From Where I Watch You (11 page)

“It’s that baking contest I told you about,” I interrupt, not really wanting to talk about her boobs. “But I didn’t tell you it was in San Francisco. There’s no way in hell she’ll let me go, but I just have to go.”

“I get it. I know all about dreams. Shit, just ask her, and if she says no, find a way. You’ll never get anywhere in this life if you don’t try, Kara.”

I nod.

“Try what?” a familiar boy’s voice asks.

My head jerks up. It’s Charlie Norton. He stands at Justine’s register with a pack of gum and a smile for me.

Justine wags a finger at him. “Listen, we work here and we’re polite to you customers, but this is a private conversation that’s none of your dang beeswax. So let me just ring up your stuff and you can scoot on out of here.”

My eyes meet Charlie’s. I bite my lip to keep back a smile.

“Sorry, miss,” Charlie replies. “It’s just . . . I know Kara. We’re friends.”

Justine leans back against the cash register with a hand on her hip, clucking her tongue and looking back and forth at Charlie and me.

“You know my Kara?” she asks him.

“Yeah, I do.” He matches her grin. “See you at your mom’s later, Kara?”

My face is burning. “Okay.”

She cranes her neck to watch him stroll out to the parking lot. “Mmm-hmm. Okay,” she says, poking me in the shoulder. “Who was that? Huh?”

“Just Charlie.”

“Hmm. ‘Just Charlie.’” She makes air quotes. “Turns your face the color of my Christmas lipstick? Good Lord.”

“Kara.” Sniff and Jason have magically appeared with matching sodas. “Round up the carts and don’t forget to grab the trash out of ’em this time. Yesterday a customer had to throw away a damn dirty diaper you left in one! Go on now.”

My mouth hangs open because Jason was here yesterday; maybe it was one of his carts that had the shitty diaper. I’m so out of here after the contest.

AFTER SCHOOL THE NEXT
day I sit in the café, waiting for Mom.

“Sweetheart, you’re late. Was there a problem at school?” She sets a latte in front of me.

“I’m not late, Mom.” I don’t even bother with an excuse this time because it’s true.

“Well, stay here and I’ll be right back because your face tells me something prayerful is on your mind.”

She’s not right with me though, and every couple of minutes she whizzes by, giving me her little drive-by shoulder squeeze to make sure I haven’t left her sight. Each time she passes my stomach loops into another knot because of what I’m going to ask her.

My cup is empty when Mom finally sits down. She takes my hands and I can smell the onions and garlic and lotion on them. “I feel like we need to pray first. Shall we start there?”

She can’t even talk to me anymore without bringing God to the table! When she starts with “Dear Lord,” I snatch my hands away.

“Mom! I don’t need to pray. I need to talk to you about something important.”

The bell above the door launches Mom out of her seat. But before she goes to greet yet another customer, she whispers, “You always need to pray. I’ll be right back, and then we’ll talk.”

The dinner rush starts.

I watch Mom feed her flock. Their grumbling bellies are more important than my problems. But I already knew that.

AT 9:00 THAT NIGHT
Mom walks into the apartment.

“Oh, Kara, I am worn out! Worn out and blessed!”

She lies back and rubs her foot while I stuff popcorn into my mouth.

“I’m sorry, honey, I know there’s something you wanted to talk to me about. What was it?” She smiles at me.

But I can’t—I know what’s coming. “I . . . um, Mr. King wants me to enter a very important baking contest.”

Mom sits up, clapping her hands. “Oh, Kara! That’s wonderful! He thinks so highly of you! I’m so glad he appreciates your talent! When is it?”

I hand her the postcard and give her a few seconds before I say, “The contest—it’s in San Francisco.”

She flinches as if I hit her. “Absolutely not,” she replies, dismissing me with her hand like I just asked for ten bucks, before getting up and walking into the kitchen.

The floor creaks and I hear the water being turned on and then a glass filling. Mom walks back into the living room. She stares at me and I think she might throw the water on me, which is crazy. But our life has become one big rollercoaster of crazy, so it’s very possible.

I never ask for anything. Kellen wore her and Dad down, always asking for more because what they offered was never enough. This was how she got better clothes, a better car, a later curfew—which she broke anyway—and the chance to go away to college.

“Mom, I already earned enough money at Crockett’s for the flight.” I leave out the fact that I bought my ticket already. “You don’t have to pay for anything. This means more to me than anything in the world.”

“Kara.” She sighs and stares up at the ceiling, or maybe heaven. “It’s out of the question. You can’t go by yourself, and I can’t take time off from the café to run off to California so you can bake cookies.”

Her whole face patronizes me, like she’s trying not to smile.

I’m expected to make the right decisions. Unlike Kellen, I’m expected to get good grades, have a job, and be responsible. My dreams aren’t important. Kellen didn’t even know what she wanted to do after college, but my parents let her go off to her first choice anyway. To “find herself.” Their words.

“Don’t sulk, Kara. I know you want this now, but trust me, someday you’ll thank me for saving you from your mistakes.”

“What mistakes, Mom? I love baking. I want to bake.”

“Kara, this isn’t a church bake-off. Do you know how many people enter? Why waste all that money and time when you have so little chance of winning? I know you’re talented, but really? This is not something you’re likely to stick with down the road, as history has proven. Honestly, your father and I spent so much money on lessons for you—music, sports—and the stuff to go with those lessons only to have you quit and see our hard-earned money gone. So why waste your money on a plane ticket?”

“Dad already said I could go.” The lie pops out of my mouth before I even fully form the thought.

Mom sits up fast. “Kara McKinley, don’t you dare bring darkness into this house by lying to me. You did not ask your father. I am your custodial parent and you need my consent, not his.”

