A Room on Lorelei Street (17 page)

The road, too familiar. Too much of the sameness to hold her. It melts away. She glides through Ruby. Glides to then.

Grandma is wrong.

She remembers more.

It has come to her piece by sleepy piece—through fog and time.

She remembers. Daddy. Naked. Hovering over her. Stumbling from the bathroom, blind with vodka, through a door. The wrong door.

Her door.

He never touched her. But she thinks, maybe he didn't know that. Mama's screaming shocked him from his stupor. Mama shoving him through the door. Shoving him to the porch. Beating him. Throwing clothes out on the lawn and screaming to never come back. Never.

He didn't.

Mama saving her and hating her at the same time for everything that happened. Daddy hating himself for what might have happened. What could have happened.

Was it more than he could live with that night?

Or just an accident like the coroner said?

The wondering is the worst. The wondering that eats. Never full, never satisfied, just eating away, a finger, a toe, an eyeball, until maybe it reaches your soul and there is nothing left.

Secrets upon secrets. Secrets that would never be revealed, because Daddy took all the answers with him. Secrets all revolving around her in a distant, untouchable way.

Yes, Grandma.

I remember.

I remember it all.

She swerves into the parking lot of the Rocket Gourmet. Tips at Murray's alone won't cut it now. Not by a long shot. One hundred fifty rent due on Friday and she has thirty-one dollars and a can of pennies. Sunday night is not prime time to be looking for work, but she doesn't have the luxury of time.

“Table for one?” the hostess asks.

“No. Just looking for work. You hiring?”

“Not right now. Not even taking applications, but maybe in a month or—”

“Nothing? Not even busing tables?”

The hostess shakes her head. “Sorry.”

“Thanks anyway,” Zoe says, and leaves.

She drives to Angelino's Deli, the Buffet Basket in Cooper Springs, and even the greasy truck stop off the interstate, but all that comes of it is an empty gas tank. She conserves her bills and empties out all her spare change onto the counter at Thrifty Gas. The clerk rolls his eyes and begins counting.

“One dollar and forty-seven cents,” he says. “That's it?”

“That's it.”

She pumps out the gas and then stoops to pick up a dirty penny near her tire—for luck or survival, she isn't sure. But what she would have ignored yesterday she brushes off and slides into her pocket today. She leaves, and when she's halfway down Main she glances at the gas tank needle. It is only just this side of empty.

The drive home is quiet. Ruby is quiet. The streets are empty, the orange glow of the streetlights holding in the silence. Only the oil pump at the corner of Main and Third disturbs the calm. Her car idles at the stop sign. She watches the pump, still so much the horse of her childhood. Her eyes trace the edge of chain-link holding it in. A car behind her honks, and she moves on through the intersection.

She piles the pennies into groups of one hundred. They lie like little hills on her ivy print bedspread. Eleven copper hills waiting to be rolled into rent. The coffee can was backup. Only if she absolutely needed it. She needs it now.

She runs through her mental list, the small circle of maybes in her life. Uncle Clint and Aunt Patsy are still paying off Aunt Patsy's medical bills. It wouldn't be right. Besides, they might tell. Monica never has two cents to her name. Reid? No. Not Reid. Not now.

She can't ask just anyone. She wouldn't. It would make her no different than Mama. But a can of pennies and hope aren't enough now. She winces and presses her stomach. It burns. She ate the last stale chocolate cookie for breakfast this morning and washed it down with a flat Dr Pepper.

But Carly.

Maybe.

Zoe could ask. She loaned Carly money once. It was a long time ago, but she knows Carly would remember. She could ask her at the next break.

She waits on the brick planter outside Math Lab until Carly arrives.

“You didn't call,” Carly says.

“Sorry.”

“Not a big deal. Things were just weird the other night.” She digs with the word “weird,” waiting for Zoe to fill in the holes. Zoe tries to shrug it into something else.

“It
was
strange, having everyone over to my own place—”

“No. That's not what I mean. It was Reid. He got a strange look on his face when Carlos came. I asked him about it on the way home, but he wouldn't say anything. What's up?”

Zoe's stomach throbs, and a salty film coats her mouth. “You know he's always had a crush on me. That's probably all it was. I didn't really notice. You have a water bottle on you?”

Carly digs through her backpack. She hands Zoe a half-empty plastic bottle. “You okay?”

“Just my stomach.” She takes a swig from the bottle. “And…I need to ask a favor. Can I borrow some money?”

Carly doesn't hesitate. “Sure. How much?” She reaches into her backpack again. Zoe puts her hand on Carly's arm to stop her.

“No. I mean a lot of money. More than you've got there. I need ninety dollars.”

“Shit. You
really
need money.” Carly sets her backpack down. “Yeah, I can get it to you. I'll have to go to the bank. When do you need it by?”

“Friday.”

“You getting a boob job or something?”

“Yeah. Something like that.”

“I'll bring it on Thursday.”

Zoe is glad Carly doesn't ask what it is really for. The warning bell for first period rings and they part.

The days are getting cooler, but through each class Zoe feels a thin sheen of sweat layering her face, throat, even her wrists. Her stomach is raw. Her concentration is feverish, spiking and melting away.

Carly will come through. Ninety. Thirty-one. Tips.

Will Carly remember? Thursday, she said.

When will Mrs. Garrett call on me? Ever? Will she ever say my name? Cakewalk. Name or no name. Cakewalk. Be a good girl, Beth.

Her stomach must be bloody red by now. She swipes her palm across her forehead and hopes she is not coming down with something.

