The Princess of Las Pulgas (5 page)

“I mean
it—really.”

I know he means it, but I
can’t get the words out to tell him.

When I don’t answer he
backs away, his palms up, silently asking me,
What more can I say?
“I’d better get
back to my aunt’s” are his parting words.

From the driveway I watch
him leave.
“Désolé.”
I savor Sean’s word and let it linger on my
tongue.

He strides away, his sleek
black hair glinting under the streetlights, and
I can almost see the word, “luscious,” on a page of my
journal. Maybe I should pay attention to what my dad’s telling me.
Maybe it’s time to come out of that cocoon. This is the first time
since October I feel like that might be possible.

I walk past the Christmas
tree that died for no reason and brush my hand against the fir
needles. They prickle and some scatter to the ground. If Keith
doesn’t carry it away, maybe we can light it as farewell bonfire
when we move.

Is that you, Carlie?” Mom
calls as I close the front door and toss my jacket on the entry
table.

“C’est moi.”
I’m in a French mood and I want to stay that
way.

“I’m in the kitchen. How
did the babysitting at the Franklins’ go?”

“It was, um, fine.” Last
year I would have rushed to tell Mom what happened, especially the
part about Sean. I want to, but life’s different now. She jumps to
edgy if I have a headache these days, and I don’t need a lecture
about getting my imagination under control. Not tonight. I run my
fingers through my hair as I look into the hall mirror, making sure
I don’t show any signs of what happened at the Franklins. “You’re
up late.”

“I needed to get an hour of
study in.” I don’t hear the yawn and the sigh that follows, but I
know they’ve happened just like I know that later when I’m almost
asleep I’ll hear her crying on her way past my door.

I walk through the dining
room and into the kitchen where Mom faces the stove, her head
bowed, a stirring spoon resting on the edge of the saucepan. We’ve
been at each other for weeks, so now I remember the promise I made
while I cowered in Jessie’s bedroom.
Show
Mom I love her
.

I wrap my arms around her
waist from behind, then press my cheek against her familiar deep
blue cashmere. “Can I have some cocoa?”

With a quick swipe of a
hand across her eyes she pours the steamy liquid into two mugs,
gives me one and sits at the kitchen table. “So tell me about your
night.”

“No, you first.” I need
time to get my story right, so I sit across from her, both hands
around the mug.

“We’ll take turns.” Mom
used to love this game, when we’d all manage to be around the
dinner table at the same time. First Dad, then me, then Keith, and
last Mom—each sharing a small piece of what we’d done that day. She
sighs. “Let’s see. My night—” She holds up her real estate books as
if they tell the whole story. “Now your turn.”

I’m not getting out of telling her something
about tonight. But what? If Mrs. Franklin calls to complain to Mom
about what happened, she’ll hear a version of the story I probably
won’t like. That would so be like that cranky vegan. Mom’s in a
pretty mellow mood—playing her take-turns game. If I tell the Sean
story, keep it light—

“A really strange thing
happened at the Franklins.” My laugh sounds forced, but she doesn’t
tense up. I tell about Sean, the burglar, only I don’t use that
word, choosing “suspected intruder,” “hidden safely,” and a “little
nervous” to explain what happened.

“Carlie!” She lunges for my
hand as if she's saving me from falling off a cliff. She’s been so
protective of Keith and me that we can’t go outside to get the
newspaper without her asking where we’re going.

“I overreacted, Mom.
Really. And it ended . . . fine. Sean—”

“I’m calling the Franklins.
Don’t they have an alarm system?”

“Yes, but I told you. It
was a nephew who had a key. I just didn’t know. It wasn’t a big
deal.”

She still hasn’t let go of
my hand and now she grips it even more tightly. “It’s a big deal to
me. If anything happened—”

“But nothing
did
. It was my
imagination.” I want to say, “You have no idea how unimaginative
this version is,” but instead I stroke the back of her hand. “Your
turn.”

She rubs her forehead with
both hands, taking her time before starting. I’ve seen her do this
a lot as if she’s constructing interior dams to hold back a flash
flood—sometimes tears, sometimes fear. Sometimes I think it’s
anger. It's as if she'll be washed away if she doesn’t control
every emotion as it rises inside her.

“I arranged for the moving
company today.”

I’d almost forgotten about
Las Pulgas. I come down from my Sean high so fast that I swear my
ears pop. Now tonight’s scare is nothing compared to what the move
on the fifteenth.

Chapter 12

Sunday morning I stumble
into the kitchen far earlier than usual. I’m sure I haven’t slept
more than an hour, and then I dreamed about catacombs. My stomach
growls, reminding me I’ve eaten nothing since half a burrito before
babysitting and a handful of celery sticks from the Franklin’s
refrigerator.

Keith sits at the kitchen
counter with a tall glass of milk, his hands wrapped around a micro
waved waffle, his teeth sunk into the steamy dough, butter and
syrup dripping through his fingers onto the plate.

He grunts, closes his eyes
and chews.

“Good morning to you too.”
My books and homework assignments are spread at the end of the
kitchen table where I left them on my way to the Franklins’ last
night. I push the books aside. “Did you leave anything in the
refrigerator besides the shelves?”

“No."

I yank open the
refrigerator door and peer inside. “Ah, two hard-boiled eggs.
You’re a perfect start for the day. Then there’s you,” I hold up a
limp slice of pizza in plastic wrap and slap it back on the shelf.
I grab the milk carton and shake it. “You’ve almost got enough in
you for half a cup of cereal.”

Quicken purrs her way into
the room and winds between my legs. “Didn’t anyone feed you,
fur-person?” I fill her bowl and give her a scratch behind her
silky black ears.

