Devoted (21 page)

“Full Salome,” I add, understanding.

“Full Lot's wife,” says Lauren.

“Full Eve,” I say.

Lauren grins. “Bad women of the Bible trivia. Poor Eve. She gets blamed for everything.”

“And Lot's wife doesn't even get a name,” I say, the realization coming to me for the first time.

“Too true,” Lauren answers. “I'm going to go dump the rest,” she says, and gets up to take the leftover wine to the kitchen. When she comes back she collapses on the couch again with a wince. “This is my Saturday on, but I cannot go to work. I'll call Dr. Treats in a second.”

Lauren is the older one. She's the one whose name is on the apartment lease and who pays the bills and knows how to manage life in the outside world. But right now, I feel like the grown-up. Only a grown-up who doesn't know what to do or say next.

“Can I get you anything?” I ask, simultaneously promising myself that I'll never drink alcohol and also wondering what you do for someone who is hungover. “Do you want something to eat?”

“God, no,” Lauren says. “I'm really sorry, Rachel. I haven't had so much to drink in a really long time. It's just stupid.”

“It's all right,” I say. I'm not sure it is, but I know I want to help Lauren even if it isn't.

“Hey,” Lauren says, stretching onto her stomach on the couch, her voice muffled, “will you swing by my work later this afternoon to pick up my check?”

“Sure,” I say, and I spend the rest of the morning trying to make as little noise as possible as I make myself breakfast and get dressed and tidy up a bit. It's a bit of a relief when it's time to go because I'm not sure how long being hungover lasts and for how long I should be quiet, and I don't want to bother Lauren by asking her.

I could walk, but it's so hot I drive the few blocks to Clayton Animal Hospital in Lauren's Honda, and when I walk in I see a man in a white coat with a thick salt-and-pepper moustache scratching the head of a calico cat who's sleeping on top of the front desk.

“Hello,” he says, smiling easily.

“Hello,” I say. “Excuse me, but are you Dr. Treats?”

“Last I checked,” he answers. The cat suddenly decides it has an important place to go and leaps off the counter and trots off down the hall.

“That's our clinic cat, Hermione,” Dr. Treats says. “She was a stray my son found hanging around outside our house one morning, but she didn't get along with our cat, Boots. So Hermione came to live here.”

Suddenly there's a male voice from the back office. “Dad, who are you talking to?”

Mark appears, all dark eyes and soft hair and broad shoulders. My heart accelerates, and I redden a little and look down at the counter. If I'm not supposed to notice his looks, I'm not sure why God made him so noticeable. Unless he wanted me to have one more contradiction to puzzle over.

“Hey,” he says. I manage to make eye contact, and Mark's smiling just enough to make me feel like it's okay to smile back. He's wearing jeans with holes in them and a white T-shirt that says THE JAM.

“Hi,” I answer. At least I think I do. My mouth moves and my brain tries to make the word come out, but maybe I'm just imagining my entire response.

“You know each other?” Dr. Treats asks.

“This is Rachel. Lauren's friend. The one doing work for Mom?”

He remembers I'm Rachel. He remembers my name.

Dr. Treats nods, then looks at me more carefully. Maybe searching for a sign that I'm from that same strange world as Lauren. But he just smiles again and says, “Of course. Pleased to meet you.”

“It's nice to meet you,” I say, trying to pick out each word carefully. “I know Lauren called you to tell you she isn't feeling well, but I just came to pick up her paycheck.”

“Of course,” answers Dr. Treats, and he sorts through some papers on the counter before handing me a white envelope. “Tell her I hope she feels better.”

“Thank you, I will,” I say, tucking it into my purse. Not sure what else there is to say, I offer a little wave and start to head toward the door.

“Hey,” Mark asks, “could you give me a lift to the pool? I'm supposed to be there for an afternoon shift and I've got my bike, but it's so freaking hot.” He scratches at the back of his neck and looks at me, waiting for my reply.

“God forbid you have to exert yourself,” Dr. Treats says dryly, gently patting Mark on the back.

“Hey, man, isn't it enough I have Mom on my back every minute? And I ran five miles this morning,” Mark says good-naturedly to his father. Then he turns to me.

