The Princess of Las Pulgas (23 page)

“Carlie love, stop worrying about what you
wrote.

“I wanted you to—”

“You wanted me to die, so both of us could
stop hurting.”

“Yes, but—”

“Do you think you’re the only person who has
feelings they’re ashamed of?”

I shake my head.

“You can’t help being human.”

I lay my head on my
desk.
“But there’s more, Dad. You know
that.”

“I know, but you’re entitled to be angry
about what’s happened.”

“I’m not entitled to hate you.”

“Who says?”

Dad’s voice is so clear
that I sit up to look around the room. My desk light shines on my
papers and because I haven’t turned on the overhead, the corners
are shadowy and the wall behind me is dark. The still air stirs
only slightly when I stand with hands outstretched. I want him to
be here. I want one more moment of him.

But I’m alone. I blow my
nose, then swipe my eyes with the back of hand.

Suddenly our front door
opens and closes. I’m up and tense. Rapid footsteps come toward my
room.
How did anyone slide the safety off?
Did they cut it?

I’m clutching the black
sheet at my window. My bedroom door pops open and Mom pokes her
head inside, her face pale. “Carlie! Are you all right?”

She crosses the room in two
quick steps and holds me. “Honey, you left the safety chain off and
the door was ajar. I was so scared. You have to remember to use it
all the time.”

I have to remember so much
that I can’t remember anything. I fall against her,
crying.

“It’s time we talked,” she
says. “it’s long overdue.” She pulls me down next to her on my bed
and holds me until I’ve stopped sobbing.

“Now tell me what’s
happening.” She pushes my hair out of my eyes and rocks me side to
side like she used to when I was little.

“I’ve got a serious case of
nerves. The play is really hard, and I’m behind in a couple of
classes.”

“I used to know all about
your classes. Now I don’t think about anything except real estate
laws and the Wednesday specials on canned goods.”

“It’s . . . just nerves.”
I’m still not going to tell her about the threats to Keith or to
me.

“And the dance? What about
the dress? Did you look yet?”

“I’ve got it covered. Well,
. . . Sean helped. It’s a long story.”

She hugs me closer. “I’m
missing some of the best parts of your life, aren’t I?”

I don’t answer because I
want this moment to last. I don’t want to ruin it with tales of the
“best parts” of life at Las Pulgas.

“So when can I see this
creation?”

“I can pick it up next
week.” I sit up and blow my nose. “Maybe I’ll call Lena tomorrow
while I’m babysitting and have her meet me at the mall after school
on Monday. She’s super ticked about my not shopping with her, so
I’ve got some making it up to do, but that means I’ll need the
car.”

“I can ask Jeb for a ride
to work. He told me he’d help anytime I need him to. It’s because
of Quicken, you know. He tells me our cat is the best thing that’s
happened to him in a long time.”

A scowl draws my face
tight. I look up through my lashes at her.

“Carlie. Stop with that
look. You have no idea—” Mom rubs both temples with her fingers.
“Jeb and I . . . Well, it helps to have someone to talk to, someone
my own age who understands about being forty plus, not living the
life they’d expected, not knowing about the direction to take like
they used to. When I was twenty-five everything was in place—your
father, you, Keith, my friends.” She smiles, but it makes her face
regretful, not happy. “That’s all there is between Jeb and me, so I
don’t need those looks of yours, okay?” She points at me and waits
until my expression shifts back to normal.

“Who is this Juan Pacheco,
anyway?”

Mom’s been busy, but her
radar hasn’t been totally down. I explain about the poor Mexican
kid who works at Sam’s Shack and does a great Othello impression.
Then I veer quickly to Mr. Smith, the most awesome teacher ever. I
save Sean for last because I don’t know how to explain what’s
happened.

“He’s . . . he’s my best
friend. No. He used to be.”

Her eyes are studying me,
seeing what I wish wasn’t there. “Did you have a fight?”

“Not exactly, but he’ll
never speak to me again because I let him down.”

“Maybe I can help. I . . .
I know something about letting people down.” The way she says this
makes me ache to tell her everything.

“He’s gay, Mom, and I love
him, but I hate him for . . . not being able to love me back—at
least the way I want him to.”

I tell her the rest of what
happened and how I regret leaving him thinking I didn’t want
anymore to do with him.

She traces her finger along
my cheek. “You were upset. He has to understand that. And, Carlie,
you still have time to tell him how you really feel.”

After she leaves I curl up,
missing Quicken at the foot of my bed, aching because I may have
lost Sean, the one person left in this world who made me feel
special.

Chapter 38

Sunday, while Kip and
Jessie watch afternoon cartoons, I close myself in Mr. Franklin’s
office and pick up his phone. I punch in Sean’s cell number and
wait, hoping he’ll answer because I don’t want to leave him a
message. But I also have no idea what I’m going to say or how I’m
going to say it if he picks up. It rings a few times, and then his
voice messaging answers. I hit End.

When I call Lena, I have to
listen to twenty minutes of her “news” before she stops to inhale.
Then I grab my chance to jump in.

“I found a dress for the
dance.”

The silence has a chill,
and I can picture her drawing her mouth tight. I know what comes
next—she perfected snotty act around the time we entered second
grade. She discovered that saucy tilt of her head when we started
junior high, and by the time we were freshman in high school, she
knew the effect of parting her glossy, peach-scented lips and
sighing. Snotty look. Saucy head tilt. And now I hear that
sigh.

“Lena?”

“I thought we were
shopping
together
.”

