The Best American Short Stories® 2011 (39 page)

Any other guy, he'd open the note to see what it was. But not Jimmy Chang. J.C. was so accustomed to girls tossing him notes in class, he didn't have much curiosity about what it was that the snarl-haired girl in the dark glasses had sent him—or maybe he already had a good idea what it was.
Kiss-kiss. Kiss-kiss-kiss.
The main thing was that J.C. hadn't just laughed and crumpled it up like trash.

By now Lisette's mouth was dry like cotton. This was the first time she'd passed such a note to J.C.—or to any boy. And the beer buzz that had made her feel so happy and hopeful was rapidly fading.

She'd had half a beer, maybe. Swilling it down outside in the parking lot, where the buses parked and fouled the air with exhaust, but the guys didn't seem to notice, loud-talking and loud-laughing, and she could see the way they looked at her sometimes: Lisette Mulvey was
hot.

Except she'd spilled beer on her jacket. Beer stains on the darkgreen corduroy, which her mother would detect, if she sniffed at them. Whenever she returned home.

This Monday, in January—it
was
January. She'd lost track of the actual date like she'd lost track of the little piece of paper from the eye doctor that her mother had given her, for the drugstore, for the eye drops. This her mother had given her last week, the last time she'd seen her, maybe Thursday morning. Or Wednesday. It was some kind of steroid solution that she needed for her eye after the surgery, but she couldn't find that piece of paper now, not in her jacket or in her backpack or in the kitchen or in her bedroom—not anywhere.

Nowicki was at the door now, turning to look at—who? Lisette? It was like a bad dream, where you're singled out—some stranger, a cop, it looked like, coming to your classroom to ask for
you.

"Lisette? Can you step out into the hall with us, please?"

Next to Nowicki was a woman in a uniform—had to be Atlantic City PD—Hispanic features and skin color, and dark hair drawn back tight and sleek in a knot. Everybody in the classroom was riveted now, awake and staring, and poor Lisette in her seat was paralyzed, stunned. She tried to stand, biting at her lip. Fuck, her feet were tangled in her backpack straps. There was a roaring in her ears, through which the female cop's voice penetrated, repeating what she'd said and adding, "Personal possessions, please," meaning that Lisette should bring her things with her. She wouldn't be returning to the classroom.

So scared, she belched beer. Sour-vomity-beer taste in her mouth and—oh, Christ!—what if the cop smelled her breath?

In the corridor, a worse roaring in her ears, out of the woman's mouth came bizarre sounds.
Eiii-dee. If you are Lisette Mulvey, come with me.

Eiii-dee, eiii-dee
—like a gull's cry borne on the wind, rising and snatched away, even as you strained desperately to hear it.

Turned out there were two cops who'd come for her.

The Hispanic policewoman introduced herself: Officer Molina. Like Lisette was going to remember this name, let alone use it. The other cop was a man, a little younger than the woman, his skin so acne-scarred you'd be hard put to say if he was white.

Both of them looking at Lisette like—what? Like they felt sorry for her, or were disgusted with her, or—what? She saw the male cop's eyes drop to her tight-fitting jeans with a red rag patch at the knee, then up again to her blank terrified face.

It wouldn't be note-passing in math class that they'd come to arrest her for. Maybe at the Rite Aid the other day—plastic lipstick tubes marked down to sixty-nine cents in a bin. Lisette's fingers had snatched three of them up and into her pocket, without her even knowing what she was doing.

"You are Lisette Mulvey, daughter of Yvette Mulvey, yes?"

Numbly Lisette nodded.

Officer Molina did the talking. Lisette was too frightened to react when the policewoman took hold of her arm at the elbow, not forcibly but firmly, as a female relation might, walking Lisette down the stairs, talking to her in a calm, kindly, matter-of-fact voice that signaled,
You will be all right. This will be all right. Just come with us.

"How recently did you see your mother, Lisette? Or speak with your mother? Was it today?"

Today? What was today? Lisette couldn't remember.

"Has your mother been away, Lisette? And did she call you?"

Lisette shook her head.

"Your mother isn't away? But she isn't at home, is she?"

Lisette tried to think. What was the right answer? A weird scared smile made her mouth twist in the way that pissed off her mother, who mistook the smile for something else.

