Girl Unmoored Read online

  “There are bugs on my eyelashes?” I yelled at him, my stomach suddenly clawing to get out.

  “Sorry, kiddo,” he said calmly, getting back to his newspaper. “I didn’t write the rules.”

  Now, I looked at Chad’s pitcher. I had to admit, I had been getting some pretty bad headaches.

  “Can I have a sip of that?”

  Chad threw a hand up in the air then let it flop back down on his stomach. So I picked it up, squeezed my eyes shut, and had it almost to my mouth when Mike yelled, “No!” so loudly that a wave of amoebas shot out and splashed onto my face. “Don’t drink that, Apron. Come on, Chad.”

  Chad sat up on his elbows and blinked at me. “Oh yeah, better not.”

  “Chad has a bug,” Mike said walking down the aisle in loud clomps and taking the pitcher from me. Mike gave Chad a hard look, but Chad started swiveling his hips again. “Yup. It’s a bug that I got! So let’s dance ’til we drop! Huh, Mikey?” Then he stood.

  “Uh-oh,” Mike said. But it was too late. Chad had already turned up the music so loud I kept waiting for the Jesus on the rug to fall off. Mike tipped his head back in a smile, then raised his arms and swung his hips, dancing all the way up the aisle again. Even me in my freckles and Lilly Pulitzer dress couldn’t stop moving something. I thought Mike was leaving, but then he locked the door and turned around with a huge smile. “Lord, let the Reverend remember his robes this time!” he prayed to the ceiling.

  And then no one talked and we all got to work. If Mike asked me for lilies, let’s say, he would point his hip out at that pile, and I would twirl around once and hand it to him. And if Chad wanted the asters he might break-dance after I gave it to him. When the vases were full, Mike and I moved on to decorating the pews while Chad rested on the altar.

  We started on the back rows, thumbtacking big thick pink bows at the ends of each one. Most of the time, Chad just sat and watched us, sipping a little of the water, but once in a while he might scoot around on his butt, dancing like he didn’t have legs.

  And even though I had freckles and red hair and almost killed Grandma Bramhall, I danced like I didn’t. I danced like I didn’t know that Rennie was having Jenny Pratt over for the night, and I danced like my dad wasn’t going to ground me for hitting Grandma Bramhall. And mostly, I danced like it was all a mistake—M wasn’t pregnant and she’d be gone by the Fourth of July.

  When we got down to the pew where Mr. and Mrs. Haffenreffer had been sitting, Mike leaned over and picked something up: a long curly piece of white plastic.

  I grabbed for my empty wrist so fast I forgot about the thumbtack in my other hand. Mike was already reading Holly Bramh #08092 out loud when that thumb-tack pierced my skin and I yelled. Mike grabbed my hand, straightened my elbow, and plucked it out. Then he pressed down on top of the bloody spot and screamed, “Chad, turn that crap off!”

  My mom’s broken bracelet was still in his other hand when he lifted his finger to take a look, thinking that was where it hurt.

  11

  Serva me, servabo te.

  Save me, and I will save you.

  Mike and Chad gave me a ride home in the Scent Appeal van.

  “Thanks,” I said when we piled into the front. My wrist was still throbbing a little, but I had a Band-Aid on it now. Chad found it in the glove compartment. My dad hadn’t come back like he said he would, and Mike and Chad had to get going.

  “No problemo,” Mike nodded gunning it out of the church driveway. With the back of the van empty now, it smelled like happiness lost. “Your house is kind of on our way anyway.”

  They had to get back to Scent Appeal to make the wedding party bouquets.

  “You should see the bouquet of bluebonnets and lilies of the valley that Chad is making for the bride,” Mike smiled, driving down Route 88 while Chad flipped through the radio, never stopping on any one song long enough to start caring about it.

  “Yup,” Chad nodded, knocking his shoulder into Mike’s. “When we get married, I’m making that one for me.”

  I looked at Chad. Chad looked at me. But Mike looked straight ahead.

  “What?” Chad shrugged. “We flipped a coin. I’m the bride.” Then he turned to Mike and said, “Right, Mikey? And I get to wear heels.”

