Burn Girl (21 page)

“Nothing. I'm just … Tonight could have ended badly. I wanted to keep punching and punching until there was nothing left of him. Lloyd, I mean.”

“But you did stop. And Cody will be fine.”

“The police have to find your stepfather. I can't bear the thought of you in danger.”

“Speaking of police, why weren't they here earlier?” I asked.

“They're back now. The squad car pulled up when I was talking to Cody's brother. They said it was a shift change, but they'd been delayed by a bad traffic accident. Great timing, huh?”

I walked over to the fridge and grabbed a beer. I twisted off the top and handed it to Frank.

“Here, you need this.”

He motioned for me to sit down next to him. He took a long draw and then set the beer on the floor.

“So, you and Cody. Are you together or something?” Frank picked up the beer again and nearly downed the rest of it.

“Yeah,” I said. “We're together … or something.”

“It's the ‘something' part that has me worried,” he said.

“It's not like that. We only kissed for the first time today.”
Where was my filter?

“Kissed, huh? Was that before or after you got your taste back?”

I turned purple and didn't offer any details.

“Well, he seems to have fallen pretty hard for you,” Frank said.

“Why do you say that?”

“His brother, James, told me. Said you're all Cody has talked about since you started school.”

My stomach somersaulted again. Thank goodness it was empty so there wouldn't be a repeat of my earlier retching.

“You have a goofy grin on your face,” Frank said.

“Do not.”

“Do so.”

I pinched my lips together with my thumb and forefinger, but burst out laughing.

“I like him, Frank.”

“Really? I couldn't tell.”

I punched my uncle in the gut that still peeked from beneath his tee.

“I need another beer and we both could use some sleep. How about we talk more tomorrow?”

I nodded and made my way to the bedroom, then turned and faced Frank again. “He's a good guy, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He dismissed me with a wave.

CHAPTER 25

Even though Cody could navigate from class to class on his own, he often allowed friends to help him. It was faster because they could blast through the throng of students. Claire was today's guide. She now sported a purple stripe in her hair in place of the pink one. I wondered how often she changed the color.

“Hey, Arlie. This guy wouldn't stop bugging me until we found you. He's all yours now.” She winked. I hoped it meant she approved of me.

“Claire knows about us?” I asked.

Cody looped his hand in my elbow and I led him down the hall toward English.

“She knew about us before I even knew about us.”

“What do you mean?”

“Claire guessed right away that I was interested in you. She wouldn't let up until I promised I'd let you know my feelings. She was at Magpie's when I was buying our smoothies. You know, the day I met you at the bus stop.”

“Do you think I could forget that day?”

We walked a short distance before Cody asked me to stop. “About last night …”

“Frank still feels terrible,” I said. “How do you feel?”

“Scared. For you.” He moved so close that I felt his breath.

“Peppermint again? Isn't that a bit obvious?”

Cody pressed me against the locker closest to us. His aim was off and he connected with my chin first. Then, his lips opened slightly and our tongues met. I could've stayed lost in that moment except for the crowd of students that hooted and whistled its approval.

“No public displays of affection in the hallways,” I reminded him.

“You going to turn me in to the principal's office?”

“Not a chance,” I said and kissed him again.

Mo caught up with me at lunch. It'd been less than twenty-four hours since we last spoke, but it felt like a week. I gave her all the details about Frank's boxing round with Cody.

“I'm sorry I didn't text last night. After Cody left, I fell into a dead sleep. Frank had to shake me awake this morning.”

“It wouldn't have mattered. I lost my damn phone,” she said. “Mom is so pissed. She spent the better part of the evening harping about how I should be more responsible at my age. That she expected more of me. Whatever.”

The metal picnic table soaked up the midday sun. Lying against the warmth of the bench, I fought to stay awake. Mo lay on the other bench. She reached across to hold my hand beneath the table.

“Sorry about your mom,” I said.

“I'm okay. It's you I'm worried about.”

