Such a Pretty Girl (10 page)

I stare at him, knowing I should be more surprised, but instead a dull, steady ache begins at my temples. “Does Andy know? That he should be able to walk, I mean?”

“Yeah, he knows, but you see, it don’t matter,” Nigel says, toying with his lighter and gazing absently at my father’s building. “He’s as paralyzed now as he was the minute it happened.” He shrugs. “You do what you have to do to survive, I guess. You know that better than anybody and what I think of it doesn’t amount to a hill of beans.”

It does to me, but I don’t say so, as the effort is suddenly too much. I shift the box under my arm. “I should get going.”

He shoves his hands deep into his pockets. “Look, your parents went out right before you showed up. You might want to get those cameras installed while they’re gone. Practice a little.” He hands me a battered business card from when he was on the force. “My home and cellphone numbers are there, but if something happens and you can’t get me, buzz 911 and get a cop out here ASAP.”

“I hope I don’t have to.” My stomach is jittering again. “But thanks anyway.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says. I look both ways, then step down onto the hot macadam and plod across the road.

T
he closer I get to home, the harder it is to keep moving forward. I think of Nigel reaching out and Leah Louisa closing ranks, of Andy, whose paralysis runs way deeper than the physical, and of his mother, who craves revenge but is waiting for God to sponsor it.

I think of my father and sunny summer afternoons at the park, of playing catch with a battered old baseball we’d found and later dissected together, taking turns ripping out the stitches holding the worn cowhide closed, unraveling the prickly wool and flattened twine beneath until the hard, dark core was finally revealed. I’d gazed at the unremarkable sphere, hugely disillusioned, and said,
“That’s it? That’s all it is?”

“Well, yeah,” my father says, looking amused. “What were you expecting?”

“Something better,” I say, and throw it away…

Tires crunch and a car passes.

My head jerks up and my eyes refocus, almost as if I’ve been asleep. Frantic, I survey the complex, but nothing else stirs. Oh my God, what am I doing? Forget the heat and the weight of the box. I need to get
moving.

My mother’s car is gone so I bullet in the front door and lock it behind me. Pause, listen to the silence, gauge its weight, sniff the air, and decide I’m alone.

I take the box into my bedroom. Set the teddy on the corner shelf next to my stereo, propped up so the doorway and bed are in full view of the camera. Remove the remotes. Press the bear’s control. Green light on. Shut it off again.

My heart flutters. Halfway there.

I put the smoke alarm remote in my left pocket and the bear’s in my right. Take the alarm cam into the kitchen. Peek out the window into the court. Still deserted.

I can hear myself breathing.

Drag a stool over to beneath the smoke alarm on the ceiling. Lock my fingers around the plastic sides and pull, but it won’t come down. Brush my hair from my eyes. My hand comes away wet. How can I be sweating with the air so cold? “Come on.” I pry off the cover and spot the screws holding the back plate to the ceiling. Oh God, do we even have a screwdriver?

A car door slams outside. I scramble off the stool and peek through the blinds. It’s only the Calvinettis across the court. I rip through the junk drawer for the screwdriver.

I’m shaking so bad I almost fall off the stool.

I take a deep breath and count off in fours. Four plus four is eight. Four plus eight is twelve. Four plus twelve is sixteen. And so on.

My tremors fade. I replace the old alarm with the cam. “I’m building a case,” I say, and the four words become mantra.

It steadies me now but it won’t forever. I’ve done my homework, read books, websites, and message boards, lurked on lists, and even questioned a social worker too exhausted to guard her words, and I know how bad the odds are for girls like me.

We wait to be rescued, but for whatever reason, no one comes. We figure that if no one protects us then we must not be worth protecting so we become prey and are easily picked off. Our wounded, kicked-puppy gazes attract sly predators and we sell ourselves for clearance sale prices, mistaking screwing for caring.

We binge, purge, sleep around. We drink too much and get too high, anything to blot out the past. We accept and endure beatings and humiliations because our fathers, our uncles, and our mothers’ twisted boyfriends said they loved us, too, right before they broke our bones and tore our tissue, right before they made us receive them.

I tighten the first screw. Oh yes, I have done my homework.

We have babies because we want them to love us, to make us important, but they only make us tired and fat and stinking of spit up because they’re
babies,
not saviors. Their fathers leave us, sick of crap and sour milk, sweatpants and tears.

But the babies still need all of us, only there isn’t anything left to give because we based our worth on the lowlifes who knocked us up and around.

So our babies end up screwed up and screwed with because now we’re single again, too, so we’re bringing home guys who secretly like pink satin baby skin more than our silvery stretch marks. We don’t see what we should see because having
anyone
is still supposedly better than being alone.

I know the grim probability of my own future.

The odds are high that the best of me has already been ripped away and that if I don’t keep hold of myself I will lose what’s left. Without the structure of my rules and rituals, I’m a free-for-all open to any guy who wants to hurt me.

