“Talking.”
“With me?”
“Obviously.”
I fold my hands in my lap. It would be ungrateful to just walk off. I wait to see what he wants. I’m also a little curious.
“I’ve been wanting to ask you something,” he says.
“Oh great.”
“What’s your deal with Blow Pops?” he asks. “Because you seemed pretty pissed when I brought you one. Wrong flavor?”
I laugh and tell him the story about Retha, leaving out any hints that she did it because I think he’s hot. Without those details, she sounds like a real sociopath.
“I have to admit,” Cameron says, chuckling. “That’s hilarious. And if it makes you feel any better, I wouldn’t have gone out to the car for a blow job. I do have standards. I mean, they’re low. But I have them.”
“That’s good to know,” I say.
Cameron exhales and leans his head on the seat, turning to look at me. “So how did you end up here?” he asks.
“Here?”
“In Brooks Academy.”
“It’s a long, tragic story,” I say. “You?”
“I asked you first.”
I resist the urge to answer with “I asked you second.” Instead I say, “I got in a fight.” Which is mostly true.
“Schools don’t expel kids just for fighting,” Cameron says. “Trust me.”
“Mine did.”
“No,” he says, studying me. “Why did they really kick you out?”
I swallow hard, turning away from him. “Maybe I just left, and they didn’t kick me out.”
“Why’d they kick you out, Savannah?”
I look at him, startled by the sound of my name. It’s strange hearing it from him. It’s also exhilarating. He meets my eyes.
“What did you do?” he asks, softer.
“I stabbed someone with my pencil.” It sounds like a lie. I wish it were.
“Why?”
He doesn’t question it? Should I be offended? Do I look like someone who walks around stabbing people with pencils?
“He was a jock asshole,” I say.
“Why’d you stab him?”
“What’s with the twenty questions?” I ask, mocking his tone. I need to go. I shouldn’t just be sitting in his car like this. I hardly know him.
“Because you don’t seem the type that would go for jock assholes,” he says. “So why’d you do it?”
There’s a burn of shame in my chest, crawling its way up my throat. “Maybe I used to be,” I say. “Besides, I told you it was a long, tragic story. One I don’t feel like fucking reciting for you. How’s that for why?”
Cameron grins at me. “You know you have some anger management issues?”
He catches me off guard, and I fight back my smile. “I’ve heard that once or twice.”
“Me too,” he says, and looks down.
Really? That seems unlikely. He’s way too calm for that.
He turns to me. “Did you stab him because he was a jock asshole or was there a better reason?”
“Of course there was a better reason. He was my boyfriend.”
“Huh. Remind me never to ask you out, then.”
It’s getting late. My father will get home soon and I shouldn’t be out here with a boy when he does.
“Was that it?” Cameron asks. “Did he cheat on you or something?”
“No. That would have been easy.”
I close my eyes. It’s none of his business, but . . . I want to tell him. Goddamn it. I want him to know that I’m not just some delinquent. I had a reason. Nobody cared, but I had one.
“Well?” he asks.
I open my eyes and look at him. “He called my brother a retard,” I say, and it still hurts. It still digs into my soul. “In class, Patrick called Evan a retard, so I grabbed my pencil, and I rammed it through his hand. Thus, I was removed from the educational system.”
Cameron’s silent, and I immediately regret telling him. He thinks I’m a lunatic. I probably am.
“That’s pretty intense,” he says after a moment. I’m surprised by his reaction. He doesn’t look nearly as freaked out as I’d expect.
“I’m guessing you didn’t assault anyone?” I ask.
“Nope.”
“What did you do?”
Cameron watches me and then starts his car. He nods toward my house. “Didn’t you say you had to get home?”
Shut down. I feel betrayed, spilling my guts to him and not getting any guts in return. “You’re not going to tell me?” I ask.
“I’m trying to stay mysterious. How else am I going to coax you back into my car?”
“You’re not,” I say. I grab the door handle, my heart racing, and pull my backpack from the floor. I climb out and jog through the rain toward my porch.
