Before, After, and Somebody In Between (29 page)

“I’m sorry.” I sound funny and hoarse, like I’m the one who’s been screaming. What’s strange is that I don’t even know what I’m sorry about. For not trying harder to make Claudia believe me? For not going to him in the first place when I found out about the pills?

Or maybe for just being here, for hearing the truth about Rachel. For knowing all his secrets the same way he knows mine.

“She was putting her bike away.” Richard’s voice is husky, but perfectly clear over the rustling trees. “I lost a case, a case I would’ve won if I hadn’t been drinking all afternoon, so I went out afterward and drank some more. It was dark, and I didn’t even have my damn lights on, and I ran over her in the garage. And, yes, Nikki’s right, I didn’t even know it.” Pause. “You’ve heard the term, ‘beating the system’?”

I nod, swallowing hard, but he doesn’t say anything else because, at that exact moment, the rescue squad and the cop cars roar up, as out of place in this neighborhood as the starship
Enterprise.
Richard draws me close, holds me for a second, and then throws his cigarette in the bushes and hurries back inside. I stay where I am, the chilly night wind fanning my face. I see the shadow of the garage looming in the moonlight and hug my arms to my chest.

But it’s Nikki I’m thinking about. Not Rachel at all.

47

The house is a morgue with Nikki gone, shipped off to a treatment center, four weeks under lock and key. Richard hardly speaks. Claudia’s always in tears. Neither of them says a word about what happened that night. For all anyone knows, Nikki could be off on a Disney cruise.

Zelda calls this “denial.” Alcoholic families are notorious for this, she says. Not only do they act like there’s no problem with addiction, but they don’t like to talk about other problems, either. Just keep your mouth shut, pretend everything’s fine. In other words, exactly what Momma and I do.

Bad thing is, Zelda wants me to live somewhere else. She thinks this “situation” is too stressful for me, and that the Brinkmans have enough to worry about without me hanging around. “I spoke to Mr. Lipschmidtz, and he is already looking into other places—”

“Who?”

“Your guardian ad litum, remember? And he said—”

“I can’t leave now. They need me.”

“They need each other, Martha.”

“They need
me!
” This is
my
family now,
my
parents,
my
sister. Things won’t get better any faster if she forces me out. “Please, Zelda. Please let me stay?” The very memory of the clown house sends an imaginary spike through my brain.

Zelda throws her head back in surrender, and then surprises me with a hug. “Well, hang in there, hmm?” After a quick confused second, I hug her back, just to stay on her good side so she won’t change her mind.

…

Nikki must have kept her end of the bargain because I hear nothing at school about knives or Jefferson. Even better, I snag a solo for the spring concert tomorrow, playing
Sleepers, Awake
with full orchestra accompaniment!

Chloe and Faith tag along as I cruise the mall for something to wear for my official musical début. “Omigod, you’re so lucky!” Chloe exclaims as I model a lacy white top and swirling black skirt. “You look so thin in that!”

“I’ll do your hair.” Faith fingers my curls, which are still in pretty good shape. Being Asian and all, her own sleek black hair is flawless, while Chloe’s coppery red is almost as curly as mine. “A French braid would be perfect.”

The word “braid” makes me remember Kenyatta’s Halloween party, and I feel a queasy flood of longing just to hear Shavonne’s voice. Ever since she lit into me at her mom’s funeral, I haven’t had the nerve to call her. Something tells me she has no plans to contact me, either.

“No braids,” I say flatly. “I’m wearing it down.”

As I change back into my own clothes, Chloe asks cautiously, “So. You think Danny’ll show up at the concert?”

“Danny? Why? We broke up ages ago.”

“Well, you know …people break up all the time and then
get back together. Anyway,” she adds slyly, “you never did tell us what really happened between you two.”

“Yes, I did.” Uneasily, I try to remember the exact excuse I gave them. “We, um, just decided to…you know, go out with other people.”

“Well, you’re not going out with anyone,” Faith points out, “so that means you still like him. And
I
think you should call him and ask him to come tomorrow night.”

“Yeah, do it!” Chole chimes in. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

The worst that could happen? Well, he could cuss me out and slam the phone in my ear. Maybe even have me arrested for stalking.

“I can’t,” I admit.

