The Princess of Las Pulgas (22 page)

Chapter 36

Huit
fits almost perfectly. With a small adjustment to the straps,
the gown looks as if it has been tailor made for me.

“Return Monday, Carlie. It
will be ready then.” Miss Lily embraces Sean. “I am so pleased you
are to live here after graduation. Michael speaks of your plans to
share a dorm room at Elmhurst. He’s very excited.”

When is Miss Lily going to ask me to pay?
She hasn’t even mentioned money. There was no price tag, and I
don’t have the nerve to ask. Well, it doesn’t matter, does it? Wait
until I get Sean Wright alone. I’m going to wring his fabulous
neck.

Once we are in the main
mall again, I get in his face, both hands braced against his
shoulders. “Just how do you think I’m going to pay for that dress?
I told you—”

“You get so worked up over
everything, Carlie. I made a deal. It’s good for Miss Lily and even
better for you.”

“What deal, and when did
you make it?”

“When you were getting
dressed, that’s when. And anyway, the deal is you tell all your
friends where you bought that drop-dead gorgeous pizazzy dress and
she loans it to you for the night.”

“She can do
that?”

“Some of her clients wear a
dress once and return it. The store policy is: ‘Never Question the
Customer.’” He leads me down the crowded walkway. “All you have to
do is look stunningly beautiful, which you will, and return the
dress in good condition, which you will. Okay? Now come
on.

By the time we walk out of
the mall, it’s nine-thirty. Sean says, “Thanks for the great time,
Carlie.”

The feel of his hand at my
back is wonderful and suddenly I can’t say a word. I haven’t got a
single clear thought to express.

At my car, he says, “High
school’s been a major drag. I’m ready to join the real world.” He
opens my car door. “You’re a great friend, you know?”

“Me? You’re the one giving
all the special help to the down-and-outer. All I do is hang with
you.”

“That’s what I mean—you
hang with me. That’s very—I appreciate it.”

My skin simmers under the
spot where his fingers brush against my arm. I wish he’d say
something, like, “I hate that you’re going to that dance with
another guy.” Maybe I have to say take me to the dance.

“I want pictures, okay? I
have to see you in that dress, your hair very—” He scoops my hair
between his hands and piles it on top of my head. “Yes, up like
this and with pink orchids in it—make them small. You’ll wow ‘em
and Lily will love you for it.” He kisses me as he always does:
lightly on the cheek.

I can’t get more confused
about the guys in my life than I am right now. Sean excites me, but
treats me like a pal. Juan infuriates me, but his face keeps
appearing like some dark, haunting vision that supercharges my
heart. Nicolas is awesome, but he’s totally into
himself.

When I pull into the
Franklins’ driveway I get out of the car and walk around to stand
next to him. “Sean . . .”
Now what,
Carlie? Are you going to say, I want you to take me to the dance,
not Nicolas? Are you going to beg and say, “Please really kiss
me?
I gaze down the street without saying
anything.

“This sounds serious,” Sean
says.

In my head, I hear Dad’s voice: “Carlie
love, you can't expect people to read your mind. When you don't
understand what someone means, ask them to explain it, then really
listen to what they say.”

I look Sean in the eye. “Is
something wrong with me?”

He tips his head on an
angle and seems puzzled. “Wrong?”

“You . . . treat me like a,
a sister. I don't want to be your sister. I want—”

For a moment he seems
unsure, as if he hasn’t heard me. Then he pulls me to him and wraps
his arms around me. I'm melting and our hearts are beating against
each other’s chests.

He's telling me there's nothing wrong with
me and I'm listening, Dad.

“You aren't like a sister
to me. You’re a special girl in my life.”

I can't breathe. I'm
waiting for the shooting star to cross the heavens and hear his
next words:
I love you.

“If I could love a girl,
Carlie, I'd love you.” He steps back, puts one hand on my shoulder,
and lifts my chin with the other. “But I'm in love with Michael,
Miss Lily's son. I thought you . . .” He looks away as if he’s
thinking what he can say next.