“See you at school, Sutton,” Cameron calls from the driver’s window.
I get to my door and turn to the car. “Go home,” I yell back. Cameron smiles, unfazed by my attitude. He rolls up the window and drives away.
I stand there, watching until he’s gone. And when he is, I smile to myself and walk inside.
CHAPTER FIVE
Cameron doesn’t come to school the next day, which is just as well. I spent the night stressing over what I’d say to him now. I shouldn’t have let him drive me home. Shouldn’t have shown him where I live. I bet I stopped being interesting the moment he got back to the right side of town. Retha said she should cut school more often—maybe then I’d get some. I told her I was all set, but thanks.
Today’s a Kathy day—at least it is now. She called shortly after I got home from school and asked if she could see Evan because it’s her husband’s birthday and they’re having cake. I would have said no—it’s not her turn and it means a long weekend, but I used up the last box of mac ’n’ cheese and we have no other food.
I get my brother ready, and then I wait for Kathy on the front porch while Evan puts on his shoes in his bedroom.
Kathy shows up at exactly five and parks her minivan in the driveway. I watch her climb the porch steps. She’s wearing a long, quilted coat with mittens on her hands like she’s about to build a damn snowman with my brother.
It’s not even that cold out, but her smile is decidedly chilly. Not cruel, but not sweet either. Like she’s afraid I’ll snap at any minute.
“Savannah,” she says, nodding to me.
“Kathy,” I reply, purposely leaving off the “Aunt” to hurt her feelings. I have a reason to be angry with her. It’s not just about her turning her back on me. It’s about Evan. Kathy thinks I’m a dangerous felon. That I’m untrustworthy, unfit. She wants to take my brother away from me.
Well, fuck her. She can’t have him. He doesn’t belong to her. I step aside to let her inside the house.
“Have you been going to school?” she asks, glancing over my clothes.
“I never miss a class,” I answer, wanting to roll my eyes. Like she cares.
“That’s good,” she says. “Will you graduate?”
Of course I’m going to graduate. Just because I stabbed somebody, once, it doesn’t make me a dumbass. “In June like everyone else,” I say, maybe a little bitchy.
Her mouth opens for a second, but she closes it, ending the conversation. Kathy looks a lot like my mother, only older and more serious. It’s another strike against her. She hasn’t heard from my mom since she left, and she’s given up asking if I’ve talked to her either.
Evan walks out from his bedroom and squeals when he sees our aunt. “Aunt Kathy!” He runs into her arms. I shift uneasily.
“Hi, honey,” she says, hugging him and running her mitten over his hair.
I did my best to get Evan ready for her—his face is washed, and he’s wearing the only shirt I could find without stains. Yet Kathy still looks at me as if I’ve left him in the wild to be raised by wolves.
She turns her gaze back to my brother. “How are you today?” she asks, smiling down at him.
&n
bsp; “Good,” he says, beaming under her attention. “But Savannah said there’s no more macaroni and cheese.”
“We’ll fix you something nice,” she tells him, and then looks up at me. “He really should be eating more vegetables.”
“I’ll let the chef know,” I respond.
Kathy’s expression hardens, but before she can dive into the benefits of green-leafy-shit-that-Evan-won’t-eat, Evan squeezes Kathy around the waist, growing impatient. She starts to walk him toward the door, but stops abruptly like she forgot something.
“Oh,” she says. “I made Evan an appointment at the dentist for Monday afternoon.”
It’s a shot to the gut. “But I can’t,” I say. “I’m in school.”
“Savannah, he’s never been to the dentist. He’s seven.”
It’s an accusation, proof of my failure. “That’s not true,” I say defensively. “They check him at school every year.”
Kathy’s expression flips from annoyed to sympathetic, like I’m a kid who doesn’t know any better. “They don’t do X-rays there,” she says, “and he needs a proper visit. It’s important.” She sighs, and Evan takes her keys from her hand and plays with the toys she’s attached to them for his benefit.
