This Raging Light (8 page)

“She seems happy.”

“Eventual drug use, violence, eating disorders . . .”

“Okay!” I say with more force than I mean to. “Okay,” I say, softer. “I will tell my mom to sign these papers so Wren can talk to someone. We'll take care of it.”

I want to get out of here. I want to run to the playground and squeeze Wren because she sees everything—is seeing too much—and I can't stop it or help it or help her. I want to pause everything for Wren, charm her into unconsciousness like Sleeping Beauty, and wake her with a kiss on the cheek when I have fixed everything.

“She seems to be connected to Melanie St. James a little. Do you know her?”

“Yes,” I say. “We've played at the park a couple of times.”

“Well, your mother might encourage Wren to explore that friendship. Could be helpful. You never know.”

I nod.

“And you, honey?” She squeezes my hand, and I realize she's been holding it for a really long time.

My mouth starts to shake. I hope she will not ask me directly how I am doing.

“Yes, it must be hard for all of you, especially with your mother working so many hours, having to do it all on her own.”

Ha. Ha!

“I was glad to hear that Wren didn't bear witness,” she says. “But you did, didn't you? You saw what he did to her?”

My stupid, weak inside self has shrunken down to nothing and climbed out of this tiny desk and is holding on to Mrs. LaRouche like she is the only good thing on earth. I pull my hand free. I will not cry in front of this woman.

I make a move to leave. Smile as best I can. “We'll take care of Wren, Mrs. LaRouche. She won't be any trouble for you.”

“She isn't any trouble, darling,” she lilts. “She's just going through something. It happens to all of us a time or two in this life.” She stands too, rests her hands on her ancient tribal-print dress. “I just want her to make it, to thrive. I want that for both of you.”

“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it. I want us to make it too.

“I'm so sorry you're sad, sweetheart,” she says as I reach the door. “It really is a shame. You were such a joyful child.”

After that, I need some time to think, and Shane offers to take Melanie and Wren for ice cream since it's Friday and she doesn't have to work. Neither of us does.

I haven't ridden my bike in so long. I get on the tow path and pump as hard as I can, till all my muscles burn and my lungs flap and struggle. It's flat ground and I pass some joggers, but pretty soon I've blown past everyone, past the rocks, past the town, and I'm jamming up the trail, sweating hard, watching as green whizzes by.

Thinking. If I forge Mom's signature on the papers, Wren will be asked all kinds of questions and someone could figure this out. It would be another risk. If I don't, Mrs. LaRouche will get more and more suspicious and we could be in danger anyway. There's no winning here that I can see.

I jump off my bike and park it by a tree. I venture a little ways into the woods and find a place to lie down. I've only been here about a minute when a great swooping thing circles, dives, and rips a branch off the tree directly above me. It makes a great cracking noise like a gunshot, blows the air apart. It all happens so quickly that I almost don't register that it's a bald eagle, a prehistoric, violent thing. A massive thing.

As I watch it fly away I wonder what it means. If there are such things as portents like Eden said, what could it ever signify? And then loneliness, brutal and merciless, wields wicked fists and my fingernails scrape at the dirt. I am so lonely that people in China must feel it rippling all the way through the earth floor. I lie back and stare up at the patch that used to be a branch, broken and beige at its severed arm.

I ride home slowly, and when I get there I sign the papers.

I am on my third cup of coffee as I
push through the high school doors Monday morning, and it's doing nothing except fraying my nerves. Ugh, English. Ugh, thinking. Ugh, walking. And oh gosh please no talking. I pause at my locker, balance the paper coffee cup between my teeth, and start piling the books into my backpack. No one talks to me. Eden isn't anywhere. I only see Shane, who gives me a little pat on the shoulder as she cruises by with her in-school friends. Our friendship doesn't really translate, but it's nice to know she's there. I don't have anything to say anyway. My mind is blank. I am not thinking about bills or Wren or laundry or my suck suck suckish parents. Frankly, stupid hard life, I don't give a damn.

