Stand Alone (11 page)

Justine pulled her hand away from Megan’s. Pressing her lips tightly together to keep from saying anything or from bursting into tears, she got up from the table and fled.

Justine still felt unsettled after school. She went back to the empty house in a round-about route, not wanting to be seen. When she got there, she watched the house for a few minutes first. The windows were still dark and empty. She went through the gate around to the back yard. It was pretty much as it had been last time she had seen it. Tire rim. Fire pit. Garbage and long grass and weeds. The window that she had broken had been boarded up. She made no attempt to break in this time. She just sat by the fire pit, closing her eyes to remember what it had been like to be inside the house. Justine remembered the darkness, the emptiness. They matched the darkness and the emptiness that were inside of her. It made her feel right. How sick was she, when the only place that she felt comfortable and safe was in old, abandoned houses? What kind of a person did that make her?

She gathered together small sticks, trash, bits of dried leaves, some pieces of plywood that hadn’t been used to board up the window, but had just been left lying on the ground. Justine put them all into the fire pit, and used her lighter to start them on fire. For a while, she just sat there, on a moldy old stump, feeling the fire warming her. The sky was starting to darken, but it wasn’t dark enough for the security company to come around yet. Justine positioned another, smaller stump beside her, right at her side.

“There you go, Monica,” she whispered. “You can sit right there. We’ll stay together. I’ll take care of you.”

She stared into the fire. It had been a long time since she’d thought about Monica. Monica was before Christian. Christian had helped to fill that hole in her. Justine hadn’t needed an imaginary friend while he was around. He’d been a real friend. Everybody could see him and talk and interact with him. Not like with Monica, who only lived in her brain. But Monica had been there first. Monica had been there for as long as Justine could remember. She had brought Monica with her, from before she had lived with Em. Before she could remember. Monica had always been with her.

When she was little, that had been fine. People were used to little kids having imaginary friends. They thought it was cute and would play along, pretending that they could see and interact with the imaginary friend. It was a healthy developmental step. But Justine had never wanted anyone else to talk to and interact with Monica. Monica was her friend, and no one else’s. She protected Monica from contact with other people. Only took her out to talk with her when she was alone. She still had a special doll that she had named Monica in a weak moment, a doll that other people could see and play with. Little Justine had carried rag doll Monica around, tucked safely under her arm. She wouldn’t let anyone talk with her or play with her. She felt proud, taking care of Monica like that, being a good girl and taking care of Monica all by herself. People thought that it was cute, and even though Justine wouldn’t let them play with Monica, they didn’t see anything wrong with her having a doll and carrying it everywhere with her.

But as she got older, she noticed that other kids lost their imaginary friends and their dolls. They stopped talking to them. Stopped referring to them. Played only with other friends. Real, physical friends. Justine watched all of the imaginary friends disappear. But Monica had never left her. Justine didn’t talk to anyone about her. Especially not Em or Dr. Morton. But Monica stayed with her, and when she was alone, Justine could talk to her.

Monica was smaller than Justine. Frail. Always a little hungry and cold. Justine was happy that she had a fire there to help to keep Monica warm. She didn’t have any food; but she never did. How many times had Christian gotten after her for not having anything to eat?

“You have to take care of yourself, Justine,” he upbraided. “You can’t trust anyone else to do it.”

“I know that. But I didn’t bring anything
  
…
 
I just thought I’d be home for supper.”

“How come you can set up camp in an abandoned house,” Christian questioned, “but you never bring anything along to make it more comfortable? If you’re going to stay overnight somewhere else, wouldn’t it make sense to bring blankets or extra clothes? Something to eat? Even if it is just beef jerky, wouldn’t you at least have something?” He shook his head. “Bring a bottle of water, and some trail mix, and one of those foil emergency blankets? If you’re going to camp out, do it right!”

Justine shook her head.