I meet her gaze. “I can win a free ride to La Patisserie. And there’s prize money.”

“Good Lord, that school ! As far as getting into that school, we’ve discussed this. The Lord’s plan for your future does not involve going out of state to college! The only reason you want to go there is because it’s in California! You’re staying! I’ve already lost one daughter, I’m not going to lose another! Do you really think I need any more stress in my life?”

Disbelief dawns on me. She thinks I want to go to La Patisserie because it’s out of state. But she knows that if the school was in Seattle, I’d stay in Seattle. She must. Doesn’t she? How can she not know that? How can she not know what’s important to me? My throat closes up and I can’t speak because it will be a rush of emotion. I blink hard and swallow because I won’t show it; I won’t give her the satisfaction.

A minute passes with both of us staring at opposite walls. “I’m doing this,” I tell her. “You can’t stop me.” My heart pounds because I never talk to her this way. So maybe I should tell her all of it. Tell her that I have a stalker and he might kill me and it would be nice to have this little bit of happiness in my life before I’m done.

Mom whirls, her face red. “Why should I trust you to go or do anything by yourself? When have you ever shown any responsibility in your life to make me feel like I could let you do this? I’d end up having to close the café to come down and bail you out. You’re always pushing the boundary a little further, pushing me to the edge a little more! You’re always screwing up, leaving things for your father and me to fix! Well not this time!”

My mouth hangs open because I don’t know what she’s talking about. What have I ever screwed up? I’m confused.

And then it hits me.

I don’t think she’s really arguing with me anymore.

She’s arguing with Kellen. My mom is wishing for my dead sister.

Mom continues. “And God damn it I did not raise children to speak to me like this!”

Now my mom sounds more like her old self and I am almost relieved. I want to say something else, something that will piss her off even more, just to keep my old mom here. I miss her. But nothing will come out of my mouth, and there she goes, hopping off the couch and onto her knees, whispering and asking for forgiveness for taking His name in vain.

Half a minute later she walks to the kitchen window.

She looks the way she did back then, staring into the night sky, wrapped in Kellen’s blue afghan. Lost in her memories. I’d put my hand on her arm, but she’d swat it off as if it were a spider. All because I’m not Kellen.

Now, the tear tracks make me wonder if she’s thinking of Kellen or pissed about breaking a commandment.

MUCH LATER, BEHIND MY
locked door, I’m still listening to the sounds of my mother begging Jesus to forgive me. She finally gives prayer a rest sometime around 11 p.m.

My head hurts. My mother is crazy. There’s no way I’m missing the contest.

I grab the entry form and spend the next five minutes staring at it. I talk myself into something I never would’ve done before Kellen died. I fill it out. When I get to the parent signature, I creep to my door and crack it open. Down the short hall Mom snores in her room.

In the kitchen I find the bill box and take it back into my room.

Inside the box I find a check for the power bill Mom hasn’t sent.

There’s just enough light coming from the shop below and the shops across the street. It’s easy for me to turn the window into the backlighting that I need. It’s easy for me to place the check against the window and the entry sheet over that.

Mom’s signature comes through just enough for me to trace it onto the contest sheet. Kellen taught me how to do this when I was in middle school, but I never needed a forgery until now.

After stuffing the entry in an envelope, I address and stamp it.

Ten minutes later I stand out in the cold, dropping my ticket to happiness into the mailbox.

June: Thirteen-Year-Old Carrot’s
Summer
Fun
Before High School

When I get to my front porch I’m out of breath and the tears have vanished. As soon as I reach the bottom step I feel a hand on my back.

“Hey wait, Kara. I’m sorry back there; I didn’t mean you were a kid, kid, okay? Look I know how it is. I have older brothers, I know how you feel,” Nick says, rummaging through his pockets. “Shit.”

“What?”

“Tad has my car keys. He had to go back and stick his shirt in the car. Damn it!” He steps away and paces around with his hands on his hips.

I know that he lives in the U District so it’s not like he can walk home. “So, I guess you’re stuck here until they come back.” I rub my flip flop over the edge of the step.

“Yeah, well, I can just go back to the Ave or something, try to get into a bar,” He grins. “Maybe you can tell them where I went? To come get me? If it’s not too much trouble?”

I stare at him, running a hand through his hair and placing the other on his hip. My mom likes Nick. She’s even hinted to Kellen that she should go out with him instead. She’d probably be mad at me if I didn’t at least invite him to hang out here until Kellen and Tad come back. “Why don’t you just wait here? You can watch TV.”

He has his hands in his pockets, and he stares out toward the orange sky west of Puget Sound, which is dappled with pink. “Yeah, I guess I could. Sure.”

Good thing Kellen didn’t lock the door because I didn’t have time to grab my key before we left. I open the door for Nick and wave him in. “You know where the TV is, right?”

“Yeah, thanks.” He nods and makes his way to the door to the basement steps.

I stand and watch him disappear through the doorway, not sure if I should follow him or not.

The bolder side of me decides I should. Mom would expect me to offer a drink like we do to everyone who comes over. As I pad down the stairs, I feel the temperature drop with each step, and smell that familiar damp smell. The TV shows some action movie. Nick’s back is to me and his arm is up on the back of the loveseat. I go around and stand at the opposite end of the loveseat, and my face flushes because I don’t know what to say.

“Oh hey, kid. What’s up?” He gives me a quick glance before looking back to the TV.

“Um, I wondered if you’d uh, like something to drink?”

“Oh sure, thanks.”

I skip back up the steps and into the kitchen. When I pull the fridge door open I grab for a Coke but stop when I see beer—Bud Lights and a couple of Guinness. I grab a Guinness because that’s what my dad offers to company. The cap hisses when I pop it off and hurry back down the steps.