“Look,” she says to me. “I can take him. I’ll pick him up from school, go to the appointment—get him an ice cream after. Then I’ll bring him back by six.”
“Okay, fine,” I say. “But he has to be back by six. He has homework.”
“I can help him with his homework.”
“No,” I snap, but feel immediately apologetic when Evan looks up, alarmed by my tone. “No, that’s my job.”
“Savannah,” Kathy says, taking a step closer to me and lowering her voice. “I’d like to take Evan one more day per week. We can make it long weekends or midweek—whatever’s easiest for you. I know you’re doing your best, but I think—”
I don’t care what she thinks. She already gets Evan enough—nearly as much as I do. But before I can tell her no, she puts her hand on my arm.
“I’m not your mother,” she says gently. “And I’m not trying to be.” I yank away from her, not realizing how much that sentiment would hurt me. Kathy must see her effect, because she tucks her hands in the pockets of her coat.
“We’ll use the extra day for Evan’s speech therapy appointments,” she says, as if it’s a compromise. “Surely you see the benefit in that.”
I wish her argument didn’t make sense. But it does. I’m always late to Evan’s appointments—it’s hard to get across town on the bus, especially when I have to scrape together the funds for us. This would be good for Evan—I know that. But it still makes me feel threatened.
“Let’s go, Aunt Kathy,” Evan whines, growing bored of the key chain. I expect Kathy to scold him, but she’s patient. It’s painful to admit that she’s more patient than I am.
“Savannah?” she says, waiting for my answer.
“I’ll think about it,” I tell her. She waits a beat, and then nods, probably reading that the answer is a reluctant yes.
She takes Evan’s hand. “Say good-bye to Savannah.”
“Bye!” Evan yells to me, waving wildly.
“Bye, buddy.” I lean down and kiss his forehead. “Don’t torture Old Aunt Kathy too much. She can’t keep up with you like I can.”
“Old,” he repeats, then laughs.
“Good-bye,” Kathy says cordially, and heads toward the door.
I don’t say anything back. I watch as she holds my little brother’s hand and walks out of our house and into her waiting minivan. Evan likes her, so their closeness shouldn’t hurt me as much as it does. She is family, and Evan needs someone like her in his life. Someone mature and patient. Someone who can make a dentist appointment. But there’s no way she loves him like I do.
I wave from the porch so that Evan can see me, and when they’re gone I exhale heavily—worried, but also partly relieved that he’ll eat well tonight.
* * *
When my father gets home just after dark, I spend forty minutes trying to convince him to give me money for groceries. He stands at the kitchen sink, washing engine grease from his hands. He shuts off the water and shakes his palms dry before popping the top on his beer.
“How do I know you’re really going to buy food?” he asks.
“Because who else gets the food around here?” I ask, disgusted. “Not you.”
Not really me, either. Most of it comes from the food bank. Retha’s mom picks me up a bag once a week when she goes, but Evan’s been eating more lately. He’s growing so fast.
I work when I can and use the money for food, but because I take care of Evan, my available hours are limited. None of the places keep me on beyond a few weeks.
My father drinks from his beer, watching me, distrusting me. “You going to buy alcohol?” he asks.
I scoff. “No.”
“Drugs?”
“Don’t be stupid.” He’s pissing me off. “Look, do you want to eat or not?” I ask him. “There’s nothing here—not even mac ’n’ cheese. So if you want to go grocery shopping, have fun. Just bring back food.”
My father sets his can on the counter and scratches his head. His reddish brown hair has gotten long. It looks dirty, unwashed. “I don’t want to go,” he says after a pause.
“Well?” I ask. “Then I need money to shop with.”
He sighs, annoyed. Like I’m the problem. Like everything is my fault. Or Evan’s. My dad pulls his wallet from the back pocket of his grease-stained jeans and opens the billfold. He gives me forty dollars. I forget to thank him, and walk out to call for a ride.