“So?” he asks, cracking a grin. “Would you? Mind giving me a ride?”

Alone in a car with a worldly boy whose voice and smile and irises the color of chocolate make me temporarily mute. I can't. It's not appropriate.

“Oh,” I say, my heart thumping in my ears, my stomach, my two baby toes. “I … well…”

Impossibly, Mark's grin spreads even wider. “Hey, it's no big deal if you can't.”

When I say yes, I'm not sure if it's the smile or my fear of appearing rude that makes me do it.

“Thanks,” he says, grabbing a beat-up green backpack from behind the counter. “I'll put my bike in your trunk. Ready?”

The walk to the car is quiet. I'm worried I should be saying something. That it's rude to keep quiet. Only, what is there to say? I open the trunk and wait by the front door as Mark works to squeeze his bike into the Honda.

“Thanks for the lift,” Mark says, folding himself into Lauren's car. “Just head straight a few blocks and make a right on Front Street.”

I fumble with the keys and finally manage to get the car started.

“Mind if I turn on the AC? Hot as Hades in here,” he says.

“Sure,” I answer. I'm so nervous I didn't even turn the air conditioning on. But Mark fiddles with the knobs, gets the cool air blowing, then does a little drum flourish on the dashboard to finish off the task.

“So,” he says, “my mom says you like Madeleine L'Engle. That you were reading her the other day when she got home.”

I expect him to tell me he's heard I've run away or left a bizarre world where I don't go to normal school and never cut my hair. But he wants to ask me about Madeleine L'Engle? Something in me eases up a little. Uncoils.

“Well, I've only ever finished
A Wrinkle in Time
,” I answer, “but I loved it so much. Have you read it?”

“Oh, yeah. That and the ones that came after. Actually, they were so great I read them all twice. But how come you only read the first one?”

“It's the only one I had,” I say.

“Why not get the others? Oh, make a left on Donaldson.”

I turn the steering wheel and ignore his last question.

“Why not?” he persists.

“It's hard to explain.” I see the sign for CITY OF CLAYTON MUNICIPAL POOL and pull up in front. Mark doesn't get out.

“My parents felt those books weren't godly,” I finally offer. The car is still in drive. My foot is pressed into the brake and it's shaking just slightly. I can feel Mark looking at me intently, not breaking his gaze, but I keep glancing back and forth between his face and the view out the windshield, not making eye contact.

“Godly like God wouldn't approve?” he asks. “But Madeleine L'Engle was Christian. The whole series has, like, what do you call them … allusions. Allusions to Christianity.”

“Exactly!” I say, excited. The fact that he knows this about Madeleine L'Engle makes my heart race even faster than noticing his broad shoulders. Suddenly I have so many questions I want to ask him about the second book, like is Charles Wallace sick with some awful disease and are there actually dragons in the Murry garden. But all I can do is sit there with my foot on the brake, smiling stupidly.

“You're not living with your parents right now, right?” he asks.

“No, I'm staying with Lauren.” I go ahead and slide the car into park.

“Yeah, that's what my mom and dad told me,” he says. “I guess that must be … pretty cool? Lauren's pretty chill. And no parents telling you what to do, right? Nothing stopping you from reading whatever you want now.”

“Like I said before … it's difficult to explain. I miss my family. Even if they wouldn't let me read Madeleine L'Engle. But yes, Lauren is … chill.”

Mark cracks both his thumbs and nods.

“Yeah, my mom is a bear when it comes to rules and doing my best and not screwing up my potential and being the best-looking family for the Christmas cards and all that, but the truth is I guess if I didn't live with her I would miss her, you know?”

“I think I do,” I say. But I don't, and suddenly I feel a little prickly even though I know Mark didn't mean to make me feel that way. I understand wanting to love your parents no matter what and missing them no matter what, but Mark has no idea what it means to live with rules. No idea what it means to question what love actually looks like and feels like.

“Oh, hell,” he says suddenly, leaning back in his seat and closing his eyes. “Speaking of moms, I just remembered I told mine I would go to this SAT prep thing at school this morning and I sort of, like, bailed on that. I mean, I think subconsciously I knew I was going to bail on it, but now I am consciously aware that I actually did bail on it. Damn.”