  My blood felt like it had been mixed in with baking soda. And Mike must have known because he tightened his jaw. “Cut it out, Chad,” he said seriously. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you today. You’ve got diarrhea of the mouth or something.”

  Which meant it was true: Mike and Chad were gay. I had worried about it a few times when we were decorating, but when you’re inside a church you don’t want to think about that kind of stuff.

  But now, I couldn’t stop looking at them, first Mike, then Chad, and then back to Mike. I had never met a real live gay person before. Even though everyone said Paul Green was one, we all knew he couldn’t be one yet. You can’t be gay until you’re at least old enough to drive.

  Finally Mike turned to me. “Chad’s kidding, Apron. We’re not getting married.”

  I made myself nod and look away.

  “A girl can dream, though,” Chad sighed. “I have a dream,” he said in a deeper voice, wagging his finger, imitating Martin Luther King Jr. exactly. But Mike elbowed him kind of meanly this time, so Chad leaned forward and started switching the channels around again until he found “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go,” turning it up high enough for the glove compartment to rattle.

  The air was different now, though, and all three of us knew it. I hoped Chad couldn’t tell when I moved a little farther away from him.

  “Thanks,” I said after Mike pulled into our driveway.

  “Is anyone home?”

  They both looked at me, Chad’s knee touching Mike’s while I sat with my hands in my lap, rolling up my straight line of a bracelet.

  I shook my head. “But it’s okay,” I said looking into the empty garage ahead of us, which didn’t mean that M wasn’t there. Nurse Silvia could have given her a ride back, her white wedding dress piled up underneath her like a booster seat. You never knew where M might show up.

  “Thanks for the ride,” I pulled the thick metal handle up and stepped out. My high heels sunk into the dirt.

  “Can thirteen-year-olds be home alone?” Chad asked Mike, sliding over and looking down at me like I was an experiment.

  “I don’t know,” I heard Mike say. He left a note for Reverend Hunter saying he had taken me home. “Probably. Apron, is it okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I said shutting the door harder than I meant to.

  Fog was rolling in as I climbed the porch stairs. Mike honked twice. I looked back and waved and watched the van head out. Then the fog blew over my ears and followed me inside.

  “Hello?” I called into the hallway. I was so thirsty my brain was starting to buckle. I heard the long blow of a foghorn outside, but inside, no one was yakking or crying as far as I could tell. My heels clicked across the kitchen floor. This morning seemed like a long time ago now, when I sat at my lobster watching my dad and M get ready for their wedding. M’s dress was already in the car, and she wore high heels and big hair when she came downstairs. She looked different these days. Not young and tan like she did when she was my mom’s nurse, but older, like her skin was starting to get stale. And if you didn’t know about that little whatever in there, you would think she ate half a soccer ball for lunch.

  The kitchen clock said four o’clock, twenty minutes after school got out.

  After I drank half the lemonade, I leaned against the counter. My cereal box was still on the table and dishes were piled in the sink. M wasn’t neat and she wasn’t nice and now she wasn’t even married. I picked up the cereal, climbed onto the counter, and hid it behind a box of instant mashed potatoes.

  Upstairs, my room still smelled like sleep. But there was something new in it too. Which must have been me. Because even though I ruined M’s wedding and almost killed Grandma Bramhall, the truth was I hadn’t
laughed or danced like I had with Mike and Chad since way before my mom died. I slipped my broken bracelet into my sock drawer and decided to go check on the closet while M was gone. I hardly ever got to go in there anymore.

  My dad’s room was starting to smell a lot more like M and her oatmeal now. Pants and socks were everywhere and the bed wasn’t made. Both dressers were covered with M’s tipped over bottles of beauty supplies and there was an open soda can on one of them. I plugged my nose and walked around to the closet.

  There were only three dresses left inside. One was white with daisies on it, one was pink, and one was the velvet one Grandma Bramhall had spilled champagne on a few New Year’s Eves ago. So far, my dad had kept his promise not to let M put her stuff inside. This was the last place on earth that still smelled like my mom.