“He didn’t understand,” she told Monica with a bit of a laugh. “He didn’t understand that it’s against the rules. It isn’t a camp-out
  
…
 
It’s
  
…
 
I don’t know
  
…” she searched for the right word, the right concept. “It isn’t camping, or moving in, or even squatting. It’s
  
…
 
like a vigil.”

Monica understood. Monica had been to many vigils with Justine. Monica was the only one who could understand Justine’s need to be there.

There was a loud crack from a knot of wood popping in the fire. It made Justine jump and look around wildly. She came back to herself, back to reality. The fire was getting lower, and the sky darker. She couldn’t stay there any longer, or she was going to end up being caught again. And Justine had a pretty good idea that the police wouldn’t be too happy about picking her up there a second time.

Justine poked at the fire for a moment, moving everything in to the center of the fire pit, so that a spark wouldn’t escape and light the yard or house on fire. She got up slowly, looking at Monica’s stump and smiling an invitation.

“Are you coming?” she questioned softly.

Monica liked this house. Justine thought that she would probably stay there until Justine came back again, or until she found another house.

Em had decided on some weekend shopping. Justine folded her arms across her chest and rolled her eyes at Em. She hated shopping. She hated the frenetic crowds at the mall. She hated new clothes.

“Why do I have to get more clothes?” she demanded.

“Because the ones you’ve got are getting ratty. You need something newer and more stylish.”

“I don’t do stylish,” Justine said pointedly.

Em flashed her a look that said ‘obviously not,’ but didn’t put it into words. Justine refused to look through the clothes in the rack in front of her.

“I don’t like these.”

They looked plastic, fake. They didn’t look comfortable. They wouldn’t feel good. They wouldn’t look right.

“Then find another rack, and show me what you like. Come on. It’s not torture. Most girls like to go shopping.”

“I’m not most girls,” Justine said bullishly, not moving to look at another rack. “I don’t like the clothes here.”

“Then where do you want to go?” Em demanded, frustrated. “Where do you want us to go to find clothes that you actually like?”

“Thrift store,” Justine said immediately.

“The thrift store,” Em repeated. “You want clothes that someone else has already worn? You can find nice stuff here. Come on, look around.”

“I like the thrift store,” Justine said. “This stuff is all the same. And it’s all the same as everybody else is wearing. I’m not one of those stupid style clones. I like to find things that are different. Not the kind of stuff that
you
like.”

Em felt the slight and her cheeks flushed pink.

“What’s wrong with what I like?”

“I don’t like it,” Justine said flatly.

“Because you don’t like the way that it looks, or just because you refuse to like anything that I do?”

Justine smirked and didn’t answer. Em had a point. Em indicated another rack of clothes.

“Go look at those skirts,” she ordered.

Justine opened her mouth to object, but a loud, fat, brightly dressed woman suddenly descended upon them.

“Em! Oh, Emily dear, it has been too long! How are you doing?”

Em looked like a deer caught in the headlights. Justine laughed at her clear discomfort. But the loud woman was oblivious to Em’s reaction. She prattled on, talking like they were best friends catching up at the end of a long summer vacation.

“I’m so sorry,” Em was saying, “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you. I must have written your number down wrong when we talked last time, because I haven’t been able to reach you.”

The fat woman took this all in stride, writing her number and her e-mail address and various instant messaging names for Em and pressing them into her hand. Her look when Em tried weakly to introduce Justine to her was predatory, and Justine moved quickly away to look at another rack of clothing before she could get caught up in those grasping arms. She didn’t want or need a hug. Especially not from this atrocious person. Just being in close quarters with her was too much. Justine pretended to be interested in other racks of clothing that led her further and further from the hubbub of Em’s and the woman’s delighted reunion, staying well back to avoid being drawn into the conversation. She had no interest at all in the clothing on the racks, but was determined to use any ruse necessary to stay away from the conversation. She even gathered several pieces of clothing and took them to the changing rooms, so that she would have somewhere to hide out. She was let into a changing room, and sat down on the bench inside the cubicle, examining herself in the mirror, and then leaning back and closing her eyes for a little nap. No way she was going back out there any time soon.

