Cherry Money Baby (24 page)

“Thanks.” She took the card. It was heavy with glue and stick-on stars. It looked like a child had made it.

“Anyway, you just seem really tough, you know? I just wanted to say, I don’t know how you do it.” Olyvya shrugged. “Anyway, if you need anything . . .”

Cherry started to roll her eyes.

“I noticed we have the same brand of phone, and I thought maybe your charger got burned up, and I have an extra one, so you can have it.” She pulled a knotted black cord from her clutch and placed it on the table. “I don’t know if it’ll work with yours since mine is newer. But, anyway.”

Cherry stared at the cord. She did need a new cord, actually. It was the first practical thing anyone at school had done.

“Shit. Uh, thank you.”

Olyvya shrugged again. It was almost a twitch. “Anyway, see you around.”

And then she hurried away, a total surprise.

Cherry dreaded seeing Ardelia. She had ignored the movie star’s calls immediately after the fire, texting back,
I’m fine, see you on Monday.
By then the crew had decamped to a stately home on the other side of town, where Ardelia’s death scene was to be filmed. The trailers were circled like wagons on the back lawn, the home’s rear patio artificially arbored in gaffing and stage lights. Ardelia sat under the hot lights in a wicker rocking chair, a blanket over her lap, face caked with ashen powder to make her look sickly. When she saw Cherry, she leaped up, miracle-healed, and rushed to her side.

“You poor angel!” She wrapped her arms around Cherry. Cherry’s arms hung limp at her sides; she was too drained to hug. “Ten minutes!” Ardelia called to the exasperated-looking director of photography.

Cherry, Ardelia, and Spanner gathered in Ardelia’s trailer.

“I saw the whole thing on the local news. I tried to call you! And no one was hurt?”

Cherry retold the night’s events, editing out any mention of Maxwell or the Spider (now interred behind Pop’s garage).

“And it was a cigarette that did it?”

“A ‘cigarette.’” Cherry put the word in air quotes. “My brother fell asleep with a joint. The couch and the carpet are all polyester. The place was a death trap. He got out of there before the walls went up.”

“How horrifying,” said Ardelia.

Spanner was at the kitchenette and Ardelia on the couch, leaning forward to clasp Cherry’s hands like a daytime talk-show host.

“So, where are you staying now? With family or . . . ?”

“We’re crashing at Lucas’s,” said Cherry. “We don’t really have family in the area.”

“Doesn’t Lucas also live in a trailer?”

“Yeah. It’s a tight squeeze. But it’s okay. After that, I’m not sure.”

Ardelia was shaking her head, denying the whole horrible mess. “No, no, no, that simply is not acceptable. Spanner!” She clicked her fingers at the slim black booklet on the kitchenette counter: the checkbook.

“Thanks,” said Cherry. “For my paycheck.”

Ardelia looked confused. “Your what?”

“My
paycheck.
Thanks for giving it to me a little early this week. I appreciate that.”

Ardelia’s face was pained. Her fingertips twitched. She wanted (
needed,
maybe) to be generous. And Cherry was asking her not to be. Refusing the money made Cherry feel like her old self again, for a moment. It was the kind of thing the old Cherry — before limos and drugs and Maxwell — would have done. It let her feel good about herself, for a moment, and that was worth more than money, in a way.

“Thank you,” she said. “I mean it.”

“Of course.” Ardelia fumbled the pen from her purse and wrote Cherry a check for her weekly salary, not a penny more.

They talked awhile longer. Ardelia was trying to be supportive, but her worry and compassion were suffocating. She wanted to wallow in the horror of it all, to
be there
for Cherry, but Cherry didn’t feel like being there herself. She didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want a shoulder to cry on. She told Ardelia she appreciated the night off but needed to be alone.

“Of course. Call me if you need anything,” Ardelia said, looking hurt. “I’m here.”

Spanner followed Cherry out. They walked along together toward the main road. When they reached the gate, Spanner spoke at last.

“What are you going to do?”

Her tone had none of its usual venom, but there was no pity, either. Cherry appreciated that.

“I honestly have no idea.” An odd thought struck her. “What would you do?”

