* * *
I feel Mom’s hand still on my head and I sit up. I miss Biloxi. Not the casinos with their jangling noises and bright lights and carpet that smelled like beer and cigarette ash, but I miss the school with its steady meals and the Starlight with a clean bed and a bath.
Maybe Mom’s right. Maybe this will be different. Maybe I won’t freak out like I did in front of Christy’s restaurant when the crowd got too close, pushing me in on all sides. I can still feel the way the gravel dug into my knees after I screamed and dropped to the ground. I can still hear their voices:
“Is she okay?”
“What happened?”
“I just touched her. That’s it. And she… screamed.”
“Drugs, you think?”
“Too young.”
“No such thing as too young.”
“That’s a little cynical.”
“Well, whatever it is, someone needs to do something about that mother.”
And above it all, Mom yelling, “Get your hands off my daughter!”
I shake my head. Maybe Howie and Maggie will like me so much they’ll offer me a job, and I can sit in a dark, quiet studio and make some music and some money, and it’ll be better for both of us. I’ll turn into the star, and the fighter, Mom thinks I already am.
2 I’m On My Way
We’re meeting with the Mazes on Friday. It’s Wednesday afternoon. That’s about a million too many minutes to kill. There’s not much to pack up when you live in a truck, and we’re leaving first thing in the morning after Mom gets off late at the diner. She’s been pulling double shifts for the last week. We’ll need every cent for gas money and a place to stay. I don’t think there are many campsites in the woods in LA.
As I’m walking up the hill, I wish I had more than this sweatshirt on. It’s cold today. The clouds are lumps of heavy ash waiting to drop. I can smell the coffee and something cinnamony up at Joe’s, though, so I keep going. I want to say good-bye to him, but it’s against the rules. Mom said we can’t let anyone know we’re leaving town, so we don’t get too many questions about how we can just pick up and leave so fast. But that doesn’t mean I can’t see him. I’m saying hello, not good-bye.
When I walk in, Joe leans on the counter with a dish towel over his shoulder like a bartender. “No school today?”
Oh. I’d been so focused on not breaking the “good-bye rule” that I forgot I’m technically supposed to be in school. But after Mrs. Guidry in Biloxi, Mom decided I’d never go back. She said, “Life’s too short to get hung up on your weak spots, baby. Let’s focus on your talents.” And that was that.
“No, uh, out sick. Nothing contagious, just, uh, the throat, you know?” I manage a tiny cough.
“Well, we’ve got to protect that voice. How about some tea?”
I nod and sit at a stool at the far end of the counter where no one can bump against me. I just really don’t like being touched. Sometimes not even by Mom. I never have. Loud noises, too—those are bad, maybe worse. I’ve never seen a fireworks show in my life. Well, that’s not entirely true. When I was four, I saw about thirty seconds of one from a rooftop of a crummy apartment building in Conway, Arkansas, but that’s all it took. Cue the screams, the hair pulling, the biting. Yeah, I used to bite—myself, not other people, although I’m not sure that’s better.
Luckily, I’ve outgrown a few of my worst “quirks,” as Mom likes to call them. Which means today, when Joe passes me the tea, I do not flinch when our fingers accidentally touch (even though I want to). Instead, I stick my face over the steam and let it thaw. My nose is beginning to run by the time he gets back with a honeypot so small it looks like it came from a toy tea set. I’m going to miss that honeypot, I think, and my throat closes up. If Joe catches me crying, he’s going to think I’m a nutcase.
“Here, you.” He passes me a napkin to wipe my nose, which is embarrassing, but I do it anyway. I sip my tea and watch Joe hand a lady her change at the register. He has kind eyes. But Howie has kind eyes too. Maybe it will be okay. And if Mom keeps her promise, LA isn’t forever. We’ll be back.
“Everything all right, Lou?”
“Yeah, just, you know, under the weather.” I pull the cuffs of my sweatshirt down around my hands and stare into my cup. There was a woman in Biloxi, Miss Margie, who used to read tea leaves. She’d dump them out and stir them around with her finger and then tell you whether you’d meet the love of your life, or if a big change was coming, or if you should buy that alligator purse on sale. I wonder what she’d say if I passed her this cup right now?
Joe starts wiping the counter right in front of me. It’s perfectly clean. He wants to talk. That can’t happen. I take one last swig of tea and hop down from my stool.
“Well, you take care of yourself, okay?” he says. “And tell your mom to stop by and we’ll get you booked for another show. The winter tourist season will be picking up soon.”
“Okay.” I dig a bunch of change from my pocket and hold it up. “Here.” I hope it’s enough.
“Uh-uh.” He waves it off. “On the house. Now get on home before it gets any later. Weather Four said there’s some snow blowing in.”
“Thanks. I will.” I walk to the door. I keep my promise to Mom. I don’t say good-bye. But I let myself look around for a second to memorize this place and Joe, just in case.
By the time I get back to the truck, I’m freezing again, and there are little flecks in the air, not really snow, just tiny whispers of it, like dust the wind kicks up. I climb into the back and turn on the portable heater before crawling into my sleeping bag fully clothed. I eat a package of Cheetos and drink some water. But the wind is blowing so hard off the lake, it’s making the truck canopy creak and grind, and I can’t settle. I try reading my old dog-eared copy of The Hunger Games, but it’s getting dark, and I don’t want to turn on a light in case it draws attention. Finally, I zip my sleeping bag all the way up and bury my head and try to sleep.
I’m dreaming of a farm, one we visited once in Kentucky. I’m little, four or five maybe, and wading through a sea of strawberries. The ground is soft, like sand. When it collapses under my sandals, I drop my bucket. The berries go rolling. I cry. Mom swoops in to hand me one. It’s perfect, red all the way around and warm from the sun. The juice runs down my chin and onto my T-shirt, and we laugh, sitting in the dirt in the middle of the Kentucky heat.
The buzzing sneaks up on me until it’s so loud, I jerk upright. It’s the alarm. 11:48 p.m. I’m late.
Mom’s about to get off her shift. The heater’s gone off, and I’m freezing in the pitch black. I can see my breath in the air, like I’m a ghost. I throw the suede jacket over my sweatshirt and pop the tailgate. The world is white. The storm came while I was sleeping.
I hop down, careful not to slip, and my feet crunch in the snow. In this light, it sparkles. I shiver and wipe my nose and let the glow of the moonlight on the water and the snow light my way to the truck’s cab. I climb in the driver’s-side door, grab the keys, and start the engine. I find an old towel on the floorboard and use it to wipe the snow from the windshield as best I can. I’m due to pick Mom up in fifteen minutes.