Molina said, "When did you last speak with your mother, Lisette?"

Shyly Lisette mumbled that she didn't know.

"But not this morning? Before you went to school?"

"No. Not—this morning." Lisette shook her head, grateful for something to say that was definite.

They were outside, behind the school. A police cruiser was parked in the fire lane. Lisette felt a taste of panic. Was she being arrested, taken to
juvie court?
The boys in J.C.'s posse joked about
juvie court.

In the cold wet air she felt the last of the beer buzz evaporate. She hated how the cops—both cops—were staring at her, like they'd never seen anything so sad or so pathetic before, like she was some sniveling little mangy dog. They could see the pimply skin at her hairline and every knot in her frizz-hair that she hadn't taken the time to comb or run a brush through, let alone shampoo, for four, five days. She hadn't had a shower either. That long, her mother had been
away.

Away for the weekend
with—who? That had been one of Momma's secrets. Could be a new "friend"—some man she'd met at the casino. There were lots of roving unattached men in Atlantic City. If they won in the casino they needed to celebrate with someone, and if they lost in the casino they needed to be cheered up by someone. Yvette Mulvey was the one! Honey-colored hair, not dirtcolored like Lisette's, in waves to her shoulders, sparkling eyes, a quick soothing laugh that a man wanted to hear—not sharp and ice-picky, driving him up the wall.

Lisette had asked her mother who she was going away for the weekend with and Momma had said, "Nobody you know." But the way she'd smiled—not at Lisette but to herself, an unfathomable look on her face like she was about to step off a diving board into midair—had made Lisette think suddenly,
Daddy?

She knew that her mother was still in contact with her father. Somehow she knew this, though Momma had not told her. Even after the divorce, which had been a nasty divorce, they'd been in contact. That was because (as Daddy had explained to her) she would always be his daughter. All else might change—like where Daddy lived, and if Daddy and Mommy were married—but not that. Not ever.

So Lisette had persisted in asking her mother, was it Daddy she was going away with? Was it Daddy? Was it?—nagging at Momma until she laughed, saying, "Hell no! No way I'm seeing that asshole again."

Her mother had gone away for the weekend. "I can trust you, Lisette, right?" she'd said, and Lisette had said, "Sure, sure you can."

Alone in the house meant that Lisette could stay up as late as she wanted. And watch any TV channel she wanted. And lie sprawled on the sofa talking on her cell phone as much as she wanted.

It was a short walk to the mini-mall—Kentucky Fried Chicken, Vito's Pizzeria, Taco Bell. Though it was easier just to defrost frozen suppers in the microwave and eat in front of the TV.

The first night, Keisha had come over. The girls had watched a DVD that Keisha brought and eaten what they could find in the refrigerator. "It's cool your mother's gone away. Where's she gone?"

Lisette thought. Possibly her mother had gone to Vegas after all. With her man friend, or whoever. This time of year, depressing cold and wet by the ocean—the smartest place to go would be Vegas.

"She's got lots of friends there, from the casino. She's welcome to go out there anytime. She'd have taken me, except for damn, dumb school."

"So when did you last speak to her?"

The cops were staring at her now, waiting for an answer, as she was guiltily faltering, fumbling. "Could've been, like, just yesterday—or the day before."

Her heart thumped in her chest like a crazed sparrow throwing itself against a window, like the one she'd seen in a parking garage once, trapped up by the ceiling, beating its wings and exhausting itself.

Yvette Mulvey was in trouble with the law—was that it?

The only court Lisette had been in was Ocean County Family Court. There, the judge had awarded custody to Yvette Mulvey and visitation privileges to Duane Mulvey. If something happened to Yvette Mulvey now, Lisette would be placed in a foster home. It wasn't possible for Lisette to live with her father, who was a sergeant in the U.S. Army, and, last she'd heard, was about to be deployed to Iraq for the third time.
Deployed
was a strange word—a strange sound.
De-ployed.

Daddy hadn't
meant
to hurt her, she knew. Even Momma believed this, which was why she hadn't called 911. And when the doctor at the ER had asked Lisette how her face had got so bruised, her nose and eye socket broken, she'd said that it was an accident on the stairs—she'd been running, and she'd fallen.

