Lock and Key (18 page)

It had been almost two weeks since I’d come to Cora’s, and I was slowly getting adjusted. It wasn’t like things were perfect, but we had fallen into a routine, as well as an understanding. For my part, I’d accepted that leaving, at least right now, was not in my best interest. So I’d unpacked my bag, finally unloading my few possessions into the big, empty drawers and closet. I wasn’t ready to spread out farther into the house itself—I took my backpack upstairs with me as soon as I came home and stood by the dryer as my clothes finished, then folded them right away. It was a big place. God only knew how much could get lost there.

It was weird to be living in such sudden largess, especially after the yellow house. Instead of stretching a pack of pasta over a few days and scraping together change for groceries, I had access to a fully packed pantry, as well as a freezer stocked with just about every entrée imaginable. And that wasn’t even counting the “pocket money” Jamie was always trying to give me: twenty bucks for lunch here, another forty in case I needed school supplies there. Maybe someone else would have accepted all this easily, but I was still so wary, unsure of what would be expected of me in return, that at first I refused it. Over time, though, he wore me down and I gave in, although spending it was another matter entirely. I just felt better with it stashed away. After all, you never knew when something, or everything, might change.

Cora had compromised, as well. After much discussion—and some helpful lobbying from Jamie—it was decided I could work for Harriet through the holidays, at which point we’d “reconvene on the subject” and “evaluate its impact on my grades and school performance.” As part of the deal, I also had to agree to attend at least one therapy session, an idea I was not at all crazy about. I needed the money, though, so I’d bitten my tongue and acquiesced. Then we’d reached across the kitchen island, shaking on it, her hand small and cool, her strong grip surprising me more than it probably should have.

I’d been thinking about my mother a lot, even more than when she’d first left, which was weird. Like it took a while to really miss her, or let myself do so. Sometimes at night, I dreamed about her; afterward, I always woke up with the feeling that she’d just passed through the room, convinced I could smell lingering smoke or her perfume in the air. Other times, when I was half asleep, I was sure I could feel her sitting on the side of my bed, one hand stroking my hair, the way she’d sometimes done late at night or early in the morning. Back then, I’d always been irritated, wishing she’d go to sleep herself or leave me alone. Now, even when my conscious mind told me it was just a dream, I remained still, wanting it to last.

When I woke up, I always tried to keep this image in my head, but it never stayed. Instead, there was only how she’d looked the last time I’d seen her, the day before she’d left. I’d come home from school to find her both awake and alone, for once. By then, things hadn’t been good for a while, and I’d expected her to look bleary, the way she always did after a few beers, or sad or annoyed. But instead, as she turned her head, her expression had been one of surprise, and I remembered thinking maybe she’d forgotten about me, or hadn’t been expecting me to return. Like it was me who was leaving, and I just didn’t know it yet.

In daylight, I was more factual, wondering if she’d made it to Florida, or if she was still with Warner. Mostly, though, I wondered if she had tried to call the yellow house, made any effort to try and locate me. I wasn’t sure I even wanted to talk to her or see her, nor did I know if I ever would. But it was important to simply be sought, even if you didn’t ever want to be found.

What is family?
I’d written in my notebook that first day, and as I opened it up now I saw the rest of the page was blank, except for the definition I’d gotten from the dictionary:
a set of relations, esp. parents and children.
Eight words, and one was an abbreviation. If only it was really that easy.

Now Ms. Conyers called out for everyone to get to work, so I turned to Olivia, figuring I’d hit her up first. She hardly looked like she was in the mood for conversation, though, sitting slumped in her chair. Her eyes were red, a tissue clutched in one hand as she pulled the Jackson High letter jacket she always wore more tightly around herself.

“Remember,” Ms. Conyers was saying, “you’re not just asking what your term means literally, but what it means to the person you’re speaking with. Don’t be afraid to get personal.”

Considering Olivia was hardly open on a
good
day, I decided maybe I should take a different tack. My only other option, though, was Heather Wainwright, on my other side, who was also looking around for someone to talk to, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to go there.

