Girl Wonder (7 page)

“Good. That's very good.” Neal rubbed his hands together like he couldn't wait to mold me into a speaker extraordinaire.

“I should probably get going,” I said, terrified of the moronic things I might do or say if I stuck around any longer.

“Get that application in soon,” Neal said. “Like tomorrow, if possible. Our first tournament is less than six weeks away. Oh, and you should give me your application directly. I'll put in a good word with the coach.”

“Thanks,” I said, stuffing the application into my backpack.

“What's your name?” he asked as I turned to leave.

“Charlotte. Charlotte Locke.”

Like Amanda, he didn't introduce himself.

For dinner, Mom made steak and mashed potatoes. What was she thinking? This was not blood-pressure-friendly fare.

“These potatoes are great,” Dad proclaimed after he'd taken his first bite. Then, “How was everyone's day?”

“There's a science fair next month,” James Henry said. “I'm going to do my project on mushrooms. Milton said he'd help me.”

Mom perked up. “Milton Zacharias?”

“Do we know any other Miltons?” I asked.

My brother took a big gulp of his protein drink and said, “Milton told me this is the perfect time of year for mushrooms—especially with all the rain we've had.”

“I think mushrooms are cool,” Mom said.

Dad looked thoughtful. “Maybe I'll add a mushroom scene to my next book.”

Annoyed, I asked, “Isn't anyone worried that Milton's going to teach James Henry about psychedelic mushrooms?”

My brother shook his head emphatically. “Milton had a friend who almost died doing 'shrooms. Besides, he's not like that.”

I'd heard enough about Milton.

“How were your classes today?” I asked Mom.

“Great,” she said. “A couple of my Victorian Literature students came up to tell me how much they're enjoying the class.” She cleared her throat. “Actually—I've been thinking that I might want to turn this course into a book.”

“That's a good thought,” Dad said. “Seems like a perennial topic in academic circles.”

“In
academic circles
?”

Dad laughed. “C'mon, Margot. A book on the Victorians is University Press material.”

“I'd read it,” I said.

Mom gave my arm a little squeeze.

“Any headway on your college applications?” Dad asked me.

Was he gearing up to give me a lecture on all the ways I wasn't cutting the mustard? Well, he was in for a surprise tonight. “They're not due for a while yet,” I said. “But I have been thinking of some ways to make myself stand out.”

“Oh, yeah?”

It was all I could do not to smirk. “I'm going out for the debate team. I talked to the captain today.”

Dad nearly dropped his fork. “That's nice to hear, Charlotte.”

Mom gave me a funny look. “Do you have an interest in public speaking?”

I shrugged. I had an interest in being eloquent. Wasn't that the same thing?

“Debate is an excellent foundation for a legal career,” Dad said, shaking some A1 sauce onto his plate. “We'll need a lawyer in the family if James Henry is going to be a stockbroker.”

“Dude.” My brother took a big gulp of his protein drink. “I'm going to be a professional snowboarder, remember?”

“Dude. You can be both.”

“Is there an application for debate?” Mom asked. “Or do you have to try out?”

“It's all written. There's a topic. We're supposed to write a three-page essay arguing either for or against it.”

“What's the topic?”

“Juveniles charged with violent crimes should be tried and punished as adults.”

My brother made a sizzling sound. “Let them fry.”

“James Henry Locke!” Mom exclaimed.

“I'd be happy to look over your essay when you're done,” Dad offered.

“We'll see.”

Mom glared at me. I could practically hear what she was thinking:
He's trying, sweetie
. Though I could have used the help on the essay—I had no comprehension of the legal system, juvenile or otherwise—the last thing I needed was Dad pointing out any more of my mistakes.

After dinner, James Henry and I watched an old French film called
An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge
. It was about a Civil War soldier sentenced to hang, and it was a total mind trip. Right as the soldier's noose goes taut, the rope breaks. The soldier plummets to the river below and escapes his pursuers. Slowly, he works his way back home. Just when he finally sees his wife, there's a sickening sound and a flash of light—the entire movie up to this point had been the elaborate fantasy of a man on the gallows. The soldier hangs for real. The credits roll as his body twists in the wind.

