Read Between the Lines Page 13

The dog yips.

  Just in case what?

  I test my cardboard legs.

  They work.

  We walk.

  “How bad does it hurt?” She gestures toward my scraped-up arms.

  I imagine one of those ridiculous face charts the doctor gives you.

  “Cry face,” I say.

  Claire laughs. “My doctor uses those charts too.”

  “Mine always doubts me,” I say. “She thinks I’m a wimp.”

  “Well, I think today would be an exception.”

  She gestures to the small rivulets of blood running down my arm.

  Not gushing, but enough to make me look tough.

  I wish Sapphie could see me.

  Tough like this.

  Like her.

  “Are you sure you’re OK?” Claire asks. “Maybe we should call your parents?”

  That is the last thing I want to do.

  They will want to take me to the hospital.

  And my grandfather will want to come.

  It will all be very dramatic in the way that nothing normally is in our house.

  They will ask questions.

  They will fuss.

  And my grandfather will start to cry.

  And that will make my parents cry.

  Because he’s so old and sad.

  Claire smiles at me.

  “I have some tissues in my bag. We should mop up some of that blood.”

  We stop walking and face each other.

  I wonder who she sees.

  The real me?

  Or some stage version of me.

  The little dog sniffs my leg.

  “This is Oliver,” Claire says.

  Instead of a collar, he has a pink belt tied around his neck. It’s attached to a yellow belt to make a leash.

  “I just got him today.”

  He wags his stump of a tail.

  “Hi,” I say.

  Claire reaches into her bag and scrounges around, then pulls out a mini tissue pack and a bottle of water.

  “You have a lot of stuff in there,” I tell her.

  “I like to be prepared,” she says.

  For what?

  She opens the bottle and pours a few drops of water onto the tissue.

  She dabs it gently against the scrape that runs all they way up my arm.

  It stings and tickles at the same time.

  I try not to flinch.

  I try to enjoy this moment.

  Claire Harris touching me, nursing me.

  What would Finger Boy say?

  She finishes cleaning me up, and we start walking again.

  Oliver trots in front of us, his pink-yellow belt-leash swinging back and forth.

  It feels natural.

  As if we’ve always done this.

  I try to imagine Sapphie here, by my side.

  Whatyoulookinat? she’d ask.

  You.

  But then what?

  Would we share a cigarette?

  Go hang out with the actors?

  What if all we ever had was Whatyoulookinat?

  And the finger?

  “You’re bleeding again.” Claire gestures toward my arm. “And you’re limping. C’mon.”

  She takes my arm very gently and leads me to the steps of an apartment building.

  For the first time, I feel the cold November air around us.

  Claire gets out her water and tissues again.

  “You’re going to have to go to the hospital, I think.”

  “No, it’ll stop bleeding.” I press more tissues against my cuts and hope I’m right.

  Oliver watches, his ears perked up at us.

  My neck has started to ache.

  My head, too.

  And my legs.

  Then I feel like I’m going to throw up.

  I get up too fast and almost fall down. Cardboard legs again.

  “Going. To be. Sick,” I say, trying to steady myself.

  I rush down the steps to some low bushes and lose the contents of my stomach.

  I cringe at the sounds I make.

  I can barely stand up, I’m so dizzy.

  Finally I drop to my knees and hang on to a branch.

  “Oh my God,” Claire says. “You must have a concussion!”

  “No,” I say.

  “I should call someone.” She pulls out her phone.

  “No,” I say again. “Please. My parents —”

  But what?

  My parents what?

  Will overreact.

  Baby me.

  Freak out.

  Worry.

  And my grandfather will cry.

  “I’ll call my mom. She’ll know what to do. She used to be a nurse.”

  She helps me back over to the steps, and I sip from the water bottle.

  It’s almost empty.

  Claire walks away from me to make the call.

  Claire Harris just saw me puke my guts out.

  Finger Boy would laugh. I wouldn’t blame him.