And I don’t want to be hurt anymore. I want to be someone who makes it through.

I tighten the final screw. Test the remote.

Put everything away. Slide the cardboard box under my bed.

I’m sorry, Gran, but it has to be this way.

I leave a message on her machine in case she misses the note, saying I had to come home again and that I’ll call her soon. Then I head over to Andy’s.

T
he Mobile Mechanic’s truck is parked next to Ms. Mues’s car and the repair guy is leaning into the Caddie’s engine. He straightens and looks at me. “Hi.”

“Hi,” I say, flustered. It’s been a long time since someone close to my age has been civil. I clear my throat and nod at the car. “Uh, think it’ll make it to Iowa?”

He shrugs. “She runs okay, but the tires show some wear. I don’t know if I’d chance it. Kind of a wing-and-aprayer–type thing.”

“Yeah, that’d be about right,” I say and head for Andy’s.

“You going to Iowa?” he says.

I stop and look at him. Tall, skinny, damp blond hair curling out from under a red bandanna. Curious smile. “Not me. My…them.” I point to the Mueses’ door and see Andy watching from behind the glass. “Well, I better get going.”

“Hey.” He waits until I turn back to him. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Meredith,” I say finally.

He leans a hip against the side of the car. “You live around here?”

I nod cautiously.

“You always so suspicious?”

I nod again.

“Okay.” His eyes dance with amusement. “So Meredith, you got a boyfriend?”

The only word I can manage is, “Why?”

He laughs. “Why? Because maybe I want to ask you out sometime.”

“Meredith?”

I whirl, spell broken, and see Andy’s head poke out the back door.

“Are you coming in or what?” he asks.

“Yeah.” My voice is scratchy. I clear my throat. “Yeah.” Look back at the Mobile Mechanic who watches me, eyebrow quirked. “I…see you.” I head for the steps, heart pounding.

“Give me a call sometime,” the mechanic says. “You know where to find me.”

I wave without turning and slip past Andy’s wheelchair into the cool kitchen.

“What was that all about?” he says, closing the door.

“That? Nothing. Oh, he says your car will probably make it to Iowa.” I grab a glass and fill it with water. Why do I feel guilty? I didn’t do anything. He’s the one keeping secrets.

“Oh yeah? What else did he say?”

I hear something new in Andy’s voice.

“He hit on you, didn’t he?” he continues, rolling up alongside of me.

“I guess,” I say as if it isn’t a miracle.

He hoists his bottle, hesitates, and wedges it back between his thighs. “Did you tell him you already had a boyfriend?”

No. Almost. I was going to, but it happened so fast…. I glance at his legs, still as stones and thinner than when he’d first moved in. “What if the victim soul cures you?” I say instead. “What’s gonna happen when you can walk again?”

“What do you mean?” He hooks a finger into my side pocket and tugs me closer. Slides an arm up around my waist and tries to pull me down onto his lap.

I ease free and wander over to the table. Run my finger along a spent incense stick and tap the long ash into the tray. “You know what I mean. You’ll get a job and a car and a real life and then what?”

“Then I have a job and a car and we can go places and do things like normal people.” He uncaps the bottle and drinks. Coughs and rubs his eyes. “I don’t know what you’re getting at, Mer. Don’t you want me to walk again?”

In a perfect world, yes, and I’d be there to stand with him, dance with him, lay down with him. In this world, no, because if he can walk then he’ll walk away. “It’s not that, it’s just that you’re putting all your faith into this victim soul person instead of…I don’t know, other things…and I’m just afraid you’re going to be disappointed.”

“Are you?” he says. “Because it doesn’t sound that way at all.”

I stare at the table.

“Well,” he says finally, flicking back a strand of hair. “I’d better get packing. We’re leaving early tomorrow.” He rolls his chair forward and back a few times, the equivalent of tapping his foot with impatience.

“I won’t keep you then.” I put my glass in the sink. “’Bye.”

He touches my arm. “Come on, Meredith. I have to do this.”

“I know.” My voice is distant. “I’m not stopping you.”

“Yeah, you are.” He rolls in front of me, forcing me to look at him. “Now I have to leave knowing you’re pissed at me and Mr. Mechanic’s right out there waiting for you.”

“What does this have to do with
him
?”

“He can walk, Mer. How am I supposed to compete with that?”

Oh God, he has this all wrong. “I’m not asking you to compete. I don’t
want
you to. I just want everything to stay the way it is.”

“Yeah, well, it can’t.” He backs up and wheels around me.

“Andy.”

“Look, when I get back I’ll walk over and knock on your door,” he says with a crooked smile. “Then we can start all over again. How does that sound?”

I push the fluttery panic away. Lean down and rest my forehead against his. “It sounds good.” I kiss him and run out before he can see the lie in my eyes.

