The Princess of Las Pulgas (30 page)

“Carlie?”

“Yes.” My voice is flat and
dull, just like I feel.

He coughs; it’s not a
symptom of a cold, but rather one of nervous retreat. “I’m in kind
of a bad spot,” he says. “My mom . . . well she thinks . . . It’s
about the dance—” Another cough. “Lena’s mom told her about . . .
the—”

“Not a problem, Nicholas. I
was about to call you to back out of our date. I think I’m pretty
much finished with Channing.”
Why didn’t I
pick up the phone before he called? Cancel first? Keep some
self-respect?

“Really, it’s not me.
Okay?”

“Sure. I understand.
Goodbye, Nic.” Nicolas Mr. Full of Himself Benz is out of my life.
I jab the End button and toss the phone on the counter.

“Punishing the
communications equipment this morning, are we?” Keith’s at the
refrigerator, reaching for the milk.

I snatch the milk carton
from him and pour myself a glass. For the first time in weeks, I
have time to catch up on the rest of my life and I have absolutely
no life to catch up on. After I chug the milk down, I grab one
piece of toast. Then, without buttering it, I slam my way back to
my room.

I sag onto my bed, too
exhausted to eat, so I toss the toast into the wastebasket and take
down my Jack-in-the-Box from the shelf. Crawling under the covers
and pulling them over my head, I curl around the square metal box.
I want to sleep; I need to sleep, and in the close dark, space
under my blankets, my breathing slows down. I pretend I’m in my
Channing room with the ocean sweeping in and out, in and . .
.

Salt water breaks over my
head and tumbles me onto the sand. I try to stand, but another wave
knocks me down. Before I can get up from my knees, the sand is
sucked from under me and when I scream, the sound tastes bitter.
Another wave lifts me and I’m tossed far from the shore surrounded
by a rising sea. Salt stings my eyes and burns my nose as I sink
slowly below the surface into
—

I bolt from under the
covers and sit upright, choking. My cheeks are wet and my eyes
really do sting. Returning Jack to his shelf, I pluck a handful of
tissues from my desk drawer. I can’t believe my clock reads almost
noon; I’ve been asleep for over an hour.

The Très Elégant box pokes
from under my bed, but I won’t look inside.

I won’t. Well, maybe just a peek.

Go ahead. Untie the ribbon. Remove the lid.
Fold back the tissue. Just don’t touch it.

Blotting my eyes with a
tissue, then blowing my nose with another one, I lift the dress by
its slender straps and hold it to me.

Get your act together, Carlie. You’re not
going to the dance. You’re not wearing this perfectly perfect
dress. There’s nothing you can do about it.

I tuck all the pizazz back
into its box and tie the ribbon. Once that’s done, it’s easier to
think. I’ll return the dress to Miss Lily, and then I’ll run away
and join some foreign army. I pat the Très Elégant top and go to
get the car keys.

Mom’s in the kitchen
rummaging through one of the still unpacked moving boxes. “Apple
crepes sound good, don’t they?” She pulls out her pastry cookbook.
“I thought we’d enjoy them for dessert.”

“Any kind of crepes sounds
good. We haven’t had those—”

The
click click
of the old stove clock
marks off empty seconds of quiet.

“Since before your father
got sick. I know.” Mom flips to a slightly spotted page. “Well,
that’s about to change.”

Seeing Mom with flour on
her hands, her handheld electric beater ready and her measuring
spoons lined up on the counter is like opening a special
present.

“Can I have the car?” I
ask. “I’m taking this--” I hold up the Très Elégant box.
“--back.”

“What?”

“NicOlas
cancelled.”

“Oh, Carlie, I’m so sorry.
Isn’t there someone—”

I shake my head. “I don’t
want to go.”
I don’t fit there anymore.
This not fitting in is becoming a familiar feeling. Maybe I’ll get
used to it.

She takes the car keys from
her purse and presses them into my hand. “I know this doesn’t help,
but there will be other dances.”