I stayed up all night working on the debate essay. Before class the next morning, I trekked up to the GATE wing, where I spotted Neal right away. He was sitting on the floor in the lounge area, knees bent, his head resting against the wall. Eyes closed, he was flipping a silver pen around and around his thumb.

Was he practicing a speech? Contemplating the meaning of life? Dreaming of me, perhaps?

Fat chance.

I noticed I wasn't the only girl watching him.

Just when he opened his eyes, I lost my nerve and retreated back downstairs. Writing was such a personal thing. If not for my actual words, Neal would judge me for my thoughts. I took the coward's approach and handed in my application to the school secretary.

M
y second day and then my third day in the library, Amanda failed to show. “She has a legitimate excuse,” the librarian said, sighing as if she wished it were otherwise. I couldn't tell if she missed Amanda or if she simply wanted to nail her for being delinquent.

On Thursday, about ten minutes after lunch began, Amanda waltzed into the library as if she owned it. “Love the scarf,” she said, gesturing at the turquoise one I was wearing around my neck.

“It was my grandmother's,” I said proudly. I'd spent a lot of time in front of the mirror this morning trying to decide if I had the guts to wear it. Unlike the rest of my outfit—dark jeans and black T-shirt—it was not subdued. “It's from the seventies,” I added.

Amanda frowned. “You should wear it more off-center,” she said, and retied it for me with fingers as smooth and cold as pearls. Then she stood back and admired her work. “So much better. It was too old-lady the way you had it.”

Amanda reminded me of a French actress today. She was wearing skinny jeans, high-heeled boots, and a cool black raincoat. “I like your boots,” I said.

“Aren't they amazing?” She glanced down and wiggled her toes. “I got these in Buenos Aires last month.”

“You've been to Argentina?”

“I've been all over the world,” she said matter-of-factly. “My dad's an infectious disease specialist. He specializes in tropical medicine and contracts with the CDC. He has a very high level of security clearance. Some of his research is…controversial. You know. With PETA people.”

Flopping down in a chair, she tossed her enormous book bag onto the table, not in the least concerned that she'd just spilled half its contents. Noticing the book that was emerging from her bag, my eyes grew very wide.

No! It couldn't be!

“This?” Amanda caught me staring and picked it up. “You have to read it. It's the literary equivalent of a Tarantino film. You can totally borrow it when I'm finished.” She flipped to the author photo on the back jacket. “Don't you think he looks like George Clooney? Yum. He writes the best sex scenes!” she exclaimed, fanning herself.

“Stop! Please!” I covered my ears.

“What—are you a prude or something?”

“Julian Locke is my father.”

She snorted. “That's a good one.”

I grabbed my cell phone and scrolled through some pictures. “There,” I said, handing it to her. “That's him with my brother.”

“Shut up!” Her mouth dropped. “That's only like the coolest thing ever!”

“I guess.”

“Omigod!” she said, rocking back in her chair and staring at me as if seeing me in an entirely new light. “Were you the inspiration for Lily?”

“Me? Like Lily? Shit no!” I said, turning bright red.

“That must be awkward, huh?”

Glancing over at the librarian's office, Amanda said, “Dragon lady seems to be MIA for the moment. I'm
dying
for a smoke. You?” Without waiting for an answer, she dragged me back to the library restroom. “Stand guard,” she ordered, clamoring up onto the sink in her boots. After opening the small skylight window, she pulled out a red and gold pack of cigarettes. “Do you like Dunhills?”

Though I'd never smoked before, I shrugged nonchalantly.

“They're all I ever smoke,” she said, exhaling perfectly formed doughnut rings. “I'm on probation right now, so it's kind of a big deal if I get caught. Not that I'd miss this place.”

I couldn't help but stare while Amanda smoked. She smoked in a way that made you forget that smoking was bad for you. She held her cigarette as if it were some natural extension of her body. When she exhaled, it was like she was breathing out her thoughts.