Justine had actually drifted off to sleep sitting there, waiting. She was awakened by a banging on the change room door.

“Miss? Are you all right in there? Do you need anything?”

Justine swooped to pick up the clothes that she had dumped on the floor.

“I’m fine. Just be another minute,” she offered.

The saleswoman walked away, grumbling to herself. Justine opened the door and when the woman turned to face her, pushed all of the clothing into her hands.

“These didn’t work out,” she explained. “They’ll need to be re-racked.”

Justine walked quickly away before the salesperson could complain about it. She looked around for Em. She appeared to just be trying to say good-bye to the old friend.

“It’s been so nice to talk to you,” she said. “I’ll be sure to keep in touch. It looks like my daughter is ready to go. She has a game she has to get to, so we’ll have to be on our way,” Em said, patting her on the arm and heading toward Justine. She raised her eyebrows and rolled her eyes at Justine as they cleared out of the department store, leaving the enthusiastic woman behind. Em laughed, blowing out a long sigh and shaking her head.

“Oh my goodness! What a nightmare. Do you know how long I have been avoiding that woman?” she chuckled, wiping at her eyes.

Justine pursed her lips.

“So you lied to her.”

“Yes,” Em agreed, “I did. And I’d do it again. Some people just can’t take a hint!”

“How is she supposed to get the hint when you lie to her?” Justine questioned. “Shouldn’t you tell her the truth, if you want her to understand you don’t want to see her?”

It didn’t make any sense.

“Sometimes we shade the truth to spare others’ feelings,” Em said, reaching out to touch Justine soothingly on the arm. “I wouldn’t want to hurt her feelings by telling her that I don’t want anything to do with her. That would be cruel.”

“So it’s okay to lie.”

“Sometimes you need to
  
…
 
shade the truth,” Em said, with a smile.

“So lie. It’s okay to lie, if you don’t want to tell someone the truth.”

“Well, no, Justine. It’s not okay to lie, but sometimes you need to be careful what you say. You need to not say something, or to
  
…
 
shade the truth a little bit in one direction.”

Justine looked at her steadily. Em shrugged, smiling weakly.

“You understand,” she coaxed.

Justine shook her head.

“And you can lie to me?” she questioned.

“I don’t lie to you. I’d never lie to you,” Em said earnestly, shaking her head.

“You do,” Justine accused her, her face getting hot and flushed. “You tell me not to lie, and then you lie to me.”

“No, I don’t lie to you. That’s not the same. Telling someone you’ll call them when you aren’t really planning to, that’s not the same as
  
…”

“As saying I’m your daughter when I’m not?” Justine demanded, her voice rising. “Telling everybody that I’m crazy and I’m a liar, when you’re the one lying to everyone?”

“Shh,” Em made a quieting motion with her hands. “You’re making a scene, Justine. I don’t know what you’re getting so upset about all of the sudden. I love you and you are my daughter.” She tried to make a joke of it. “Do you think I would have put up with all of this crap if you weren’t my daughter? If you weren’t my daughter, I’d just give you back.”

Justine didn’t think it was funny. She shook her head in disgust.

“I’m glad I’m not really your daughter,” she snapped.

Em tried to take her arm, to reassure her. Justine pushed her away.

“I’m out of here,” she said, her throat choked with rage.

“Don’t—”
 

“Leave me alone,” Justine shouted. “Just leave me alone. Stay away from me.”

She stormed off, letting the anger consume her.

Justine fled the department store and marched out into the mall. She felt like her face was burning up, and knew it must be flaming red. If she’d been allowed to bring her board with her, she would have immediately left and gone for a long, fast skate. But Em had refused to allow her to bring it to the mall, saying that it would be in the way while they were shopping. Now Justine had nowhere to go. Walking home to get her board would take a good hour, even at a brisk pace. There was nowhere else to go nearby. Some places that she might go if she had her board, but if she couldn’t skate
  
…
 
there was nothing else interesting to do.