The Right and the Real (13 page)

I remembered my drama school letter. “And I want my mail!” I screamed, the frame of the pet door pressing into my face.

Still nothing from inside.

Then I heard the whir of the electric garage door opening, and I jumped up and ran around to the front of the house in time to see my father’s car back out into the street and drive away, my dad looking straight ahead and Mira beside him in the passenger seat where I used to sit.

I had parked right in front of the house, and when I got back into the Beast, that plain, gray mailbox sat there taunting me. Daring me.

“I HATE YOU, YOU GODDAMNED FUCKING MAILBOX!” I screamed.

I gunned the motor, swerved up onto the sidewalk, and bashed into it with my front bumper. The wooden post snapped in half. I jerked the gearshift into reverse, backed off the curb, slammed into drive, and tires squealing, tore off down the road. In my rearview mirror, I saw the mailbox lying in the street. I did a U-turn without checking for cars and raced back toward it. There was a loud thump as I flattened it with the Beast’s enormous tires. I sped away from the scene of the crime, still angry, but also feeling a tiny bit of satisfaction.

I USED A KLEENEX TO WIPE OFF THE HANDLE OF
the pay phone in the motel lobby. I’m normally not afraid of germs, but who knew what the sleazy people in this place had. I put my quarter in and dialed the after-hours number on the business card.

“Kennedy, Hyatt, and Jovanovich,” said a chirpy voice.

“Ummm…may I speak to Dr. Kennedy?”

“I’m sorry, this is his answering service. If you give me your number, I can have him call you back.”

“But I’m at a pay phone,” I said. “And this is really important.”

“If this is a medical emergency,” she said, “you need to hang up and dial nine-one-one.”

“It’s not that,” I said. “It’s more mental health related.”

“I understand,” she said. “Give me your number, and if he can’t call you back within five minutes, one of his associates will phone you.”

I gave it to her and hung up. About two minutes later, the phone made a sort of weird half ring, sounding like a dying cat. I grabbed the receiver.

“Hello?”

“This is Dr. Kennedy. With whom am I speaking?”

“Oh, thank you so much for calling back. My name is Jamie Lexington-Cross, and Richard Cross is my dad. He’s one of your patients, and he needs your help.”

“Hello, Jamie,” he said in a calm, almost monotone voice. “Jamie, is this a medical emergency?”

Why did everyone keep asking me that?

“No,” I said. “It’s just…well, he’s gotten mixed up in a cult, and I was thinking maybe if he talked to you—”

“I’d like to help you, Jamie,” he said. I wished he’d quit using my name in every sentence. It made me feel like a dog. “But I’m afraid your dad isn’t one of my patients anymore.”

“Well, I know. But the estate will pay you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Jamie, it’s not the money. It’s the fact that your father told me, in person, he was through with therapy and he no longer needed my services.”

“But he does,” I said, desperation rising in my voice. “He really, really needs you. Didn’t you hear what I said? He’s gotten sucked into a cult.”

“I understand, Jamie,” he said in that stupid soothing voice. “Perhaps you should call the police if you think he’s in real danger.”

“The police? I can’t call the police. What would I tell them?”

“I don’t really know, Jamie,” he said. “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help. But—”

“Oh, forget it,” I said, slamming down the phone.

I immediately felt bad for being so rude, but he’d made me so mad. That fake caring voice when he wouldn’t do anything to help. And
I couldn’t call the police, or they’d ask me a bunch of questions and then I’d end up at a strange new high school in Los Angeles. Plus, I wasn’t totally certain the church had actually broken the law.

I slumped against the wall, too tired to think anymore. After a while, I went upstairs and collapsed on my bed. For the rest of the evening, I sat in my room in a daze, memorizing the ingredients for each drink at the Coffee Klatch.

All night people staggered up and down the hall. Pulsing music from a party beat against the paper-thin walls, and drunken voices echoed through the ductwork. About midnight, things suddenly got louder, and I could pick out two guys having an argument.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to scam on her?” a man yelled.

“Shit, she was talkin’ to me. I can’t help it she thinks I’m so damn good-lookin’,” the other guy said.

There was a loud thump, which sounded a lot like a body hitting the wall. “Ain’t so good-looking now, are you, asshole?”

Then a woman screamed, “Look what you did. I’m gonna kill you!” Another body hit the floor, followed by more loud voices. “I’m calling the cops.”