This bleary state is the only thing that explains how Digby sneaks up on me without me sensing him, since I am always on the lookout for him lately. I haven't seen him since I practically threw him out of my house. Eden either. She must be timing it that way, since her locker is right next to mine.

“Hey,” Digby says, in that way he has, like he's not sure how to make words come out of his mouth. “You're here.”

“Hey,” I return. “Yeah, I am.”

He lingers over me, close, but not too close. The hallway is emptying out as people filter into classrooms.

“I was having thoughts,” he says, tucking his thumb under his backpack strap.

“Well, that makes one of us,” I say.

“Oh.” He shuffles a little. “Yeah, I bet.”

“So, what thoughts?”

“No.” He smiles, and I realize he doesn't smile very often. “I mean, I was thinking maybe if today isn't a test day or something, I thought maybe you would want to get out of here.”

I feel a lot of things at once. The urge to run. The urge to jump on him and see whether he would catch me or let me fall. I am clearly mentally unstable due to exhaustion.

“When was the last time you ditched school?” he asks.

“Friday,” I say.

“Really?” His face tenses. “Yeah, I didn't see you around.”

“But before that, never.” I fake-cough. “I've been very sick with a fever and cough due to cold.”

He pulls on my T-shirt with a thumb and forefinger. “Come on.”

The bell rings.

“Where?”

“Uh-uh,” he says, “you're going to have to trust me.”

“Trust,” I say.

“You can.”

“What?”

“Trust me.”

“Oh.”

“So let's go.”

I don't move.

“Now or never,” he says. He pulls his keys from his pocket and makes a jangly noise that wakes up my feet.

We walk side by side out the front door. We do not see Shane or Eden or (blessed be) Elaine or any teachers. The universe is temporarily my friend.

I want to ask Digby about Elaine, to ask him why he is taking me away, if this is because he feels sorry for me because of my short shorts and high heels, or if it's maybe his way of calling a truce.

I don't.

I walk, thinking how nice it would be to take his hand in mine.

Oh, you of the clearest of greenest of eyes. Oh, wearer of perfect freckles.

You are going to make worm's meat of me.

We go to Philly.

He has a plan. He announces that if we are smart about it, we can see Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell and find the time to wedge in a cheesesteak before Wrenny gets out of school. He says “Wrenny,” just like I do, and for a brief moment we are in this together.

I close my eyes in the passenger seat as he talks and let cool October wind blow in my face. Digby is next to me taking me somewhere, and even though I think it is just plain weird that this is how my morning is turning out, when I try to think of anywhere I'd rather be right now, I cannot come up with one single place. Against all reason, I fall asleep.

When I wake up, we are in a parking structure, and it smells like oil and trash. Digby's watching me.

I hope I wasn't crashed out with my mouth open or anything.

“Oh good,” he says. “I was worried your nap was going to throw us off schedule.”

“You could have woken me up.”

Shrugs. Says, “Come on, then. Let's go learn stuff. Tour starts at nine thirty.”

Our guide is ancient. Her name is Mildred, which, think about it, when was the last time you met someone named Mildred? We shuffle into a room where she asks people where they're from. Switzerland, two families from Germany who don't know each other but strike up conversations and go
“ja, ja”
and shake each other's hands with vigor and commitment. There is a lone guy who says he's from Colombia. An inner-city fifth grade class. Everyone coos. Mildred waits patiently and then shows us a video about the Declaration of Independence. Digby watches everything, everything, while I try not to watch him too hard.

I want to test. If I rub my elbow against his, will electricity shoot out of my face or something?

Mildred leads us from the dark room to Independence Hall, and we walk around. “Imagine this room full of men all making their cases, arguing. It is summer, and there is no air conditioning. They are in here for weeks.” Mildred the Passionate. Mildred the Wise.

I like the Liberty Bell, the crack in it, all the stories about what it means and represents. Digby, my Digby, opens doors for me, guides me through swarms of people. He is exactly the same as he is on the court. He swishes in a really boy way. He's graceful, like Eden. He doesn't bang into people like I do. He navigates. Aims.