She’s right; it doesn’t
help, but I hope it’s true.

“We’re eating at Jeb’s
tonight, so can you be here by four thirty?”

I start to say, “Count me
out,” but she turns on the mixer and loses herself in batter
making.

I guess if I want dinner,
I’ll have to be at Jeb’s.

I tuck the Très Elégant box
under one arm and sling the strap of my bag over the other
shoulder.

At the mall when I walk
into
Tres Elegant
Miss Lily is with a customer. I leave the dress and tell the
sales woman I’ll be back. I’m on my way past the accessory section
when I hear my name called and I stop.

“It
is
you.” Lena’s holding three blue
evening bags, and Paula, the exchange student from France, is next
to her.

Lena’s the last person on
this planet I want to talk to right now, but there’s no escaping.
Smiling, I walk down the long line of couture handbags. “Have you
found what you wanted?”

“I’m thinking this one.”
Lena holds up a small clutch with a blue bead fastener.

“Um, that’s . . . pretty,”
I tell her.

Lena nudges Paula. “See. I
told you.”

Paula shrugs. “I am still
not fond of it.”

She has a lot better taste
than Lena does. “But it’d be all right with her dress, don’t you
think?” I ask.

Paula’s eyes cut to mine
for a second, long enough to understand what we both think about
Lena’s blue Spring Fling dress.

Lena waves a clerk over.
“Well, I don’t care what anyone says. I’m buying it.”

“Did your dress come from
Paris?” I ask Paula. “Lena told me you ordered it.”

“It came,” she
says.

“It’s soooo beautiful,
Carlie. You should come see it.” Lena signs the credit card slip
and picks up her small Très Elégant bag. “You know—since you won’t
be at the dance.”

Kaboom
! Everybody at Channing already knows that Nicolas dumped me.
“Thanks, BFF. Very sweet of you to spread the word.”

Lena tries for a shocked
expression, but it doesn’t work. Gossip is all over her
face.

I turn my back on her and
only speak to Paula. “I won’t have time for a trip to Channing, but
I’m sure your dress is a knock out. What color did you
get?”

“Red.” Paula
says.

I rub one eye as if I have
a speck of something in it. “Strapless?” I ask.

“But of course.”

“Carlie! Come. I am free
for a short time. We must talk.” Miss Lily wraps an arm around my
waist. “What is this my assistant is telling me?”

Without bothering to say
goodbye to Lena and Paula, I let Miss Lily lead me away.

“You are returning my
fabulous dress--before the dance?”

Leaving out the details of
why my date cancelled and trying not to sound too pitiful, I
explain, and then thank her say,ing, “I really appreciate all
you’ve done. You’ve been so kind, and I’m sorry—”

“No one feels so bad as I
do. I wanted you to be beautiful and bring me many new customers,”
Miss Lily says. “But there will be another time. June, no?
Prom?”

“Maybe.” When carefully
translated that means, not too likely.

“Oh, and, Carlie, Michael
and Sean called yesterday. They are back tomorrow.

“That’s . . . that’s
great.”

“I must go. Please come to
see me. I will find you again the perfect dress. I promise.” Miss
Lily kisses me on both cheeks and hurries to her next
appointment.

I have nothing to do now
except feel sorry for myself and keep from running into anyone else
I know from Channing. Taking my time, I stroll along the main
gallery, looking at my reflection in the wide display windows,
wondering where the girl with the long black hair and jeans is
headed. Is there even a chance one good thing could happen
today?

I'm day dreaming about
pizazzy dresses and Sean, and about how my life sucks and—
“
Ooof
!” I’m
almost nose to nose with K.T.

“Whoa! Do not tell me I’ve
almost run down the great writer also known as the great
Des!”

“K.T. What the—Are you
always at this mall?”

“Ex-cuuse me.” K.T. put her
hands on both hips.

“Sorry. You surprised me. I
was . . . thinking.”

“What about?”