My shooting star fizzles as
the light comes on inside my brain. All this time, I thought I had
to keep him away from Las Pulgas or he wouldn’t love me. He
wouldn’t love me if I lived in a mansion. He wouldn’t love me—ever.
“Oh. Uh. I didn't understand.”

“And now that you do?” His
face reflects the anxiety in his voice.

I open my mouth, but
nothing comes out. Suddenly I have no words.

“Carlie?”

“I—need to get home. Uh,
I’ll call you. An you call me. Uh—I’m sorry.” I start to get into
the car. “Sean, thank you for . . . tonight. I—

But he waves over his
shoulder without turning to look at me, then walks silently into
the Franklins’ house.

Chapter 37

I wonder if you can be
arrested for driving while sobbing? During the trip from Channing
to Las Pulgas, I follow the familiar route, trusting more to memory
than eyesight. I should have said it didn’t matter he was gay, but
that isn’t true. “It friggin’ matters a lot!” I say out
loud.

At the stop sign, I pound
the steering wheel with both hands and my horn blasts. A motorist
passing me jams on the brakes and the car behind him screeches to a
stop. I speed away—I have to get home before I cause an
accident.

When I reach the carport,I
sit for a while and press my finger against my swollen eyelids. I
don’t want to go inside the apartment all red-eyed and with a runny
nose. Then Mom will freak and Keith will have some clever comment
that’ll make killing him my only option. When I open the driver’s
door, the overhead light flickers on and I check my face in the
rearview mirror before double-timing it through the pool area. This
has become a dangerous route and I want to make it to the apartment
fast. I take the stairs two at a time and look down toward
Apartment 152. The windows are dark, and so are the ones at
#148.
Nobody’s here?
I jam the key into the lock, but it won’t turn.

At the sound of someone
climbing the steps, I look around. It's Anthony. My skin erupts in
a million icy pin pricks of ice as I twist the key hard, but still
it doesn’t turn. Jiggling it and using both hands doesn’t open the
door either. When I try to yank the key free it won’t
budge.

“Locked out?” Two words in
Anthony's voice and I’m freezing into a panic.

“No—it’s the key. It’s
stuck. I can get it.”

But he’s already next to
me, smelling of sweat, with his Las Pulgas track shirt sticking to
his chest. He brushes against me as he reaches for the key. I fall
back, but he closes the distance and braces his hands on the wall,
locking me between them.

“So are you and Pacheco
doin’ it?”

I almost ask, “Doing what?”
before my brain thaws. “No!”

“Hmm. That’s not what I
hear.”

“I hate Juan Pacheco. I
hate—” I start to say,
I hate everybody in
that school
, but I swallow those words.
This isn’t the time to tell Anthony anything that might set him
off. He’s scaring me, but so far he’s not hurting me.

“Whaddya hate? Las Pulgas?
Maybe I could change your mind.” He bends his arms and brings his
face close.

“No!”

He pushes away as if I’ve
slapped him and fixes me with dark eyes that reflect me cringing.
This is like the moment just before the rainstorm, when the air is
charged and still.

He snatches the key from my
hand, and I yank my head back so sharply that I hit it against the
wall. Pain radiates from the back of my skull. I suck in air and
choke.

“Chill. I'm not into
punching out girls, even sisters of creeps.” For a moment I think
he might pin me against the wall again. But then he forces my key
into the lock and works it back and forth until it turns. The door
swings open and he says, “It’s your brother I’m taking out. Remind
him.”

He jogs to his apartment.
When he’s at the door, he faces me, and for a second he looks like
a little kid who’s just been told nobody likes him. Then he’s
Anthony again—hard eyes and a jaw that works back and forth like a
crushing machine. Once he’s out of sight the rest of my body thaws
so I can move, but my legs feel rubbery and barely carry me inside.
My hand is shaking and my lungs scream for air as if I’m surfacing
from a deep pool.

