Nearly Gone (4 page)

Opening night is this weekend. Algebra is the last thing on my mind.”
She looked like a dancer. Her loose cotton tank drifted over pale willowy limbs. How was she so comfortable exposing so much skin?
“Algebra needs to be on your mind for another fifty-three minutes.” I glanced pointedly at the clock.
She leaned close as if she was ready to confess a secret and I pressed back into my chair.
“I’ve got a sixty-nine percent in algebra. If I don’t get it up to a passing grade, the principal can pull me from the show.
And if Principal Romero doesn’t, my mother will.” “So we’d better get to work.” I flipped through the textbook, eager to put a pencil in her hands to keep them away from me. She seemed nice enough, but you can’t always judge a person by the parts they choose to show you. Touching someone, getting close, always reveals the darker parts they don’t want you to see. And I really didn’t want to know any of Marcia Steckler’s deep, dark secrets. “You know, the play’s the thing and all . . .” I mumbled.
“Hey, you know Shakespeare?” She beamed, spine pulled straight as though someone had tugged a string at the back of her head. “No way!”
I answered with a sour smile. Why did everyone assume that because I was good with equations, I was only onedimensional?
“Methinks thou doth protest too much, Ophelia.” I rolled a pencil across the desk. “No more stalling. Time to do some algebra.”

For the most part, Mona wasn’t hard to live with. She slept all day and worked all night. And we generally agreed on all the rules.

The first rule (no bad grades) was easy. I’d always done well in school.
The second rule (no trouble) was a broad umbrella encompassing a dozen overprotective restrictions. Like, don’t hang out with the neighborhood kids, don’t wear skanky clothes, and stay out of the principal’s office. These were easy too. I wore whatever T-shirts and jeans Mona brought home from yard sales and consignment shops. The sizes always ran too big, and covered too much, which was fine by me. And I had no interest in hanging with the neighbor-hoodlums anyway.
Mona and I shared the third rule, which was good for both of us. I didn’t need a boyfriend; touching was complicated. But for my mother, it was also dangerous. Butch, the bouncer at Gentleman Jim’s, made sure all the patrons respected the only rule at the club. He liked to brag about the time he’d broken a man’s arm for trying to touch my mother while she was working. He’d given me self-defense lessons in the alley behind the club when I was old enough to make a fist, and he drove her home each night after closing. I’d hear his van crunch over the gravel, the click of the locks, and know she was home safe when her bedroom door shut.
Butch never came inside. There hadn’t been a man in our trailer since the year after my father left, when Mona had brought one home from the club. They’d both smelled like booze and sweat, but her cheeks were flushed for the first time in months, and she was smiling. She’d gone to her room to change clothes. The man sat down on our couch and reached for me. My stomach twisted with the wrongness of his taste, and the cloying, putrid-sweet smell of him. I twisted out of his grip and screamed “Don’t touch me!” My mother had come flying out of her bedroom, and kicked him out. She pulled me tight to her chest, saying “it’s okay” over and over. I felt the hole open up inside her, wider and deeper than before, like I was eating it away myself. It was the last time I touched her.
Her door was still closed now, and I could hear her soft, breathy sounds through the thin walls. She’d only been in bed for a few hours and slept like the dead. I reached into the ceramic Santa Claus cookie jar. It was full of cash—our grocery money and rent for the month. Thursday nights were busy at Jim’s. She rarely noticed the few missing bills I took on Fridays. The way I figured it, the money belonged to men who bought bits and pieces of my mother away from me every day. I was only taking back what was rightfully mine.
The problem with the rules was, while they were designed to get me into a good college, they didn’t tell me how to
pay
for a good college. But Mona didn’t seem all that concerned. For the last three years, she’d scattered college brochures all around our trailer. Georgetown, Tech, GMU, and Hopkins— top-rated schools, all within a tight radius of home. My own wish-list put more distance between me and Sunny View, but the problem of cost and deferred student loans only grew with every mile I imagined myself out of state. I told myself I didn’t care what school I got
into,
as long as I got
out
of Sunny View.
On Sunday I wanted to give a little something back to her. It was Mother’s Day. She didn’t celebrate her birthday—she was the oldest dancer at Jim’s and we never knew how many birthdays there’d be until she was out of a job—but Mother’s Day made her smile. She’d wake up early and let me bring her coffee in bed. Then she’d ask me about school and we’d talk about my grades. Her eyes would shine a little.
I pulled the trailer door shut quietly, locking the dead bolt behind me, and headed toward a collection of tables on the next street. Friday was yard sale day in Sunny View, and the trailer park was buzzing as people wandered, poking through boxes, and kids headed to school.
