Speed of Life (3 page)

She lowers her voice to a whisper. “I got a stupid paper due tomorrow.”

Oh, God. Not again. “Let me know how that works out for you.” I pull the pillow over my face to block the light.

“Crystal?” she says, her voice going all soft and sweet. “Please?”

“Forget it. I'm too tired. I did my homework already. Remember? While you were doing number puzzles before work?” She's addicted to numbers, but words mystify her.

“Pretty please?” She's now crawled onto my bed and is trying to snuggle up to me.

“Amber . . . go away.”

“I'll bring you something good to eat after my shift on Friday.”

She knows how to win me over. “Like what?”

“Lasagna?”

“And cheesecake?”

“Chocolate cheesecake.”

I sigh. “Okay. But you're not gonna fall asleep while we do this. I'm not writing it for you.”

“I know,” she says. “I promise.”

An hour later, we're sitting on my bed, propped up against the old garage door. Amber's dozing while I'm flipping through
The Scarlet Letter
looking for things to add to her paper. “It would've been a lot easier,” I say, “if you'd actually read the book and could tell me what it's about.”

“I know, I know . . . I meant to. I didn't have time.”

Everyone says senior year's supposed to be a light load, but not if you have to do most of your sister's homework, too. Except for math, which is Amber's superpower, she's in all remedial classes. I'm in regular ones, which makes it hard for me to help her keep track of her homework assignments. I usually find out when she freaks out in the middle of the night. Or the day after, when it's too late.

“You're gonna have to get to school early to type this in the computer lab,” I tell her. “And I'm not driving you. I'm sleeping in.”

“Yeah, okay.”

By the time I finish writing the paper, Amber's out cold, her head resting on my shoulder. “Gross,” I say, waking her up. “You drooled on me.”

“Sorry. Are we done?”

“Yeah—​now get out of my bed.”

In the morning, Nat wakes me up, screaming the rage of the wet and hungry. I change and feed her, but Amber sleeps right through the noise, probably because she was up to do the middle-of-the-night feeding and Nat wouldn't go back to sleep afterward. Her gums hurt from a tiny little tooth poking its way through. I never thought much about teeth before, but having them push right through the skin like that seems like a flaw in human design. Poor baby girl. No wonder she cries until she can't—​she's so exhausted. Half the time I feel the same way.

I don't bother to wake Amber. If she's half as tired as I am, she needs the sleep. Before me and Nat leave the house, I set the alarm for seven thirty and put it on the pillow next to Amber's ear. That should give her enough time to make it to first period if she doesn't hit snooze too many times. I drop off Natalie at the school's daycare and head to the lab to type Amber's paper for her.

We're both going to graduate, even if it kills me.

I
'm pretty sure our school's new guidance counselor's got a college degree in perky with a minor in enthusiasm. Even her green sweater is bright and cheerful, like spring grass. Except so soft looking, I kind of want to pet it.

“So,” Ms. Spellerman says. “Miss Robbins, isn't it?”

I want to say, “No, actually, it's Crystal. I'm eighteen, not thirty.” But I nod instead. In the middle of our sophomore year we got a new principal, and he decided that as a matter of respect, all teachers and staff would refer to the students by their last names prefaced with Mr. or Miss. You can imagine how much more respect is flying around now. It obviously never occurred to anyone in charge that last names like Cochran and Dykster are so much easier to make fun of than Robert or Ashley. But whatever.

Ms. Spellerman holds out her hand to me. “Nice to meet you.” She's got long fingers and perfectly pink nails. When we shake, all I feel are skin-covered bones.

She shuffles through some papers for a while, the huge diamond on her engagement ring catching the fluorescent light and hypnotizing me. I wonder if we're ever going to get to the reason I'm here. I've made it through three years of high school without seeing a guidance counselor, so I can't imagine why they called me in when I'm almost done. As far as I know, I'm doing fine in my classes. I'm even doing okay in Amber's classes. Not that anyone knows about that.