I lean against the closed
door and reach for the light switch; when I’m sure my legs work, I
go into the kitchen for water. On the counter I find a note propped
against the toaster oven. It says:

“Keith and I have gone to a
movie with Jeb. We should be back by the time you’re home, but if
we’re late, lock the door. Love, Mom.”

First Quicken, now Keith
and Mom—all gone. Jeb has emptied the apartment of every living
thing except me. “
Merde
.” This has been one terrible night so far. I remember the
worried look on Sean’s face while he waited to hear what I was
going to tell him—if I’d say I never wanted to see him again. I
didn’t say that, but I might as well have.
What will I do if I don’t have Sean to call me “Milady”? What
if I don’t have him to tell me I’m special and beautiful and his .
. . friend?

I punch the air with my
fist. I should be punching myself for being so stupid.

I head into my catacomb. My
homework isn’t doing itself and I'm sure K.T.’s hastily scribbled
story needs work. I have to keep my mind off being alone, and I
have to wonder if
K.T., the last person in
the world I want to know anything about me, is reading my story
right now? Did she just turn to page two and find out how I really
feel? Why did I put all of that on paper, something I couldn’t even
write in my journal?

I take out the paper K.T.
shoved at me.

“Gloria got her name
because her mom sang in the church choir before she was born and
she liked the ‘Gloria Hallelujah’ parts. Gloria could of been
famous. That’s cuz when she drew something it came to life like
magic. One day she drew a big dog cuz she wanted one really really
bad, but that dog got up off the page and ran away. She felt
terrible, so the next day she drew a cat to, but it crossed the
street and got run over by a car. Now she felt super terrible. If
Gloria had a mom that mom would tell her to stop drawing pets for
herself cuz she used to tell her what to do and not to do. Like she
told her not to put up with junk from nobody. Her mom was like that
too. She didn’t put up with people who treated her bad. Gloria got
that trait from her mom, so she was tough and the jerks let her
alone. When Gloria’s mom skipped town unexpected, and left her on
her own is when she started trying to draw stuff. She wanted some
animal friends. She didn’t try to draw a mom to cuz who knew what
might happen if she did? The End.”

That stupid story isn’t so
stupid now that I know about her mom. K. T. misses her, and she’s
figured out a way to get through one day after the next, grieving
and surviving.

I sit back in my chair, my
brain doing crazy eights. I wrote the same thing in my free
writing, except it's my dad who “skipped town.” I can't believe I
have anything in common with K.T., yet here it is right on this
piece of paper.

I hold my pencil over the
first sentence. Not a bad start, and the next four are kind of
catchy in a rappy sort of way. What if K.T. turns this into rap?
Maybe that’s the best suggestion. It’s got a story, sort of. The
cat shouldn't get creamed. Maybe it leaves her. I can relate to
that, too.

I like the idea that she
wishes she could draw her mom, but can't. It’s bad enough bringing
a dog and a cat to life and then having them leave, but if that
happened to her mother it would be like going through her death all
over again.

“All over again.” I drop my
pencil and look up from K.T’s paper. That’s how I feel in that
scene when Desdemona says goodbye to her father. I press my fingers
against my eyelids until splotches of light and dark are all I
see.

Get this done. You’ve got your own homework,
Carlie.

I sit straight in my chair,
pick up my pencil and line out the parts K.T. should delete, then I
write my rap idea on the bottom of the paper and add onr more
comment: “This story has a sad message about a girl who's lost a
mom. I fold the paper, then unfold it and write something else,,
“Acting tough might be part of the answer, but I don’t think it’s
enough to get rid of what’s hurting inside. Thanks for trusting me
with your writing.”

Maybe she’ll lighten up on
me if I try some honey. I sigh.
Or
not
.

Tucking the paper back into
my notebook, I wonder if she’s at her desk, writing notes on my
story. And what kind of notes?
Huge
mistake, Carlie. Huge.