The Princess of Las Pulgas (9 page)

It’s only February. How am I going to make
it to June, let alone next year?

I cram my English book
inside and go in search of my French class.

Chapter 17

Tuesday when I slip into
Room 9 for English it’s still fairly empty with only one clump of
students at the back by the bulletin board and Jamal who’s already
in his seat—the one behind mine by the windows. Juan’s among the
group at the back. He sees me come in and walks down the center
aisle before I can reach the other side and my desk.

“So, Princess. You’re back
for another day with us.”

“I wouldn’t be here if I
had a choice.”

He shakes his head. “No. I
guess you wouldn’t.” He steps out of my way and sweeps his arm
aside as if he’s allowing me to pass.

A low growl comes from the
back of my throat. He is the most irritating person on this
planet.

Jamal has his nose in a
book, but he looks up when I get to my desk. “Did you hear what
happened?”

I’m not sure he’s talking
to me, but when I point to my chest and lift my eyebrows into a
question, he leans over his desktop. “Katy got herself in another
fight. This time it’s bad.”

I shrug because I care zero
that Katy got in any fight. Second, I don’t get what he means by
bad, but I like seeing her desk empty. I won’t get any scorching
looks if I open my mouth during class.

The first bell clangs and
students pile through the door. Mr. Smith walks to his desk and as
the final bell rings he writes,
Desdemona
on the board. “Most of you
have heard that our star will not be able to continue in the play,
so again we will be casting a lead role in Othello. This is a
perfect opportunity for those extra credits some of you need in
this class.” He takes a long time to scan the room. The guys don’t
hide behind books this time. The girls do, except for me because,
of course, I’m not the Desdemona type and I don’t really need extra
credit.

“Our pool of actresses from
our class is quite small as you know.” His eyes stop at each of the
girls who aren’t in the play or on the stage crew as if he’s
remembering why they can’t take the role. “Work and family do take
priority.”

I’m filling the time, doing
some high level math in my head, calculating the number of days
before the end of school when Mr. Smith says, “Miss Edmund. You are
new to our school and this would be a wonderful opportunity for you
to become acquainted with your classmates. Would you consider
taking on this challenging role for us?”

My mouth is open and my
face must resemble that painting with the crazed guy
screaming.

Jamal pats my shoulder.
“Told you. You got the hot seat.”

“I can’t. Uh, I really
can’t. I—”

“How come?” Dolores with
her quiet voice shuts me up.

“Well, because—”

“You got a job after
school?” Jamal asks.

I shake my head,
no.

“You would make our class
fundraiser possible. The students and I would appreciate your
effort.” Mr. Smith gives me a “how about it” look, and his honeyed
voice flows into the room. “With the money we raise we can paint
the auditorium this year. It’s in need of some . . . redecorating,
isn’t that right class?”

A chorus of agreement fills
the room. When I glance behind me Juan grins as if he’s just set a
foolproof trap. Chico licks his lips.
Arrg
. Anthony looks first at Juan
and then at me. I sense a plot to get the Channing
transfer.

Jamal pats my shoulder
again. “I got two parts and I work the stage crew. Alls you got is
one part.”

“All . . . right.” I close
my eyes and let the scream loose inside my head.

The house phone rings
Saturday morning before I’ve dressed. I ignore it at first, then I
remember that’s the only phone I have now. The call could be for
me.

“So how’s the new school?”
Sean’s voice sounds like home and the promise of something
wonderful.

“It’s okay.” I almost
choke. There's nothing that’s anywhere near okay. “One week under
my belt. I’m getting used to it.” I leave out that Mr. Smith
coerced me into playing Desdemona in the spring play after Katy
broke her leg in a street fight and is on crutches—that I’ve
discovered Katy is really K.T. and her initials are tattooed on the
back of her neck— that she shoves her way past me when there’s
plenty of room not to. I also don’t mention that
Othello
is the Las
Pulgas junior class fund-raiser, something I’m supposed to tell
absolutely every living soul, according to Mr. Smith.

For a second I close my
eyes, but instead of Sean it’s Juan Pacheco in his Othello role I
see, his dark eyes on my face, his deep voice saying, “‘Farewell,
my Desdemona. I’ll come to thee straight.’” I shake my head as if I
can clear the image.

“Can you talk to my mom
about getting used to change? She’s super ticked because I’m not
moving back to New York after graduation, so she’s working on
making life a capitalized miserable. Guess I’ll have to visit her
and smooth the waters.”

“When will you
go?”

“Probably before spring
break. I can get a good fare if I go before vacation starts.” He
pauses then says, “When can I come see you?”

He has to hear the thud
from my chest. First, he won’t be here for the dance, so there’s no
way he’ll ask me to go and second, I want to see him. I just don’t
want to see him here. I stifle a groan, glad that he can’t see my
face. “How about I come to Channing? I, uh, need to
visit.”

“Sure. When?”

“I have to—” I almost
say,
ask for the car
.
“Check with my mom. I’ll call
you.”

After he hangs up knots
form in my stomach while I look around my room.: sultry dark cube
with a clever Rorschach carpet design by Stains Galore. Chic black
sheet window treatment, a real mood setter. Air courtesy of my
neighbors—Smokers Unlimited.

What will I do when I hit
the drought season for excuses? If I start dating Sean, I won’t be
able to keep him away from Las Pulgas forever. I have to admit the
knots have a lot to do with the humungous number of lines
Shakespeare wrote for Desdemona, and because Juan Pacheco keeps
popping into my head looking like a smoldering Othello. A big
reason for stomach knots any time is that I miss Lena, but I can’t
call her or she’ll want to come visit. Then there’s Quicken. I
picture her starving in a Las Pulgas slum.

I dress and throw the
covers over my bed.