About time
.

Someone crashed into my door, but I’d barricaded myself in with the boxes earlier, and I took deep breaths, trying to stay calm. The fight moved away from my room, down the hall. Over the grunts and groans from the two men, several people swore, and others cheered them on.

“Ooohh. Good one.”

“Sick. That’s a lotta blood, man.”

Even with all the shouting, I could hear LaVon pacing in his room.
I wished he’d go out and stop them. One glare from him would’ve frozen any of the skinny guys I’d seen living in our building. The thumps worked their way back down the hallway toward me again. And then, in a low voice, right outside my door, I heard one of the men say, “I got worse than that wuss knife in my pocket, you son of a bitch. Don’t make me kill you.”

LaVon banged on my wall. “Jamie! Get your ass down on the floor.”

“What?”

“Get down,” he yelled.

He had to be kidding. The carpet was so sick and mangy. Plus there was glass in it from the broken lightbulb. And then I thought of all those TV shows I’d watched where gunfire broke out and the safest place was the ground. I threw myself facedown onto the disgusting brown shag rug.

I lay there, shivering. Outside my door, a woman spoke in a low, soothing voice. “Come on, Jake, baby.…He’s not worth going to prison for,” I heard her say. “Give me the gun, baby.…”

My heart pounded hard against the floor, and I prayed I wouldn’t die in this disgusting place. I wondered if my dad would be sorry then. Everyone heard the sirens pierce the night at the same time, and suddenly the shouts gave way to running footsteps. By the time the police got to our floor, it was as quiet as a morgue. I was just glad no one was going to end up there.

I was still lying facedown on the stinky carpet, shaking, when someone started pounding on doors calling for people to come out. I don’t think anyone did, because the knocking and voices seemed to keep moving toward my end of the hallway.

Someone banged on my door. “Open up. Police.”

I didn’t know what to do. How could I be sure they were really cops?

“Open up,” shouted the voice again.

No one else had bothered to answer. Why should I? I heard LaVon’s door open.

“Hey, come on, man,” he said. “There’s just a girl in there, and you’re probably scarin’ the shit outta her. You can check with Stub—he’ll tell you.”

“Well, if it isn’t LaVon Mitchell,” said a deep voice. “Staying outta trouble, I hope.”

“Always.”

“Don’t know nothing about this fight, do you?”

“That’s right,” LaVon said.

“But it happened on your floor,” countered the voice. “Sure you weren’t involved?”

“Man, don’t bust my balls.” LaVon sounded relaxed and calm, but I wasn’t sure if he should be. The cop seemed serious. “I was in my room reading a book,” he said. “Besides, we both know if I was involved it woulda been over before you was called.”

“Real tough guy, aren’t you?” asked the cop. “Maybe we should talk about it at the station.”

“You’re in charge, man,” LaVon said.

“That’s right, and don’t you forget it.”

“Should I get my coat?” LaVon asked, “or are you just gonna harass my ass some more?”

By now I had pressed myself up against the pile of boxes, trying to hear better.

“I don’t like your attitude, Mr. Mitchell,” the officer said.

“Likewise, man,” LaVon sneered.

I couldn’t let LaVon get in trouble after he’d been so nice to me. Sure, he had terrified me too, but still, I owed him for offering his protection. I shoved the boxes out of the way and threw open the door.

“He wasn’t involved. I’ll swear to it. I heard him pacing in his room the whole time.”

The policeman closest to me looked like one of those stick-figure drawings. His hat sat too big on top of a thin face, and the utility belt around his waist weighed him down. He grinned as he ran his eyes up and down my body.

“Well, aren’t you a nicer sort than we usually get around here,” he said.

Panic flushed out the adrenaline when I realized I’d given myself away. What if they took me in for being underage? The officer’s leer sent shivers through me.

“He didn’t do anything.” I gulped back tears.

“All right, don’t snivel,” Stick Figure grumbled, looking away. “We’re not taking your pal anywhere. We were just talking.”

The other officer stood back by the stairwell, a bored expression on his squashed Muppet-like face. “Okay. Enough already, Jenkins,” he said to Stick Figure. “Let’s go. We’re missing the basketball game.”

Jenkins shook his head sadly. “It’s not like the Blazers can even find the hoop,” he said. As they disappeared into the stairwell, their laughter floated back up to us.

