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Authors: Anna Shinoda

Learning Not to Drown (6 page)

BOOK: Learning Not to Drown
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•  •  •

Home five minutes early. The house is quiet.

“I'm here,” I announce to the living room, glancing in to see Dad sitting on the couch watching TV and Mom with her glass ball ornament in one hand, her polishing rag in the other. A spot in my chest tightens. Again? She just cleaned them last night. What set her off this time? Maybe Peter just smudged them up this morning to mess with her. I hope.

“How was graduation?” Mom asks in a calm, even tone. She cradles the ball in the nest of one gloved hand. Bringing it up to the light, she slowly turns it, the metal hanger between a pinched thumb and forefinger, the nest less than an inch below. A safety net. She squints and pulls it in closer for inspection. Shines a spot. Holds it back out toward the light. One more turn. Satisfied, she returns it to the bottom of the metal Christmas tree hanger to join the other four. Good God, I hope my friends never walk into my house when she's doing this.

“Fine,” I answer, walking quickly to my bedroom. I don't want to deal with her or Dad. I just want to go to sleep.

I hear her voice as my bedroom door shuts. “Don't forget to leave your car keys on my desk tonight. Don't forget you're grounded.” Like I could.

Too bad Mom doesn't allow locks on any of the doors inside the house. I'd love to turn one to make sure my stupid family leaves me alone tonight.

I drop my backpack and grab my fish food. Taking the biggest flake of food out of the container, I pinch it between my fingers. As soon as my fingertips come near the water, Brutus rushes to the surface. He nibbles from the flake before the rest even realize it's feeding time. I sprinkle in more food. As I watch the angels eat, my brain flips back to thinking about graduation. And college. I worry about the money side of it the most. My high school counselors say I have really great SAT scores, good grades, decent participation in extracurricular activities, fours on the two AP tests I already took. Any college would want me. I wish I could convince my parents to consider that: ANY college would want me.

Feeling dejected, I put the cap back on the fish food and sink into bed. Something rustles.

Mail. Probably a brochure from a college. I roll over and grab it. A letter? Only one person I know writes letters. Luke!

Dear Squeaks,

How's my favorite sister? Your last letter was hilarious! I don't laugh much here, so I read it over about 50 times. Thanks for that.

I've been looking at the pictures you sent of your new fish. Without knowing their personalities, naming them was tricky, but they look like a Raymond and a Sushi to me. That's right. Sushi. Don't complain—you asked for it!

Congrats on the SAT scores. Wow, Clare. I'm really proud of you.

I've been taking welding classes here, so I might be able to
get a good job when I'm done. Keep your fingers crossed for me, okay?

I can't wait to see you. My parole review is coming up, so I could be home in less than a month. I'll call and let you know.

I miss you and love you lots,

Luke

The parole review must have been yesterday—that would be the reason for the phone call. Obviously it went well, since he's getting out early. I just wish he were coming home immediately.

I read the letter over again, trying to imagine him writing it. But it's hard—he hasn't given me many details. I don't know what his cell is like or who he shares it with or how much time he has to spend there each day. It's good to hear he's taking classes—not all the prisons he's been in offer that type of program.

This letter is full of mostly good things, like most of his letters. Concentrating on the positive things he has going for him, writing more about me and what's going on at home than what he's going through being there. I know it has to be hard, and even though he doesn't say it outright, I can feel how lonely he is when I read the line “I don't laugh much here.”

I pick up the box on my desk. Run my hands along the edges, sanded smooth and stained dark, the seams perfectly aligned.

It was the last gift given to me on my eighth birthday.
I opened it after all the guests had left and the balloons were drooping. Luke said the box was for my treasures. His fingertips, still stained the color of the wood, ran over the rounded edges, curved corners.

I held the lock tight. It could protect my treasures. Even from Peter? Yes, even from Peter.

Sawdust and stain fumes clung to Luke's shirt. I can still smell them faintly when I now press my nose to the inside of the lid.

