The Princess of Las Pulgas (6 page)

Sean parks and I manage to
open my own door this time before he reaches the passenger side.
“So where do you like to shop?” he asks.

“I just look these days.
I’m so broke I can’t afford to buy anything.”
Why did I say that? I don’t know him at all. I really don’t
want Aunt Corky to find out the Edmunds are out of money. Once she
knows, everyone in Channing will too.
“That’s between us, okay?”

“
Of course.” He seals his
lips with his fingers. “I’ll ask my aunt to give you a raise. Come
on. I have a place I’d like to check out. Do you mind?” He takes
long steps across the shiny mall floor and I hurry to keep
up.

Now I’m expecting an hour
of wandering through Electronics Inc., but he stops in front of the
Cornucopia of Toys. “I love this place!”

“Toy junkie?” He smiles at
me.

“I liked getting toys when
I was little. Now all I get are socks and gift cards.”

“What was your favorite toy
present?”

“You’ll think I’m
nuts.”

He crosses his heart.
“Nope.”

The automatic door to the
toy store
swooshes
open and we walk inside where bins overflow with stuffed
animals.

“A Jack-in-the-Box . . . my
. . . dad gave me when I was four. I’d pushed the jester down
thousands of times and every time it popped up I’d scream and my
dad would hold me and—” My eyes burn. “It’s broken now.” I turn
away from Sean to hide the tears that flood my eyes and pick up a
stuffed rabbit to give myself something to do.

“Sorry about your dad. Aunt
Corky told me.” Sean slips his hand into mine, sending a tingly
sensation through me. “Let’s find something to play
with.”

His hand feels firm around
mine as he leads me to the escalator.

On the second floor a
brightly colored hopscotch with a “Try Me” sign brings us to a
quick stop. We wait in line behind a little boy just out of the
toddler category and two girls who look down at him from the age of
about eight. When our turn comes Sean hops to the end and returns
with his arms out in a
Ta Dah
ending.

I’m next. I make it to the
end and hop onto the bright red 7 and 8, but when I turn to come
back my right tennis shoe sticks and I land on my butt.

The twittering
eight-year-olds cut me no slack.

Sean helps me up. “Come on.
All that exercise has given me an appetite.” He takes my hand
again, and we ride the escalator down to the main gallery. Our
choice is the Teriyaki Bowl and Sean hands me chopsticks. “I bet
you’re better using these than you are your feet.”

“I slipped!”

He picks up the tray and
surveys the noisy room. “Table at three o’clock.” We jockey our way
through the crowded Food Court until we reach an empty table along
the wall.

“Before I forget.” I open
my fanny pack and hand him five dollars for my lunch.

“This is part of my
apology. I’ll buy lunch since my impression of a French guy didn’t
work all that well last night.”

It worked way too
well.
Désolé
. The
memory of that word, his voice saying it—I’ve never had such a
soppy feeling, but with Sean sitting across from me, his dark hair
swept back from his face, I’m wrapped inside something beautiful,
the first beautiful thing in a long time.

Later when we’re on our way
to my house Sean tells me he left his mom in New York with her new
husband. “There was bad chemistry between us from day one, so I
moved here to live with Dad. I’ll enroll at Elmhurst College after
I graduate.”

By the time we pull to a
stop in front of my house I don’t want this day to end.

When I look up, he’s
already opened my door.
Is this pampering?
I really like it.

On the way up the brick path I think,
Awkward moment on the horizon. When we get to my door what then? Do
we shake hands? Stay three feet apart while each of us searches for
the good-bye that’s just right?

Before I’m in a total
bunch, he says, “I had a great time. Hope I’ve made up for the
other night.”

No handshake.
Nothing.

He’s back to his car and
waving as he drives off.

Did he have somewhere else
to go? Maybe he didn’t like me as much as I thought. Maybe . . .
Stop imagining yourself into a snit, Carlie. He spent the whole
afternoon with you. He said he had fun and he told you a lot about
himself. He likes you
.

Having him in my life has
to be some kind of sign, a sign that there’s a change coming, a
change that will make my life better than it is now.

I can’t help the happiness
that starts inside and spreads across my face. Carlie Edmund may be
moving away, but she might be taking along one senior at Channing
that every girl craves.

As I open the front door my
cell phone chimes “Jingle Bells.”— Lena. Mental note: change those
Christmas tones, sometime before summer. “Hi, Lena. I’ve got so
much—”

“Mom caved. I can take the
car my uncle offered after all. And you will not believe this! Gene
Connell made a pass at me. I was at the Shack and he, like, sits
down right next to me and gives me the look.”

“That’s . . . interesting.
I’ve—”

“I’ve decided to teach Eric
a lesson for flirting with that French exchange student. Maybe I’ll
just break our date for the Spring Fling. He’ll go green when I
show up at the dance with Gene.” She takes a short breath. “Where
have you been all day? I tried to call you on your cell a couple of
times. You want to go to the mall maybe see that new movie? What is
it? Never mind. Oh I have to go. Mom’s calling. Gotta keep on her
good side until I get the pink slip to the car. Ciao.”

I close my phone. Suddenly
that bubbly feeling vanishes. Pop! One bubble. Pop! Another.
Thanks for all your good news, Lena. Thanks for
not wanting to hear any of mine. Thanks for reminding me that today
was probably the single good one for the rest of my life which is
most generally lived in the toilet these days.

Keith passes me in the
entrance hall.

“Going out?” I’m trying to
keep that promise again. Making eye contact. Not
growling.

“No, I’m walking backwards.
Didn’t you notice?” Keith snarks, and then slams the door hard
behind him.

He makes keeping my promise
impossible. When I start toward the stairs, Mom stands on the
bottom step, her eyes red. “We . . . another argument.” She turns
and runs up the stairs then her bedroom door slams.