A girl with magenta streaks in her hair leaned against a lamppost, smoking a cigarette while she waited for the bus. It was the same street corner she slouched at in the evenings while she waited for men she probably didn’t know to pick her up. We gave each other tight awkward smiles, like we sort of knew each other, both of us probably grateful we didn’t.
TJ looked at the ground when I walked by. He sat on the edge of the rusted weight bench that was chained to the axel under his uncle’s trailer, his knee brace dangled over his lap. A stack of free weights was padlocked to the bench, and he kicked it with the toe of his sneaker. As usual, neither of us acknowledged the other. Maybe it was too much like looking in a mirror, seeing another version of ourselves stuck where we didn’t want to be. As soon as Vince’s Camaro blew around the corner, windows down and music blaring, TJ threw on his backpack, scooped up his brace, and bolted off the bench. Vince reached across the passenger seat and threw open the door, and TJ jumped inside like he couldn’t get out of the park fast enough. I couldn’t blame him.
I waved away the gravel dust kicked up by Vince’s car and made my way to the towers of knickknacks and boxes of mismatched trinkets. Nothing on Mrs. Moates’s sticky lopsided table was my idea of a treasure, but I paused at a collection of mugs, lingering over one with a kitten dangling by his claws from a tree. A thought bubble from his head said
Hang in There,
and my heart squeezed a little.
“How much for the mug?” I asked. A mangy cat curled around Mrs. Moates’s ankles.
“The one with the busted handle?” she lisped.
“No, the other one.”
“Fitty cents.” I gave her seventy-five. Not that a quarter could replace the cat who’d lived under her home. But the thing had been stuffed in a box with my name on it, and I felt responsible. The gesture, small as it was, made me feel better.
With the mug safely inside my backpack, I went to the Bui Mart. The bells jingled when I opened the door, and a 1980s hair band wailed from the overhead speakers. Bao looked up from the counter and smiled.
Everyone called Ahn’s older brother “Bo”—though I’m pretty sure that’s not the way
Bao
was supposed to be pronounced—the same way we all called Anh “Ann.”
“Morning, Leigh.” He already had my newspaper and chocolate milk laid out for me. I fished a chocolate donut from the day old bin. “Heard my little sister is kicking your ass in chem lab.” Bao snickered. “Maybe all the crap you eat rots your brain.”
“That crap is the breakfast of champions.” I took a bite of the donut and headed for the cheap greeting card display, licked the frosting from my fingers, and picked a ninety-ninecent Happy-Mother’s-Day-and-thanks-for-putting-up-with-me card. I stacked it on the counter with the rest of my loot.
Bao keyed them in and counted out my change, without looking at the register or the coins. He had to be bored out of his mind, running the family store. Bao was wicked smart. Maybe smarter than Anh. It was one of the reasons I liked him so much. I could forgive him his music and the obnoxious skinny jeans he’d paired with his Bui Mart polo T, and the fact that he was an incessant flirt.
“You should come over for dinner with the family sometime. I’ll show you what you’re missing.” Bao looked me up and down like he was mentally removing my clothes. When he got to my baggy pant legs, he frowned. “You’re too skinny. You’re spending too much time with that country club kid. I know his parents don’t feed you.”
“Jeremy’s parents won’t even let me into their house. For that matter, neither would yours,” I snorted, stuffing my purchases into my backpack. “What’s your mom so afraid of, anyway? That I’ll take my clothes off and dance on her table?”
Bao blushed.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said before he forced himself to suffer through some bogus apology. We both remembered the look on his mother’s face when Anh brought me home after school in seventh grade. Anh had asked her mother what was so bad about being a waitress. Bao had kept his eyes on the floor. He’d understood more than I had back then. At least now we could joke about it. “Besides, I’m storing up all this fat and calories for my end of the semester sprint. Your sister will never see me coming.”
“Don’t make me poison your Yoo-hoo.” He leveled a finger at me. “She’s got her heart set on that scholarship. The whole family does. I might have to go all big-bad-ass brother on you.” His playful voice didn’t match the rest of him anymore. College had never been an option for Bao. He would work here for the rest of his parents’ lives because that’s what was expected of him.
He slapped the cash drawer shut. A wallet-size photo of Anh was taped to the register. He was as proud as any parent. Anh didn’t need that scholarship as much as she thought she did. She already had so much. I wondered what it would be like to have someone like Bao looking out for me. Someone proud and protective and strong. Someone who would sacrifice his own future for mine. I tucked my newspaper under my arm. It felt unusually light.
“Here.” He slid seventy-five cents across the counter. “Donut’s on me. My money is still on Anh.”
I opened the paper and thumbed through the sections. The classifieds were missing. I folded it up and set it on the counter. “Can you swap this for another paper? It’s missing a section.”
“All the important stuff is in there. Besides, what do you need the personals for? Everything you need is right here.” Bao leaned against the corn dog machine and waggled his eyebrows at me.
