Love Rewards The Brave (12 page)

77.

When we got home

the house was quiet.

Like too quiet to be

good.

We tiptoed to our bedrooms

taking our backpacks off.

Stuffing them full, fast.

Benji looking at me

hopefully

as I handed him the money I’d saved.

Twenty-two dollars

my life savings.

We were going to run to

the train

station.

We would sneak on

and hide out

pretend we were

The Box Car Children.

We would be so far gone by

the time

they went looking.

Free.

From him

forever.

78.

Just as we zipped up our packs,

the quiet house got

loud.

And we heard Mom

scream

yell for him to

stop.

I looked at Benji.

Knowing that if we want to go, we are gonna have to run.

Fast

because if they see us here

like this

we were toast.

“Lou-Lou, let’s just go. Please?” Benji pleaded.

His eyes so full of fear

I wish we had never came back here.

We didn’t need the money, we could make it work.

I gesture shhh.

My fingers tight against my mouth.

Not letting the sounds get out.

Then just like

that,

like a

nine-year-old boy,

an accident,

moves his hand too fast.

Causing a stumble and crash

of the matchbox cars he’s trying to

stash

in

his pack.

He looks at me so wide-eyed and scared.

The look is burned to my soul

because I will always

know

how close we were

to getting

out.

79.

Later that night

after our missed-escape

the moon is full.

I’m with Benji on the bottom bunk

holding his hand

singing him a lullaby

his head resting on my neck.

I tell him, in the words I sing

the things Dad has always said to me,

“Hush now don’t cry

the hurt will go away.”

Because after Dad found us with the twenty-two dollars

and the backpacks packed

he gave us

a reason to never

try to go down that path

again.

I tried to say no

He’s just a little boy- don’t hurt him now.

I tried to say no

We won’t tell, just let us go, now.

I tried to say no

Don’t touch me, I am stronger now.

I tried to say no

You can’t do this, I am a woman now.

But he didn’t hear me because my voice was

Drowned

Out

By

The

Screams

Coming From My Mouth.

So I’m holding broken Benji now,

cradling broken Benji now

because I did this to him.

I tried to leave.

And that is why some days

I feel like

I.

Am.

Breaking.

80.

“Louisa, you okay?” Margot asks.

She’s still here

next to me

my journals sprawled out on the floor.

I’m shaken to my core

as I remember

the things I’ve pretended

weren’t real

real parts of me

my history

for so long.

“Let’s take a breather, okay? How about we go eat something in the kitchen?”

She stands, offering her hand as I get up.

In the kitchen she makes me

a ham and cheese sandwich

on white bread

opens me a can of Coke

scoops a handful of Cheetos

on my plate.

Confused, I ask, “Where did these come from?”

I point to the plate of contraband according to

Ms. F:

HIGH FRUCTOSE ANYTHING.

ENRICHED FLOUR EVERTHING.

NITRATES. CAFFEINE.

PROCESSED CUISINE.

“I brought it.”

Margot smiles as she takes a swig from her can.

“I can’t live without this stuff. It’s my kryptonite.”

“I didn’t expect that. I mean, Ms. Francine is such…”

“A hippie?” she laughs. “Yeah, my sister is the good one, you know, healthy, eating quinoa and kale. I guess I’m still living like I’m in college.”

“You went to college?” I ask.

“Yeah, I graduated last spring after six long years.”

“Doesn’t it usually take four?”

“Well, for some people, sure. For me…a bit more. After high school I backpacked Europe for a while, then started community college, then decided it wasn’t what I wanted... I bounced between a few places before I settled down with a program I was excited about.”

“And what was that?” I ask, licking my cheesy fingers.

“Creative Writing.”

“So, you’re a writer?” I ask.

“Well, I get paid to manage the record store, but my real passion is poetry. Slam poetry. Have you ever heard of that?”

“No.”

“That’s why I was so moved by your writing, Louisa, it’s so raw–– that’s what slam poets do, we transform words into a living, breathing thing. We share stories through spoken word.”

“So, like, you read it out loud?”

“It is more of a performance, actually. I memorize a piece and then use my voice to interpret the words for the audience.”

“You do that? Get on stage or something in front of people and tell them your secrets?” I ask.

That seems insane.

So foreign.

That isn’t what secrets are for.

Secrets are for burying deep down

never say a sound.

But to speak them?

Share them?

Give them away?

“Here, I’ll show you what I mean.”

Margot slides her laptop

over the kitchen table

and we sit there for the next two hours

watching

YouTube videos

of people just like Margot

sharing their soul

with the world.

81.

“It sounds like you had a nice time with Margot this afternoon.”

Ms. Francine folds laundry on the couch.

I’m waiting for Jess’s mom to come

pick me up

so we can go out

to the mall.

Christmas shopping

and food court.

Dinner

and a movie.

Ms. Francine and Margot had a

hallway conference when she

got home from work.

I’m sure it involved some version

of Margot saying this

poor girl needs to get out of the house.

After my

midmorningmeltdown

and all.

I guess I’m glad Ms. F pushed me

to call

Jess.

If I were to choose

I’d have sat on my bed for the rest of

the night

biting my nails.

“Yeah, it was good. I don’t know why she spent her day hanging out with me. I mean, unless you told her she had to.”

“I didn’t tell her to do anything. Maybe she just likes your company. Maybe more people do than you realize.”

I sit in the chair, watching her fold my T-shirt.

“Yeah, well I showed her one of my old journals. She probably thinks I’m some sort of freak now.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that, Louisa.”

“Why’s that, Ms. F?”

“Oh, I think we are all pretty clear on you being a freak already.” She laughs and throws my shirt at me.

I laugh, too, in spite of myself.

Despite myself.

“I’m just teasing, Louisa. No one thinks you’re a freak. I think we just care about you and it hurts to see you hurt. Hurting.”

She sits down on the couch, sorting socks.

Black with black.

White with white.

The lone gray sock

is

matchless.

“I know you have a fun night planned with Jess, and I’m so thankful you have her, but I want you to know, Louisa, you have me too.” Her words soft.

Soft enough for me

to know

it’s real.

82.

We wander around

the tacky jewelry store.

Jess desperate for feather earrings

holding every pair up

waiting for my approval.

I shake my head yes

or I say, “Um, no way.”

She goes with the neon green

feathers

the ones I thought looked best against

her barely there

hair.

We walk toward the food court

dodging the girls from

school who think they’re

cooler than us because they

wear letterman’s jackets of the guys they screw.

Jess says, “Thanks for picking those earrings out. I never know what looks right.”

“What are you talking about, Jess? You have a very distinct
look
.”

I scan her up and down

a mini skirt and combat boots

lacy tights

ripped on purpose

leg warmers

are the only practical things

wears.

“You know what I mean, Louisa. I just copy what I see someone else wearing, in a magazine or whatever. You, like, you know, invent it.”

I laugh, out loud.

“Whatever, Louisa, you don’t get it.”

“Get what?” I’m scared I’ve pissed her off.

“That you’re cool. Okay? You have a whole thing going on, the damaged-girl-with-issues edge and you’re super hot, I mean, I look like a dork next to you.”

We stand in line at the gyro stand

waiting to order

falafel and feta.

“That’s insane. Guys line up to take you out. I mean, before Markus it was always
someone
.”

“You
have
the guys, Louisa, you just act like you’re better than them and blow off any guy within a fifty-foot radius.”

“Is that what you think that? That I somehow think I’m better than them? You have no clue, Jess. No clue.”

We order our food

holding our trays in front of us

a barrier suddenly formed

between us.