“You didn’t have to do that, you know,” LaVon said. “They were just messin’ with me.”

“Oh.”

“But thanks, anyway.”

“No problem,” I said, my voice still shaky. “How come you’re not at work?”

“Road game. They’re listenin’ on the radio,” he explained. “You hungry?”

I actually was. I’d gotten two bean burritos for ninety-nine cents at the corner store for dinner, but they were a distant memory. “Ummm…I guess.”

“Come on in,” LaVon said.

Obviously I wasn’t as good of an actress as I hoped because he read me like a dog-eared paperback. “Leave the door open if you’re so chicken,” he said.

Against my better judgment, I closed it behind me.

LaVon’s cell was exactly like mine—tiny, with a single bed and a thin mattress. At the foot of the bed, a giant mountain bike hung from a hook he must’ve screwed into the ceiling himself. In the corner he’d set up a folding table, and on it was something that looked like a single burner of a stove. There was a pot bubbling away on top, and as I stepped closer, I got a whiff of garlic and spices.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Vegetable curry.”

“I mean, that little stove thing.”

He smiled. “Ain’t you ever seen a hot plate before?”

“I guess not.”

LaVon also had a toaster oven, a George Foreman grill, and a silver bowl thing that was plugged into the wall with a little wisp of steam escaping from it. He took the lid off, and inside was white rice, which he scooped into two chipped bowls. He topped them with the yellow curry, and then I watched in amazement as he chopped bright
green onions on a tiny cutting board and sprinkled them over the food, followed by a handful of crushed peanuts.

“Wow,” I said. I took the beautiful food from him. “It looks like it’s from a restaurant.”

“You eat with your eyes first,” he said, waving at a folding chair. “Go on, before it gets cold.”

LaVon sat on the bed and began to shovel in his food. I scooped up a forkful and blew on the hot rice. My stomach rumbled as I took my first mouthful. The spicy curry burned my tongue, but was immediately soothed by the sweetness of coconut milk and the bite of fresh green onions.

“This is fantastic. Where’d you learn to cook like this?”

“Inside,” he said.

I’d watched enough TV to know what he meant, but I asked anyway. “You mean…jail?”

He looked directly at me, challenging me. “Yep. You got a problem with that?”

I CONCENTRATED ON MY FOOD TO KEEP MY MIND
from wandering to what possible activity had landed LaVon in jail. The vegetable curry tasted so good, I could hardly get it into my mouth fast enough. I couldn’t believe my luck. For the last two weeks I’d eaten bargain food, but this was the second night in a row I’d gotten a really yummy meal.

“Have some more,” LaVon said when I’d scooped up the last bite. He took my dish and ladled curry over rice. I guess he could tell I’d been about to lick the empty bowl.

“Thanks,” I said between mouthfuls. “I didn’t know they ate so good in jail.”

He laughed. “What? You think they taught me this in the kitchen?”

“Ummm…” The blood rushed to my face. “Well…you said…I mean, I thought—”

“The TV room, man,” LaVon said. “You know, Emeril Lagasse…BAM! And my main man, Vegetarian Vic. They taught me everything I know.”

“Oh…the Food Network?”

“Exactly.” He faced me from his seat on the sagging cot. “What’s your story?”

I chewed, debating. Sure, LaVon could turn me in to the cops, but somehow I didn’t think he played by society’s rules.

“Kicked out,” I said.

“Drugs?” he asked.

I choked on my rice. “No. Do I look like a druggie?”

“Can’t never tell.” It seemed like he was eyeing me, but he had on those sunglasses again, so I wasn’t sure. “Especially skinny girls like you,” he said. “Speed, coke—”

“I do not do drugs.”

I was not my mother.

“And I’m not skinny,” I said. “I’m a dancer. I’m fit. There’s a difference.”

He held up his hands in surrender. “Okay, chill.”

I ate a couple more bites before speaking again. “My dad joined this church, and I didn’t want to, so he kicked me out. I’m going to help him get away, though.”

“How?”

“Well, I’m not sure exactly, because he won’t talk to me. But I’ve been sending him a lot of letters and printouts from the Internet about cults and stuff.”

“How’s that working for you?” I could tell he didn’t think much of my attempts.

I shrugged.

“And your mom?”

I got the feeling LaVon would understand Mom’s drug habit, and I considered telling him the truth, but I’d just met him, so instead I said, “My mother’s out of the picture.”