The Princess of Las Pulgas (25 page)

In the living room, Mom’s
waiting, her hands folded in her lap.

“Carlie—” She presses her
fingers to her lips. “I just wasn’t prepared for you to look so— so
grown up.”

Mom’s loneliness is as real
and depressing as the room itself. I can almost see a form in the
space next to her, where Dad would be sitting, looking back at me,
his daughter, in a pizazzy pink dress.

“Now tell me again about
the orchids. What kind should you wear?” Mom blots her eyes with
her Las Pulgas Market apron.

Keith goes into the kitchen
without looking at us. He bangs a cupboard door shut, rummages
noisily in the refrigerator and clanks a pot onto the
stovetop.

“Sean said he thought I
should have small pink ones. What do you—”

There’s a knock at our
door. “I’ll get it,” Mom says. She looks through the small security
eye, then unlocks the door for Jeb.

“Come in. Sorry I haven’t
changed for dinner yet.”

“Who’s this?” Jeb stops in
front of me. “Must be a movie star.”

“Isn’t she
beautiful?”

“Mom!”

“No—your mom’s right.
You
are
beautiful
and she has every right to say so,” Jeb says, then he calls toward
the kitchen. “Hey, Keith. Come in here and tell your sister she’s a
knock out.”

“You’re a knock out,
Carlie,” Keith says in a monotone.

“Thank you, Keith,” I
reply, mimicking his insincerity.

After Jeb and Mom leave, I
change into my jeans and join Keith in the kitchen.

“What’s left to eat?” I’m
starved after the tense day with Lena.

“Chicken.”

I carve some slices from
the last of the whole bird Mom roasted Saturday. “So how is it to
work for him?”

“Jeb?”

“No, King Ludwig of
Bavaria.”

Keith laughs. This is the
second time I’ve heard that sound this year, but once Chico and his
friends have at Keith, he won’t be laughing at all
again.

“Ludwig’s okay. He doesn’t
bug me. Gives me a list of stuff to do, then leaves me alone to do
it.”

“What kind of stuff?” Maybe
I could work at Jeb’s, too, then when Mom visits I can make sure
it’s really a friendship and nothing else between them. Besides,
working in an orchard might be more fun than babysitting for Aunt
Corky.

“I put crates together. Fix
stuff that’s broken. That kind of thing.”

It doesn’t sound very
interesting, but I could probably do the crates. “Um. Do you think
you could fix something for me?”

“Like?”

“My
Jack-in-the-Box.”

He shrugs. “Give it to me.
I’ll try.”

I eat the last of my
chicken. “Do you see Quicken?”

“Yeah. He’s fat and full of
all kinds of rodents, including one pesky squirrel.” Keith bites
into a chicken leg and chews.

“Pesky?”

“Jeb’s word. I think he’s
in love with that cat.”

“I don't care. She’s
my
cat.” I remember how
she wouldn’t sit on my lap at Jeb’s, how she went to him.
She
was
my cat. I
go to the sink, wash my plate and stack it in the drainer. My
English homework isn’t doing itself, and I’ve got a whole scene to
memorize by next rehearsal.

On my way from the kitchen
I stop next to Keith. “What are you going to do? I mean about the
track team.”

He shakes his head.
“Nothing. Anthony tells me to wait until next week. I keep thinking
he's going to jump me, but all I get are some names insulting our
ancestors.”

“I don't get it. If they
start something on campus Bins will suspend them all. Here they
could probably get away with pounding on you.”

“My guess?”

I shrug. “Yeah.”

“It's about showing off.
They want everybody to see me get hurt.”

“Guys are so
weird.”

“Right. Guess you forgot
the naked girl fight. I sure haven't.”

“No boy on campus will ever
forget that. See you in the morning.”

“Carlie.” Keith’s at the
sink washing his own plate. “Jeb’s right. You look awesome in that
dress.”

He can’t see my expression
because he’s facing away. My mouth is set to reply with a smart
comeback to top his usual sarcasm, but there’s no sarcasm in his
voice. I head to my room without saying anything. It’s because I
don’t know what to say.

After changing into pjs, I
pull the covers around me, then think about how Keith and I sat
together and . . . talked—that he said something nice to me. If I
weren’t so tired I’d take my journal down from the closet shelf and
put something in it about a pizazzy pink dress and my real brother,
the one I glimpsed tonight. The one who will try to fix my favorite
toy.

Sleep pulls me inside its
dark warmth and I feel something I haven’t felt in a very long
time: a speck of stillness in the center of all those funnel clouds
that make up my life.

Chapter 41

The next day after school,
I take a quick peek inside the Très Elégant box and finger the tiny
rosettes along the straps. I’ll wait to try the dress on after I
finish my homework—kind of a reward. The dance is still two weeks
away and if I keep putting Miss Lily’s dress on and taking it off
I’ll wear it out before the big night. But it feels so
good.

I finish the chemistry
chapter notes that I'm sure Doc did days ago, then I open my
notebook and take out my story. I’ve put reading K.T.’s comments
off as long as I can. Now I have to do it.

At the top she writes, “Mr.
Smith nailed it. You got to describe the person’s feelings more and
let me understand how she gets through the days since her dad died.
I liked the story alot. I didn’t find no grammer problems
either.”

K.T. didn’t write any ugly
things. She didn’t draw ghoulish pictures like I’d imagined. The
rest of the comments are smiley faces or “Here’s where you can put
in more about how the girl feels.”

I pull out a clean sheet of
lined paper. I know how I’ll write my story this time.
“And the next time I open my journal, Dad, I’ll
write how my heart is trying to listen.”

