The Princess of Las Pulgas (18 page)

I place my hands at my
chest like I’m really praying this time.
Don’t let the sky fall.

After Mr. Smith returns our
free writing with his comments, he spends the rest of the period on
grammar “issues” that he picked out from our papers. Since grammar
is not a favorite of mine, I shield my closed eyes, trying to look
as if I’m following the exercises; instead, I’m reading what he’s
written on my assignment and suggested I do to revise the
story.

“This is a very touching
story that reveals so much about loss. I think you can heighten the
empathy for your main character by showing more details about how
she’s managing the tragic changes in her life.”

The truth is . . . she’s not.

I picture Keith in a
striped prison uniform with chains at his ankles, Mom in her Las
Pulgas market uniform, me inside my catacomb of a room with a weak
flickering candle stub.

In French, I doodle stars
dropping from the sky, their tiny, sharp points jabbing into the
head and shoulders of a cowering figure.

By chemistry I’ve switched
to doodling fangs and claws.

I should have stayed home
sick.

Before my next class, I’m
at my locker when I spot K.T. hip-hopping toward me on her gaudy
walking cast. I work my combination, watching her from the corner
of my eye.

“Yo, Des.”

I’m weary of this combat,
but I force what I hope is a neutral expression onto my face. “Yo,
yourself, K.T.”

K.T. moves her head
side-to-side, keeping time to that beat only she hears. “Got
somethin’ for you to read.” She reaches inside her abused notebook
and rips out a piece of lined paper from the rings. “You got
opinions on everything, so give me some of those super-thoughts on
this.”

I take the papers and read
the first line. “‘The Artist.’ Your story?”

“No. My Gettysburg
Ad-dress.”

I stop a long blink in time
to avoid another collision. “You already wrote it?”

“I’m quick.”

“So what do you want me to
do?”

“You’re, like, the genius
writer. Fix it. I’m turnin’ this in for extra credit.” K.T. holds
out her hand, waiting. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Gimme yours. You know— a
trade.”

Dawning horror must
register on my face.

“What, I’m not good enough
to read what you wrote?”

“No. I mean I haven’t made
the changes Mr. Smith suggested. I’m—

I can almost see storm
clouds gathering over her head. She can slam people to the floor
and rip off their clothes even when she’s on crutches. What can she
do now that she’s got both hands free? She cocks her head and I
jump back; then I reach into my locker and fish out my English
paper. “It’s not, I mean, I haven’t—”

She plucks it out of my
hand and examines it. “So it’ll be rough. I’ll see what I can do.”
She swivels on her rubber heel and over her shoulder says, “I need
all the extra credit I can get to bail outta eleventh grade, so
make it good.”

K.T. stumps down the hall,
my paper fluttering like a captive in her hand, my heart pumping
like it’s working out in the gym by itself. I can’t stand
that
she’s
going
to read what I had trouble letting Mr. Smith read.
She’s my editor.
I stare
at K.T.’s smudged writing.
And I’m
hers
.
“Do this,
Carlie. Do that, Carlie.”

Jamal passes by and twirls
his finger next to his head and looks at me like I’m
nuts..

Buzz off, Jamal.
I pull my French book from the locker and slam
the door. I’ve got a whole scene to learn by Friday, Keith’s
assignments to collect from his classes, my own homework, and now
K.T.’s story to edit.
What else?
Oh, right.
“I have to
make two hundred dollars like that.” I say to myself and snap my
fingers. Jamal shakes his head at me.

“Talkin’ to yourself is
bad, Des. Like, whacked, you know?”

That afternoon when Mom
picks me up at school she tells me that Keith was sentenced to two
weeks of county service in a new juvenile correctional program for
boys under sixteen. Now I realize just how much special treatment
K.T. gets at that school. My brother gets two whole weeks for a
little paint while she gets one weekend of detention and only three
days suspension for attacking a girl and ripping off her
clothes.

The good news for Keith is
that, while he has to pick up roadside debris, he doesn’t have to
spend any time in detention.

“He has two Saturdays to
report to the Cal Works office for roadside duty,” Mom says. “He’s
to be there by eight in the morning, work until two, and have his
report form signed.”

She parks the Tercel and
takes the small bag of groceries from the back seat. “The school
sent the judge an estimate for seven hundred fifty dollars in
damages.”

“Seven hundred and fifty
dollars?” What I really mean is “That’s more than two red strapless
dresses.” I trudge through the gate and up the steps behind Mom. No
way can I ask for help with my Spring Fling dress now.

“I can pay it off at fifty
dollars a month." She sighs. "It means no cell phones yet, but I
found a sale on two new tires, so I’m getting two new ones. That’ll
make me less nervous when you’re out at night.”

I follow her inside the
kitchen, plop in a chair at the table and push aside a real estate
book to make room for my backpack.

“It could have been a lot
worse,” Mom says. “The damages aren’t as high as I thought.” She
sets the grocery bag on the counter. “We’ll—” The phone rings and
she picks up the handset. “Edmund’s residence.”

Mom leans against the
counter and cups her hand around the receiver. “Oh, hello, Jeb.”
The pinched look around her eyes and her mouth relaxes.

What does he want now? We’re fresh out of
cats.

I signal to her, then
mouth, “Ask if he’s seen Quicken.”

When Mom clicks the phone
off, she hums as she puts canned beans into the cupboard.
“Quicken’s safe. She’s staked out Jeb’s barn that’s filled with
fat, juicy mice.”

“So is he bringing her back
or do I have to go get her?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Just freakin’
wonderful.”

“Thank you, sweet daughter
of mine. You sound like your brother on a bad day.” Mom takes a
plastic bag of lettuce from the refrigerator. “Now please wash
lettuce for salad and stop being such a pain.” She holds the
lettuce out for me, then goes on. “I was very happy when I came
into this room. Do you know why?”