I hide a yawn behind my hand—​I'm super tired and missing the little nap I usually take in English. Ms. Spellerman holds up a sheet of paper and squints at it. Then she slips on a pair of square pink-framed glasses and smiles. “Don't look so worried, Miss Robbins. I just want to talk to you about your college plans.”

Is she kidding me?

“Now that I've joined forces with Mr. Akerman, we're not so short on guidance counselors,” she explains. “So I'm working my way through a list of those of you who haven't previously requested an advisor.”

Maybe not asking was a clue that we didn't want one. I don't say anything, though. I don't think she expects me to.

“Now,” she says, “you might be wondering how your name came up so early in the school year. Well, I'll tell you a little secret.” She leans in across her desk and practically whispers, “I started at the end of the alphabet instead of the beginning!”

I wonder if I'm supposed to clap or something.

“So,” she continues, “what are your plans for college? Where are you going to apply? What's your dream school?”

“Umm . . . I don't have one?”

“No dream school? Well, that's understandable. There are so many choices! Do you think you want to stay in Oregon, or go somewhere out of state—​get away from it all, that sort of thing?”

Is this where I tell her I'm not going to college?

“You must've thought about it,” she says when I sit there speechless.

“Umm . . . not really.”

“Not at all?”

“I'm not going to college,” I finally admit.

Her eyebrows shoot up. “What? Why not?”

I'm thinking I was wrong about her minor being enthusiasm. It must've been stupidity. Does she think she's somehow landed at a private school? Or maybe one of Portland's fancy high schools? This is Sacajawea High, and half the kids can't even spell the name of it by the time they graduate.
If
they graduate. College is not part of the plan here.

I try to keep it simple for Ms. Spellerman. “I'm gonna . . . you know . . . get a job.”

“But, Miss Robbins,” she says, “I'm looking at your transcripts, and you've got very respectable grades—​a B average.”

That's because school is easy and I have no life. At least, I didn't until Natalie took over ours. When I don't say anything, she starts asking me a million questions about my interests. I mostly answer with
I don't know
and
I guess not.
I don't really have any interests, and no, I've never considered trying to figure them out.

“With your grades, you have lots of choices.”

“Really?” I ask. “Like Harvard?”

I'm screwing with her, but it goes right over her blond head.

“Well, probably not Ivy League,” she admits. “I was thinking more of a state college. You might even be able to get into University of Oregon.”

If I wasn't so tired, I'd laugh. Me? At U of O? Right. That's where the popular kids from other schools go. No one from here goes to U of O. I stare at the linoleum floor, which is covered with a bright orange and blue rug. It's not big enough to hide the brown prison-looking tiles around the edge of the room.

“If you could do anything at all,” Ms. Spellerman asks, “what would it be?”

What she doesn't get is that I plan to do exactly what I want to do. It just doesn't involve more school. As soon as we graduate, me, Amber, and Nat are getting out of this dicey neighborhood. First we're gonna get a nice apartment, but someday we plan to buy our own house. That way we won't waste our money paying rent.

Amber's going to waitress at the Glass Slipper, and Aunt Ruby's going to teach her how to run the tavern so Amber can take it over from her someday. And I'm counting on Jimmy to give me at least forty hours a week at the gas station and garage. We know we can do it. We have it all worked out.

At least, I thought we did. Until yesterday, I'd always assumed Jimmy would be glad to have me full-time. Anger flares up when I think of his stupid nephew. Still, David won't be around forever; he's probably going to Yale or somewhere anyway. But I'm in it for the duration. Me and Amber know what we're doing, but somehow I doubt Ms. Spellerman would agree. So I don't answer.

“Miss Robbins?” She shuffles her papers some more. “You must have some dream. Something you love to do . . .”

I'm starting to think she's never going to let me go back to class if I don't come up with something, so I tell her, “I like cars.”

Her smile brightens and then immediately fades. “Cars?”

I figure this answer will get me off the hook. Girls aren't supposed to like cars, so this will make her think I'm a lost cause. “You know,” I say, sure she has no idea. “Working on cars. Restoring them.”

“Like antiques?”

