Burn Girl (12 page)

“Why not face the truth?” Frank asked.

“If you'd seen the room—”

“The motel room? What about it?”

“Mom was neat with her drugs. I mean, she kept things in order.”

I told Frank about the day I'd found Mom dead and the contradictions that still haunted me: her glass pipe near a half-filled syringe, the mind-blowing amount of meth left behind. It wasn't like her. Why shoot up if she'd just smoked? Or vice versa?

“Because she was an addict.” Frank's expression was so hard that it hurt to look at him.

Frank, the police, Dora—all of them were so sure about the cause of death. They made me feel like a crazy person for thinking differently. I was feeling even crazier for thinking my stepfather could have been involved. Lloyd used to only occupy my nightmares. Now I was wasting energy trying to convince myself he hadn't tracked me down, that he wasn't the driver of that Mustang.

I decided against sharing these new fears with Frank. His anger at Mom was all-consuming.

“You've been angry at Mom for a while, haven't you?” I asked.

Frank chewed on my question and a ragged thumbnail at the same time. Then he looked me squarely in the eyes. “Yeah, I'm angry. For what she did to you. For what she did to me. For dying.”

“You mean because you got stuck having to take care of me.”

“That's not what I meant,” he said. “I meant she checked out on me twenty years ago when I needed her most. After Mom and Dad died.”

“I don't want to be this angry forever,” I said. “And I don't want to hate her anymore.”

“I don't want to hate her either.”

“Maybe it doesn't always have to feel like this,” I said. “Maybe we can help each other.”

“Of course we'll help each other,” he said. “Now can I give you a hug?” Frank showed respect for my boundaries in the weirdest ways. One was always to ask before touching me.

“Sounds good.” I accepted the uncharacteristically gentle embrace of his massive arms. But I couldn't yet accept that Mom had made a conscious decision to leave me.

Back in my room, I peeled off my jeans and crawled under the bedcover. No matter the room temperature, I always pulled the sheet or spread over my head. The habit had taken hold during the times when Mom and I shared a motel room. She stayed up late with the lights and TV on. Only by covering my head would it be dark enough for me to fall asleep.

“Your brother is cool,” I said softly, as if Mom was just on the other side of the covers. “But you should've introduced me to him while you were still alive.”

CHAPTER 14

TWO YEARS AGO—A SURROGATE MOM

The water in Mo's parents' tub was just about as hot as I could stand it, and I usually liked it scalding. I placed my hand over the jet that circulated the foamy water.

Mo sat beside the tub reading and ignoring me, so I flicked water onto her with my toes.

“Don't. You'll get my book wet.”

When I splashed her again, she slapped the water, spraying my face.

“Hey! You're getting soap in my eyes,” I said.

“You're taking a bath. Stop whining.” She returned to her reading.

The sunken tub was my favorite part of Mo's house. When she and I were younger, we could both fit in it at the same time. She always let me have the side with the plastic seashell pillow. We'd keep our feet pressed together like fins and pretend to be mermaid sisters.

I dipped beneath the surface, my hair fanning out around me. I could hold my breath for almost two minutes, which freaked out Mo. She rarely could wait that long before pulling at my arm for me to come up for air.

She tapped the top of my head and I gave up on setting a new record.

“You have a death wish?” she asked.

I had at one time, in the weeks after the explosion when I was in the burn treatment center. Many times, I'd begged the youngest nurse on the ward to kill me—and I meant it. My pleas only made her cry. After that, the hospital psychiatrist made regular visits.

“When I'm underwater, I can't hear your mom and dad fighting,” I said.

Her parents had been arguing downstairs since I arrived. Although I couldn't make out their exact words, I suspected the fight was about me visiting Mo.

“You promised he wouldn't be here,” I said.

“He came back early. Just don't listen. You know how he is.”

I did know. Her dad had always objected to Mo being my friend. He said I'd just bring trouble. And maybe he was right. There was nothing I could do about Mom and the people she hung around, but I made sure Mo never visited me at the motel. We'd meet at the library or the Dairy Queen, or at her house when her father was at work. And I kept Mo's address secret from Mom. I wanted those worlds as separate as possible.