* * *
I’m relieved the minute I get out of my house and into Travis’s car. The smell of his car is more familiar than the scent of my own house. More comfortable, too. I’m beginning to have trouble remembering what my father was like before he was a drunk. Before my mother left us. When I’m with my friends, we don’t have to talk about it because they get it.
“Hey,” Retha says, looking back at me from the front seat. “I have to go to the mall first, and then we’ll go to the grocery store.”
“Come on,” I whine. “I hate the mall.”
“Don’t care.” Retha adjusts the radio, turning it up loud enough to drown out my voice. I reach between the seats to turn it down and appeal to Travis.
“Don’t do this to me,” I tell him.
He shakes his head. “Sorry, Savvy. I’ve already been outvoted.”
“Technically, that’s not possible,” I say.
“It is with Retha. Besides, I’m just the driver. I’ll meet up with you later. I hate the mall.”
“Bastard.”
He chuckles.
Mall shopping sucks, especially without money. I’m not sure what Travis had to barter to get out of this, but he drops us off at the entrance. I follow Retha into the mall and she drags me to five different stores where I wait for her to try on clothes. It’s basically hell.
When I was in middle school I used to hang out at the mall. My family never had extra money, but we had enough to get by. My father was at least working steadily then. My friends and I would eat pizza and watch cute boys. It was so superficial and stupid. I pause, realizing that I can’t even remember what it felt like then, free from responsibility. So much has changed.
Retha grabs the sleeve of my hoodie and yanks me forward. “Hurry up,” she says. “Travis is meeting us in the food court in like ten minutes, and I want to go to Old Navy.”
“I can’t,” I say, untangling my shirt from her grasp. “You’re killing me. Why don’t you go get the jeans, and I’ll wait with Travis?” I nod like this is the best idea in the world.
She stops dead and turns to me. “You know I need you to tell me how my ass looks. How am I supposed to get jeans without a second ass opinion? Mirrors lie.”
“Oh, please. You know you look fantastic in everything you wear. Now, meet me in front of Subway.”
“You suck
,” she says. “Tell Travis to get me a turkey sub.” She turns away and starts down the hall.
I make my way toward the bright lights and overwhelming smells of the food court. Subway is the only decent restaurant left. The pizza place shut down, and the Wok Shop lets their food sit out from open to close.
I scan the large area and find a ton of empty tables, but no Travis. I locate a spot near the fountain that’s out of the way but not out of sight, so he and Retha will be able to find me.
I sit and fold my hands on the table. My stomach growls with hunger. I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and that was a half-crushed cupcake that Retha gave me.
Hopefully Travis will buy me dinner. I don’t have any money to spend; I never do. All I have is the cash for groceries and that’s for Evan.
I glance around the food court and watch as people feed their kids french fries, toss away nearly full plates of food, or try to use chopsticks unsuccessfully.
Within minutes I’m bored out of my mind and I’m starting to stress about Travis. Whenever he’s late, it’s either because he fell asleep or he got high. He better be asleep.
“Hey, Slutton,” a voice calls loudly.
My heart seizes, and a mix of humiliation and anger crawls over my skin. I keep my head down, but I have to give my ex-boyfriend credit for coming up with Slutton. I didn’t think he was that clever.
“Hey,” he says louder, as if the problem is that I didn’t hear him the first time. Several people turn to stare. A mother looks concerned. Aw, hell. I turn around.
“Fuck off, Patrick,” I say in a low voice.
He glares at me from next to the fountain. He’s exactly the same: short brown hair and icy blue eyes. Patrick’s cute enough to make him popular, because that way, people don’t try to look too deep inside. And he’s rotten.
Luckily he’s also alone. The last thing I need is a bunch of ex-friends and an ex-boyfriend harassing me.
“Now, is that nice?” Patrick asks, his mouth pulled into a sneer.
“Nicer than you deserve. Yes.”
He clenches his oversize jaw and slides his hands into the pockets of his khakis. I wonder if he’s trying to cover up the scar from where I stabbed him.