Devoted (23 page)

Mark nods. He has lashes like a girl's and a tiny scar in one of his eyebrows where the hair doesn't grow anymore.

“What do you mean not be you?” He keeps his gaze on me.

“Oh,” I say, the question catching me off guard. “I'm … well … I like to read,” I manage. “I like to know things. I guess I'm curious. Maybe too curious. That's probably what my parents would say. And my pastor. But I don't think … I mean, I know … you're not allowed to be curious at church camp.”

Mark's face softens, and he smiles. “I think liking to know stuff is good. I'm glad you didn't go.”

“Me, too,” I say. “I'm really glad I didn't. Even if I don't know what's going to happen to me next.”

Mark picks at a cuticle. “This is making my SAT prep class problem seem pretty trivial. You're, like, trying to answer philosophical questions about your existence on the planet, and I'm, like, basically trying to get away with not having to memorize a million vocabulary words, like what
mendacious
means.”

“It's funny you should say
mendacious
,” I tell him, “because it means prone to lying.”

“There is no way that's what it means,” Mark says, taking
A Wind in the Door
from the pile of books between us and tossing it at me gently.

“Yes, it does, honest!”

“All right, all right. I believe you. Man, you probably have a bigger vocabulary than my older brother, and he got into Georgetown.”

“What's Georgetown?”

“This fancy schmancy school for people who are going to become fancy schmancy doctors,” he says, leaning back on the couch and staring at the ceiling. “My parents are thrilled, to say the least. And I know my mother loves to imagine how amazing it would be to tell everyone both her sons are doctors. Whatever.”

“Well,” I say, “there are a lot of doctors, but there's only one bass player for Dinosaur Breath.”

Mark laughs hard. As hard as he's made me laugh. I can't believe I did it. After he recovers, he asks if I have a brother.

“I have six,” I answer. “And three sisters.”

“No way,” he says, his eyebrows popping. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“Whoa.”

“There's a family at my church with twelve kids,” I say, enjoying myself. “And the mom is pregnant again.”

“Really?”

“Really!”

“Where does everybody sleep?” he asks, stunned.

“Bunk beds, I think. It's what my brothers do.” The mention of sleeping makes me think about my little twin bed, and my mind hits on the image of Ruth snuggling up with me. The lightness of my mood darkens a bit, but then Mark jumps and glances at the phone he pulls out of his pocket, grimacing and shoving it away again just as quickly. “Parental units beckon me,” he says, frowning. “And after the SAT prep situation, I can't screw up again.”

“Yeah, you wouldn't want to botch things up even more,” I answer. “Is
botch
an SAT word?”

“Probably,” Mark says, standing up. “
Botch
. It sounds like a skin disease. She's got a serious case of botch.”

I follow him to the door, smiling at the joke. “He's got a terrible case of the bumbles,” I try.

Mark nods in mock seriousness. “She's suffering from bungle disorder,” he adds.

“I can't think of another one,” I say, laughing. “Wait, I can. Flub.”

Mark bows his head, shaking it sadly. “He ate right, exercised, didn't smoke, yet when the doctors performed the autopsy, his heart was full of flub. Such a shame.” When he lifts his head back up, his wide grin meets mine. Then he opens the door to head downstairs. “Hope you like the books,” he says to me.

The books. I was so focused on our last bit of conversation I managed to forget that was the entire reason he came over. In fact, I was so focused I managed to forget that I stood up in front of him without a bra on underneath my nightgown.

“Oh,” I say, quickly crossing my arms in front of me. “Mark, thank you so much. Thank you for the books.”

“No problem,” he says, giving me a little wave as he heads out. “I'll see you around, Rachel.”

I shut the door after him and rest my cheek against it, closing my eyes as I listen to the sound of his feet making their way down the steps.

 

18

I'm not sure where Diane gets
all these addresses or how much she spends on postage, but there's another stack of bright pink flyers to stuff when I get to the Treatses' house on Monday morning.

“I asked the print shop for shell pink and I get this,” Diane says, tapping the flyers with her finger. “Don't you think the shade is too Pepto-Bismol?”