“No, Mom. I’m not a mind
reader.”

“Because I passed the real
estate principles section of the practice test.”

I sigh. “That’s good. How
many more tests?”

“Too many, but thanks for
at least asking.” As she clears the table she says, “Jeb invited us
to dinner Friday night.”

“What?”

“I’d love a nice dinner for
a change, wouldn’t you?”

“Sure, if you made
it.”

“Let’s drop it, okay. I’m
too tired to argue.” Mom takes the plates from the cupboard and
sets the table. “All I ask is that you be pleasant at
dinner.”

“I’m not going.”

“You don’t have rehearsal
Friday nights, so you’ll be coming. End of discussion.”

“Then I get my cat back,
right?”

“Oh, Carlie.” She tries to
pull me close, but I push away and she drops her arms at her sides.
“Of course, we’ll bring her back.”

Chapter 31

I expect to walk into a
musty farm house when Jeb opens the door for us, but the air smells
clean and the walls are creamy under soft lights. In the living
room, a fire brightens the warm room. He already has the dining
room table set and wine and water are poured. Three candles flicker
in the center and reflect in the polished wood.

As we follow him into the
kitchen, the smell of roasting meat reminds me of the house in
Channing. I hate Jeb for having what I used to have—a place that
feels safe, that smells like home instead of a secondhand
store.

“Hope you’re hungry,” he
says. “Everything’s ready,” Jeb hands each of us a dish to put on
the table, then he picks up a platter of carved roast. “Sit where
you like.”

Mom pulls out a chair
across from me and Keith goes to the opposite end of the table from
Jeb.

Jeb serves each of us a
slice of roast. “There’s potatoes and peas in those covered dishes.
Salad anyone?”

I’d like to push my plate
away and hate his cooking, but my stomach and mouth have other
ideas. I chew the roast and potatoes slowly, watching the
candlelight dance, thinking that Dad should be sitting on my right.
We should be playing the “take turns to talk about our day” game.
And thinking that I should’ve never have let K.T. have my paper.
I—

Mom brings up the topic of
Quicken. “She’s never wandered off like this before. We’ve had her
since she was a kitten.”

“Three gophers have met
their maker since her arrival. So the long and short of it is you
can’t have your cat back.” Jeb holds his glass up and drains his
wine, as if to seal a bargain. His features are softened by the
candle glow, and it’s hard to remember how it felt to be afraid of
him that first time in the orchard. Tonight he doesn't remind me of
a hawk in the least, but more of an annoying, bossy
cowboy.

“But, she’s my cat,” I say,
“not yours.”

Mom holds up her hand, in a
signal to stop. “Maybe we should give Quicken a little time here,
honey. She doesn’t like the apartment and if she keeps running away
I’m worried she’ll get hit by a car.”

“Did you use butter on her
paws like I told you?”

Why can’t Jeb butt
out?
“I used margarine, I say.”

“Like I said, you should
have used butter.”

I cut the meat on my plate
so the knife scrapes against the china.
We
can’t afford butter for bread let alone for Quicken’s
paws.

“She never did anything but
sleep and wait by her food bowl when she was with us,” Keith
says.

Did my brother just say something at the
dinner table?

“Your fault, not the cat’s.
Those little round cans are the curse of the feline family. Takes
all their instincts away, and they forget how to be
self-sufficient. Just like people. Without a can or a frozen food
section, most of them would starve.”

He’s got an opinion on just about
everything.

“Jeb, your dinner is
fabulous. I . . . we really appreciate having good food like this.
I’ve been so consumed by this move and the real estate class that
I’ve let all my culinary skills go into retirement.”

“Understandable.” He pushes
away from the table, his hand resting by his plate. “It took me
three years after my wife died to take up cooking, and that was
mostly because Chinese take-out was beginning to rile my
stomach.”

“Well, you’ve certainly
mastered the art.” Mom waits and I know she wants one of her
well-brought-up children to add a compliment.

But Jeb doesn’t seem to
notice the family dynamics. “Paula studied at Le Cordon Bleu, so
I’d been very spoiled. There are still some things I can’t or won’t
try.”

“Like?” Mom
asks.

“Crepes. I love apple
crepes.”

“
Mom makes some wicked
apple crepes.” Keith should really stop talking.

“Well, then, I’ll have
something to look forward to the next time we dine together.” Jeb
looks at Mom. “Deal?”

“Absoutely.”

Jeb gets to his feet.
“Keith, you can give me a hand clearing the dishes. Carlie, I’m
assigning you pie-cutting duty. Sarah, you get to be waited on
tonight.”

Who is this guy telling us
what to do?
Keith’s already jumped up and
started taking away the plates.
And how
can Mom look like that? She’s nodding, doing whatever Jeb
says.

Jeb’s pie is apple. No
surprise in that, but I’m surprised in how it tastes. The fresh
apples and his homemade crust explode with flavor in my mouth. When
Jeb offers seconds even I accept. Tomorrow I’ll skip lunch. This
guy is scoring points. I’ll eat his pie, but no way am I falling
for his line like the rest of my family.

At the end of the table Mom
forks Jeb’s pie between her lips, yumming and smiling with each
bite. Mona Lisa has returned to planet Earth, smack in the middle
of Jeb Christopher’s house.

When we’ve finished our
dessert, I volunteer Keith and myself to do the dishes. Hauling him
into the kitchen and keeping my voice low I say, “We need to
talk.”

“Huh?”

“Are you dense?” I jab my
finger toward the living room.

“Mom and Jeb?”

“You
are
dense.” I toss the dishtowel at
him. “Dense people dry.”