audition as sophomores, the first year they were eligible….Hope sighed. She didn't want to change the plan now. She was on her own.

She dropped her backpack on the floor and stood self-consciously at the edge of the room with her classmates as Mr. Mueller tried to make a circle of singers out of thirty-five dorks who were talking and laughing. He strode around, calming people into order and then starting them singing a warm-up. Today's was a baroque tune with the words “Seven silver swans swam silently seaward, swiftly sideways,” which was ridiculous. But even worse, he made them sing it in a round. Half the kids were singing “silently seaward,” while the other half were singing that those same swans swam “swiftly sideways.” Even though everyone was singing together, it was hard for Hope not to feel as if she was singing a solo when Mr. Mueller abandoned the piano and walked slowly through the circle of students, listening.

When Liesl lost her place, Mr. Mueller mouthed the words until she jumped back in. He tilted his head and listened, nodding and smiling, commenting and singing along, until he passed in front of Dess, who was standing with her hands in her pockets. He took one giant step backward. And stopped.

Hope drew in a breath, straining her ears.

“Ah! Lovely! Like a young Sarah Vaughan,” Mr. Mueller said, and smiled.

Who?
Dess's wide-eyed gaze followed Mr. Mueller's return to the piano. When she saw Hope watching, Dess looked away and started singing again.

Hope felt a tiny spear of jealousy strike her in the heart. She looked down at the floor, her throat feeling full of rocks. Mr. Mueller had smiled at Hope when he walked by, but he hadn't said anything. It shouldn't matter that Mr. Mueller had said something nice to Dess. It shouldn't make any difference at all…but it did.

Okay, Dess probably couldn't play chess. She probably hadn't seen
The Lion King,
probably didn't have a cheerleader aunt. Dess lied about
everything—
anything and everything. But Dess couldn't make Mr. Mueller lie. And Mr. Mueller—the god of choir nerds—would never lie about a voice.

It's the end of the day, but the inside of my locker is still neat and clean. Which is just as well, since I feel like putting my whole head in there. Jeez, this
place…
At public school, I'm just a piece of sand in the sea. Here, at this charter place, I'm a rock in a puddle, all obvious and stuff. I hate it.

At first, my outfit was wrong. I
thought
all I needed was to look as little like Hopeless as I could—but that idea blew. Even with sixty kids in the entire sophomore class, this school's still too small for me to stand out like that, so while Foster Lady was yapping at Aiello, I ducked into the bathroom and pulled my act together.

In a bathroom stall I untied the hoodie around my waist, wriggled out of the padded bra, and toed off my shoes. Five minutes later, with a paper towel to lighten my eye makeup, I was more classic than punk, my edges blending in to the prep school vibe around me.

Rena calls me a chameleon because I've got the skills to blend in anywhere. After homeroom, I saw Hopeless staring, with her freak face sagging, and I almost laughed. She thought she had me down, like she knew me. Nobody does.

I'm the new girl. I can be anyone I want—right?

There're all kinds at this school. Besides regular—I mean, white—students, there are black students, a lot of Asians, some Indians and Mexicans and stuff. At lunch at Stanton, they'd all sit at their own tables, but here they mix it up a little. Maybe it's a rule or something.

And teachers are all over the place. During the passing bell, they just hang out in the hall, smiling and talking to people like they've got nothing else to do. And all day long, that vice principal lady kept showing up, in the hall, in my classes, just smiling with her big horsey teeth, all up in my face. I know her gig—she's just waiting for me to start something, like all foster kids are some kind of trouble. I hate her.

Some things about this school are lame. Between the uniform shirts and their blue and khaki dress-up day “slacks” and “earning” the right to non-uniform days and the little school pledge and all—“learners will be leaders,” seriously?—it's completely weak. But it's superclean—cleaner than any school I've ever been to. They have breakfast, if you want it, and Kalista said they have a full-on lab for biology, with equipment and stations for every student. At my old school, there wasn't even a separate lab.

There's a computer lab, and the library is pretty good—reference computers, periodicals, squishy cube-shaped couches, and lots of new fiction to check out. I wanted to stay all day. I've never been to a school like this. I wish I could stay here for a whole year. If it wasn't for stupid Trish, I'd ask Farris—or Bradbrook or whoever my stupid social worker is now—if I could.