Spanner blinked. “Me?”

Cherry could see her weighing a snarky response against an honest one. When she spoke, it was in an unironic tone Cherry wasn’t used to hearing from her. And Spanner clearly wasn’t used to using it.

“I would leave. I’d take my savings and go. Usually you’ve got to burn your own bridges to escape. Someone burned them for you. Also”— Spanner nodded over her shoulder to Ardelia’s Star Hauler —“I would have taken the bloody money.”

Like his son, Mr. Dubois worked a second job on the weekends. He cleaned public libraries with three Hispanic men, roving from town to town after dark in a van they shared, vacuums and wet mops piled in the rear. On these nights the Kerrigans were in the odd position of being alone in someone else’s home. Cherry noticed the change in Pop and Stew, who moved delicately now, practically on tiptoe, and cleaned up after themselves as they went, reminding Cherry of the dog in
Alice in Wonderland
with a broom for its head and tail. Without Leroy and Lucas to joke with, they were cowed, ashamed of their need, embarrassed by their own presence. It was these nights that Pop got grouchy, snapping at Stew and Cherry for the slightest indiscretion: turning up the TV too loud or neglecting to wash a dish. Stew and Cherry bickered in the evenings, elbowing for space on the couch. It was as if they couldn’t stand the sight of one another. The DuBoises didn’t act put out by the Kerrigans, so the Kerrigans were put out on their behalf.

To get away, Cherry did what she hadn’t done since grade school: climbed the elm tree and hid in its branches. The buds on the Kerrigan side were singed away, and the bark on that side was blackened, maybe forever. From her branch she could see the tracing-paper outline of their old trailer. The debris had been mostly cleared, but she could still feel the kitchen, the skinny hall, the thin divider wall between her room and Stew’s, like an indent in the carpet left by a piece of furniture moved for the first time in decades.

Saturday night, in the tree, she called Vi.

“You should stay with me,” Vi said. “I don’t know if we could put up your dad and Stew, but at least you’d have a little more privacy over here. You could stay in Beth’s old room. She won’t be back until summer break.”

“That’s probably a good idea,” Cherry said, having no intention of leaving her family. That was something Vi, way out in the sticks, wouldn’t understand. People like the Kerrigans and the DuBoises huddled closer together in times of crisis.
Circling the wagons,
Pop called it. She couldn’t run away to Vi’s big ranch house now, even though she sort of wanted to.

“Still, must be nice getting to sleep with Lucas every night,” Vi was saying. “God, I miss having a boyfriend.”

“It’s okay,” said Cherry.

“I mean, I guess you guys can’t really do anything, ’cause the walls are so thin.”

“Yeah.”

She wanted to tell Vi about Maxwell. The words were right there at the back of her throat, but she choked them down again and again. She told herself Vi might blab, not to Lucas but to
someone,
who might blab to someone else, and down the daisy chain it would go until some asshole went,
Hey, Lucas, I hate to be the one to tell you . . .
But when she was honest with herself, Cherry knew she couldn’t tell Vi. Because she was ashamed. She wasn’t who she thought she was. She was a monster, a traitor. She was no better than her mother, who had left them all.

That night when Mr. DuBois’s pickup pulled into the driveway and he and Lucas came inside, suddenly the DuBoises’ trailer was bright and full of voices, the men and the boys joking with one another, the tiny tribe banding together. At last something had brought them all together, tied them to one another securely. And here was Cherry, exactly where she deserved to be: alone, in a tree, in the dark.

The bell rang for last period, signaling the end of her second Monday since the fire. Cherry was the last to leave her seat. The halls were nearly cleared by the time she reached her locker. Vi was waiting for her.

“I’m going to my cousin’s. This weekend,” said Vi.

“Okay.”

“You are officially invited.” Vi did a little bow, sweeping her arm as though an invite to Shelley Ravir’s cottage in Falmouth was a royal summons.

“I don’t think I should.” Cherry closed her locker, trying not to slam it.

Vi huffed. She seemed torn between genuine frustration and an obligation to be sympathetic. “But . . .
come on.
I thought you’d want to get away from Camp DuBois for a few days. You know, clear your head?”