It looked artful and pretty, like dancing.

“How often do you see your boyfriend?” I asked, to fill the sudden silence.

She sighed loudly. “Not nearly enough. He goes to school in Portland. I talked to him last night, though. He says we're destined to be together.”

“You say that like it's a bad thing. It sounds like he worships you.”

“Maybe.” She blew on the glass of the skylight and traced a heart. Then she rubbed it out. “But who wants to be committed at seventeen?”

“I wouldn't mind having a boyfriend,” I said, leaning toward the mirror and dabbing a lash out of my eye. “I could use a little action.”

“Too bad the guys at school all suck,” she said.

“Yeah.” I cleared my throat. “They're such tadpoles.”

She hooted at this. “You're totally crushing on someone!”

“There's no one,” I declared, feeling my face grow hot.

She wiggled her fingers at me in this witchy way. “No one keeps secrets from Madame Amanda.”

I laughed nervously.

To my relief, she changed the subject. “I still can't get over who your dad is. You and I were so meant to be friends. It's fate.”

“Fate,” I agreed, trying to ignore the slightly queasy feeling I had in my gut. It's just the cigarette smoke, I told myself.

Climbing down from the sink, she offered me a Dunhill. “Go ahead.”

I waved my hand in a blasé way. “I wish! But I'm just getting over a chest cold.”

On Friday night, after I'd gone to bed, my parents had a huge fight. It sounded like my mom was grilling my dad about some credit card charge. Mom thought Dad was spending irresponsibly. Dad thought he was entitled to spend like a movie star now that his book was starting to receive critical attention.

Because of their shouting, I didn't fall asleep until very late. When I finally drifted off, I dreamed about Neal. In my dream I was in college, and he was my economics professor. He'd asked me to stop by his office to discuss my grade. I was failing his class because I couldn't grasp the concept of the law of supply and demand. “It's basic math!” he kept shouting. I was trying to tell him that this was the problem, but couldn't seem to make my mouth form words.

I awoke to a loud pounding on my door. Keys in hand, purse slung over her shoulder, my mother announced, “We're getting out of here.”

“Huh?”

“Road trip,” she said. “You. Me. James Henry. Now. Throw on some clothes.”

“Are you and Dad okay?” I asked. “I heard you…”

“Your father—” She shook her head. “We're not getting along.”

I didn't ask her to elaborate. I wasn't sure I wanted to hear what she might say.

By eleven a.m. we'd reached the outskirts of Aberdeen, Washington, “the town that gave the world Kurt Cobain,” James Henry reminded us for the third time.

“And possibly the bleakest place in all of North America,” I proclaimed.

The town sat where two rivers converged, just before they emptied into the aptly named Grays Harbor. The nickel color of the sluggish water mimicked the color of the sky. A layer of grit coated every surface in town, from the burned-out neon signs to the paint peeling away from the fishing boats. Houses that in other places you might call fixer-uppers just looked plain hopeless in Aberdeen. Locals shuffled listlessly down the streets, apparently unaware of the rain beating down upon their backs.

“I'm hungry,” James Henry said.

“We can fix that,” Mom said, pulling into the parking lot of a dubious-looking restaurant/lounge called the Sawmill.

“Today's special is gizzards,” the hostess said, plopping down our menus.

“‘Spotted owl tastes like fried chicken,'” James Henry said, reading a dusty poster on the wall. “Since when do people eat owls?”

“It's a relic,” Mom said, slipping on her reading glasses to look at the menu. “Back in the nineties, when the spotted owl was put on the endangered species list, this area of the country was a political hotspot.” She looked up. “The Olympic Peninsula is prime timber country. The spotted owl lives in old-growth forests. Suddenly these people who'd been logging for generations were facing massive restrictions as to where and how they could do their work.”

“Wow,” I said. “That's sad for everyone.”

Mom took a sip of cloudy water. “Actually—the issue has been heating up again. The spotted owl isn't making such a great comeback. And with the way the former administration loosened environmental restrictions…Oh, hello,” she said to our waitress—a woman with frizzy eighties hair and too much base makeup.