“Well? Are we doing this or not?”

I turned back to Olivia. She was still sitting facing forward, as if she hadn’t spoken at all. “Oh,” I said, then shot a pointed look at the tissue in her hand. In response, she crumpled it up smaller, tucking it down deeper between her fingers. “All right. What does family mean to you?”

She sighed, reaching up to rub her nose. All around us, I could hear people chattering, but she was silent. Finally she said, “Do you know Micah Sullivan?”

“Who? ”

“Micah Sullivan,” she repeated. “Senior? On the football team? Hangs out with Rob Dufresne?”

It wasn’t until I’d heard this last name that I realized she was talking about Jackson. Rob Dufresne had sat across from me in bio sophomore year. “Micah,” I said, trying to think. Already, my classmates at Jackson were a big blur, their faces all running together. “Is he really short?”

“No,” she snapped. I shrugged, picking up my pen. Then she said, “Okay, so he’s not as
tall
as some people.”

“Drives a blue truck?”

Now she looked at me. “Yeah,” she said slowly. “That’s him.”

“I know of him.”

“Did you ever see him with a girl? At school?”

I thought for another moment, but all I could see was Rob Dufresne going dead pale as we contemplated our frog dissection. “Not that I remember,” I said. “But like you said, it’s a big place.”

She considered this for a moment. Then, turning to face me, she said, “So you never saw him all over some field-hockey player, a blonde with a tattoo on her lower back. Minda or Marcy or something like that?”

I shook my head. She looked at me for a long moment, as if not sure whether to trust me, then faced forward again, pulling her jacket more tightly around her. “Family,” she announced. “They’re the people in your life you don’t get to pick. The ones that are given to you, as opposed to those you get to choose.”

Since my mind was still on Micah and the field-hockey player, I had to scramble to write this down. “Okay,” I said. “What else?”

“You’re bound to them by blood,” she continued, her voice flat. “Which, you know, gives you that much more in common. Diseases, genetics, hair, and eye color. It’s like, they’re part of your blueprint. If something’s wrong with you, you can usually trace it back to them.”

I nodded and kept writing.

“But,” she said, “even though you’re stuck with them, at the same time, they’re also stuck with you. So that’s why they always get the front rows at christenings and funerals. Because they’re the ones that are there, you know, from the beginning to the end. Like it or not.”

Like it or not
, I wrote. Then I looked at these words and all the others I’d scribbled down. It wasn’t much. But it was a start. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s do yours.”

Just then, though, the bell rang, triggering the usual cacophony of chairs being banged around, backpacks zipping, and voices rising. Ms. Conyers was saying something about having at least four definitions by the next day, not that I could really hear her over all the noise. Olivia had already grabbed her phone, flipping it open and calling someone on speed dial. As I put my notebook away, I watched her stuff the tissue in her pocket, then run a hand over her braids as she got to her feet.

“It’s Melissa,” I told her as she turned to walk away.

She stopped, then looked at me, slowly lowering her phone from her ear. “What?”

“The blonde with the back tattoo. Her name is Melissa West,” I said, picking up my bag. “She’s a sophomore, a total skank. And she plays soccer, not field hockey.”

People were moving past us now, en route to the door, but Olivia stayed where she was, not even seeming to notice as Heather Wainwright passed by, glancing at her red eyes before moving on.

“Melissa West,” she repeated.

I nodded.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” I told her. Then she put her phone back to her ear slowly, and walked away.

When I came out of school that afternoon after final bell, Jamie was waiting for me.

He was leaning against his car, which was parked right outside the main entrance, his arms folded over his chest. As soon as I saw him, I stopped walking, hanging back as people streamed past me on either side, talking and laughing. Maybe I was just being paranoid, but the last time someone had showed up unexpectedly for me at school, it hadn’t been to deliver good news.