“We talked about it, but .
. . it just kind of happened. I didn’t go
looking
for it, you know?” I wait a
few beats for her to say something, but when she doesn’t, I plow
ahead, hoping to get her back to being happy. “How about you go
with me to pick it up after school tomorrow? About
three?”

She’s slow to warm, but
after I say, “like old times” she comes back with “I still need a
small evening bag for my gown.”

“Super. Let’s meet in front
of Très Elégant.”

“Perfect. I’d love to paw
through their shelves,” she says.

Paw through their
shelves?
“Lena—”

“Mom’s calling. See you
tomorrow.”

The dial tone is all that’s
left of our conversation.
You don’t paw
through shelves in Très Elégant.

I’m ready to press redial
and cancel when I hear Jessie screaming in the TV room. I’ve got
some kind of cartoon crisis. I’ll worry about Lena
later.

Monday morning I lie in bed
waiting for the shower to stop, then I drag myself into the steamy
Keith-used bathroom and draw a sad face on the mirror.
How much longer will I have to share this
bathroom with my brother?”

By the time I’ve showered
and grabbed toast, Keith’s eaten the whole box of Toasted Flakes
and used what was left of the milk. Mom comes back into the
kitchen, fastening the last snap on her Las Pulgas Supermarket
uniform. “I’m set with a ride from work. Jeb says he’ll swing by to
get me, so pick up your dress this afternoon. I can’t wait to see
it.” She hugs me. “This is so exciting. I want to talk to your
Sean. He sounds one interesting boy.”

Keith—The Diabolical—leers
at me. “He’s
interesting
all right.”

“What’s
that
supposed to mean?”

He takes an empty mug from
the drainer and fills it with hot cocoa. Then he picks up the mug,
extending his pinky finger with a flourish. “Just what I
said—
interesting
.”

My insides constrict. How
come I find out about Sean
after
my brother, and only by asking? My face goes hot.
“You’re a twisted piece of snot!”

“Carlie! That’s
disgusting.” Mom shakes her head and scoops up a stack of papers on
the end of the table.

“Big sister, scare little
brother,” Keith says with an evil grin.

“Keith, that’s enough from
you, too. Sean is Carlie’s friend, besides you know better than to
spread rumors that can hurt people. Get yourself ready to go to
Jeb’s. He’s expecting you, and I’d better get good
reports.”

Keith gulps his
cocoa.

“I liked you both better
when you were three,” Mom says. “Okay, let get on our way. Anything
you need from the lovely Las Pulgas Market?”

Keith hold up the empty
milk carton.

“Right,” Mom
says.

I aim another look at him
that I hope screams
you are a jerk
head.
“You have a test in algebra next
week. Do you want me to pick up anything from your locker?” I ask
him

“No.”

“Good. Didn’t want to get
it anyway.”

“Look you two. That’s
enough. I’m already tired and I haven’t started my shift yet.” Mom
kisses Keith’s cheek and musses his hair before he can duck away.
“Quite a mop you’ve got going there. Do you need some money for a
haircut?”

“No.”

“He’s not going to run
anymore,” I tell her.

“That’s none of your
business,” Keith growls.

I go for sarcasm. “Gee,
thanks Carlie for bringing all of my assignments home every night.
And I really appreciate your dropping me off at Cal Works and
picking me up every Saturday.”

Keith holds up two fingers.
“Twice.”

I yank the front door open,
then look both ways before stepping outside. Every time I come or
go from this place I know what it’s like to live in a war zone. I
poke my head back inside. “Mom, I’m going to be late for first
period if we don’t go now.”

“See you after six,” Mom
says to Keith. She takes her coat from the back of the couch and
closes the door behind her.

The traffic is fairly
light, so I make the trip to the Las Pulgas Market in less than ten
minutes. Neither of us talks, but as Mom gets out, she says. “I
want you to stop talking like that to Keith.”

“He’s—”

“Your brother.” Mom gets
out of the car. “And he’s hurting as much as we are.”

When I look up, she’s
already inside the store.

When I get to school, I’m
later than usual, there’s only a single parking space at the end of
lot.

Our decrepit car clock
reads two forty-five just like always, but my watch has the right
time. Grabbing my backpack from the passenger seat, I race toward
the main entrance and line up behind three others in the security
line. Five minutes to final bell.

Every time I pass through
security my skin crawls. I pray Mr. Icky won’t search my bag again.
He’s done it three out of five days every week. Am I particularly
suspicious-looking?

Today the wand guy lets me
through instead.

I’m making good time until
four guys break away from a group, and come at me, forming a wall I
can’t get around. I find myself staring into Chico’s scowly face,
and recognize two other guys beside him from that incident at the
apartments. The fourth one is the sulky-faced denizen of Apartment
152, Anthony.

“So, when’s your creep of a
brother coming to get creamed?” Chico asks.

He already knows when
Keith’s due back so I don’t answer him.

“You tell him we’re
waiting.” Chico says, shoving me aside. Each of them makes a point
of shouldering me as he passes. Anthony squeezes my upper arm
hard.

The final bell rings as I
slam my way into Mr. Smith’s classroom, still shaking. Keith
doesn’t stand a chance against these guys when he gets
back.

As I head for my seat, I
slide K.T.’s story with my suggestions onto her desk.

“What’s this?” she
asks.

“It’s your story about the
artist.”

K.T. looks at the paper.
“Got lots of marks on it.”

“It’s a critique, K.T.!” I
wait, but she takes her time reading my comments and doesn’t pay
any attention to me. Then I remind her that I’m waiting by asking,
“And my . . . paper?”

“Oh, yeah. Here.” She pulls
out a folded sheet of notebook paper from her pocket. It’s been
creased so many times it looks more like scrap.