The People We Keep(5)

“She’s better than me,” I say, and I know it’s true, but I’m high. My head is spinning. Making it. I have a chance of making it. I have more of a chance than Marion. I don’t even know what it is, and I don’t think Jim is the one who gets to hand it down, but I want it. The air is crisp. My breath makes clouds.

“She’s—don’t get me wrong, she’s good. But you’re the real deal. You’re the whole package. That’s what it’s about. Everyone buys into the package.”

He takes a pack of Marlboros from his pocket and smacks them against his palm until one sticks out. He holds the pack to his lips and pulls the cigarette with his teeth. “Want one?” he says from the side of his mouth.

I shake my head.

“Good girl.” He cups his hand to his face. Lights up. Puffs. “Save those pipes,” he says into the smoke.

“Will do,” I say. “Thanks.”

“Where’s your car?”

“Over there.” I gesture vaguely. “I’ll be fine now. Nice to meet you, Jim.” I shake his hand, and sprint to Mrs. Varnick’s car so he won’t follow. The risk of attack is low. The risk of Jim noticing the loose ignition switch is high.

I get the car going again and drive home singing my songs to myself over and over, hearing the applause like it’s filling the car. The drive home isn’t long enough. The exact sound of that clapping starts to slip from my head when I turn down our street.

I park the car in the tire ruts in Mrs. Varnick’s driveway, push the ignition tumbler back in until it pops, and toss the screwdriver in my bag. I walk slowly to the motorhome, memorizing the way it feels to tread the path: the give of the pine needles, the dense winding roots. I am hardwiring my memory, because for the first time it doesn’t feel like this will be the rest of my life.

The motorhome shifts under my weight when I climb inside. I turn on the TV, curl up in the driver’s seat, and fall asleep to black and white static.



* * *



The next day, I fail my math test. I can’t even answer most of the questions.





— Chapter 2 —


This test was your chance to prove yourself,” Mrs. Hunter says, shaking her head at me with fake concern. Her weather-girl hair barely moves. She hands over my paper, marked with red like it has the chicken pox.

I should have held on to my test until the end of class so I could escape before she started grading. But I turned it in early with the smart kids, because there were song lyrics flashing in my head and I had to scribble them in my notebook before I forgot.

“I did prove myself,” I say.

“Ape-rul!” She crosses her arms over her chest, pursing her perfectly lined lips. She was a beauty queen before she was a teacher. I wonder what her talent was.

“I proved I can’t do math,” I say, dropping the test in the trash can by her desk. I stop in the doorway to wave goodbye. Elbow, elbow, wrist, wrist, and a big smile like I have Vaseline smeared across my teeth.

“April Sawicki!” she yells after me as I walk away.

I don’t see any point in going to the rest of my classes. I’ve failed so many math tests already this semester that unless I get perfect scores for the rest of the year, I’ll be stuck in summer school not understanding algebra all over again. And it’s not like I’m doing much better in English or science.

I grab my black and whites from my locker, change in the bathroom, and head to Margo’s. When I get there, the diner’s empty, except for Margo, who’s perched at the counter, her pink high heels kicked off, bare feet twisted around the bottom rung of the stool. Her toenail polish matches her shoes exactly.

She’s filling saltshakers and watching The Weather Channel on the little TV over the counter. “Florida’s getting a lot of rain,” she says, shaking her head when she sees me. “Bad for the oranges. They get watery.”

“What’s the forecast here?”

“I missed that part.” She pinches spilled salt from the counter, tosses it over her shoulder for luck. “It’ll roll around again in a minute.”

“Sure,” I say, grinning. Margo can tell you what the weather is anywhere else, but she never catches the local report.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at school, young lady?” She screws the top on a shaker and slides the ones she’s finished down the counter to me.

“Failed math. No point.” I grab four shakers in each hand and walk around, placing them on tables.

“I’m harboring a fugitive,” she says, waving her hands in mock horror. “The truant officer is going to have a field day.”

“They don’t have those anymore, I don’t think.” I finish placing the shakers and sit on the stool next to hers.

“Did you at least give it your best shot?”

“Not really.” I twist my promise ring around my finger and avoid making eye contact.

“Well, not everyone’s cut out for school, you know? I didn’t graduate and look at me. I did just fine for myself.” Margo finishes salt and moves on to pepper. “This isn’t because of that Matty Spencer, is it?”

“Naw.”

She raises her eyebrow, scrunches up the corner of her mouth. She’s being polite calling Matty by name. Usually, she calls him Golden Boy, and she doesn’t mean it in a nice way. “That kid could charm the pants off a snake,” she told me once, and I wondered what it made me. But that’s the thing about Matty. No one else knows him like I do.