I felt my face grow hot. “I don’t need the personals,” I lied. “There’s a lot of other stuff in the classifieds too, you know.”
I jumped as a package of Twinkies dropped to the counter in front of me.
“Should I be offended that my cheap cake offerings have been trumped by a fudge cruller from the day old bin?” Jeremy leaned over my shoulder and piled breath mints, a soda, and a candy bar beside the Twinkies, giving Bao something to do other than harass me about the paper.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, surprised.
“Taking you to school.”
“But it’s Friday. Aren’t you supposed to be at—”
Jeremy coughed loudly into his hand, cutting off what I was about to say. “I need someone to share my Twinkies with me. If Anh makes me eat one more carrot stick, my hair will turn orange.” He gave me a pointed look that said
Please don’t go there
. He didn’t want Bao to know he was seeing a shrink. Since when did he care? Then again, I didn’t want anyone to know I was reading the personals, so I guess we were even.
“Maybe I like redheads. Ever think of that?” Anh emerged from an aisle balancing a cup of fat-free cottage cheese, a banana, and a bottled water. She leveraged her items onto the counter and Bao wrote them all down on an index card rather than ring them up. All the while his eyes were fixed on Jeremy.
“Sharing produce, Anh? Sounds serious.” Bao glared at Jeremy, sizing him up.
Jeremy looked at me with an awkward smile. “Just a few carrot sticks between friends.”
“Ew.” I held out the last bite of my donut to Jeremy. He probably needed it more than I did. He stuffed it into his mouth, looking relieved to have an excuse not to say anything.
“Jeremy’s been giving me a ride to school on Fridays. And in return, I’m trying to save him from a slow death by high triglycerides.”
Jeremy stopped chewing and looked at me sideways. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. He hadn’t told me he’d been driving Anh to school on Fridays. And missing appointments with his shrink to do it. Anh kept talking, clueless to our silent exchange.
“Do Mom and Dad know about this?” Bao asked, looking all serious and parental.
“He’s only driving me to school,” she said. “And to the school play—”
“Wow! Would you look at the time! We should probably go . . . to school . . . before we’re late.” Jeremy made a show of looking at his watch, clearly uncomfortable.
An awkward silence passed and we all turned at the sound of the bells when Lonny Johnson pushed open the door. His new friend followed, the one who’d shoved me at school. They drifted in like two dark clouds, and changed the climate of the store.
Jeremy paled and dropped a five on the counter. “Keep the change,” he muttered. “I’ll wait in the car.” He walked quickly toward the door, his eyes lowered. Lonny watched him blow past with a peculiar interest. When the bells hushed, Lonny moved wordlessly to the cooler in the back.
His friend turned his back to the counter and began to browse, walking lazily through the aisles, and pausing in front of the greeting card display. Lingering at the Mother’s Day cards, he grazed one with the tip of his finger, hesitating before he moved on. Then he reached for an item on the snack shelf instead.
“You planning to pay for that?” Bao said loudly. The guy’s fingers hovered over a strand of beef jerky. Bao’s hand reached under the counter. “You girls should get to school,” he said without taking his eyes off the guy’s back.
Anh took a tentative step and gave her brother an anxious look. He jerked his chin to the door, and she followed Jeremy out.
Lonny’s friend snatched up the jerky and strolled slowly to the counter beside me. If he recognized me, he didn’t seem to care. I held my breath when he reached under his jacket. All that came out was a worn leather wallet.
He looked to me where I stood blocking the register, then to Bao, then back to me. One side of his lip curled up and he arched a pierced brow. “Are you in line, or what?” His voice was deep, like he’d just woken up. It sounded more like a growl.
I cleared my throat to get Bao’s attention, but he wouldn’t look away from the guy’s face. “My paper?” I nudged.
Bao reached under the counter and pulled out a fresh copy without looking at me. It was heavier than the one I passed back to him, and I decided to trust the personals were all in there, rather than open it in front of Lonny’s friend, who looked like he was running out of patience.
I folded it under my arm, grabbed my milk, and made a beeline for the passenger side of Jeremy’s car. But Anh was already in my seat. I wrestled with my backpack and got in behind her, struggling to get comfortable. Anh’s seat was set far back, the way I usually liked it, and now it left very little room for me.
Jeremy pulled out of the space before I had time to fasten my seat belt and made a rolling stop out of the parking lot, ignoring oncoming traffic. A horn blared.
“Do you think we should make sure Bao’s okay?” Anh asked, clutching her armrest and craning to look back at the store window.
“I’m sure Bao can handle those guys. Besides, you don’t want to be late. Bao and I have money riding on the two of you.” Jeremy’s eyes found mine in the mirror. He was looking at me when he said it, but sitting in the backseat, I wasn’t so sure who he’d put his money on.