He opens his eyes again and stares ahead glumly.

“What's SAT prep?” I ask.

“This thing,” Mark says with a dramatic sigh. “This thing that claws open your chest and takes your will to live and just crushes it with one intense death grip.” He clenches his fist for added emphasis.

I can't help but laugh just a little, and he glances at me sideways, clearly pleased with his ability to make me smile.

“Actually, the SAT is, like, a test people take and then colleges look at the score and the better your score is, you know, the better school you get into,” he says. “So SAT prep is this class where they help you prepare for the test. To do well on it.”

“Oh, I get it.”

I wonder how well I would do at SAT prep. I've always thought I was the smartest of all my brothers and sisters—even if it was prideful to think it—but I bet in a room full of people my own age like Mark, I'd actually realize I'm not that bright at all.

Suddenly, I really want to know how I would do on this SAT test.

“Well, there's another class next Saturday,” Mark says, his voice resigned. “I'll go then.”

“So you're going to college?” I ask.

“That's the plan,” Mark answers through a yawn, like the topic of college is one he's discussed too many times. Just then, two girls about my age stroll down the sidewalk past us. They're wearing pink bathing suits the color of strawberry ice cream, and Mark's eyes shift for a sliver of a moment, glancing at their backsides as they make their way toward the pool.

I flush as pink as the swimsuits.

“My shift started two minutes ago,” Mark says, turning toward me, as if he's not even aware he looked at the girls. “So I guess I should be going. I really appreciate the ride.”

“Sure,” I say. “Don't forget your bike.”

“Thanks,” he says.

Then he stops for a minute and looks at me, right in the eyes. It takes me by such surprise that I don't have a choice but to look right back, and my breathing quickens. There's a crease of confusion between Mark's dark brown eyes.

“I seriously cannot believe they wouldn't let you read
A Wrinkle in Time
,” he says at last.

“Well,” I say with a small shrug, looking back at the steering wheel. “I think if I told you all the things I wasn't allowed to do, that actually wouldn't seem like a very big deal.”

I glance back at Mark, just to check his reaction, and he shakes his head softly, like he's lining up guesses in his mind about all the things that were forbidden. “I'll see you later, Rachel.” I watch in the rearview mirror as he hauls out his bike, slams the trunk, and starts heading toward the pool. I hear him calling out to the girls in the strawberry ice-cream suits, and I watch as they slow down to let him catch up. I keep watching until they all head beyond the pool gates and away from my line of vision, but I sit there long after they've disappeared, wondering what people my age talk about on a Saturday afternoon at the pool. Wondering what it must feel like to dive headfirst into that cool, blue water.

 

17

By that night,
Lauren is feeling better. She's still in her PURRFECT IN EVERY WAY T-shirt from the night before, but she's munching on saltines and sipping Diet Coke while she fiddles around on her laptop. I'm dressed in my nightgown, flat on my stomach on the couch, flipping through one of Lauren's mystery novels. But my mind can't focus. It keeps replaying my conversation with Mark from that afternoon about SAT prep and
A Wrinkle in Time
.

And it keeps replaying those two girls in strawberry swimsuits strolling past the car and the way Mark's eyes rested on them for just a moment.

“What's it like to wear a bathing suit?” I ask.

Lauren's eyes pop up from behind the screen.

“What?”

I look down, rubbing a finger up and down one of the beat-up paperback pages. “I'm just wondering,” I say, like I'm having a conversation with the book instead of Lauren. “I'm wondering what it's like to wear a bathing suit.”

“Wearing a swimsuit is fine, but what's incredible is swimming,” Lauren answers. I look at her for a moment, and she's eyeing me carefully as she closes her laptop. “When you're swimming, you're just … weightless. It's transcendent.”

I nod, remembering how I watched my brothers swim that day in Galveston Bay. “How'd you even learn how to swim?”

“Jeremy taught me,” Lauren admits with a quick eye roll. “His mom's apartment complex had a pool. We weren't technically supposed to use it without her, but at least I learned.”