And I could make everybody like me—even Aiello, if I had to. I could at least try.

I mean, if I wanted to. But I don't. So what if it's a rich school district? That's got nothing to do with me. I only came to check on Baby, and once Trish is done with her stupid court case, I'm out.

I wonder if they'll take me back to North Highlands. Rena says I could come back.

I shove books into my bag—English and science—and the Algebra I take-home test we were given. I have way too much reading, and I'm already wiped. That Kalista dragged me to meet everyone in the whole school, just about, and now I'm in all the clubs and trying out for some musical thing I'm not even going to be here for, and I'm stuck with her blah, blah, blah-ing at me all day. I should've stayed with Hopeless. At least she knows when to shut the hell up. She doesn't even want me at her school.

“Dessa!”

I blink and look around my locker door. Baby's running down the hall, ducking between bigger kids like he's indestructible.

I slam my locker and shoulder my bag, a weird, loose feeling working its way up from inside my chest. “Baby! Hey! You're too little to be at my school.”

Foster Lady's right behind him, of course, walking with Aiello. Well, the vice principal has nothing to complain about. Farris gave them my school records. I make good grades, and I stay out of trouble. Period. I ran away from foster care when I was eleven, yeah, but I'm not stupid.

“I already goed to school. You have to go to the doctor,” Baby announces in his baby chipmunk voice, and several kids around me go “Aw,” like everybody does. In his little jeans and red T-shirt, Baby's cute, no question. Shorty's got a big mouth, though, putting my business all over the street.

“I know. What else did you do all day?”

“Maira and me went shopping with Mama. And we looked at the leaves and got damatoes.”

“Yeah?” He needs to stop calling her that.
Mama.
I start walking toward Foster Lady, mostly to keep Baby from investigating the contents of some kid's backpack that's sitting practically in the middle of the hall. Baby's nosy, but I've figured out if he thinks I'm listening to him, he'll follow me pretty much anywhere.

“Yeah, and Teacher Mavis let me ring the bell.”

“Wow. Is that fun?”

“It's loud,” Baby explained. “Mama, can we go now?”

“Bye, Dess.” Some guy—Marcus? Rob? waves as he goes by.

“Um, bye,” I say, wondering if he's someone important.

Foster Lady is beaming like I discovered a cure for cancer. “Hey, Dess, looks like you made lots of friends. Did you have a good day?”

I've made “lots of friends”? What, am I Baby now? “Yeah, school was amazing. Everybody loves me. Can we go now?”

“Hey, Mrs. Carter!”

Foster Lady and I turn around at the same time, and my neck tightens. Kalista. She's looking from me to Foster Lady and back, curiosity in her big green eyes. I don't need Kalista's fat mouth in my business. She told me everything she knew about everyone in the whole school. I know her type.

“Hey, Kalista, what's up?”

“Nothing much….Hi, cutie!” Kalista's voice goes squeaky as she reaches for Baby's head. He scowls at her and hides behind Foster Lady's leg, and I give him a mental high five. Smart kid. Definitely related to me.

Since she can't bother Baby, Kalista looks over at me. “I didn't know you knew Mrs. Carter, Dessa,” she says, and then waits, like I'm going to jump in and tell her everything I know. I stare at her and shrug a shoulder.

“I'm a friend of the family,” Foster Lady says, smiling so big that Kalista smiles back. “We've got an appointment, though, so Dess will have to see you tomorrow or we'll be late.”

Friend of the family, huh? Right. Foster Lady's as big a liar as I am.

But Kalista swallows it, and just like that, we're out. Kalista's waving, Foster Lady's got her hand on Baby's head, and I'm free to escape into the warm September afternoon.

Well, mostly free. Aiello appears and goes on and on about new uniform orders, and assessment tests, and blah, blah, blah. I walk faster when I see the van, and before I get there, the side door slides open. I love automatic doors.