“My dad died of cancer in
the month when spirits walk among the living. He’s still here
because I know he doesn’t want to leave. He’s still here because
I’m having a hard time letting him go. I need him to help me sort
out the feelings inside me, like the funnel clouds that drop from
the sky when you least expect them. You may think I’m mad, but when
you read my story you’ll see that it’s not about madness. It’s
about hating the person you love most. It’s about the guilt that
keeps October’s dark chill in my heart and won’t allow spring to
come in.”

I’m almost finished on my
rewrite when Mom comes in and hands me the phone. “It’s
Lena.”

Maybe she’s changed her
mind about coming to the play.
“Hi.”

“You are not going to
believe this,” Lena says.

“Okaaay?” I know there’s
gossip at Channing just by the way she sounds.

“Sean Wright.”

I don’t have to hear the
rest to know what she’s about to say, but I have to stop her or be
dragged into a story I don’t want to hear from her, especially not
coming from her. “We’ve been spending a lot of time together. Is
that what you’ve heard?”

“What?” Lena
shrieks.

I yank the phone away from
my ear, then as smoothly as I can manage, I say, “We just started
seeing each other last month. Nothing steady. He knows I’m going to
the dance with Nicolas.”

“Well, uh, uh, why didn’t
you tell me?”

Good question, Lena. Maybe
it has to do with the fact that you never really gave me a
chance.
“I tried but you always had so
much going on that—”

“You need to know
something.” Lena’s gossip is festering and she’s not about to keep
it to herself.

“Oh, I know about Sean.
He’s seeing someone in New York, but that’s okay.”

I think I hear her teeth
clamp together.

“I’m glad you called, Lena.
But I’ll have to get back to you later. I’m already late for
rehearsal.”

I press End before she says
anything more about Sean, then before I lose my nerve I enter his
phone number and wait.
Please pick up this
time. Please.

When I hear his voice I
stammer, “Uhh. I . . . I—”

“Carlie? What’s
wrong?”

“I don’t . . . I don’t
care. I mean I do care, but I don’t want to lose you. I can’t lose
you.” I’m not making sense and I sound desperate.

“I thought you knew I was
gay. I’m open about it, and I think most people know.”

For a moment his breath is
the only sound coming through the phone, then he says, “I wanted to
ask you to the dance and I would have, but I had the feeling you
didn’t want anyone to see us together.”

I can’t make my mouth
open.

“You always came here and
wouldn’t let me go to your place.”

“No! That’s wrong. I
couldn’t let you come to
this
apartment.” I gesture around my room as if he can
see what I mean. “It’s beyond bad, Sean. I . . . I”
What am I?
“I’m a total
idiot.”

“Not a total one, just one
who’s having a hard time with change. Right?”

“Yes, very.” When I say
this I hear Juan calling me Princess.

“Hey, I understand.” The
warmth of his word,
understand
, spreads through me like
a soothing mist.

“Please come to see me. I
need to see you.”

“Me too. You won’t forget
pictures, right? I mean you in the dress?”

“You’re getting
dozens.”

“Wonderful.”

Before I hang up I give
Sean my Las Pulgas address.

“Bye, beautiful,” he
says.

After he’s gone I say,
“Bye, beautiful,” back to him, holding the handset to my chest. He
wanted to ask me to the dance. He would have asked me if I hadn’t
made him feel I was ashamed of him. “I
am
a total idiot.”

I double-time past the
kitchen. “I’m late to rehearsal. See you later, Mom.” I’m out the
door before she looks up from her books.

The next day when I’m
supposed to hand in my story for extra-credit during English, I
don’t. It takes me most of the day to work up the courage to give
Mr. Smith the rewrite, but after chemistry I return to his
classroom.

“Am I too late to give you
this?” I ask.

“Ah, the very touching
story. No, you’re not too late. This will be interesting to read.
I’m glad you’re resubmitting it.”

As I hand him the paper I
tighten my grip on the edge. This is the most I’ve revealed about
Dad’s death. I still don’t know if I’m doing the right thing by
putting all of that in words, but it’s too late. Mr. Smith stacks
my paper on top of others.

“You seem distracted. Is it
because of what you wrote?”

I nod. “Partly.”

“A parent’s death is the
hardest loss to accept, and it’s never easy to put how you feel
about that loss on paper.” He points to my story. “You did an
excellent job here.”

Obviously, my attempts at
making the story a piece of fiction didn’t work.

“Are you worried about the
play?” Mr. Smith asks.

“A little. Nervous, I
guess.” Our last rehearsal had more glitches than any of the
earlier ones. We’re getting worse, not better. Dolores tripped on
the hem of her dress, Jamal missed his first entrance, and I blew
the same lines in my opening scene with Brabantio. Everybody,
including Juan this time, glared at me, not just Iago. “I’ll go
over those scenes I had trouble with.”

“You’ll be
fine.”

I hope he’s right. My
stomach knots every time I think about Lena and Eric in the
audience watching me.

After picking up Keith’s
algebra assignment, I start down the hall. I pass through the
security at the main door and hurry down the steps.

The track team has gathered
out front, like they do every afternoon for practice, and Grits
who’s back from his suspension, waves to me. Anthony’s eyes track
me on my way by, the others give me their death-ray looks,
especially Chico. Why can’t I have just one day when I don’t feel
like I’m prey?

Chapter 42

The word,
jitters
, takes on real
meaning starting at seven Saturday morning when my eyes snap open.
I only have twelve hours before the curtain goes up and I, Carlie
Edmund, have to morph into Desdemona of Venice in front of a live
audience.

Between now and then I have
the regular, boring routine of homework, dropping and picking up
Keith at Cal Works and . . . I run my tongue over my teeth . . .
some basic grooming.