The Same Sky(19)

“Okay,” said Evian.

“Can you … can you wake her?”

Evian didn’t move. “She doesn’t like it if you wake her,” she said finally.

“Oh, of course!” I said, my voice as big and cheery as a circus tent.

“I can do whatever I want,” said Evian. “She doesn’t mind.” This was said with tentative pride. The whole scenario was beginning to depress me beyond measure. And then inspiration struck.

“How about we cook?” I said. “We can hit HEB down the street, then come back here and make … well, what do you like? Brownies?”

“I’m not really interested in cooking,” said Evian politely.

“Oh … okay,” I said.

“Can we go to the mall?”

“The mall?” I repeated, dumbly. I was not a fan of malls. I knew Austin had them, and I’d once been to the movies out at Gateway, but something about malls gave me the heebie-jeebies. All that recycled air, the smell of cheap fabric and pretzel bites. “Sure,” I said, recovering. “The mall! Why not? Why not the mall?”

Evian slipped past me into the driveway. I followed, unlocking the truck. When dogs ran toward us, Evian quickly clambered into the Bronco, and I did the same. “Scary animals,” I said after we’d slammed shut the doors.

“They fight them,” said Evian.

“Oh,” I said, locking the car and peering out at the dogs. Who the hell was they? “That’s sad,” I noted.

Evian shrugged. “Wow,” she said, “this car is like, vintage.”

“I like it,” I admitted. The truth was, I loved it—loved the idea of myself as someone who belonged behind the wheel of a powerful vehicle. The Bronco was a truck even my father admired. I even adored the tape deck and kept a shoebox full of tapes (Van Morrison, Willie Nelson, Wilco, Janet Jackson) between the front seats.

We pulled out of Evian’s driveway and headed toward Oltorf Street. “Are those guys waiting for the train, do you think?” I asked Evian, to make conversation. She shrugged again. “How old are you?” I tried.

“Fifteen.”

“Oh, fifteen!” I said. I could scarcely remember being fifteen, a ninth-grader at Ouray High. “How many kids are in ninth grade at Chávez?” I asked.

“Like ten thousand,” said Evian.

“What?”

“I’m joking,” said Evian. “Who knows? Anyway, we call it Johnson, even though it’s officially Chávez.” She used her fingers to put quote marks around “officially.”

“Oh, okay,” I said.

“They fired all our teachers and changed the name, but they can’t stop us calling it what we want,” said Evian. She looked at me, eyebrow lifted, challenging me to disagree.

“Right,” I said in solidarity. At a stoplight, I consulted my phone. “Now, which mall are you interested in?” I asked.

“Barton Creek,” said Evian.

“Great,” I said, getting directions. We headed toward the highway. “Do you need something specific?” I said. “Maybe some new … earrings? I could use pajamas, actually.” I smiled in her direction, deciding to treat her like a little sister. I could even buy her a pair of earrings. Or some bigger pants … or better yet, a flattering sundress!

“I’m meeting my boyfriend,” said Evian.

I was barreling down Lamar and did not know how to respond. I was certain this was not how Principal Markson wanted my afternoon with Evian to unfold. “Your boyfriend?” I said, trying to sound fun and lighthearted.

Evian picked at her nails.

“So …,” I said. “What’s his name?”

“Sam,” said Evian.

“Sam,” I said. “I don’t think I know anyone named Sam.”

Evian was silent, and the awkwardness of my words and the whole damn outing huddled between us like an ugly pet. “So Principal Markson thought it might be … um … thought it might be fun for us to hang out this year,” I said.

“Yeah,” said Evian.

Emboldened by this vague affirmation, I went on, “You could come by my restaurant after school once in a while. We could … spend time together.”

“Could you pay me?” she said, turning toward me. “Like, give me a job?”

“You’re not old enough, I don’t think,” I said.

“Are you sure?” asked Evian hopefully. “I need some money. So I can get my own phone and save up for things.”

“What sort of things?” I asked, happy to change the subject from labor laws to hopes and dreams.

“I don’t know,” said Evian, putting her floppy sneakers on the dashboard. “Like a house, you know?”

“A house!” I said. “I thought you meant clothes. Or, I don’t know, an Xbox.”

“I’m not into video games,” said Evian. “But Sam, he loves them. No, I want to get my own house. I’m going to move to California or New Zealand.”

She spoke so matter-of-factly, I wasn’t sure how to respond, other than nodding enthusiastically, Muppet-like. We were zooming along 360, the mall coming up on our right. I concentrated on the road, murmuring, “I’ve never been to New Zealand.”