“Everyone is worried about me these days,” I said. “It's both heartwarming and annoying as hell.”

I let her hand drop and placed my arm over my eyes and scar to shield them from the sun.

“I agree with Cody that you shouldn't have the gun. It could do more harm than good. What do you think your stepdad wants?”

I couldn't answer her question. He'd said very little to Frank before that sledgehammer persuaded him to leave.

“I almost want to get it over with … just hear what he's come to say,” I said.

“Oh, hell no.” Mo swung her legs around and sat up. “We've already been over this. The best thing is for the police to pick him up.
They
can ask him what he wants.”

“He's made a career of avoiding the police. I have a feeling he won't trip up.”

“Well, it's still not a good idea for you to offer yourself as bait. Let the police protect you.”

If Mom were still alive and suspected Lloyd was in town, we'd have packed our bags and gotten the hell out of Dodge. We had an unspoken agreement that running meant safety. But I didn't want to run. Safety meant something completely different to me now. I wanted to stay in Durango. With Mo and Frank. With Cody.

Why wasn't I more afraid? Maybe my brain had somehow reshaped the fear into something manageable—something existing only in the shadows, a boogeyman who hadn't yet stepped into the light.

When I arrived home from school, Frank was in the front yard lounging in a camp chair, sunglasses shading his eyes. He wore shorts and sandals even though the high was only sixty degrees.

“Hey, not working on the house?” I asked.

“Everyone deserves a day off now and then.”

The curtness of his answer made the hairs on my neck stand.

“I agree. You've been working too hard. Maybe tomorrow I'll play hooky with you.” The smile I hoped for never came.

I sat on the ground next to Frank's chair so I wouldn't block the sun.

“They found the Mustang,” he said. “It'd been parked in the Hermosa Creek campground and set on fire.”

“So Lloyd gave up his sweet ride. He doesn't strike me as the type to take public transportation,” I said.

“This isn't funny.”

“Am I smiling? Tell me why you're in such a funky mood.”

Frank motioned for me to follow him into the trailer. Once inside, he pointed to the table in the kitchenette. On it sat Mom's suitcase and the green plastic tackle box she kept her cosmetics in. The small red suitcase, faded and scuffed, was missing its handle and one wheel. It was always light enough to carry tucked under one arm though.

“The police brought this stuff by today. They said they should've returned her personal effects sooner. Especially since your mom's death was ruled accidental.”

Personal effects? Evidence, more like it. They never even considered another theory.
Meth addict commits suicide or overdoses accidentally. Either way, who cares? Case closed
.

“Did you look inside?” I asked.

“Nah. Not my place.”

I retrieved a pencil from the kitchen drawer and used it fasten my hair into a bun. Then I sat down at the table and opened the suitcase.

“You want me to leave?” Frank asked.

I touched his hand. “Stay. I'd like you to.”

Mom's clothes looked both familiar and foreign. Small, almost child-sized shirts and tees. Faded jeans. Bras and panties in bright colors and animal prints.

Frank's cheeks colored when I pulled a leopard-print bra from the suitcase's zippered, mesh compartment. I tucked it under the clothes. No brother wants to see his own sister's underwear.

“She shoplifted clothes from Walmart mostly,” I admitted. “She liked pretty underthings. Said they made her happy.”

Happy wasn't something I associated with Mom. I'd never seen anyone exude sadness like she could. The weight of her own life seemed to crush her—and me by proxy. That's why I could never judge her for stealing. Any relief from sadness was welcome, even with the threat of jail time if she got caught.

Frank shifted in his chair. He looked like he wanted to ask me something.

“The thrift stores have voucher programs for women and children staying at the shelter. I got my clothes for free,” I said.

“I didn't think you'd shoplifted. I was thinking that I wished it'd been different for you growing up.”

My uncle stated that wish over and over. He wanted so badly to rewrite history. What he saw as horrific was just my idea of normal. It had to be, but then again, he had to deal with the misplaced guilt that he hadn't helped his sister, that he hadn't known about me.