I shrug. “I wouldn't mind doing an antique car sometime. But right now I'm mostly interested in muscle cars.”

Ms. Spellerman looks at me blankly.

“High-powered, two-door cars. Usually with a V8.”

“Oh.”

I know she has no clue and probably isn't interested, but she's got me going now and I can't stop. “I'm restoring a Mustang for me and my sister.”

Her eyes light up. “You have a Mustang? My brother has one.”

“Really? What year?”

She scrunches up her forehead. “I'm not sure.”

“From the sixties?” I ask. “Or the seventies?”

“Oh, no, it's newer,” she says. “Maybe 2014?”

Big deal. I thought she meant a cool old-school Mustang, not a cookie-cutter one. I realize I've been talking too much. When we were freshmen, I discovered the best way to get through high school was to keep quiet with my head down. I zip my lips.

Ms. Spellerman sits there, smiling, waiting for me to go on, but I don't. She tries to revive the conversation by faking interest. “What year's yours?”

I'm a sucker for any questions about my car. “'Sixty-nine fastback. It's pretty rough right now. I need to save some money to paint it. But I've overhauled the engine, and it's a smooth ride.”

“You overhauled the engine?” she asks. “By yourself?”

“Well, I had help,” I admit. But not the kind of “help” kids like David get. I got grease under my fingernails, and I knew what I was doing. “I work at Jimmy's Gas and Auto Repair shop. The owner helped me.”

“That's very impressive.”

“I can't wait until I can do the interior,” I say, while my head's screaming at me,
Shut up!
My big mouth keeps going, though. “It doesn't look perfect yet, but it's never been wrecked.”

“Is that important?”

“Well, yeah. If I ever want to sell it, it's worth a lot more if it's never been in an accident.” Not that I would ever part with my Mustang.

“Well . . . that's . . . great.” Ms. Spellerman stacks her papers and moves a file with my name on it off to one side like she's not sure what to do with me. No one's supposed to come into a guidance counselor's office and say they don't want to go to U of O because they're going to work on cars. But then she brightens. “I'm pretty sure the community colleges offer mechanic courses.”

I shrug noncommittally. It seems kind of stupid to fork out money for classes when Jimmy's teaching me on the job and I'm getting paid. “I'll probably keep working at the garage.”

“They'd teach you all the latest technology.”

“Yeah, but I'm not interested in new cars. Only the old ones.”

Ms. Spellerman looks over my head at the clock. “Right. Okay. Well . . .”

“Can I go now?”

“Sure,” she says. “But, Miss Robbins, I really think you should consider a state school. It's in your range.”

I wonder if somewhere my paperwork says that I'm on free lunch. Doesn't she know kids like me don't have money for college? Not to mention we have Natalie to look out for. I've already got my hand on the doorknob when someone knocks on the other side.

“My next appointment,” Ms. Spellerman says.

If she's calling everyone in reverse alphabetical order, it should be Amber out there. “Are you seeing my sister next? Amber Robbins?”

She looks at her list. “Umm . . . I don't have her on here. Is she getting a B average or above?”

“She should be,” I say, “but probably not.” I know there are assignments she doesn't tell me about.

Ms. Spellerman shrugs. “I can't see everyone . . .”

I want to tell her that she's wasting her time calling in the kids who didn't make an appointment on their own. Here at Sacajawea High, most of us have got a better chance of doing four years to life than a four-year degree.

If your kid's in the daycare at school, you're supposed to spend lunch period with them. Me and Amber usually alternate, because sitting in that room with a bunch of other moms licking baby food off their fingers and talking about the color of their babies' poop makes us both crazy. Today's my day, but I make Amber go in exchange for typing her paper this morning.

Last year in health class we were doing a unit on nutrition, and school lunches came up. According to some fancy study, most kids toss their lunch in the garbage. Especially the fruit. Here at Sacajawea, more than half of us get lunch for free, so there's always a long line. Sometimes it's the only meal we get all day. No one trashes the fruit unless it's moldy, which is about twenty percent of the time.