  I stepped into the dark quickly and shut the door behind me. When I pulled on the light switch hanging from the ceiling, I knocked off an empty hangar. And when I leaned over to pick it up I heard a thud.

  Reverend Hunter’s key.

  It was my fault. I should have remembered to give it back to Mike, except he hadn’t remembered to ask for it. But Mike had promised Reverend Hunter he wouldn’t forget to lock the doors.

  I picked it up and closed the door behind me. Then I went back to my room, found money for the bus, and ran down the stairs. I grabbed my backpack before I hurried out the door.

  It was even foggier outside now. The Scent Appeal van had said Center Street on it and that was near Bramhall Street. You would think those old Bramhalls would have wanted to put something else besides a hospital on their street.

  Just as I was about to run up the dirt road, I heard tires. Mr. Orso was backing out of his driveway in his little white car. Pinto, it said on the back, like the bean.

  I hurried up to his car and waved my arms. When he stopped, I walked to his window. “Sorry to bother you, Mr. Orso. Hi. Um, my grandmother’s in the emergency room. My dad just called. He was wondering, if you could maybe—if it’s not too far out of your way—drive me there?” My skin prickled from the lie, but I didn’t know what time the buses came anymore; it had been more than six months since I’d taken the last one.

  Mr. Orso looked at me like he couldn’t remember where he had seen me before. “I’m Apron,” I said, waiting. He nodded, then brushed off the passenger seat.

  I got in and pulled my backpack onto my lap. His car smelled so clean my nose stung. “Thanks, Mr. Orso.” Sitting this close to him, I could see how much he looked like an elf. Gray hair was growing out of his ears and he had hardly any neck at all.

  “Roger that,” he said. I looked straight ahead while he changed gears and started up the dirt road, barking softly, almost like a hiccup, clearing his throat in between.

  It was Tourette’s syndrome, what he had.

  Mr. Orso slowed down at the top.

  “Maine Med?” he asked staring straight ahead.

  “Yes,” I nodded, so he gunned it left, across the road.

  I didn’t know what else to say after that, sitting this close to him, trying not to notice him trying not to bark. No one should have to bark like that. God might be busy running the world, but he could still take the time to zap the bark out of a guy who probably never even hurt a fly.

  And then we were there, turning onto Bramhall Street and pulling into the emergency entrance.

  Mr. Orso put his bean in park without looking over. “Sure hope Doris is all right.”

  I blinked at him. “You know her?”

  “Ah-yuh,” he said, looking down at his radio. “Went to school together.”

  Grandma Bramhall had never said anything about going to school with Mr. Orso.

  “She was quite a looker back then, Dory,” he said. “Still is.” Then he barked, so we both stared down at his radio, hot shame leaking out of my heart. I wondered if he had barked like that in school, too. And if that was why Grandma Bramhall never talked about him.

  “Thanks, Mr. Orso,” I said. “I’ll tell her you brought me.”

  I grabbed my backpack, opened the door, and stepped out. Somewhere along the line, the fog had cleared and now it was hot, hot.

  I waved. But Mr. Orso didn’t wave back. He just drove off in his bean.

  12

  Damnant quod non intellegunt.

  They condemn what they do not understand.

  Standing in the Maine Med parking lot, I thought about how my life had turned into one giant trip to the hospital.

  I wanted to go in and make sure Grandma Bramhall’s head was up to speed again, but it was too risky. You never knew where M might show up.

  So I walked out of the parking lot. By the time I got to Center Street, my mouth felt like I had been sipping on glue.

  I crossed the street and turned left. This was the crummier part of Portland, where we went to Portland Bagels sometimes. After you’ve tasted those once, though, your mouth spends the rest of its life wanting more. I glanced up at the big digital clock on top of the Bank of Maine and then the sidewalk slammed into me.

  It hit my knees first, then my hands, and after that, my face. My bottom lip felt like a safety pin was being pushed through it. I heard someone scream, which turned out to be me. And then I saw a ladder—the one I hadn’t seen before, but should have.