Her father's voice grew muddled until I didn't hear it anymore.

“You know Mom really loves you.” Mo closed her book and tossed me a sponge.

“I know.”

I dunked the sponge and then squeezed it over my head, sending streams of water down my face.

Last year, Mo's mother had added a cell phone to the family's plan so that I'd be able to contact Mo or her in an emergency. She slipped me money from time to time, urging me to buy fresh fruit and vegetables and vitamins. When I got my period, she bought me tampons and Motrin since she knew those were expensive.

“It's not that Daddy doesn't like you,” Mo said.

“Yeah. I feel the love.”

Mo pursed her lips. “He doesn't like that you don't go to school.”

“I won't go to school,” I said.

“I'm just saying you should think about it.”

Mo got up and stood in front of the vanity. She opened her mother's makeup drawer and took out a tube of lipstick.

“If I went back to school, he still wouldn't like me,” I said.

Mo lifted her long hair and struck a pose in the mirror, her lips a color between coral and tangerine.

“Not your color,” I said.

“Yeah, maybe.” She grabbed a tissue, wiped her lips, and tried another shade. This one was a frosty bubblegum pink.

“Your mom wears that color?” I asked.

“Impulse buy,” Mo said.

I stepped out of the tub and wrapped a large bath towel around me. Mo gave up on the lipstick search. I sat on the stool near the vanity so she could untangle my hair.

“It'll be our freshman year. You could say you've transferred from out of state,” she said.

“Without any records or transcripts.”

“Say you were homeschooled,” she said.

“I am homeschooled. Sort of.”

“I'm not a real teacher.” Mo began to braid my hair, pulling the strands too roughly. “You'd get a better education going to class.”

“I don't need a better education.”

“You do if you don't want to end up like your mom,” she said.

I looked at our reflections in the mirror. “That's not fair.”

“I'm sorry. I just want what's best for you.”

“Would you rather not tutor me anymore?”

“It's not that.”

The front door slammed so forcefully that we felt the vibration upstairs. When her dad started shouting again, Mo opened the bathroom door and looked down the hall.

A female—not her mom—shouted something back at Mo's dad. Before Mo could say anything, I recognized my mother's voice in the hall.

Mom stomped up the stairs and it sounded like Mo's parents followed.

“Where's Arlie? I know she's here!” Mom pushed past Mo and into the bathroom.

“Please go home, Mrs. Betts,” Mo begged, then yelled for her parents not to come in, that I wasn't dressed.

“Well, isn't this fancy. Just like your fancy friend here.” Mom stumbled forward and I caught her. “So this is where you sneak off to.”

“Oh my God, Mom. What are you doing here? Please go. Now.”

“I'm your family. You shouldn't be here.” She slurred her words and found it difficult to stand. “You've betrayed me, you little slut.”

I slapped her. Hard. I wanted her to shut up. I wanted to keep hitting her until there was nothing left of her or our life together.

“You don't get to call me that,” I said. “I've never let anyone touch me.”

“Get them both out of my house!” Mo's dad raged on the other side of the door.

“It's not the girl's fault. Let's go back downstairs.” Mo's mom coaxed her dad away from the bathroom while I held my breath.

Mom pressed her hand against the cheek I'd slapped. She'd stopped babbling. Mo gently took her arm and helped her sit on the vanity stool.

“Get dressed,” Mo said to me. “You should go.”

I put on my T-shirt and shorts, not bothering with my underwear or bra. I slipped on my flip-flops.

“I'm sorry, Mo.” Tears rolled down my cheeks. Her dad was right. I'd just brought trouble to their house. How long would Mo keep fighting for our friendship after something like this?

“It's okay. Just take her home.”

This was definitely not okay. It'd never be okay. I pinched Mom's elbow, digging my fingers into the bony joint, and led her downstairs hoping we wouldn't run into Mo's parents on our way out.