“Yes, you can,” Faith insists. “Be assertive, Gina!”

“I said I
can’t!
”

Shocked and hurt, they clamp their mouths shut at the same time—and that’s when it hits me: No more secrets.

I’ll tell them the truth. I’m so sick of this charade, so sick of lying to my friends. Besides, maybe Zelda’s right, maybe I’m not the biggest coward on the face of the earth. But this I’m going to have to do in absolute privacy, and if they react like Danny? Well, at least I’ll know where I stand.

“Sorry, guys,” I say, and we do the group hug thing, and then an idea hits me. “Hey, why don’t you come over after the concert? You can spend the night, and, well, I’ll tell you what really happened with me and Danny.” I’ve never had a sleepover, and I’m sure Claudia won’t mind. “Be prepared,” I add, scooping up my new outfit. “I have a
lot
to tell you!”

…

By the time morning rolls around, I’m a mental train wreck, and not only because of the concert. How the hell am I gonna explain
“Martha” to Faith and Chloe? Slightly nauseated, I toss the rest of my bagel to Taffy who snaps it right up.

Claudia stops me at the door as I head off for school. “Nikki’s coming home a week from Sunday.”

I force a smile. “Great! Is she okay?” This falls kind of flat. I hope she can’t tell.

“She’s much, much better. But I wanted to let you know because—” Claudia stops, then smiles back and gives me a quick hug. “Well, we’ll talk about it when you get home.”

I forget all about this by the time I get to school. I’m so excited about the concert, my thoughts spinning around in a thousand different directions. What if I’m discovered by somebody important, someone searching the world over for their next protégé? It happens in movies. Why not in real life?

And then I daydream about Danny showing up at the concert, begging me to forgive him for acting like a jerk. Okay, another movie moment, but hey, why not? He’s had enough time to think it over, to remember how much we meant to each other. Maybe he misses me so much, he’ll decide to surprise me. By this time tomorrow, my whole life could be different!

I put on my début outfit after school and practice my concert piece one last time. When Claudia calls me downstairs, I find Zelda waiting, too. Oh, if she screws up this night for me, I’ll never let her forget it.

“I need to talk to all of you together,” Zelda announces. She herds us into the living room and waits till we sit down. “I am happy to say that Martha’s mother is doing well, and that she’s met all her goals. She has a job, and she is renting a house on the west side. And,” she adds pointedly, “she is looking forward to seeing Martha.”

I gnaw my thumbnail, aware of the silence. If Momma wants to see me so bad, why doesn’t she come to my concert tonight?

Zelda continues when nobody else says a word. “In fact, she has asked me to bring her home tomorrow.”

Richard explodes. “Tomorrow? That’s ridiculous. I thought we’d at least have until—” He stops, and I blink at him. Have until when?

Prickling with dread, I spring out of my chair to face Zelda. “Well, I’m not going! You didn’t even ask me.”

“Martha.” Zelda uses that fake-patient voice I hate so much. “Our goal has always been to get you two back together.”

“Your goal. Not mine.”

“Listen, please. There was a hearing yesterday, and Mr. Lipschmidtz recommended that you go back to your mother—”

“No, no, no!” I yelp, the walls shrinking in on me. “I never even laid eyes on that guy. He can’t tell me what to do!”

“Yes, he can, Martha. And your mother now has legal custody.”

“How come
I
wasn’t invited to that stupid hearing?”

“Because it wasn’t required that you be there. At any rate, the decision has been made, and …” Zelda trails off, giving me a flicker of hope. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do.”

Did Richard know about this hearing? Did he go to it by chance, and then not even mention it? Damn, he’s a lawyer. Of course he knew! I bet he’s known about this for days and didn’t have the balls to bring it up.

I hear myself ask from a far-off place, “Why can’t I stay here?”

Richard and Claudia exchange looks, but it’s Zelda who
answers. “Well, unless somebody manages to pull a few strings around here—” She directs this at Richard, the champion string puller of all time. “It’s already been decided, Martha. You’re going back tomorrow.”

“My name is Gina!” I scream.

No fair! I don’t want to be with my mother. She’s a drunk, she’s a junkie, and she can’t even remember my goddamn birthday.