“No,” I say, even though they are a little bright for my taste. “I think people will notice them.”

“They say Sweet Treats and are the color of a box of Good & Plenty,” she continues, picking up a flyer with a grimace. “I'm going demand my money back. People are going to think I run a candy store. They're going to be calling me up asking me how much I charge for Mars bars and Kit Kats.”

I can't help but grin. It's easy to see where Mark gets his quick humor.

“Should I still stuff them?” I ask.

“Yes,” Diane says, sighing. “But I've got to make a note to myself somewhere about calling that print shop to complain.”

She strides over to the mirror and checks her reflection one more time, using a carefully manicured pinkie finger to tug a stray eyebrow hair into place. Her carefully tailored peach suit skims her knees and hugs her curves, and matching sets of slim, gold bracelets shimmy along her tanned, freckled forearms. The scoop neck of her top shows off the tiniest sliver of cleavage. Diane really likes looking at herself in the mirror, and I'm amazed she can stare at herself so much and not feel her behavior is vain.

Finally, she smiles appreciatively at her reflection and then turns to me.

“Not bad for a former beauty queen, right?” she asks like she doesn't need my answer because she already knows it herself. But something in her voice tells me she'd like hearing the answer from me anyway.

“You always look pretty, Diane.”

“Oh, you're too sweet, but I miss the days when my skin was in its prime. Treasure your pores, honey.” Then she tilts her head at me and says, “Hey, have you ever thought about wearing your hair up? I mean, your hair is lovely. All those dark chocolate curls and everything. But your face is so gorgeous, and it's like I can hardly see it.”

I flush at the word
gorgeous
. I've been called dutiful, patient, hardworking, and virtuous, but never gorgeous. Not even pretty. I squirm a bit in my seat.

“I've never thought about it, I guess,” I respond, glancing down at the stack of flyers.

“Oh, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable,” Diane starts.

“You haven't,” I say in a soft voice.

“I have,” she says.

I manage eye contact with Diane, whose face is clouded with concern.

“Am I really … gorgeous?” I ask, the words sounding silly as soon as I say them.

But Diane grins, her worry vanishing, and her eyes crinkle up at the sides. “Yes, dear. You are. You're lovely.”

I flush again, and because I'm not sure what else to do, I start stuffing envelopes. “Thank you,” I answer, almost under my breath.

“You know,” Diane says, getting her purse and phone and heading toward the door, “I've always loved that part in Song of Solomon. The part when the man tells his love that her lips are like a scarlet thread and her cheeks are like pieces of a pomegranate behind her veil. I just think it shows us how much God wants us to appreciate beauty. Human beauty, too.”

I stop midstuff, and I know I'm staring. I'm not sure if the Treats go to church, but Diane just quoted Scripture with the ease of a preacher.

Diane notices my surprise and winks. “In addition to being Miss Teen Lake O' the Pines 1988,” she says, “I also won Covenant Baptist's Bible Bee six years in a row. All right, I'm heading out now, Rachel. Help yourself to lunch.”

After Diane leaves, I walk over to the mirror and pull back my curls, twisting them up and away from my face, exposing my neck. We didn't study the Song of Solomon much—Pastor Garrett always said it was a metaphor about Christ and his church, not about people—but I remember what comes after the Scripture Diane quoted.

“‘Your neck is like the tower of David, built for an armoury, whereon there hang a thousand bucklers, all shields of mighty men,'” I recite to my reflection. I smile at myself before I let my hair tumble down around my shoulders. I can't tell if it looked pretty or not. It definitely looked different.

I stuff every flyer and upload five new houses to the database. My ears are on alert, wondering if I'll hear the jangle of keys in the front door and Mark's shout of hello. If he shows up, I could tell him how much I loved
The Wind in the Door
.