I shrug off my bag and pause. Hope's already riding shotgun. I'm either going to have to crawl into the bench seat in the very back, which is half filled with a foldable playpen or something and bags of groceries, or sit between Jamaira and Baby in their car seats. I look at Jamaira from the corner of my eye. Right now she's still—probably asleep, but all I can think is, If she wakes up: uh-oh.

“Hey. Trade seats.”

Hope pulls an earbud out of her ear and twists to face me. “What?”

I lick my lips. “I need to trade seats. Please.”

Hope narrows her eyes. “Why?”

Stupid freak.
I scowl. “Never mind.”

Hope glances at the baby, then abruptly undoes her seat belt. I can't figure out the expression on her face. “Fine.”

Everybody's out of the van when Baby climbs up to his seat, and it takes a minute to get going. Hope works him through snapping into his car seat, counting out loud, “One, two, three!” for the buckles, and Foster Lady throws her hippie bag—a small denim backpack with flowers on it—down between the seats.

“Everybody in? Hope, I don't have time to drop you off. We're going to have to go straight to Dr. Perlman's office,” she says, sliding a pair of oversized glasses down from the top of her head. “You can stay in the van with Maira, or you can come in with Austin and me. It shouldn't be more than about a half hour.”

“I'll stay in the van and read,” Hope mumbles, and yawns.

“I'll stay in the van and read,” Baby parrots, and Hope snorts.

“No, you won't. Austin, you'd be bored and crying for Mom in five minutes. All I'm going to do is read big, long books with no pictures.”

“Mommy, do you have my truck book?” Baby leans forward and digs in the pocket behind the driver's seat.

“Nope. It's at home. Sorry, Charlie.”

Baby sighs. “I want a Popsicle.”

Foster Lady rolls her eyes and glances at me. “Dr. Perlman gave him one of those pediatric pops once when I brought him in with a stomach bug, and he's been trying for another one ever since. Do you remember if you had a lot of fevers or ear infections when you were his age?”

Oh, right. Like I remember how often I had a runny nose or something. “How should I know?”

Foster Lady's smile is brief. “Hope remembers sitting on Henry's motorcycle when she was just two years old.”

Hope laughs. “Only because you had a meltdown about it.”

Foster Lady grins. “I did not. Henry shouldn't have put you on that bike. Ever!”

“Mom…”

While they go back and forth like people do, over an old argument, the rattle of the wheels over a rough patch of road turns into the rattle and roar of an engine, like fast axes spinning around and around, and chopping up sound.

My father, the Felon, would roar up to the house, strip off his gloves and his glasses, and throw them in his black bucket helmet. The helmet would sit on the floor by the door…somewhere that was home. I remember that helmet, dangling from a hand with thick blue ink on the fingers, those fingers that were choking strong.

I shiver and rub my arms, hard. Eddie Griffiths is in for twenty-five to life for drug and arms trafficking. I am never going to see him again. I need to stop obsessing.

“You cold, Dess?” Foster Lady stabs the temperature controls and turns down the AC. “You're not getting sick, are you?”

My neck is tight, my jaw tense, as I force out the words. “I'm fine.”

And I
am
fine, like I told her. The doctor takes a quick listen to my heart and lungs, and we have a chat about birth control—I'm already on the Pill, not about to wreck my life like Trish—and it's over. It was a total waste of time, but the law requires me to have a doctor appointment within two days of being placed in a new home. It's stupid.

It's also stupid that, after everything else, there's still Bradbrook, the new social worker, to get through.

“Odessa LeAnn Matthews,” he says, looking down at my file. He shifts his feet on the thick white living room carpet. “Pretty name.”

Please.
I shrug and wait. Bradbrook has a wide, crooked mouth, and I can see where the new hair on his pale chin is growing in after his shave. He should grow some on his face and shave his head. With his long legs and his knobby wrists poking out of his jacket, the tufts of yellow hair left around his ears just make him look like a scarecrow.

He closes my file and catches me staring. He clears his throat. “Are you comfortable here, Ms. Matthews? Are you and the Carters getting along all right?”

I shrug.

He keeps his steady brown eyes on me. “We don't want this to be harder than necessary, Ms. Matthews. We wouldn't normally settle a Caucasian girl with an African American family who has a child the same age, but Mrs. Farris felt you'd be happiest here, with your brother.”