She stops at Taco Shack on the way home. She has to. Rent or not, she has to stop the burning throb of her stomach. She orders a large cheese quesadilla and a small Sprite to wash it down. The burn continues, and she stops at Food Star for the cheapest antacids she can find—a tiny roll of the Food Star brand for seventy-nine cents. She eats four of them. By the time she gets home her stomach is better but she is still feeling like shit. Now she has blown four more dollars. Coming down with something might have been better.

She sleeps. It is not even dark yet, but she falls into bed. She melts into the mattress, wants to melt so deeply that she can never be pulled loose.

“A crush? I can't believe you said that right to my face when you knew!”

Zoe pulls on Carly's elbow. Tries to maneuver her to a quieter place, but Carly yanks free.

“He's my
brother
!”

The day started out so well. After twelve hours of sleep, Zoe woke up refreshed. Almost hopeful. She felt confident enough to buy a Krispy Kreme and milk on the way to school. Everything would work out. But as soon as she stepped into the science quad and came face-to-face with Carly, things began to unravel. What made Reid tell?

“Carly—”

“My brother! My
younger
brother!”

“He's six months younger than me, Carly. That's all.”

“And that makes it okay? What was he—
fifteen? Fifteen, Zoe!
” Her voice is shrill, working higher and louder.

Zoe lowers her voice to an angry whisper and glances at the students within earshot. “So are you going to tell the whole school?” She pulls Carly close to the brick wall. “So what! He was fifteen. I was sixteen. Big deal.”

Carly retreats, her body softens, like it is tired. Her voice flattens. “It's sick. He's not like
you,
Zoe.”

The innuendo of the “you” rolls between them. Zoe can't ignore it.

“What are you saying? I'm some kind of slut?”

Carly is silent.

“Say it!” Zoe says again.

Carly slings her backpack to her shoulder. “I don't think I need to. You already did.” She turns and walks away.

Zoe yells after her, still needing to explain, or at least offer a rebuttal. “Give me a break, Carly. It's not like I was his first.”

Carly turns. “Don't be stupid, Zoe. He was fifteen. That's exactly what you were.”

A long pause fills the air. Zoe tries to gather the words to her, snatch them into an order that makes sense.

Carly adds, “Like I said, he's not like you.” She leaves, swallowed up by crowds of students, and Zoe is still trying to find her own words to throw after her.

But there are none.

Zoe slides into her seat. Late. But Mr. Ramirez is not like Mrs. Garrett. He doesn't notice. It wouldn't matter to her if he did. Tardiness is other world. A lifetime away, like grounding, curfew, and virginity. Less than mentionable. Zoe only thinks of Carly. Opens her book. Carly. Page 147. Carly. Last night's homework.

Carly.

Carly is a virgin. To her, sex with one guy is monumental. Sex with half a dozen is inconceivable. And when one is her brother it is sure to ice her. That's it, really. That's all it comes down to. Her brother. And that Zoe never told. Carly will come around, though. Zoe is sure of that. But by Friday? Not a chance. And that is what matters right now. Carly would have to stew in her just-right-virgin world for a few days.

Zoe has to move on to basics: rent, money, and how to get it.

She will. But where?

She slips out four more of her Food Star antacids and pops them in her mouth.

Page 148.

Other world.

Right.

Fifth period. Back in Mrs. Garrett's domain, invisible once again. Still ninety dollars short and no prospects. More than ninety if today's tips don't come through. She shifts in her seat, in her other, say-nothing world. She could almost like it for the shutting-out it gives, but the shutting-in is there, too, and the shutting-in is like having no air, like miles of tape are wound around you so you can't move, can't breathe, you can only listen, and listen, and listen. To all the stories you've heard before, but no one will listen to your own.

A hand here. There. Raised. Answering questions. Part of. They go up and down. Hesitant. Sure. Up. Down. Neatly in rows. Like bowling pins, and then one is chosen, and they all fall. Strike! Like a bowling game. Zoe can't raise her hand. She doesn't know the answer. She doesn't even know the questions anymore. She never was part of the game. Not in her other world, her nameless Miss Buckman world.

Shutting in. Shutting out. She moves, nudges, in her small other world.

Counseling on Wednesday. Tomorrow. A new day. Remember.

Be a good girl, Beth.

Will Mrs. Garrett call on me? Will she ever say my name?

Come home and let's put all this behind us. Start fresh. Come on now. Be a good girl.

I know the answer. Call on me.

A good girl. Beth.

The bowling pin hands are in order again. Gutter ball. Gutter ball. The pin hands are swept away in disgust. The bowling ball gets meaner, faster. Set up. Pin hands raised. Ready. Strike! All down again.

Strike

Say it.

Say it.

“Say it.”

The air is tight. Stretched so taut that all the bowling pin hands are frozen, all the shuffling, bowling ball feet still. No movement because the room is poised. Waiting.

Hoping.

Mrs. Garrett moves from her lectern to the chalkboard, stilted, with caught-off-guard movements like she isn't sure what she heard. Like it would be too good to be true. She picks up a piece of chalk from the tray, poised to write. “The romanticism of Frost's—”

“Say it. Just once.”

Tight. Sharp. Measured air and no breaths. Mrs. Garrett turns. Sets her chalk on the lectern and it rolls to the floor, its crack on the tile splitting the air. Another step. And another. And the tilt of the head. “Did you…speak out of turn, Miss Buckman?”

“It's only three letters.”

Nothing.

“Three fucking letters. That too hard for you? Would the world end if you said it?”

Nothing.

“I know you, Mrs. Garrett. I
know
you.”

Eyes to eyes. Connection. Silence.

“Just once.
Try
.”

A pen is picked up. Then a pad. Smooth, barely-there movements, like this moment has been practiced. Waited for. It has. She knows. Zoe Beth Buckman. A cakewalk.

Mrs. Garrett's cakewalk.

She hands the slip to Zoe, and says only word.

“Good-bye.”