  Bad things happen in threes, Grandma Bramhall said, and today it was Grandma Bramhall’s chest, my cracked forehead, and now my split lip, which had a flap of skin the size of Maine barely hanging on in there. Two perfectly white sneakers rushed up to me.

  “Hey. Are you okay?”

  I looked up and saw Chad.

  I blinked to make sure, but it was definitely him, in the same clothes he had on before: blue jeans that were too big for him and a light blue T-shirt with Tears for Fears on it. He looked better now, though. Not so sweaty.

  “Apron?” He leaned down. “Is that you?”

  I nodded.

  “Do you wear glasses?”

  I shook my head.

  “So you’re just uncoordinated?”

  I moaned.

  “I like that in a girl,” he said. “But you’re bleeding. You better come in.” He took my backpack and helped me up. Then he spun me toward a window with Scent Appeal painted across it like growing ivy. Except you could barely read it because of what was spray-painted over it: homo and faggot and fudge packer, written in bright red paint.

  “What happened?” I asked, trying to get my fat lip out of the way.

  “A friendly visit from our fan club,” Chad said walking through the door. My heart stung for him. If I had a window on a sidewalk, I bet Jenny Pratt would have spray-painted nasty things about me on it too. I wanted to tell him that, but instead I mumbled, “Sorry,” and followed him in.

  Chad shut the door behind us and locked it. And suddenly it smelled like someone forgot to turn on the gravity. The air was so fresh and light you could practically float on it. Flowers were everywhere, all of them bursting with color. Tin buckets of tuberoses and lilies were lined up on the floor, and smaller flowers like tulips and daisies were sticking out of buckets set on top of old bleached-out lobster traps.

  Chad dropped my backpack on the couch against the wall and said, “Hey, Toby, we got any ice?” then disappeared around the corner.

  Someone said, “Why?” and wheeled out from behind the long counter. I jumped back.

  “Sorry, little lady,” the man in a wheelchair said. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

  He had dark black skin and was wearing all white. His chest and arms were normal looking, but his legs were too skinny and his ankles were too close together. Sadness hit me harder than the sidewalk. “I’m Toby,” he said with a wave.

  “I’m Apron,” I said, my swollen lip getting in the way. “Are you a nurse?”

  His laugh was so deep it sounded like we were sitting at the bottom of Grandma Bramhall’s pool.

  “Only to Chaddie boy,” he said. “But that’s a good lookin’ lip you got there.” He d
idn’t sound like he was from Maine, but from somewhere fancier, like Boston.

  Chad came back holding a paper towel and some ice in a bag. “Hey, Toby, did she tell you she loves my jokes? Watch, I’ll prove it. What did the digital clock say to his mother?” he asked, wrapping the paper towel around the bag of ice before handing it to me.

  “Look ma, no hands,” I answered, taking the ice and tapping that coldness lightly against my lip. “Thanks.”

  Toby laughed at that, the oldest joke on Earth. “Fantastic.”

  “Isn’t it though?” Chad smirked. “She’s fab. She’s also here,” he said putting his hands on his hips and turning to me. “Why?”

  “I was trying to—”

  “Oh, find the hospital,” Chad answered for me. “Is your grammie okay?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, pulling the key out of my pocket. “But I forgot to give this back to you.”

  He widened his eyes and took the key. “Oh, man. Not again.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I slurped through my hunk of lip. On his wrist, there was another black splotch like the one on his cheek.

  “Well. Screw ’em if they can’t take a joke,” he smirked at Toby, who chuckled again. “Hey, how did you know where to find us?”

  “Your van.” I turned toward the window, which from this side looked even worse. The paint was puke-brown and you could see how thick it was, barely letting any light in.

  “Where’s Papa Apron?” Chad asked suspiciously. “Is he waiting for you out there?”

  “I got a ride from my neighbor.” I sucked on my lip. It was getting bigger by the minute. “I’ll probably take the bus home.”

  Chad looked mad. “I knew Mike should have made you stay there and wait for the Reverend. I told him not to mess with dads and kids.”

  “I’m thirteen,” I said, putting the ice on my lip and preparing for the burn.