At least I have company in
the toilet.

Chapter 14

The week before we move has
a jet rocket strapped to its back. No other time in my life has
disappeared this fast, and only one other time has been so steeped
in gloom.

I sit in the middle of my
bedroom floor surrounded by boxes.
How
many decisions can I make in a single day without a
brain-collapse?
Choices surround me like a
grass fire, closing in, sucking the oxygen from the air.

There are all sorts of
categories, like Returns—things to give back to friends I probably
won’t ever see again. Treasures—I can’t leave behind anything in
this stack. Then there’s the dreaded Undecided—way too much stuff
to fit into a single packing box, which is what I’m allowed. I have
until tomorrow morning at eight when three men from Shamrock Movers
show up to haul off the furniture and boxes too big for the
car.

From the Undecided pile I
pluck a rhinestone studded box. Lena and I made these last year at
Christmas to raise money for the homeless. We sold all but one, so
I bought it. I used to be charitable; now I need some of that
charity myself. The box lands with a thud between Undecided and
Treasures where I’ve stacked my journal.

Keith shuffles past my open
door. This is his fourth trip in an hour, his arms loaded each
time. Slung over his shoulder are four tennis shoes tied together
by their laces. He’s tucked his freshman yearbook under his left
arm and cradled his basketball against his right side. That mole
hole of a room should be empty by now.

“How come no
boxes?”

“I don’t need boxes.” He
looks at my floor. “What’s all that?”

“I’m culling. No sense in
taking everything I own to Las Pulgas. You saw my new bedroom; it’s
about this big.” I hold my thumb and index finger about an inch
apart.

“Where’s Mom?”

“I guess she’s still in
Dad’s office.” I stretch and get to my feet. I’d decided it was
better to stay in our separate places. We’ve been growling at each
other all week.

Keith shakes his head, then
bounces down the stairs two at a time, tennis shoes slapping at his
back.

I should ask Mom if she
wants some cocoa.
Just don’t say anything
rotten, Carlie.

Dad’s office is down the
hall at the back of the house. On the door used to be a small brass
plaque, our Christmas present to him from three years ago that
read, MR. RICHARD EDMUND. Now only two small screw holes remain.
Mom’s taken the plaque off. If she’s sorting possessions into
piles, I wonder where that plaque goes?

I lean my forehead against
the wooden panel, trying to remember what his room looks like. I
haven’t been inside since last summer. I’m about to knock when the
sound of something shattering against a wall brings my hand to a
halt. “Mom?”

She doesn’t answer, so I
press my ear against the door. Mom’s crying. I back
away.

In the morning, Leo, Jake,
and Tom enter wearing Shamrock green uniforms with their names
stitched above their hearts. When they step into the living room,
Quicken hisses, cat-leaps up the stairs and crouches at the back of
my closet. Even her favorite catnip crunchies can’t coax her from
the corner where she sits, growling.

“I’ll get the cat carrier,”
Keith says. “There’s no way she’s mellowing and I’m not getting
shredded.”

Later, as the moving truck
pulls from the curb, I stand in the center of the empty living
room. The only sound is the steady hum of the Sub Zero refrigerator
Mom sold with the house. There’s no room for the luxury-sized
appliance in Apartment 148 in Las Pulgas.

When I walk to the stairs,
my footsteps ring hollow. Sitting on the bottom step, I watch Mom
move through the house like she's lost, slipping into the empty
dining room, staring down at the rug, glancing at the walls where
sunlight has etched the impressions of frames onto the wallpaper.
The depressions in the rug where the table and chair legs have been
for so long are all that remain of the dining room set. It sold at
the auction along with the living room sectional and king bed with
matching dresser.

Mom starts into the
kitchen, but stops at the doorway. With a quick turn she walks back
to the fireplace and sweeps her hand along the mantel. When she
glances over her shoulder I’m looking into a face I’ve known
forever, but don’t recognize at this moment. I’ve watched storms
gather over the Pacific, and I know how they bring lightning to the
land midsummer when it’s most likely to ignite dry California
grasses. Right now, her face is that storm.

She opens the front door
and without turning to look back, steps outside. “Let’s go.” Not
closing the door behind her, she walks toward the car, her head
down as if she’s looking for something she’s lost.

I remember Mom when she’d
be in one of her thoughtful moods, sitting with her knees pulled to
her chest, watching Dad and Keith huddled over a board game. Dad
had called her Mona.

“Who’s Mona?” I remember
asking when I’d been about eight.

“The woman with the most
beautiful, mysterious smile in the world before your mother came
along,” Dad said. “Now Mona Lisa is second best.”

“Not anymore,” I say to the
empty room. Mona has no competition for smiles from Mom now. I
stand with my hand on the worn door handle; its smoothly curved
brass is cold under my palm. When I’d been three I had to reach
above my head and press on the latch with one thumb on top of the
other to open it. Now, it’s at my waist. It feels small inside my
hand, yet it holds memories of all the times I’ve opened and closed
it. For one last time I pull the handle toward me, hear the click
that had always said
Welcome or See you
later.
I rest my forehead on the familiar
leaded glass door panels.
“Adieu.”

Our “new” car waits at the
curb—a black Tercel, only slightly dented on the driver’s door
panel, only a little dinged and pitted on the hood, a clock that
always reads two forty-five, and only driven 200,000 miles by a
grandmother the salesman knew personally. This is Mom’s first solo
car purchase. Keith and I have an unspoken agreement. We will never
say anything about that car.

As we climb into the
Tercel, Keith sets the cat carrier behind the passenger seat, and
Quicken howls when Mom turns the key in the ignition.

“Stifle it. You’re not
going to the vet.” Keith taps the top of the carrier, but Quicken
only howls louder.