“Not much to do at the Liberty Bell, is there?” He says this after we have stood side by side in front of the bell for about five minutes in silence.

“Take a picture?” I suggest.

The tourists are lined up in front, the part with the crack, but he slips around to the other side, where it's empty.

“No one would know,” I say.

“That it's the Liberty Bell?”

“Yeah, I mean without the crack, what's special about it? It's just a dumb bell.”

“Just because the crack doesn't show doesn't mean it's not there.”

“You know,” I say, grinning like a twisted clown, I'm sure, “that's hella deep, Digby Jones.”

“Well, I am deep.” He leans his head to one side, and his bangs fall across his forehead. I am the Liberty Bell.
Clang. Crack. Clang.
“Take the picture.”

I do. He looks silly in it. Not one one-thousandth of his himness comes through. I have located a flaw: he is not photogenic. I am overjoyed.

“Now you,” he says.

“Oh, uh-uh.”

I refuse until he puts hands on my shoulders and I am physically incapable of fighting him.

“Look a little to the side,” he says. I feel my face flush and smooth out the front of my skirt. Another thing I pilfered from Mom's closet. “Smile.”

I do. I am thinking about him, thinking now I will have a picture and he will be the one who took it and even if I look horrible, I will know we were together when it happened. Evidence just for me.

“There's something about your cheekbone.” He hands me back my phone. “The curve of your ear.”

“Ear?”

“It's dangerous.” He laughs, but it's not a funny laugh.

I don't know what to do with that, so I pocket the phone.

“Excuse me, sir,” he says to a guard who looks exactly like an actor I can't quite place. “Where can we get the best Philly cheesesteak ever?”

Guy points. “About six blocks up. They'll do you right. And if you're up for it, you can get a horse-carriage ride on your way. Very romantic.”

“Oh no,” Digby says. “No thanks. We're not . . . This isn't . . .”

“Okay, man,” actor guy says. “Settle. I didn't mean anything. Just a suggestion. Take your Chevy-o-legs. Those work too.”

As we walk six blocks, Digby points out a girl in a tiny skirt and says how she's wearing a postage stamp. He tells me how cityscapes are some of his favorite things. He says how he thinks American history is totally badass, and how he wishes he knew more but he doesn't want to do reenactments or anything, he's not that much of a fanatic. He pulls his phone out of his pocket when it makes a noise, and texts while walking. Elaine, I bet.

I'm trying to pay attention, but all I can think is how uncomfortable it made him when that actor guy thought we were together. I remember that Digby is a good person, a really good person. He's the kind of person who sees a girl in distress and wants to do something nice for her like take her for a day away from her troubles. He's just geeky enough to think that Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell are good distractions, and not risky like a dark movie theater or something.

Do you register that, backstabbing brain? He has a girlfriend. Someone he loves. Someone not you. Can you get that through your gray matter?
I scoot away from him to put some distance between him and my thoughts.

So why did he call my ear dangerous?

“This is the real deal,” he says as the guy makes our cheesesteaks. The guy in question is covered in tattoos, missing several teeth, chopping up hot peppers and onions, dragging slabs of steaklike substance around on the hot griddle. What is his life like? What does he go home to? Beer? A loving wife? A loving husband? Heads in his refrigerator?

“Lucille,” the woman behind the counter croaks. Also missing some teeth.

I grab our sandwiches, and Digby reaches for the Cokes. We head outside, since it's lunchtime and there's no place left to sit.

“Here.” Digby motions us to a stoop in front of an apartment building. We settle ourselves on it. “I like Philly,” he says.

“Because of that?” I point to the abandoned building across the street from us. A couple of old guys are hanging out there, drinking beer wrapped in paper bags. I think how that's going to be me soon, probably.

“No,” he says, and takes a big bite of his sandwich. Grease and peppers ooze out of the yellow paper it came in. “Because of that.” Like it's on cue, a guy goes zooming by on a motorcycle. Hardly any clothes on, feet on the seat, doing a wheelie. He flies through the light with a huge grin on his face.