The Princess of Las Pulgas (29 page)

My face stings with what I
know have to be red blotches, and I don’t want to look at him. My
heart is pounding in my ears, and instead of yelling, I gulp
water.

“You never asked
why
I didn’t have a car.
You never asked
why
I worked at Sam’s. So I didn’t tell you.” He pulls out two
stools from the center island. “Sit down, Carlie.
Please.”

I take him up on the offer.
My legs are rubberized from exhaustion after being on stage for
hours, followed by the run-in with the track team low-lifes and
Nicolas’s’ hasty departure. On top of all that, discovering the
truth about Juan has pretty much done me in.

“I did mislead you about
the hotel, and I was going to explain, but, well, I never got the
chance. And then you were here and it was too late. I knew you’d
blow when you saw the house.” He touches my arm but I jerk
away.

“Okay. Here’s the truth,”
he continues. “I work at Sam’s to cover my car expenses—repairs,
insurance, gas. That’s my parents’ deal with me. The mechanic lives
at the hotel and I went to pay him for working on my
car.”

“You were making fun of me.
You were hiding the truth at my expense—”

“No, really, Carlie. I
wasn’t doing that at all. But I guess I
did
want to make a point. Now that I
see how upset you are that point isn’t important. I’d rather you
like me and not look like you’re ready to rip my throat
out.”

“You’re wrong, Juan
Pacheco—about the point, that is. You wanted me to admit I was an
uptight prejudiced Channing snob. That’s a very important
point—
for you.
”

He sets his water on the
marble island. “If you think it’s important, then it is. Are you an
uptight prejudiced Channing snob?”

The growl I’ve developed
since leaving Channing is lurking at the back of my throat again.
How can he ask me that question? He doesn’t know a thing about
me.

“No. I’m someone who
doesn’t even have enough . . . money to buy a dress for a school
dance. My mother has to work at a—a” I poke my finger in a
direction that’s supposed to be Las Pulgas. “—supermarket, and
studies nights and weekends to get her real estate license. My
juvenile delinquent brother—” I take another gulp of water because
my throat’s shutting down again. I think I have some kind of Las
Pulgas throat disease. “You know—the king of graffiti— is suspensed
and hates everyone in this world, especially me.” I stab a finger
at my chest. “And I’m the one who spends a lot of time wishing her
life wasn't a total mess. I live in the . . . slummiest apartment
in this city because my dad . . . my dad . . . took months to die
and when the insurance didn’t pay his medical bills, we had to . .
. sell our home.”

Juan reaches for me, but I
slap his hand away.

“No.” I wrap my arm around
myself. “My bedroom backs up to a couple from hell. Half the track
team plays a cat and mouse game with me every time they see me, and
I no longer have friends. I’m about as popular in school as a, as a
. . . cockroach. And I am totally a snob, because I refuse to let
anyone from Channing see where I live now. I
am
uptight—because absolutely
nothing—nothing is the way it should be, anymore. I
hate
my life. I
hate
me
. The only
person I’m prejudiced against is, is the person I’ve turned
into!”

I don’t realize I’m crying
until I shut up and Juan reaches for me.

“Carlie. I’m so
sorry.”

I stop him from pulling me
close. “I don’t want your pity!”

“That’s not what I meant.
I’m sorry I didn’t know anything about you. I didn’t bother to ask,
so I was being a total jerk.”

“I need to blow my nose.”
Humiliation just keeps coming, but Juan opens a drawer and hands me
a tissue.

“Carlie, I like you a lot.
And I apologize for making assumptions about you.”

Now I let him pull me to
him. I’m too tired to push away, and besides, my nose is running
and I have to hold the tissue under it so at least I don’t get snot
on his sweater.

“Please give me another
chance,” he says into my hair. “I want you to trust me, to believe
I’m someone who’ll always be there for you—really.”

I’ve believed that promise,
before, and when Dad couldn’t keep it, my life fell apart. There’s
no way I’m ready to believe that again.

I shove him away. “I need
to leave.”

Chapter 46

I I fasten the seatbelt in
Mr. Smith’s dark sedan. Dolores gets in behind Mr. Smith, and Juan
stands at the passenger door, his eyes riveted on me, willing me to
look at him. Meanwhile, Lena and Eric walk to the Mustang; his
hands are shoved in his pockets and the distance between them is
big enough to fit another person. My guess is Juan Pacheco.
That's perfect. Lena and Juan will make a cute
couple.

Mr. Smith rolls down the
passenger window and leans across to speak to Juan. “A pleasurable
evening, Mr. Pacheco, and a wonderful performance. I don’t believe
I have said that to you yet. It has been a very full
evening.”

Juan smiles in that special
way he shares with his mother. “I learned a lot doing that
part—mostly, that I don’t think I’ll go into acting as a
profession.”

“Then you have already made
a significant life decision. Until Monday,” Mr. Smith says and he
starts the car, still keeping the window down.

“Goodnight, Carlie,” Juan
says.

Pivotal moment,
my mind screams.
How I
answer him will decide so much. I can look away and be a Channing
Princess or I can be Carlie Edmund saying goodnight to Juan
Pacheco.

I close the window and look
straight ahead.

Before the sedan reaches
the bottom of the driveway, regret I’m filled with regret, which
travels from my head into my chest, and then drops into my
stomach.

I glance back at the big
house, where lights shine from every window, and where Juan remains
standing, staring after us. I'll see him again, but when I do,
nothing will be right between us again.

I suddenly understand that
I’m losing someone who’s very important to me, and it’s too late to
do anything about it. This is another moment in my life that I’m
ending badly, and somehow I don’t think a phone call and an apology
is going to work the way it did with Sean.