“Gee, I don’t know,
suicide?” I suck in air. “Oh, K.T.--I didn’t mean—”

“That’s not funny.” K.T.’s
mockery vanishes and in this moment I see another K.T.—a younger
one, a girl who might stammer or be afraid of the dark--but that
only lasts for a second; then she’s back to her usual, hostile Las
Pulgas self. “You got in your head to say somethin’ to me,
huh?”

“No. I’m sorry—that slipped
out.”

“That’s something you don’t
let ‘slip out.’” K.T. punches her words hard. Then she does her
shifty-head thing. “So?” In one word she demands an answer to her
question.

“I was thinking that if I
had a real life, I wouldn’t have just returned the most beautiful
dress I’ve ever had. I’d be going to the dance Saturday night with
a hot date instead of—You fill in the blanks.”

Why am I saying this to K.T.?

“The guy dumped you? You
took back that—”

I look down so K.T can’t
see my watery eyes. “He did, and I did.”

“Seems like you got what my
grandma calls a case of the miseries.”

“Actually, I think I’ve got
several cases of them.”

“Once you got the miseries,
my grandma says you got to go on a long dark journey before you
come out the other side.”

“Gee, thanks for cheering
me up, K.T. I feel a whole lot better now that we’ve
talked.”

“You don’t have to thank
me.”

When I look over K.T’s
shoulder Lena and Paula are headed our way. “
Merde
.”

K.T. turns to look behind
her. “Your Channing buds, huh?”

Lena makes a point of
changing direction when she sees us, and she steers Paula away with
her, leaning close to tell her something. Paula glances back. If
Paula didn’t know about the Las Pulgas “incident” before, she does
now.

“Guess I was wrong. They
don’t act like buds. Must be two of your miseries.”

“Yes, they are.” With K.T.
the easiest way to make it through a conversation is to say it
straight out.

“Looks like you be in for
one long journey, girl. I’ll catch you later, Des.” She says this
and hobbles away.

My desire for
window-shopping evaporates, so I slouch onto a bench, my legs out,
my head leaned back, staring at the domed mall ceiling.

Forget everything in your
ruined life. Forget Chico and Anthony who lie ready to pounce from
every shadow. Forget Nicolas and Lena and
—

“So!”

“Yikes!” I jump to my feet,
yanked from my gloomy thoughts by Grits, who’s plunked on the bench
next to where I was sitting until he screamed in my ear.

“You move pretty fast,” he
says.

“Right. And now that you’ve
shortened my life by a decade, what do you want?”

He tells me: “Since I
finished my stint at Cal Works last weekend, I won’t see Keith
before school next week. So give him a message, okay? Tell him I’m
working on damage control with Chico and some other butt-heads. You
know, for when he comes back from suspension. Okay? Catch you
later.”

He hauls his long body off
the bench and lopes down the mall, swatting the high fronds of each
potted palm he passes.

Chapter 48

I’m back to the apartment
before four. That should make Mom feel like I’m cooperating when it
comes to Jeb. I am. I’m just not doing it with much
enthusiasm.

As I climb the stairs to
our apartment, angry voices come from behind a closed door. That’s
not unusual, but today they’re not coming from #147; they’re coming
from #148—ours.

The front door practically
bulges with tension as Keith shouts, “I told you I’m not going back
to that stupid school.”

“Yes, you will. You’ll do
exactly that, Keith. You’re finishing this year and maybe the next
at Las Pulgas. We’re Edmunds, and we don’t quit.”

Mom’s using Dad’s words.
She’s using him for support just like she did when he could really
show up and say, “Listen to your mother.”

As if Mom’s pushed a replay
button, I’m back at one of the last grim days in the hospital. Dad,
his eyes hard with pain and morphine, forces each word out. “I’ve
always told you that Edmunds don’t quit.”

That day. I stared out the
window, and instead of letting him know I’d heard what he said, I
watched the people outside—people who weren’t dying. I wished to be
out there, with them, hurrying home for dinner, looking forward to
my favorite TV program. I wished for all this to end, and I hated
what I wished for.