In fact, it wasn’t until after I’d begun to mentally list the various offenses for which I
could
be busted that I realized there really weren’t any. All I’d done lately was go to school, go to work, and study. I hadn’t even been out on a weekend night. Still, I stayed where I was, hesitant out of force of habit or something else, until the crowd cleared and he spotted me.

“Hey,” he called out, raising his hand. I waved back, then pulled my bag more tightly over my shoulder as I started toward him. “You working today?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“Good. I need to talk to you about something.”

He stepped away from the car, pulling the passenger door open for me. Once in, I forced myself to take a breath as I watched him round the front bumper, then get in and join me. He didn’t crank the engine, though, just sat there instead.

Suddenly, it hit me. He was going to tell me I had to leave. Of course. The very minute I allowed myself to relax, they would decide they’d had enough of me. Even worse, as I thought this, I felt my breath catch, suddenly realizing how much I didn’t want it to happen.

“The thing is . . .” Jamie said, and now I could hear my heart in my ears. “It’s about college.”

This last word—
college
—landed in my ears with a clunk. It was like he’d said
Minnesota
or
fried chicken
, that unexpected. “College,” I repeated.

“You are a senior,” he said as I sat there, still blinking, trying to decide if I should be relieved or more nervous. “And while you haven’t exactly had the best semester—not your fault, of course—you did take the SATs last year, and your scores weren’t bad. I was just in talking to the guidance office. Even though it’s already November, they think that if we really hustle, we can still make the application deadlines.”

“You went to the guidance office?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said. I must have looked surprised, because then he added, “I know, I know. This is more Cora’s department. But she’s in court all week, and besides, we decided that maybe . . .”

I glanced over at him as he trailed off, leaving this unfinished. “You decided maybe what?”

He looked embarrassed. “That it was better for me to bring this up with you. You know, since Cor was kind of tough on you about your job at first, and the therapy thing. She’s tired of being the bad guy.”

An image of a cartoon character twirling a mustache as they tied someone to the train tracks immediately popped into my head. “Look,” I said, “school isn’t really part of my plans.”

“Why not?”

I probably should have had an answer to this, but the truth was that I’d never actually been asked it before. Everyone else assumed the same thing that I had from day one: girls like me just didn’t go further than high school, if they even got that far. “It’s just . . .” I said, stalling. “It’s not really been a priority.”

Jamie nodded slowly. “It’s not too late, though.”

“I think it is.”

“But if it isn’t?” he asked. “Look, Ruby. I get that this is your choice. But the thing is, the spring is a long way away. A lot could change between now and then. Even your mind.”

I didn’t say anything. The student parking lot was almost empty now, except for a couple of girls with field-hockey sticks and duffel bags sitting on the curb.

“How’s this,” he said. “Just make a deal with me and agree to apply. That way, you’re not ruling anything out. Come spring, you still decide what happens next. You just have more options.”

“You’re assuming I’ll get in somewhere. That’s a big assumption. ”

“I’ve seen your transcripts. You’re not a bad student.”

“I’m no brain, either.”

“Neither was I,” he said. “In fact, in the interest of full disclosure, I’ll tell you I wasn’t into the idea of higher education, either. After high school, I wanted to take my guitar and move to New York to play in coffeehouses and get a record deal.”

“You did?”

“Yup.” He smiled, running his hand over the steering wheel. “However, my parents weren’t having it. I was going to college, like it or not. So I ended up at the U, planning to leave as soon as I could. The first class I took was coding for computers.”

“And the rest is history,” I said.

“Nah.” He shook his head. “The rest is now.”

I eased my grip on my bag, letting it rest on the floorboard between my feet. The truth was, I liked Jamie. So much that I wished I could just be honest with him and say the real reason that even applying scared me: it was one more connection at a time when I wanted to be doing the total opposite. Yes, I’d decided to stay here as long as I had to, but only because really, I’d had no choice. If I went to college—at least this way, with him and Cora backing me— I’d be in debt, both literally and figuratively, at the one time when all I wanted was to be free and clear, owing no one anything at all.