“I want a burger,” James Henry said, snapping his menu shut. “The grown-up kind.”

The woman wrinkled her nose. “Me, I'd order the pizza. We're not supposed to let folks know, but they're the frozen kind. That's a good thing around here,” she said, lowering her voice. “Chef 's on a bender again.”

“Pizza it is,” Mom said.

When the pizza arrived, it tasted like cardboard, but at least it was good and hot. We were the only ones eating in the establishment, although there were a few guys watching football at the bar. One of them sent my mom a beer. “With compliments,” the waitress said, setting it down.

“Where are you from?” James Henry asked her. “You sound Southern.”

“Texas, sugar.” She beamed. “The most beautiful country on God's earth.”

I willed my brother not to ask how she wound up here.

“We used to live in Florida,” he said. “But we live in Seattle now.”

“You're a long way from home, aren't you?”

For some reason I couldn't explain, I felt homesick. I missed the lightness I used to feel on sunny days at the beach. I missed the hot sand on my toes. I missed being warm.

After lunch we headed north. Even on a misty day, the Olympic Peninsula was spectacular. Every now and then we glimpsed mountains through breaks in the fog. The dark and foreboding peaks of the Olympics rose steeply from remote river valleys that could swallow you forever.

Then there was the ocean. We twisted in our seats the moment the Pacific came into view. Clouds rolled off the water with just enough light playing through their vapor to cast the waves in pink. We stopped for a short while to watch some surfers.

“Looks fun,” James Henry remarked.

“Looks cold,” I said. “And…there are sharks.”

He shrugged. “There are sharks everywhere.”

“Yeah, but I attract things that bite,” I said. “Remember the alligator?”

“That was scary,” he admitted. “Maybe you're cursed.”

“Alligator? What's this?” Mom asked. We'd never told her about that day in Florida with Dad. James Henry started to tell her the story until I made a face at him. The last thing Mom needed was to get more upset than she already was. The other day, I thought I'd seen her taking some pills. Was she on blood pressure medication now?

Turning away from the coast, we drove down a twisty road to the Hoh Rain Forest, home to giant dripping trees. Here we parked and went on a short hike. We crossed small creeks with aquatic grasses that undulated in the crystal-clear current. Some of the trees were wider than our house. James Henry raced up and down the trail, running back every few minutes to give us a preview of the next wonder that awaited us. I stared up at the canopy. Moss dangled from tree branches like old men's beards. The Hoh reminded me of those ancient primeval displays you see at natural history museums. I could imagine dinosaurs here.

On the way out, we drove past miles and miles of clear-cuts. Entire mountains had been shaved. “There has to be a better way,” I said, staring at the beginnings of a new forest, the trees plotted out in identical rows, exactly the same height and width.

“It's an ugly business, the timber industry,” Mom said.

I rested my cheek against the cool window and closed my eyes to the devastation. Images swirled through my mind, not just of the barren landscape but also of Aberdeen and the other logging towns we had passed through. I pictured the spotted owl, eyes glowing, swooping silently through forests older than our nation. What did it mean to lose a species, to be responsible for its demise?

Dad was gone when we got back to the house. The note he left said that he was going to San Francisco for a few days.
Book stuff. I'll call later.

Mom disappeared into her room with the note and remained there for the rest of the weekend. “Migraine,” she claimed.

On Monday during lunch, the debate team came into the library. The second I saw Neal, I felt heady and sick and lost all track of whatever Amanda was saying. Of course, I pretended like we were having the most fascinating conversation ever. Out of my peripheral vision, though, I snuck peeks at Neal and tried to hear what he was saying.

Amanda narrowed her eyes. “What's wrong with you? You're acting funny.”

“Head rush,” I said breathlessly. “I get them sometimes.”

At that moment Neal caught my eye. He walked over to us. I froze.

“You've fallen in with bad company,” he said, jerking his head toward Amanda.

She crossed her arms. “You should be so lucky, Fitz.”