Which was true. She'd been running, and she'd fallen. Daddy shouting behind her, swiping with his fists—not meaning to hit her. But he'd been pissed. And all the things that Daddy had said afterward were what she'd wanted to hear; they'd made her cry, she'd wanted so badly to hear them.

"And your father? How recently did you see your father, Lisette?"

In the cruiser, the male cop drove. Molina sat in the passenger seat, swiveled to face Lisette. Her cherry-red lips were bright in her face, like something sparkly on a billboard that was otherwise weatherworn. Her sleek black hair shone like a seal's coat, her dark eyes shone with a strange unspeakable knowledge. It was an expression that Lisette saw often on the faces of women—usually women older than her mother—when they looked at her not in disapproval but with sudden sympathy,
seeing
her.

Lisette was uneasy with the expression. She'd seen it on Nowicki's face too. Better was the look of disgust, dismay.

Must've been two, three times that Molina explained to Lisette where they were taking her—to the hospital for the ID. But the words hadn't come together in a way that was comprehensible.

Eiii-dee. Eiii-dee.

"We will stay as long you wish. Or not long at all—it's up to you. Maybe it will be over in a minute."

Molina spoke to Lisette in this way, which was meant to soothe but did not make sense. No matter the words, there was a meaning beneath them that Lisette could not grasp. Sometimes adults were uncomfortable with Lisette because they thought she was smirking, but it was just the skin around her left eye, the eye socket that had been shattered and repaired, and the frozen look of that part of her face because some of the nerve muscles were dead. "Such a freak accident," her mother had said. "Told her and told her not to—not to run—on the stairs. You know how kids are!" And half pleading with the surgeon, though she already knew the answer to the question, "Will they heal ever? The broken nerves?"

Not broken but
dead.

At the hospital they parked at the rear of the building. In a lowered voice Molina conferred with the male cop. Lisette couldn't hear what they were saying. She had no wish to hear. But she wanted to believe that the Hispanic woman was her friend and could be trusted. It was like that with Hispanic women, the mothers of her classmates—mostly they were nice, they were kind. Molina was a kind woman, you could see how she'd be with children and possibly grandchildren. Weird that she was a cop and carried a gun—
packed heat
, it was said.

Lisette's mother knew some cops—she'd gone out with a cop. She'd said that the life of a cop was so fucking boring; once in a while, something happened and happened fast and you could be shot down in that second or two, but mostly it was very, very boring, like dealing blackjack cards to assholes who think they can win against the house.
You never win against the house.

They were standing just inside the hospital, on the first floor by the elevators. People moved around them, past them, like blurs in the background of a photograph. It seemed urgent now to listen to what Molina was telling her as she gripped Lisette's arm again. Did Molina think that Lisette was going to try to escape? The male cop held himself a little apart, frowning.

What Molina was saying did not seem relevant to the situation, but later Lisette would see that, yes, everything that the policewoman had said was relevant: asking Lisette about Christmas, which was maybe two or three weeks earlier, and New Year's—and what had Lisette and her mother done over the holidays, anything special?

Lisette tried to think.
Holidays
wasn't a word that she or Momma would use. "Just saw some people. Nothing special."

"You didn't see your father?"

"No."

"When was the last time you saw him?"

Lisette tried to think: he'd been gone by the time of the face surgery and the eye surgery. She'd been out of school. Must have been the summer. Like, around July Fourth.

"Not more recently than that?"

Lisette swiped at her eye. Wondering, was this some kind of trick like you saw on TV cop shows?

"On New Year's Eve, did your mother go out?"

Yes. Sure. Momma always went out, New Year's Eve.

"Do you know who she went out with?"

"No."

"He didn't come to the house to pick her up?"

Lisette tried to think. If whoever it was had come to the house, for sure Lisette had hid from him, just like she hid from Momma's women friends, and why? No reason, just wanted to.

Lisette, how big you're getting!

Lisette, taller than your mom, eh?

They took the elevator down. Down to the floor marked "Morgue."

Here the hospital was a different place. The air was cooler and smelled of something like chemicals. There were no visitors. There were very few hospital staff people. A female attendant in white pants, a white shirt, and a cardigan sweater told them that the assistant coroner would be with them soon.