Thirteen years of my relationship with my brother live inside the box, most of it in prison-approved pre-stamped envelopes. Letters worn thin, the pencil marks faded and rubbed into the paper, my finger oils as much a part of the letters as Luke's words.

I must have written him hundreds of times, beginning in first grade when my little hands wrote short, misspelled words in fractured sentences, missing punctuation and capitalization. Luke has sent
me
exactly thirty-eight letters, including this one, and Christmas and birthday cards. Each kept in its original envelope. The earliest praised me for my good marks in school, said how proud he was that the teacher thought I was good at paying attention.

I pull out one from the first grade.
Wow, little Squeakers, you are growing so fast! I wish I were home to see you in the school play. I've shown everyone the photo of you as the snowflake. My friends agree that I have the cutest little sister. Don't grow too much more before I can see you again.
This letter is especially worn. I was cute. Luke and his friends said so.

Shifting through the pile, I don't have to open the
envelopes to know what he has written in most of them, but the desire to read them sidetracks my need for rest.

One more. I'll read one more, then go to sleep. I blindly grab a letter and open it.
I bet the applesauce tasted even better since you helped with it! Eat an apple for me, Squeakers. And take good care of our tree so I can have lots next year.
I swallow, remembering how Mom had to explain to me that we couldn't just mail an apple to Luke. How, to make me feel better, she took pictures of us picking apples to send to him instead. But he'll be home this year when the apples are ripe.

I add my new letter to the box, carefully close and lock it.

As I lie down to sleep, a vision of Luke walking through the front door appears behind my closed eyes. I miss him so bad, my heart actually aches.

But then there's the other side of his return, the whispers—
prison, prison, prison, shame, shame, shame
—the glowering looks. No wonder Luke doesn't plan to come home immediately. It dawns on me: It's better for him to go where he has a blank slate. Where people can get to know him like I know him. A place where the present overrides the past. And real second chances exist.

Push all of it
out
of my mind. Too tired to think anymore about it tonight.

Chapter 8:
Blue Circles
THEN: Age Seven

I overheard Mom tell Dad that Luke was getting out of prison on March 23. I circled the date on my calendar, circled it in bright blue, sky blue, the happiest color I could find.

Writing Luke a letter, I listed all the things we would do as soon as he came home. I wanted to play in the park and show him how high I could swing. I wanted to teach him charades because we'd just learned it in class. I wanted to help Mom make his favorite meal: beef Stroganoff and peach pie.

March 23, March 23, circled in blue.

March 23 came. March 23 ended, at midnight, with me awake in my bed, waiting for him to come home.

March 24 started, at midnight, and eventually I fell asleep, waiting for Luke to come home.

On March 24 Mom told me that Luke was probably visiting with friends and that he'd be home soon.

On March 25 I wondered why Luke's friends were more important than me, and I cried when I had to go to bed.

On March 26 I threw my stuffed animals at my
calendar and scribbled over March 23 in black, black ink.

On March 27 I sat next to the door, looking at Mom's clock on her desk. When the little hand hit five, Luke would be home. When the little hand hit six, Luke would be home.

On March 28 I was scared that they hadn't let Luke out of prison, or that he had been hurt, like hit by a car. Maybe we should call all the hospitals between the prison and here. Maybe we should call the prison to make sure he left.

On March 29 I gave up.

On March 30 he came home. He didn't know why I crossed my arms and turned around when he appeared.

He asked, “Why is Squeakers mad at me?”

I cried. He hadn't come home right away. He didn't know why I was mad at him.

He pulled me onto his lap and said, “Do you know why I call you Squeakers? No, huh. You were too little to remember, right? Well, when Ma brought you back from the hospital, right after you were born, you took one look at me and squeaked. Like you were saying hello. And I said ‘Clare' was too serious a name for cute little you, and you know what you did? You squeaked at me again, like you were agreeing. Still mad, Squeaks?”

“Why didn't you come home on March twenty-third?”

“I had some stuff to take care of, and I don't have a car, so I had to hitchhike.”

“Hitchhike?”

“You ever see the people walking down the street with
their thumbs up? They're looking for a ride somewhere.”

