My Name Is Venus Black(52)
The picture of Leo is painfully familiar. He is sitting among piles of wrapping paper the Christmas before it all happened. You can’t tell from his face that he’s happy, since Leo never smiled. But I know he had just opened up a new Lincoln Logs set that was the “right” brown and he was making his happy humming sound.
Then I realize something else. Mike bought this milk two days ago at least. How could I have picked it up and not even noticed my own brother’s picture on it?
Because I wasn’t looking for it, of course. Because I haven’t been looking for Leo. I’ve been out of jail for months now, and I haven’t once been brave enough to check up on his case or do a damn thing to help look for him, just in case he’s alive.
The Cheerios sit there, getting soggy. When I try to put the milk back in the refrigerator, I can’t. Instead, I empty the carton into a pitcher. Then I rinse the carton, open it out flat, and take it upstairs, where I put it in my bottom dresser drawer.
At work, I somehow manage to get through the Dipper’s morning rush. During my break, though, when I take a minute to catch my breath, Inez’s words from six years ago ring in my ears again: If something has happened to Leo, it’s because of what you did.
It’s a truth I’ve been working hard all these years to avoid: If I hadn’t killed Raymond, Leo would still have a father. And he would never have been at Shirley’s house to begin with. All those years in Echo Glen when I worked so hard to pretend Leo was dead—it wasn’t because I couldn’t afford to hope, it was because I couldn’t afford the guilt.
My mood grows blacker after that. I feel darker and more depressed every day that goes by. Sometimes I laugh to myself like a crazy person, recalling how I honestly thought that after I got out of jail, I would be so happy. Instead, I’m so unhappy that Julie asks me if I can try harder to be friendly toward customers.
Maybe I’m feeling reckless or want to sabotage my life that isn’t a life. Or maybe I do it for Piper, in her memory. But one day out of the blue, I reach behind my back and pull the band from my braid. At work, I have to at least tie it back loosely because of food-safety rules. But otherwise I wear it loose every day. I tell myself it’s safe now, because after all these months at the Dipper, no one has come close to recognizing me—except Gloria, who doesn’t count.
But, of course, I should have known better. I should have known I couldn’t trust my hair not to betray me all over again. This time, it was through a Polaroid that Piper took at Christmas.
I learned only later that some of the pictures she’d snapped of us had traveled to school for a holiday show-and-tell. Since Piper never even got the chance to clean out her desk, she’d left several behind, tucked in a spelling book. Weeks later, a teacher’s assistant tasked with emptying Piper’s desk found them. She thought the woman with wild black hair in Piper’s photo looked a lot like that crazy girl who killed her stepfather in Everett.
I guess she grilled the teacher about whether she knew anything about the woman in the picture. Since I had donated doughnuts to the class more than once, the teacher just so happened to know where Piper’s “babysitter” worked. The nosy mother excitedly informed a reporter friend.
And so one cold Tuesday in February a reporter shows up. At first, I’m not positive she’s with the press. But I notice her studying my face in a way that sets off alarms in my brain. She’s wearing black slacks and pumps, a gray blazer, and she has a thin briefcase with her. She takes her coffee and sits where she can watch me.
After a while, I realize she’s waiting for me to go on a break or finish my shift. My hands start to sweat and I beg the God who doesn’t exist to help me. Of course, I might as well be praying to a chair. This woman isn’t going anywhere.
But then, to my great surprise, it dawns on me that I’m not going to run, slip out the back door, or try to avoid this confrontation. Maybe I’m sick of hiding. Or maybe I am too depressed to care. Or maybe I’ve finally realized that a fake ID will never set me free of being me.
I take some deep breaths. I decide this won’t go down like before—with me acting scared and hiding my face in my hair. It’s going to happen on my terms. I think about Piper—how she’s so brave and bossy. Piper would never run from a reporter.
As soon as the order counter is empty of customers, I tell Julie I need to take a break. I calmly hang up my apron and approach the woman. She is petite, has her brown hair in a top bun. Because she is sitting, I feel like a giant looming over her. “You’ve been sitting here for quite a while,” I say. “Is there something more you want?”
“Yes, Venus,” she says with an apologetic smile. “And I’m really sorry it’s not a doughnut.”
“Why do you guys have to hound me like this?”
“Why do you assume you’re being hounded?” she replies. “No one is hounding you, Venus. I would just like to have a friendly conversation.”
“Yeah, right,” I say. “I’m guessing it’s not about movies, boys, or books.”
“It might be.”
“Can you wait until I get off work? I’ll meet you at the bottom of the tower in Volunteer Park at two-thirty.”
She looks doubtful. I can tell she doesn’t think I’ll show. But what is she going to do? Follow me when I get off work? Continue to chase me around? I doubt a picture of me hiding my face again is enough to make a story.