  “My mom’s coming to get us,” Claire says as she walks back over to me and sits down again.

  “Today has been a crazy day,” she says.

  I nod.

  But then I wonder if she means for her or me.

  “First, I ditch school for the first time.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I’m a very boring person, it turns out.”

  Really?

  “Then I kind of inherit Oliver from a homeless woman.”

  Oliver barks.

  “Then I find you, hit by a car!”

  She shakes her head. “Crazy.”

  “So you said.”

  “Because it is.”

  I can’t argue.

  Claire glances down the street, then lifts her face to the setting sun.

  She breathes in the cool air as if it’s something to taste.

  As if this whole situation is something to drink in.

  Then she looks at me and smiles.

  Not like the girl on the wall.

  Not with a jutted-out chin.

  Not like I don’t belong.

  Or shouldn’t get too close.

  Just natural. Not romantic. But like a friend.

  Like someone true. It feels like she is seeing the real me, and I am seeing the real her.

  Not Claire Harris.

  Just Claire Harris.

  And by seeing each other that way, we’re seeing our own true selves, too.

  All the stinging, all the aching, all the dizziness, seems to melt away.

  Just for a moment.

  This is me, I think. And I swear I can hear her think the same thing.

  “It feels like this was meant to happen, don’t you think?” she asks.

  The funny thing is,

  I do.

  MY BACKPACK FEELS HEAVY AGAINST MY LEGS AS WE drive through the city. It feels heavier than it ever has, even though I’ve been carrying this thing for days. I know it probably seems crazy that I’m carrying a brick around. It doesn’t even make all that much sense to me. But once I stole it, I felt different. Like suddenly I was armed. Just in case I needed it. Until today, I had no idea what that would even mean.

  It’s not really a brick. It’s a paver. You know, the gray cement kind that’s supposed to look like a stone that you line a garden bed with? Or a driveway? I stole it from our neighbors. They hate me. All summer they’re on me about our lawn and me getting around to mowing it. And all fall they’re on me about how I need to rake the leaves. The only time I get any sort of break is a few months during the winter if we’re lucky enough to get some snow to cover up the mess. It’s rare. And we all know what’s underneath.

  My neighbors are what my friends would call douches. Both the dad and the son. I haven’t decided which of them is worse. The son is sort of like a bigger, grosser, meaner version of his dad. He is an ape. Everything his dad says, he says. His dad calls me a lazy ass; he calls me a lazy ass. His dad calls me a little bitch; he calls me a l
ittle bitch. What does that even mean? Do they think I’m gay? A pussy? What?

  My mom tells me to ignore them. She tells me there is more to life than a tidy yard. Her famous saying to her friends is “Love me, love my mess.” She doesn’t have many friends, but she has a brilliant mess.

  My mom likes messes. Whenever we travel, which is almost never these days, she says she has to mess up the hotel room in order to be able to sleep. She always leaves housekeeping a twenty when we check out. I don’t think it’s enough.

  When I was little, I never realized that not everyone couldn’t see their living-room floor. Or didn’t know the original color of the tile on the bathroom wall. When my dad left and never came back, I was too young to realize why. But now I have a pretty good guess.

  When my sister, Sammy, and I figured out we were different, we also figured out how to cope. Mainly we didn’t invite anyone over. We taught ourselves how to do laundry and how to keep our mom out of our rooms, as best we could. We learned to make sure to eat all the takeout so there are absolutely no leftovers. Leftovers end up in the stuffed, stinking refrigerator. No one is allowed to throw anything away that’s in there unless it is completely empty. Sometimes when she’s not home, we sneak stuff out. But we have to be careful, or she’ll notice and get upset. Panic. Yell.

  Mostly our mom is really nice. But things can set her off. Things can upset her. When that happens, she disappears down the narrow hall through her maze of boxes and bags full of outgrown clothes she won’t part with and into her room. Her den. Her cave. Where she is surrounded by even more piles and piles and piles of stuff. Since I can remember, she has been building it around her. Someday she will disappear. That’s my biggest fear.