“Things are different now, Frank. The past is the past.”

“I know, I know. I just …”

My focus now was on my mom's things, not Frank. I removed each article of clothing, refolded it neatly, and added it to the growing stack on the table. At the bottom of the suitcase lay a pocket-sized spiral notebook. Its pages were warped and water-stained as if it'd taken an unintentional swim at some point.

“What's that?” Frank asked.

I didn't know. I'd helped her pack and repack many times over the years but never ran across the notebook. I opened it. The scribbles were almost illegible. Names, phone numbers, but also nonsensical phrases. Had she been writing poetry or was she just rambling during a high?

I handed it to Frank. He flipped through the pages slowly, rubbing his beard from time to time. “I don't understand … seems like gibberish.” He handed it back to me.

What she'd written on the notebook's cover caught my attention:

Ask Dora. She'll know what to do
.

Know what to do? About what? I placed the notebook in my backpack and made a mental note to ask Dora what Mom could've meant.

“I'll bring the suitcase and clothes to the thrift store later this week,” I said. “I don't need any of these things to remember Mom.”

Frank gingerly placed all the clothes back in the case and closed it. “I can do it.”

“I
want
to.” I snatched the suitcase from the table and placed it in my room before returning.

“And this?” Frank pointed to the tackle box.

“Makeup, fingernail polish. We can toss it.”

“Don't you want to look?”

“Not really.”

We stood looking at each other. “Well, do you mind if I do?”

“Be my guest.”

I leaned up against the kitchen counter and chewed on a hangnail while Frank rummaged through the contents.

“There's jewelry.”

“It's not real,” I said. “Completely worthless.”

Frank turned away from the tackle box. “You're upset. What's up?”

I shrugged.

“Not an answer,” he said. “Tell me what's wrong.”

“Do we have to do this?” My tears were searing. I hated the police for bringing back these pieces of my mother's short life and the memories that the cheap cosmetics brought up for me.

“I'm only trying to help.” Frank moved toward me, but I pushed him back.

“I don't need help. I need to be left alone.”

“That's the last thing you need.” He easily restrained my arms and pressed me against his chest. I buried my face in the soft nap of his flannel shirt that smelled of sun and sweat. Between sobs, I cursed the afternoons I painted Mom's face, giving her a vulgar new identity that made it easier to sell her body for grocery money.

“You both made choices so you could survive,” Frank whispered. “You did the best you could.”

I wanted to remember Mom teaching me to ride a bike or frosting sugar cookies at Christmas or helping me pick out school supplies, but those memories belonged to other daughters and mothers. They'd never be mine.

Frank used the cuff of his sleeve to wipe my face. “Why don't you lie down for a while before dinner?”

“Yep. Sorry. You'd think I'd be done with tears by now.” I blew strands of hair out of my eyes.

“Arlie, we're never done with tears. We can just hope laughter balances them out over time.”

Even though I said I didn't want the tackle box, I closed it and took it with me to my room. There I opened it and took great care to sort the items in the trays: eye shadows, lipsticks, eyeliners, various colors of mascara. Without thinking, I dumped it all back on the bed and started making piles of different color combinations that would work together. Each pile had an eye-shadow trio and liner, with lipstick, nail polish, and coordinating blush.

I'd painted Mom's face and nails with these palettes time and time again. Each time, I'd wait anxiously for her reaction. Her smile was always my reward. Sometimes, she encouraged me to try wild combinations, but I took my job seriously and wanted her to look nice.

When I was much younger, I believed her when she said I could be a makeup artist for celebrities and movie stars when I grew up. That's when I still believed anything she told me.

I leaned in the doorway, watching Frank chop onions. Even standing a couple of feet away didn't protect me from their pungency. My eyes watered, but I didn't mind. Now that my taste buds cooperated, I looked forward to trying different spices and flavors.