They stepped into the parking lot. It was nearly May and felt like it. The air was bright and warm. Windshield and chrome sparkled. Cherry scanned the lines of cars for the Spider, then remembered it was gone.
Oh, right.
She kept forgetting. Just like occasionally, for a second or two, she felt normal, like the pre-everything Cherry. They were little delicious moments of forgetfulness, like marshmallows in her mushy cereal life.

Vi touched her shoulder, squinting toward the lot exit.

“Isn’t that Ardelia?”

One of the studio’s Escalades idled by the curb. The rear windows were lowered, and Ardelia sat in back. She held her cell to her ear.

“She looks like a spy,” Vi said.

Cherry’s phone buzzed. She answered it, saying, “I’m looking at you.”

Ardelia swiveled. “Where are you? Oh!” She waved them over. Cherry couldn’t tell if her outfit was a costume or just weird fashion: she wore a long white jacket that buttoned to the collar and matching white mad-scientist gloves. “How are you holding up?”

“Fine,” said Cherry.

“Good. I have something for you.” It was a blue-and-gold envelope, heavy and expensive looking.

“What’s this?”

“An invitation. The studio’s throwing a little soiree for your town. The mayor, city council members, that kind of thing. Our way of saying thank you for letting us stop traffic for the last six weeks.”

The card was embossed.
You Are Cordially . . .

“Wait. The movie’s finished?” said Cherry.

“We finish shooting on Thursday. Maxwell and Cyrus have more scenes in the Netherlands, but that’s it for me.” She snapped her fingers.
“Finito!”

“You’re leaving,” said Cherry.

“Back home for a little R & R, yes.”

“But wait a second.” Her mind was rushing to catch up with Ardelia’s words. She felt like she’d just been fired. Maybe she had. “What will you do? I mean, about a baby?”

Ardelia managed to sigh and smile at the same time, something only starlets can do. “I suppose we’ll start again with a new batch back home. These things take time. I’ll find the right match eventually. I’ll miss your input.” She took off her sunglasses and smiled at Cherry. “I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you, too,” said Cherry. “Shit.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I can’t believe you’re leaving.” She shook her head. It was so sudden. Just,
So long!
from the backseat of an Escalade and then —
poof
— she’d be gone. They weren’t even saying good-bye in private. “I knew you would go eventually. Just not . . . not right now.”

“Well, you’ll probably be glad to get back to your normal life,” said Ardelia. “And I’ll see you at the soiree. Both of you. Promise me you’ll be there.”

“Are you kidding?” Vi said, snatching the invite. “Free food? We’re so there.”

“Cherry, promise.”

“I promise.”

Ardelia pointed a manicured nail at Vi. “Make sure she goes.” She gave them a million-dollar grin. “It should be a night to remember.”

For days Cherry’s attire had consisted of her only surviving skirt and black top (the ones she’d worn clubbing), the old Minnie Mouse tee, and a few items borrowed from Vi. It was a weird fused-woman outfit, posh on the bottom and cheap on top. She didn’t have much cash for new clothes. She’d spent her latest paycheck on toiletries and underwear, and couldn’t, under the circumstances, ask Pop for money to buy evening wear for Ardelia’s soiree. So Thursday afternoon she hiked to the Salvation Army and rummaged for an hour, looking for something that wasn’t retro or ironic or freakish — just
nice.
Her definition of fashion was permanently mutated thanks to Ardelia, and she passed over items that she would have found totally acceptable a few months ago: a darted sweater, striped Beetlejuice shorts, a spread-collared shirt printed with skulls. These didn’t seem funky or cool anymore, just
tack
y — an Ardelia word. Cherry didn’t want to think this way, but she couldn’t help it now.

She settled on a red faux-silk dress with a broken shoulder strap.

On the walk back, she passed the organic market, imagining the orgasmic dark chocolate wafers she could no longer afford. Spanner had been right, way back at Maxwell’s party. Ardelia was leaving, and Cherry’s life was snapping back into place. Except, it wasn’t. Nothing was returning to
normal.
If Cherry were a rubber band, she’d lost her spring. She’d been stretched permanently out of shape.