We drive without talking
until Mr. Smith winds down Barranca Canyon Road and comes to the
Las Pulgas that I hate so much. I despise the clapboard houses and
grit my teeth as we pass the hotel with its barred windows. The
teacher stops in front of a modest home with a small front yard
littered with plastic toys and two tricycles.

“Thanks, Mr. Smith,”
Dolores says as she gets out. She peers in the passenger side and
waves at me.

I roll down the window.
“Sorry I blew my lines in that scene. Thanks for not strangling me
yourself, Dolores.”

“Don’t sweat it. You it
covered up pretty good. So long, Des,” she says, then hurries
across to the house.

Once she’s inside and porch
light goes dark, Mr. Smith pulls away.

I need to think about
something besides returning to that apartment complex. “I meant it
when I said you were a great director.”

“Not great, but I’ve
learned to provide adequate guidance to my pupils over the years. I
succeed because I am blessed with talented students.”

“Like K.T?”

“K.T. is only one student I
think is special, but, yes, she is talented.”

There isn’t that warning in
Mr. Smith’s comment, not like there was that first day, when he’d
said, “I think you’ll like this bunch once you get to know
them.”

I
have
gotten to know them. I’ve
managed to keep K.T. from beating me up, and I’ve even somehow
built a shaky relationship with her. Dolores and Jamal don’t
exactly crave my company, but they do talk to me and what they say
is nice, not snarky. Pavan Gupta compliments me on my writing. I
don’t want to think about Juan or the track team.

“Can I ask something? It’s
kind of a nosy question.”

“How nosy?” he asks,
glancing at me.

“It’s about Channing. Why
did you leave?”

“I was not needed at
Channing anymore.”

He’s still the master of,
as Dolores would say, innuendo—a good and decent version of Iago. I
was not needed at Channing really means I’m needed a lot more at
Las Pulgas.

I should know better than
to ask my next question, but it’s out before my brain censors it.
“Aren’t you sorry?”

Then the word, discretion,
pops into my head, along with other memories of that first day in
Mr. Smith’s class; the class applauding when he entered, the way he
encouraged K.T. to read Desdemona’s part, and how the time passed
quickly because I, Carlie Edmund from Channing, was enjoying Mr.
Smith’s English class in Las Pulgas.

“Do you remember what I
said that day on the auditorium steps about taking the journey?” he
asks me.

“Yes.”

“What I didn’t say was that
many journeys, often ones you didn’t plan to make, take you to an
unexpected destination that turns out to be exactly where you want
to be.”

I’m about to ask what he
means, but we’re already at the apartment complex.

He slows the car next to
the chain-link fence and stops at the back gate. “I’ll add one more
thing, since I’m in a philosophical mood and you don’t seem to be
completely satisfied with my answer. I chose Las Pulgas, Carlie. It
didn’t choose me. And what I do here is my life.”

“Don’t you have a fam . . .
I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Carlie, I’m an old
bachelor with many wonderful children. So, yes, I have a family, a
very large one.” He opens his door. “And speaking of families, I
believe your mother is waiting for you.”

He walks me across the pool
area and Mom’s at the railing, waving. Next to her is the woman
from Apt. 147, leaning over the iron railing and blowing smoke into
the air.
I don't believe it.

“Mrs. Edmund, hello again,”
Mr. Smith says. “I trust we are not so late that you were
concerned.” We climb the steps and walk across the shaky,
iron-railed balcony.

“Not at all,” Mom says. “I
needed some fresh air." Mom turns aside to include the smoking
woman. “This is Georgia Callahan, our neighbor. Mr. Smith is
Carlie's English teacher.”

The woman flicks her
cigarette over the balcony and shakes Mr. Smith's hand. “Pleased to
meet you.” To Mom she says, “Nice talking to you, Sarah.” She walks
to her door and steps inside, then she pokes her head out again.
“Stick to your guns. He needs an education if he wants out of this
dump.”

Mom blushes. “Sorry about
all the shouting.”

I can't be hearing this. My
mom's apologizing to
that woman
for making noise? And what is this “stick to your
guns” stuff? I must be more tired than I know. Nothing’s making
sense tonight.

“Please come in, Mr.
Smith.” I can make coffee.”

“Our player is tired, but
believe me, Mrs. Edmund, so is her director. It’s time for me to go
home, and it’s absolutely time for me to get to sleep. May I take
you up your offer another evening?”

“Of course. Thank you for
seeing Carlie home.”

“My pleasure,” he tells
her. Then to me he says, “I will see you in class
Monday.”

Mom and I lean on the
railing until his car drives away.

“So,” she says when Mr.
Smith's taillights disappear, “how was the evening? I can’t tell
from looking at you whether you had a good time--or
not.”

I don’t answer.

“How bad was
it?”

“If you don’t count the
jerks from the track team scaring Nicolas back to Channing before
we even left the auditorium, an if you don’t count their giving
Lena a cheap slumming thrill, and if you don’t count my being
totally humiliated, you could say I had a super time.”

“Oh, honey.” She sighs and
looks across the pool area. “My evening wasn’t that good, either.
You can now officially call me a shrew. I did lots of yelling
earlier.”

“What happened?”

“Keith and I had a huge
argument. He wants to drop out of school.”

Chapter 47

This is the first Sunday in
weeks I don’t grab my playbook to study lines. I don’t take my
chemistry book out and struggle to stay up with Doc either. Today’s
a free day for me.

The phone rings as I push
two pieces of bread into the toaster. When I answer it, I hope
Sean’s on the other end. But no.

“Hi, this is Nicolas,” he
says. He doesn’t wait for me to say hello. He doesn’t even have to
tell me the reason for his call. He doesn’t even have to bother
making up some lame excuse. He’s calling to cancel our date to the
Spring Fling.