  So whenever I can, I sneak away bags and bins and boxes as stealthily as she sneaks them in. It’s a balancing act neither of us talks about. But despite how frustrated she gets with me when she suspects I’ve taken something, my mother loves me. And I love her.

  But I don’t necessarily love her mess.

  Sammy pretends she can’t see my mother’s piles of stuff. That she can’t see the stacks of debris that separate her feet from the real floor. The minute she gets home from her cheerleading ridiculousness, she goes straight to her immaculate room and shuts the door. I hear her on the other side, going through her nightly routine. Logging on to her computer, talking with friends, singing to some crappy boy band while she does her homework. She lives in a perfectly pristine bubble.

  It drives my mom crazy, but she is not allowed in Sammy’s room. That’s their agreement. I swear if my mom pauses in Sammy’s doorway too long and gets a good look inside her clean, spacious room, she gets the sweats. That’s why, most often, Sammy’s door is shut. And locked.

  My neighbors know one of their pavers is missing. From a crack in my window blind, I watched the dad walk out of his house to get the paper the morning after I stole it. He called Ape Boy outside to look at the small but gaping hole in their otherwise perfect driveway border. A chink in their armor. That’s what it felt like, pulling it from the soil. Like I made a dent in their pristine fortress. Me. It felt good.

  They weren’t happy when they discovered the gaping hole. They both looked up at my house at the same time, knowing it must have been me. I stepped back from the window and pulled the paver out of my backpack and wondered if I’d gone too far. I was just so tired of the two of them calling me bitch and me not knowing what they meant. Tired of them telling me what a slob my mom is. And tired of them looking at my sister like they want to eat her. And I do mean that in the grossest way possible. But mostly, and I really hate even talking about this at all. I hate how Sammy seems to know and doesn’t care. Sometimes I even think she likes it.

  So I guess I do know why I picked up that paver. Because I knew it would piss them off. And because for some strange reason, having a piece of their perfect — knowing I could just take it — felt good. And I carry it now, just in case. Just in case I need to do something about those looks they give my sister. This might make me sound sexist and old-fashioned, feeling like I have to defend her honor, but that’s not it. It’s them. It’s their disgusting faces. I know I would never really do anything. But I would like to scare them. I would like to scare the crap out of them. Smash their windshield, throw the brick through their newly washed living-room window. Or . . . I don’t know. Just make a bigger chink.

  I’ve seen the Apes slide the curtains back from their living-room window when Sammy walks down the driveway. I’ve watched her wiggle her bum, giving them a show. She thinks it’s funny. I do not. Because knowing the Apes, she is the one they think about and fantasize about when they . . . do things guys do.

  My mom says all men are like that, “except you, Dyl.” Like this is supposed to make it all OK.

  I say to her, “Aren’t you worried that someday they might try something?”

  And she says, “Like what?”

  As if she doesn’t know.

  “Sammy knows how to take care of herself,” she says. And she and Sammy nod like they know something I don’t.

  “Do you like them looking at you?” I ask Sammy.

  She tells me to shut up.

  She’s so mean to me sometimes. But I guess that’s her role as my big sister. I know she loves me, even though she pretends not to know me. Even though she pretends that she doesn’t live in this mess. Even though she lives in a fantasy world of clean, crisp cheerleading uniforms, basketball victories, and best friends who have never stepped foot in our house and don’t know our secret. She cares. I see it in her eyes when she turns to look at me apologetically before she shuts her bedroom door and locks it. She needs her piece of perfect, too.

  But I can’t stop worrying about Sammy and the Apes. I have seen them watching her with their hungry ape-y eyes. And finally, today, all my worst fears came true.

  We were at Little Cindy’s, as usual. Me, Cal, and Jack. Normally we use the drive-thru, but there was a huge line, so we decided to go in. I saw him right away. He was pacing behind the counter, shouting orders at the other workers. When he saw me, he kind of shoved one of them aside and stood behind the register, waiting for us. He looked tough, even with his blue Little Cindy’s polo and his stupid visor.