“Do you talk to
everything?” Keith dumps his plate into the sink and, dragging his
feet across the tiled floor, heads toward the TV room. “The fridge
is lonely. Say something to it.”

“YeahYeahYeah.” It feels
good to make faces behind his back. I’ve poured the last of the
milk onto a bowl of Cap’n Crunch and spooned one bite between my
teeth, when the phone rings. It can’t be for me. My friends only
call on my cell and never this early on Saturday. I take another
spoonful and chew.

“Carlie?” Mom calls from
upstairs. “It’s for you.”

When I lift the receiver to
my ear I don’t recognize the voice.

“Hi. Glad you’re an early
bird, too.”

This is definitely not
a
friend.
My
friends
know “early bird” is not in my vocabulary. Mom didn’t pass
that gene on to either of her children. I prop my head up with one
hand and dip my spoon into the Cap’n Crunch. “Who
is
this?”

“Sean. To make up for
scaring you last night, I’d like to take you someplace today.
Anywhere you want to go.”

I yawn, then double blink.
“Sean?”

“That would be me.” He
breathes into my ear.

I chew more cereal, trying
to wake up enough to say something that makes sense.

“I think there’s something
wrong with your phone. Lots of static.”

I stop chewing, and push
the cereal into one cheek.

“I’ll pick you up about
ten.”

“No. I’m—” I
swallow.“—busy.”

“You’re still mad about
last night.”

“You think?”

“I really want to make
amends. Please let me.”

I picture his smooth,
tanned face and perfect lips. Before thinking about what I’m doing,
I spoon the last of the cereal into my mouth.

“So ten, okay?”

“Temm. Rrit.”

“Think about where you want
to go. Bye.”

The click comes before I
can swallow. “MmBye.” I’m left staring into the receiver; then I
click the End button. Is this guy nuts? Who goes on a date at ten
a.m. on a Saturday?

Now that my brain has come
online I smile to myself. This is a great chance to get even with
Aunt Corky’s nephew for last night. Not one guy I know likes
shopping at the mall, and that’s exactly where I want to go.
Satisfaction settles nicely inside me as I go to my room, grab my
cell and pull up Lena’s number. This is the first good news I’ve
had to share in months.

Lena doesn’t pick up, so I
leave a message. “You—will—
not
believe what I have to tell you. Call
me.”

My journal lies open on top
of
Introduction to Chemistry
and for a moment I think of writing something
wonderful to myself. Something about today and Sean, but when I
pick it up it’s only to set it aside. Homework wins out over those
blank pages.

By nine-thirty I’ve done
one chemistry assignment, showered, blown my hair dry, and stepped
on and off the scale—twice. Even when I force out all the air
possible, the dial stops way past the mark I made with nail polish.
That passionate purple line has been my goal since last summer and
I’m still six pounds away. “Rats!”

I put on my halter-top and
low-rider jeans and stand in front of the bathroom
mirror.

“No.”

The halter lands on the bed
as I reach for the tieback top in the closet. “No. No.
No.”

The tie back top lands next
to the halter. There has to be something. Look in the top dresser
drawer. Ah ha. My V-neck hoodie.
Why am I
so worried about looking good for Sean?
I
get my answer from the girl in the mirror. “Like Lena said, he’s
hot, that’s why.”

That idea sends me back to
the closet.

The doorbell rings at ten
a.m. sharp. Mom’s at her desk studying, so I stick my head inside
her room. “Bye. Going to the mall.” I don't give her time to turn
around before I duck out.

By the time I reach the
bottom step, Keith stands with Sean at the front door.

“Hi.” I’m trying to sound
pleased, but not eager.

“Hi, yourself. You look . .
. awesome.”

Keith grunts and shambles
back to his TV room hideout.

“Your brother’s nice,” Sean
says.

He’s got to be
kidding
.
“Sometimes.”

Mom leans over the balcony.
“Carlie? Who are you going with?”

“This is Sean. Uh, the
Franklins’ nephew. I told you about him last night.”

At first I think she might
run down the stairs and throw herself between the two of us, but
Sean waves and says, “Pleasure to meet you Mrs. Edmund.”

That scores a
point.

She nods at him. “What time
are you coming home?”

“Is two all right?” he
asks.

Score two.

Mom nods again. “That’s
fine. Enjoy.”

Sean opens the front door.
“So where are we going?”

“The mall.” I expect him to
cringe, but he sweeps ahead of me down the stone walkway to the car
and opens the passenger door in one fluid movement.

“Milady.”

I stifle a “huh?” I’ve
never been called My Lady before. No one except Mom or Dad has ever
opened the car door for me, and that happened before I could open
it myself, so it didn’t count.

This is definitely shaping
up into a “different” kind of date.

Chapter 13

The mall is fifteen minutes
from the house. During the drive I’ve already managed two “Is that
rights?” and one “Un huh” while Sean tells me about Aunt Corky and
Uncle Mike and their conversation following the bizarre experience
last night. I can’t concentrate on what he says even when I try
because I’m thinking about his blue eyes and how I feel when
they’re focused on me. Then there’s his dark hair and
Bahamas-suntanned skin that only make those eyes deeper
seas.

“What?” He said something
while I was off visiting my imagination. “What did you
say?”

“Just that you seem to be
somewhere else.”

“Just thinking.”

Do something if you can’t say anything. Try
smiling. Another glance at the visor mirror. The scarf isn’t right.
The hoodie might have been better after all. Maybe the red sweater
would have been more interesting than the black. Why is this guy so
disturbing?

I’ve been on dates, well at
chaperoned dances. Dad was such a guard dog. Maybe that’s what’s
making me so twitchy. No guard dog anymore. I feel that catch at
the back of my stomach and dig my nails into both palms to
distribute the pain. I can’t start crying now, not
today.