I?”
“You just did.” I took another gulp of milkshake. “Shoot.”
He acknowledged the joke with a flick of a smile. “Do you see a future for yourself?”
It was a cheesy question, but the way he said it made it sound completely normal. Reasonable, even. Like he was curious, and willing to listen. I studied him for a long few moments, sweeping my hair back and thinking about it.
“You mean like college?”
“I mean … beyond that. Beyond everything.”
I set the milkshake down. “You really want to know what I think?”
“I do.” He sounded like he did, too.
“I think the entire game’s stacked. No matter how good you are, some people are chosen and some aren’t. The golden people get everything, and the rest of us can work like hell to get just a little. So there’s no future unless you’re one of the golden people. But you can buy a little breathing room.”
“And you’re not one of the golden?” He was utterly still, except for the wind slipping loving fingers through his hair.
I laughed. It was kind of funny. “Oh, hell no.”
“Do you want to be?”
“You can’t just decide to be one. It’s Fate.” I dug in my bookbag for a piece of gum. “Can I ask
“Shoot.” He seemed to find that funny, or at least he laughed.
“Why did you pick me?” I tried not to feel like I was holding my breath, waiting for the answer. But dammit, I wanted to know. And his answer might tell me what kind of guy he was. Brain, jock, flash, plastic, gliefer, panda, goth—he didn’t seem classifiable.
“What, you can’t tell? Come on. Let’s go somewhere.”
“Where?”
“Wherever. Maybe just drive.” He glanced at me sideways, and I wished I could see his eyes behind the shades. “I’ve got time.”
“I should go home. I have homework.”
“A good little Catholic girl. Okay. When can I see you again?”
I shouldn’t have said anything. I should have just played it off with a joke or something. I’ve seen Gwyn shut guys down a million times. But I didn’t want to shut him down. “Pick me up from school tomorrow.” It was out of my mouth before I thought about it.
“Done. We’ll go somewhere.”
“Where?”
“Does it matter?”
The way he said it, it didn’t.
I got him to let me out at the entrance to the trailer park. Dropping me off in the middle of the night was one thing, dropping me off where Dad could see? Something else entirely. The truck was in the driveway, and I was glad I’d been cautious.
Dad was home, and sober. He didn’t give me the business at all. Instead, he just let out a sigh. “I’ve got a double-shift tonight, honey. They’re payin’ me on Friday.”
“That’s good.” The wind moaned.
He didn’t even notice my sweating palms or guilty face. “Your friend called. Gwyneth. It’s that rich girl, right?”
I nodded woodenly.
“All right.” He stood up. “She said to call her. I’m’a gonna go to work. You be careful now, huh?”
“I will.” I swallowed hard. His eyes were bloodshot, but he didn’t look angry. “Do you want dinner before you go?”
“No ma’am. Don’t have time.” He dug in his pocket and brought out his wallet. Two twenties, crisp and new, laid on the table. “See if’n you can get some groceries, honey. They pay me Friday, but we can have something before then. All right?”
Milk, at least. And potatoes and ground beef. Beans—we could eat chili for a couple nights. My stomach cramped at the thought, around its load of curly fries and milkshake. “All right.”
He nodded. Big, heavy slump-shouldered man. “I got work shirts. You wash ’em.”
“Yes, Daddy.”
I waited until he was gone, his truck making the weird whining squeak of a belt too loose or too tight or something, before letting out the long breath I was holding.
“Jesus,” I said to the empty kitchen, and picked up the two twenties. I might even be able to have lunch once or twice this week, if I skimped on the meat and got extra bread.
The phone rang again. I swallowed, hard, my throat clicking. It rang three times before I could get around the table and to the wall where it hung. I picked it up, but all I got was a dial tone and the sound of the wind.
I was already waiting to see Johnny again.
“It wasn’t my idea,” Gwyn whispered. I sank down further in my chair. Sister Laurel underlined the date of the Smoot-Hawley Tariff Act on the chalkboard. I made a note of it. “Really, it wasn’t.”
I didn’t respond. She’d been at it since she walked into class late and settled down in her seat. A fading hickey on the side of her neck told me how the Friday party had turned out for her. Probably with Scott Holder. She was lucky like that.
Gwyneth hissed my name, but I stared straight ahead.
Sister Laurel half-turned. Her profile was like a hawk’s, with a hawk’s beady stare. “Does someone have something to say?” she asked nobody in particular.
You could have heard a pin drop. The wind scraped at the windows. Sister Laurel went on about trade protectionism and the gold standard, and the causes of the Great Depression.
“Don’t be like this,” Gwyneth whispered.
I hunched my shoulders and didn’t reply. We both eventually knew I’d forgive her, right? I always had before whenever she did something stupid or hurtful. That was my place in the cosmos—to be utterly forgiving. And in return, I got to lie awake in her bedroom and imagine I had her parents and her lucky golden life.
I kind of did. Getting through school on scholarship, making it through college, maybe getting an okay job. Working to afford a place of my own.
And then what?
Gwyneth would never have to search like that. Mommy and Daddy would send her to college and she’d catch a fellow rich boy, no problem. She’d make nice little golden babies and drink martinis in the afternoon. She’d never have to carry cash down to the utilities office and plead to be reconnected, or plead not to be disconnected. Dad sent me because I could talk my way around the employees. It was a fine art.
My cheeks were scarlet.
Gwyneth whispered my name again. Girls were shifting in their chairs, wondering what was going on between us.
Sister Laurel turned to face the class. Her gimlet gaze wandered over all of us, and I tried to look innocent and bored at once. I glanced down at my notes.
Did I see a future? Ink scratches on paper.
The Sister finally tapped her meterstick on her desk, a slight padded sound against piled papers. She called on Erica Angier, and I let out a silent sigh. Saved again by luck.
I made it out the door before Gwyneth could catch me. Let her go hang out with her popular friends. It wasn’t like it mattered.
Not when I was going to see him again.
Gwyn skipped Brother Bob’s daily perdition. And the whole sucktastic day got better once I escaped sixth