But Mark doesn't show up, and soon I go make myself a sandwich and eat it at the kitchen counter. I picture Mark in this kitchen every morning, joking around with his parents and making up excuses for why he can't go to his SAT prep class. I imagine a lot of laughter and words and silly sayings that only make sense to them. My own house wasn't usually filled with much joking, but still, we had our own little routines and our Walker way of doing things. Now that exists without me. And I don't have a family to be part of. I wait for tears but there aren't any. Just that same weight of sadness I'm always carrying that grows heavier when I least expect it. I allow myself a sigh and then start tidying the kitchen so I can get back to work.

After lunch I upload a few more houses, alphabetize several files, and do some general tidying up. Finally, I write a small reminder note that reads Call the Print Shop to Complain About Flyers. I know Diane will be back soon, and she'll be pleased with what I've done. I sit in silence for a moment and survey the neat and orderly desk and smile. It's good to feel capable.

As I consider what else I can finish, I run my fingers along the computer keyboard, still in wonder that I'm able to look up absolutely anything I want whenever I'm here. Of course, I've been so serious about working hard for Diane that the only time I let myself search for something that wasn't related to work was when I wanted to show Mark who invented paper.

Diane wouldn't mind if I looked up something. Something I've been thinking about. I do a quick search and click on the link.

Welcome to Clayton High! Home of the Cavaliers!

Right in the middle of the home page are a group of girls in red and black uniforms of small skirts and sleeveless tops. They surround a young man dressed in a funny suit, red cape, and a big black hat with a red feather sprouting out of the top. He's brandishing a sword, and I figure he must be a cavalier. I can't help but grin, but my smile is no competition for the bright smiles of the girls on the home page. My eyes scan the menu to the left.

Summer Reading

Summer School Meal Plan

Fall Registration Info

Fall Athletics

Booster Club

Campus Directory

Campus Map

Student Information

I remember catching brief glimpses through the window of our family van of students while they waited at bus stops. Sometimes I'd see them hanging out by the Stop N' Go when I went in to pay for gas. My dad always referred to public schools as government-run schools, places where little children were stripped of values instilled at home. As a little girl, I felt superior to them as I drove by—my father cared enough about my soul to protect me from God haters and sinners. As I got older, I saw them clustered together, laughing, talking, sometimes even holding hands. They spoke their own private language.

They looked like they were having fun.

At the bottom of the page, I find a link to the Clayton Independent School District. I click on it and am bombarded with words and tabs and links to other links about policies and procedures and curriculum. I minimize the page and stare for a few moments at the picture of Boots the cat that Diane uses as a screensaver, then take a deep breath and go back to the district website. I slowly read every word until finally, under a heading titled Admissions and Withdrawls, I discover the following sentence:
The adult student (over age eighteen years and under age twenty-one years) or the student, who has had the disabilities of minority removed through marriage or as otherwise permitted by law, may enroll without parental involvement.

Over eighteen but under twenty-one.

In a few weeks that will be me.

I print out the page, fold it in half, and tuck it inside my purse. I decide to try and make sense of one of Diane's file cabinets bulging with unfiled things, but a few minutes later, I take the paper out and unfold it, smoothing the crease with my finger. I read the sentence over and over again until I'm sure I could recite it with my eyes closed.

*   *   *

A week later the information about school enrollment is still in my purse like some sort of talisman. I haven't done anything with the information, but just knowing the paper exists at the bottom of my bag makes me feel like good things could happen to me.

But unfortunately, its charms aren't working at this moment. It's Friday night and I'm curled up on the couch, trying to focus on a different piece of paper—a blank one. Gripping a pen in my hand, I write the word
Ruth
in my careful script.

The name stares back at me expectantly from the lined paper. I chew the end of my blue ballpoint pen in response, frustrated.

I've tried to write Ruth every few days since I came to Lauren's, but I can't find the words to explain everything that's happening in a way that I know won't scare her. All I have is a handful of letters that don't say anything about what I really long to share with her. In my last letter I spent a full paragraph explaining what I made for supper one evening, but I haven't told her about my job or the Treats or watching television because I know how much it would frighten and confuse her to know I'm doing all of those things. After all, those things still frighten and confuse me a little, and I'm actually here, living them and trying to make sense of them.