  “What do you want, boys?” he asked us. He said boys like he meant something gross. Like we were worse than dog poo you step in with new shoes.

  When I handed him my money, he grabbed my hand and squeezed it. The guys weren’t paying attention. I tried to pull away, but Ape Boy is apelike in more ways than one. He’s one of those guys who “goes to the gym.” He wears these ridiculous black sweatpants and tank tops all the time. That’s his other uniform. To show how buff he is. Gym. Job. I wonder what he hopes comes next, if anything. Maybe he just plans to mooch off his dad forever. Who knows?

  But there he was, squeezing the hell out of my hand and giving me this look like he was going to eat me. He leaned forward and smiled this disgusting smile and said, really quiet, so only I could hear, “I had your sister.”

  He nodded his head in this satisfying way, then licked his lips. “And she liked it.”

  I didn’t believe him. She wouldn’t. He’s Ape Boy. He’s hairy. He’s stupid. He’s . . . Ape Boy. The guy who calls me bitch. She wouldn’t.

  He was just daring me to prove him wrong.

  I played it cool, even though I felt like I was going to throw up.

  “Right,” I said. “Hope you had fun.” Then I yanked my hand away and walked out of there. The guys grabbed my food for me. They didn’t ask what was wrong. They know Ape Boy is always on my case. They try to make me feel better by telling me how he is working at Little Cindy’s, for God’s sake. So what do I care? He’s a nobody.

  I ate my food. Went back to school. I let the paver bruise my back as it thudded against me with each step. Felt the pain and knew it was time. The moment I knew would come was here: Ape Boy had gone too far. And now I was going to use their piece of perfect to make them pay.
>
  The boys in the car are quiet now. I can tell they’re worried. We don’t keep secrets from each other. Not in theory, anyway. But I suspect each of us has plenty. Everyone does, right?

  “Where are we going, anyway?” Cal finally asks. We’ve been driving around for a while. No music. No questions. Just the Three Musketeers, aka us, looking out the window, wondering what finally caused me to lose my mind.

  “Boulevard,” I say. He nods and we continue on.

  Cal glances over at me and raises his eyebrows in a silent You OK? kind of way.

  I turn back to my window and squeeze the strap of my backpack. My back aches against the seat behind me. I’m sure the bruise is purple by now. A perfect rectangular shape.

  I picture Ape Boy again, grinning about “doing” my sister. I shouldn’t believe him. I should go to her and tell her what he said. But I barely ever see her alone because she’s always hiding in her bubble. Or avoiding me at school. Or at practice. Or at away games. I realize I hardly even know her anymore.

  Once I caught her smiling at Ape Boy. He was washing his car. He’d tossed his tank top on the grass. He had a tan where his shirt should be. He nodded at her but didn’t say hi. She smiled back that way girls do when they know you think they’re hot. Like they know you’ve checked them out and the smile says, It’s OK, without really knowing what that means. What if she’s drawn to their immaculate lawn? Their probably spotless house? Their lack of clutter?

  I feel the outside of my backpack and find the shape of the paver. Squeeze it.

  “Yo, D. Now where?”

  I look out my window at the strip malls and food chains and boarded-up shops that used to rent XXX movies or fix appliances or sell flowers until I spot the Little Cindy’s sign up ahead. The little girl in pigtails looms over the parking lot.

  “Leave me at Little Cindy’s,” I say.

  Cal grunts. “Yeah, right. We’re not leaving you anywhere.”

  “Why do you want to go there?” Jack asks. He’s always the practical one.

  “Just go,” I say.

  “D., you seem kinda freaked out. Maybe you should tell us what’s up before you do something stupid.” Cal gives me a concerned look. Even though he’s in the back, I can tell Jack is making the same face.

  “Forget it,” I say. “I’ll jump out at the next light.”

  “Relax. I’ll take you,” Cal says.