Down to the sidewalk. Past the Mobile Mechanic, who’s on a cellphone, and keep right on going. Step off the curb into the court—

My back door opens and my father struggles out, carrying bags of garbage.

There’s no way to duck out of sight.

He looks over at the Dumpster and right at me. “Meredith.”

“What?” Amazingly, my voice comes out sullen with no ripples of fear.

He opens his mouth. Looks at the mechanic and at me. “Meredith, come here, please.” His tone is deceptively pleasant. “I’d like to talk to you.”

Yeah, I bet he would, seeing as how our last conversation sent me diving out the window to escape. “So talk. I can hear you fine from here.”

He holds my gaze, but I don’t move, and he finally breaks the stand-off. “Have it your way, then, but I could use a little help,” he says, limping down the steps and lugging the garbage toward the Dumpster. The bags are unwieldy, banging against his legs, with the white gauze covering one knee….

I scurry around scooping up Barbie stuff, cramming both hands full, using every single finger because he’s promised that if I clean up my mess before the second hand sweeps the twelve, we’ll go for ice cream. Breathless, I race to the carrying case, but the lid is shut. I try to flip it open with my bare foot but the catch is locked. “Daddy!” I cry, as the second hand ticks closer to the twelve. I’ve cleaned up my mess but I’m still going to lose. “Help me! I can’t do it by myself!”

Laughing gently, he bends and flips open the case. “Easy, it’s not the end of the world. Next time make sure everything’s ready to go before you start, okay?”

“Okay.” I quickly cram Barbie and her belongings away. Peer at the clock and wilt. The second hand is past the twelve. I didn’t make it. I lose.

“C’mon, silly girl,” he says, tugging me to my feet. “This was a learning lesson. I figure that’s still good for one scoop, right?”

“Right!” My eyes magically dry and my heart swells with love. I hug him because he helped me and one scoop is still better than nothing….

The ache starts in my chest and spreads through my veins. The abuse I can handle; it’s the happiness that cripples me.

I go over and pluck a bag from his grasp. “There. Open it.”

“Thanks,” my father says as if determined to be pleasant. “Looks like they spiffed this thing up recently. Nice paint job.” He lifts the lid and heaves his bag up over the side. “Whew, it still stinks, though.” Tosses my bag in, too, and lowers the lid. “I looked for you, you know. Ran around like an idiot until I got your mother’s message. Are you going to put me through that again or are we gonna go in and talk like normal human beings?”

“Why do I have to go in? It’s summer and it’s Saturday.”

He turns his back on the mechanic and says quietly, “Well, did you ever think that it’s been years and I might want to spend some time with you?” His golden baseball catches the sun and flashes like a lighthouse warning of treacherous reefs below.

I wonder if Andy’s watching us. I wonder if the mechanic can hear this.

“I’ve missed you,” my father continues. “I’d lay there at night remembering how great we were together, wondering what it would be like if it was just the two of us, if it was
you
I was coming home to. Did you ever think about that, Chirp?”

No, I have never thought about that. Never, on purpose.

“You know what I wish?” he says, stroking the bangs from my forehead.

I lie dead beneath his hands. I am shrunken and shriveled inside, a rotten chestnut hidden beneath a deceptively smooth shell.

“I wish we could make it just you and me,” he says. “No one but us. I don’t love anybody in the whole world as much as I love you. Maybe someday….”

A door slams behind me and the sound of the Calvinetti twins’ squabbling echoes across the court. They’re fighting over a soccer ball and don’t see us. I watch, stomach sinking, as my father discovers them. Close my eyes and want to scream at the boys for being stupid enough to be seen. They know what he is and what he’ll do. Why didn’t they just go out their patio door and play in the backyard, safely out of sight? Why are they out here sweating and galloping around right in front of us? Can’t they smell his desire? Can’t they feel—

“No,” I blurt to squash my rising panic.

My father looks back at me, startled. “What?”

I shake my head, too miserable to speak. I know now that I’m the only one who really understands the threat and if I’m ever going to be free of him, really free, once and for all, then I will have to bite the bullet and spend time in his company. Stake out the sacrificial lamb. Uncoil the rope so he can hang himself.

“Anyway.” He touches my hand. “There’s so much I have to tell you. I was going to keep a journal, but you know how lousy my chicken scratch is. Well, that and I couldn’t risk anybody else seeing it. That’s why all my letters were so lame. Can’t be too careful, right?” His laugh is bitter. “Besides, I’d much rather talk in person. What do you say?”

He’s manipulating me and I have to let him. What comes next will be ugly.

In his mind, I am the pure, sweet milk and honey of the Promised Land.

In mine, he’s the pointy-toothed cannibal turning the spit at hell’s barbecue.

But I have what he wants, and when he reaches for it…

I step around him. “Coming?” I toss over my shoulder, heading for home.