CHAPTER 15

The last thing I wanted to hear on a Saturday morning was the screeching of Frank's table saw. Where were the outraged neighbors who should be putting a stop to the madness? Frank's cluelessness could be charming at times. This wasn't one of those times. I pulled on some sweatpants and a hoodie and marched outside.

“Ah, good. I need your help.” He hoisted a piece of plywood over his head.

“Does it look like I came out here to offer my assistance?” I shielded my eyes from the sun, but hoped he could see my put-out expression.

“I don't care what it looks like,” he said. “Now that you're here, I need another pair of hands.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but he turned back to his work, seemingly uninterested in what I had to say about the sanctity of Saturday morning sleep-ins.

“Let me get my shoes,” I mumbled in defeat.

“And sunscreen,” he added. “We might be out here a while.”

I huffed around the trailer for a few minutes but then gave in. After chugging a vanilla protein drink so I wouldn't faint from hunger, I joined my uncle in the wooden skeleton he'd assembled.

“What are we doing?” I asked.

“Putting the plywood sheath around the structure,” Frank said, lost in the rhythm of his work.

He held up large expanses of plywood and instructed me to attach the sheets to the studs using a nail gun. Soon, the skeleton had skin and the interior spaces darkened as walls blocked out the sunshine.

While I went in to fix us sandwiches for lunch, Frank cut away pieces of the wall to reveal where the windows would go.

I peered into one of the openings. “Hungry?”

My uncle removed his tool belt and grabbed the plate I held out to him. “Thanks. How's it looking?”

He beamed. Working with his hands suited him. I guessed finally seeing his endless drawings take physical shape stirred a pride that couldn't be suppressed.

“It's amazing. Really. It looks like a real house. I didn't think one person could build a house by himself.”

“This is your room, you know. The closet's kind of small …”

“It's perfect. I don't have a lot of clothes anyway.” My throat constricted. This burly, kind-hearted man had changed my life irrevocably. By realizing his own dream, he was introducing me to ones I'd never dared to have.

“Just because you'll have your own room doesn't mean you and that Cody kid can hang out in there without some rules.” His laugh revealed a mouthful of sandwich.

“Oh, please.” I blushed at his assumption but didn't mind his teasing. Cody in my room. Was that even possible?

“Aha! There is something to this Cody. Your cheeks don't lie.”

I brought my palms to my face.

“Is that what you and Mo were talking about last night?”

I took a large bite of my sandwich to buy some time before having to answer. Was this what kids talked about with their parents? Did I want Frank to act like a parent?

“Tell me if it's none of my business,” he added. “But I can always get the deets from Mo. She and I are buds.”

“Mo's version would be exaggerated,” I said. “She has a flair for the dramatic.”

Frank crawled through the opening and sat on the ground next to me. “What's your version then?”

“He was waiting for me at Buckley Park, near the trolley stop. He just wanted to talk.”

“So that's where you were?”

I nodded. “He seems nice. I mean, he is nice.”

“The other night, Mo mentioned you and he sing together, right?”

“Uh-huh. In choral.” My heart rate quickened as I remembered the recording Cody had made of me singing.

“So he's nice, huh?”

“Seems that way.”

“And he can sing?” Frank asked.

“Yep. He's a great singer.”

Frank and I laughed at our awkward exchange.

“Think I can meet him sometime?”

I hadn't even thought of next steps like Cody meeting Frank. Did that mean I'd have to meet his parents? What would they think of me?

“Why the storm clouds over your head?” Frank asked. “You don't want me to meet him? I promise not to fart or pick my nose.”

“That's not it at all. You'd like him. I was just wondering if he'd want to introduce me to his parents. In any case, we're nowhere near the meeting-the-parents stage.”

“Oh, so I'm your parent now?” Frank winked.

“I haven't figured out what you are,” I said. “I'd say you're cooler than a parent but stricter than a friend.”

“A hybrid. Awesome!”

Frank got up and dusted off his carpenter jeans. He let out a trombone-like belch.