Mom sits at the kitchen
table with books and papers, her chin propped on both fists. She
looks up as I come in. “Hi, hon. Cocoa? It’s hot.”

I pour cocoa into a mug and
sit across from her. “Can you let me have the car
today?”

“Where’re you
going?”

“I thought I’d drive over
to Channing and look for Quicken, just in case she made it back to
the house. I don’t have play rehearsal until 2:30.” Several times
last week I’d considered returning home to look for my cat, but
each time I changed my mind. Somehow Sean’s phone call has helped
me decide I can see Channing without imploding.

“Ask Keith to go with you.”
Mom rubs her eyes and yawns. “I'd feel better if you went with
someone, and I’m tied up all day.” She waves her hand over the
books. “The practice test on real estate principles is next
Tuesday.”

What will happen when Mom
gets her license, starts selling real estate, starts making money?
Could we go home to Channing? Could we somehow toss that redheaded
squatter and her parents from our home and move back where we
belong?

On my way from the kitchen
Mom reaches out and takes me by the hand. “I think I have a job as
cashier at the Las Pulgas Market. That should help us get through
this rough patch faster.” She looks up at me. “What? You look like
I just sold you into slavery.”

“Cashier? In a
market?”
How can she think of doing that?
What if my friends find out? Is she trying to completely ruin my
life?

“The job will help with
groceries. Things are getting better, like I promised.”

“What’s better, Mom? Just
tell me, okay?”

“Stop it!” She covers her
face with both hands, then slams them onto her books. “I don't have
a choice, Carlie. Do you understand?”

I understand, but she
doesn't. Every day we live here we sink deeper into Las Pulgas. I
grit my teeth and flee down the hall. How can I help being a
terrible daughter if she strips away the last tiny bit of dignity I
have left.

Keith is still in bed
buried under his pillow when I peek inside his room. No matter
where he sleeps his room turns into my vision of a mole hole. At
Channing he painted his walls indigo and kept all the curtains
pulled tight. Here he didn’t redecorate. He didn’t need to. This
room started with all the prime qualifications for a mole
dwelling.

“I’m going to Channing to
look for Quicken. Want to come?”

His foot shoots from under
the covers. Then he pushes his pillow aside and opens one eye.
“When?” When he’s sleepy my brother looks like a tall ten-year-old
instead of the high school sophomore out to give his older sister
grief.

“Ten minutes,” I tell
him.

“Make it fifteen and I’m
there.” He puts the pillow back over his head and his foot
disappears under the blankets.

I’m surprised when he walks
down the hall and into the living room almost exactly fifteen
minutes later. He wants to go home, too.

Chapter 18

We navigate through the Las
Pulgas traffic and head west toward the coast highway. Once I point
the Tercel north and follow the familiar winding road along the
oceanfront, I breathe the sea air. I remember how much I love the
smell and how much I miss it, but I don’t expect to ache all over
like I’m coming down with the flu.

I pretend I don’t notice
how Keith shuts his eyes and seals himself away.

When I turn down our old
street my heart hits my chest so hard I feel it bruise itself
against my rib cage. I pass the Franklin place and pull to the curb
across the street from our house without looking at the two-story
beach home that I miss like a piece of myself. I imagine walking
inside, seeing the fireplace mantle decorated for Christmas with
fresh holly and lights, sitting at the dining room table with one
of Mom’s lush bouquets and candle flames dancing in the reflection
of the polished wood. I remember how it used to be when Dad swept
down the driveway in the evenings and came in shouting, “The king
is home!”

“They painted it.” Keith’s
voice shakes me out of my trance and I jerk my head up.

“It’s green!” I clutch the
steering wheel and swallow the sticky bile that leaps to my throat.
While I’m staring at the that putrid pastel house, the door—my door
flies open and that redheaded creep sashays down the path—my path.
I feel rather than hear the growl that comes out my
mouth.

“Chill, Carlie.” Keith
opens his door. “Stay here. I’ll go to the back where Quicken used
to hang out.”

Keith’s only gone a few
minutes before he jogs back across the lawn empty-handed. In
silence I take the familiar route toward Sam’s Shack where everyone
goes at lunch and after school. On Saturdays burgers are half-off,
so the place is packed. I don’t park in their lot, but hide the
Tercel in the grove of eucalyptus down the street.

“Are you going in?” Keith
asks.

I want to, and I don’t. I’d
like to pretend today is the way Saturday used to be. I’d like to
walk inside Sam’s, sit with Lena, make plans for the dance or next
week or—

“Well, I’m starved.” Keith
opens his door and gets out.

You can do this, Carlie. Just have your
story straight. Keith won’t say anything. His mouth will be
full.

I trudge behind my brother,
but before Keith pushes in Sam’s door Lena steps out and blocks the
way, tapping her foot.

“I’m glad to see you.” My
voice isn’t too convincing.

“Really?” She puts on arm
on each hip and sticks out her chin. Lena’s a master at playing
“hurt.”

Keith walks around her.
“Later.” He goes inside, leaving us face to face.

“I’m sorry. I’ve been so —
you know trying to—” I choke back tears. I’m not ready to talk
about how I’m the uptight princess at Las Pulgas High or about K.T.
and her remarkable hair or the tattoos or Juan or Anthony or Chico.
“I’ve been trying to get used to living—” I can’t say it. I can’t
say living in a dump, living without any friends, living a life I
hate. “I’m just sorry.”

Lena shifts her weight,
then smiles. “Me too. Really sorry.”

She steps in close and we
hug. For the first time in weeks, I feel like myself. I’m with
someone I’ve known forever, someone who doesn’t have her initials
tattooed on her neck. “I’ve really missed you, Lena.”

“I’ve missed you, like,
massively. Come on.” Lena takes my arm. “We have catching up to
do.”