“But what about Nikki? She’s coming home next Sunday. She’s like my sister now, you know?” I try not to think about our last conversation, the one we had on the basement floor. “You mean you want me to leave without even saying good-bye?”

Richard interrupts me, very softly, “Gina, please. Don’t make this any harder.”
Tick, tock
. “Nikki doesn’t want you to be here when we bring her home.”

The earth tilts just a fraction. “She doesn’t want me here at all?”

“That’s why I thought …” He clears his throat. “I thought we’d be able to give you another week. To kind of get used to the idea, before Nikki gets back.” He aims a glare of fury in Zelda’s direction, and it’s the first time I’ve seen her look even remotely rattled. “That’s what you led us to believe, and now you’re telling us tomorrow?”

Claudia stands, makes a funny sound, and abruptly leaves the room. She doesn’t look at me as she passes. In fact, nobody is looking at me at all.

“This isn’t fair,” I whimper. “This is so not fair.”

“Gina, believe me,” Richard pleads as he steps forward to take my hand. “If there were any other way—”

I wrench away from him, whirling on a fish-mouthed Zelda instead. All this time pretending to be my friend while she plotted
and planned to destroy my life. I scream so hard, spit flies out of my mouth. “This is all—your—fault!” And then I blast through the front door and down the sidewalk, running, running as hard as I can.

48

I hate them.

I hate them.

I hate them so much that when Zelda zooms after me in her car, I won’t even get into it at first, and then I refuse to get out when she drives me back to the Brinkmans’. I want nothing out of that house except for my trunk, my black coat, and my Elvis posters. Nothing in my room, not even any clothes. I don’t even want this crummy outfit I’m wearing.

“You can’t go to your mother’s without any clothes,” Zelda argues.

“I said I don’t want them. And if you make me take anything, I’ll just burn it all when I get there.”

So Zelda goes inside by herself, leaving me balled up in the backseat. I’m not even crying, I just feel hot, sick, and useless. When Richard comes outside to “reason” with me, I simply lock all the doors and hide my face, ignoring his pleas, his persistent tapping. No, I’m not going to the concert, because that’s what he’s asking me—among other things, like why can’t we talk this
through? Please, Gina, please? And when it gets to the point where I can’t stand it anymore, I slam my fist into the window and scream for him to leave me alone. Scream that he’s a traitor and a drunk and a fucking murderer, and how I hate his guts, how I wish he’d just die.

Then, only then, does he give up and go inside.

…

We ride to Momma’s new place in absolute silence except for the bumping of my trunk in the hatch of the car. A tall, wide bridge takes us from the east side to the west side, a bridge named, Zelda tells me—like I care—after that old actor, Bob Hope. After passing a sign that says Ohio City, we drive down a couple of shady streets with a few pretty homes and ritzy town houses, but Momma’s house isn’t one of the nice ones. Neither is her street. Neither is her neighborhood.

Instead, we turn down a severely grungy alley, and I stare, unsurprised, at the used-to-be-white house with the overgrown yard and rusty fence, and the broken-down bus shelter ten feet from the front door. A chipped, dirty statue of the Virgin Mary, minus the head, rests in a sawed-off bathtub propped next to the stoop. This I find seriously disturbing.

Mamma Mia’s, a bar-and-pizza joint, is conveniently located on the other side of the alley. Wow, food and booze right in our own backyard. So far the only good thing about this slum is that it’s miles away from Wayne. Which, unfortunately, means I’m also miles away from Jerome.

When Momma opens the door, I hardly recognize her. She’s lost a ton of blubber, and her hair is back to its natural light brown, clean and short and surprisingly stylish.

“Glory be! I wasn’t expecting y’all till tomorrow.” She hugs
me fiercely and starts to bawl as I gaze over her shoulder at the big sloppy sign:

Welcome Home Martha!

Home? I’ll never feel at home in this piece-of-shit tenement. A shabby two-story house that might cave in on us at any second. Brown paneled walls, ratty gold carpet, and those fat Venetian blinds you might see on
I Love Lucy.
The furniture is a jumble of garage-sale rejects, and the hot, tiny living room smells like bacon grease and bug spray.

Momma sniffles and honks and then proudly takes us on a tour: long skinny kitchen, postage stamp–sized john, and two stuffy bedrooms at the top of the stairs.