“Mom says not to pick them up. Mom says those people are dangerous.”

“Maybe some, but is your brother Luke dangerous?”

Laughter. Luke, dangerous? That was a silly idea.

“No, not me. I just need a ride, that's it. And someone was nice and they picked me up and brought me to you. It took a few extra days. That's all. I'm here now. So why don't you teach me how to play this charades game you wrote me about.”

Like always, and like magic, Luke made me feel better. Special. Smart and funny and cute. I drew a big, bright blue circle, sky blue, the happiest color I could find, around March 30.

And hoped this time he would be home for good.

Chapter 9:
Half-Safe
NOW

“Crap!” I forgot to set my alarm! I jump out of bed—pee, brush teeth, flick waterproof mascara on, pull hair into a ponytail. Throw on my bathing suit, deodorant, a pair of shorts and a tank top. Grab my work bag, sunscreen, and a towel. I look at my watch. Thirteen minutes. Not bad. I see my car keys on my dresser. Really? I forgot to leave them on Mom's desk last night. But . . . I'd rather be grounded for an extra day than be late for work. I snatch the keys and run out the door.

In my car. Turn the key. Nothing. Turn it again. Still nothing. The battery must be dead.

“Crap!” I shout again and scramble out of the car. Stupid thing is
always
breaking down. Maybe because it's a million years old and I bought it for six hundred bucks.

“Why today?” I growl, sliding my fingers under the edge of the hood to find the latch. It opens with a groan. I stare down in shock.

The battery isn't dead; it's gone.

“Good morning, sunshine.” Dad appears, sipping coffee, a suspiciously greasy hand cradling his mug. “Is something the matter?”

Like he doesn't know.

“My battery,” I say, pointing to the abyss, “seems to be missing.”

He grins even wider. “That can't be. Let me see.” He cranks his neck to the side, pretending to take a long look under the hood. “Well, look at that. It does appear that your battery is gone.”

“You wouldn't happen to have had anything to do with this?” I ask through gritted teeth.

“Maybe this wouldn't have happened if you'd left your keys on Mom's desk last night,” he says, shrugging.

“DAD! This is so unfair. I have to go to work. I'm going to be late!”

He laughs. I'm crazy angry, and he's laughing.

“You think it's
funny
? BEFORE you pulled my battery out of my car, did you think for one moment that I might be fired for being late?”

“Is Clare Bear getting upset?” Dad laughs harder. “Come on. It's funny. Admit it!”

“It's not funny, Dad.” And don't call me “Clare Bear”; you know I hate that. Now my stupid eyes start to water. Don't cry. I slump to the ground. “How am I supposed to get to work on time?”

“Ride your bike.”

“My bike?” He wants me to ride my bike? It's probably a black widow nest by now. I haven't ridden that thing in years.

“Yes, your bike. You know, Old Faithful or Superbike or . . . what was it that you used to call it?” Dad gulps his coffee like a camel.

Bike-a-saurus Hex. My parents bought it way too big for me. And they chose green. Chunky-vomit green. It was a curse to have to ride it.

“Bike-bye? Bike, Bike? Motor-bikel?” Keep guessing, Dad. Keep pretending like you don't remember.

“Tell you what, Clare Bear,” Dad says as he slams my hood shut. “I was just on my way to work. I'll give you a ride.” He puts his coffee mug down on the edge of the driveway. “And tomorrow you can leave with enough time to take . . . Bike-a-saurus.”

His eyebrows jump up and down. I don't smile.

“Clare.” Dad gallantly opens the passenger door of his truck for me. Saunters to the driver's side. Pulls his work jumpsuit from the back and whistles as he steps into it. He always looks more like he's wearing a costume than a uniform. I used to tell everyone at school he was a superhero. Mandy Jordan was the one who broke the news to me that Dad picked up dead animals for a living. It would have been so much easier if my parents had just told me that instead of letting me be publicly humiliated by my archenemy.

“Dad, I'm going to be late.” I tap my watch, irritated.

BOOK: Learning Not to Drown
9.35Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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