Starry Eyes(16)

But she doesn’t know how bad they really are. And the thing that’s bothering me, other than Dad’s unhinged fit of anger this morning, is the worry that I’m not the only one keeping secrets about Dad’s extracurricular activities. The Mackenzies know. Lennon knows. How long before that knowledge leaks and my mom finds out?

I can’t let that happen.

“Are those hives?” my mom asks, stopping to look at my arm. “Jesus, Zorie. You’re covered in them. Have you had shrimp?”

“No.” Sometimes shellfish causes them, but mostly it’s stress and the occasional random allergen. It’s unpredictable. My body is a mystery.

She frowns at me, worry tightening her face. “You have to get back on daily antihistamines. And we need to get some more of that homeopathic cream from Angela’s shop.”

The cream gives me a headache, but I don’t say this. Mom is telling me that we can stop and pick it up on our way back if we hurry, but something across the street catches my attention. Lennon’s big, black satanic hearse is parked at the curb. We’re half a block or so away from his place of employment, so he must be working. And thinking about his fight with my dad this morning makes me realize something: I will be gone for a week, while Lennon will be here. All it would take is one more standoff with my dad and Lennon might say something about the photo book.

I need to make him promise that he’ll keep his mouth shut.

“Look, you don’t need to be late for your next appointment,” I tell Mom. “I can walk down to Angela’s and pick up the hive cream.”

She hesitates before digging inside her scrubs pocket and handing me some money. “All right. Ask her if she’ll give it to you for a free cupping session in exchange. Sometimes she’ll barter.”

“Honor among healers?”

“Something like that. Take an antihistamine when you get home, and let me check on you later, okay?”

“Will do.”

“I mean it. Don’t make me have to take you to Sacred Heart.”

“Not those monsters,” I say dramatically. “Conventional medicine is for chumps.”

She pokes a tickling finger into my side, making me laugh. “Watch your hives, young lady.”

I assure her that I will.

After we part ways, I backtrack down the sidewalk to cross the street, passing Lennon’s car. Then I head toward the business on the corner.

Reptile Isle is one of the oldest reptile shops in California. The brick shop front is covered in an enormous rainforest mural, complete with lizards and turtles and snakes, oh my. I walk past giant pieces of driftwood and tropical plants flanking its recessed entrance and push open the door.

Inside, my eyes adjust to diffuse light as the thick, musky scent of substrate and snake fills my nostrils. Hundreds of tanks and terrariums line the walls, their UV lights and heat lamps creating a warm atmosphere. Most of the reptiles here are for sale, but the people who own the shop also have a breeding program in the back, and they do a lot of educational outreach.

A large checkout counter sits near the entrance, but Lennon’s not running the register, so I glance around the expansive shop and try to spot him. Under wooden beams that crisscross a large, open ceiling, I wind around aisles stacked with plastic caves, plant replicas, and endless reptilian supplies: tank thermostats, feeding dishes, lizard hammocks. In the center of the store, inside a massive habitat cage, the skeleton of an old tree stands, its bare branches decked with tiny wooden platforms. Tropical plants hang from the cage’s ceiling and flowering vines creep up its screened walls.

This is where I spot Lennon.

He’s standing inside the cage with a giant green iguana draped around his shoulders.

“Her name is Maria,” Lennon is telling a child standing on the outside of the cage with her nose pressed to the screen. “She’s from Costa Rica.”

“How old is she?” the girl asks.

“She’s five years old,” Lennon says.

“That’s how old you are,” the mother reminds her.

The girl seems suitably impressed. “This is where she lives?”

“She has the entire cage to herself,” Lennon confirms. “She’s almost four feet long, so she needs a lot of space to roam around. Want to see her tail?”

He ducks low on the other side of the screen to give her a peek.

Eyes wide, the little girl is both fascinated and wary. “Will she bite?”

“If she’s scared,” Lennon says, coaxing the big lizard from his shoulders to a platform above, where it crawls beneath a potted tropical plant. “She only likes to be handled by a few special friends. It takes her a long time to trust people enough to let them get close to her. But she doesn’t mind if you admire her from out there.”

“Can I have her for a pet?”

Lennon pretends to think about this. “She needs a lot of space, and we’d be sad if we couldn’t see her every day. If you like lizards, a better pet would a green anole or a leopard gecko. They are pretty easy to take care of, if your mom is willing to buy live insects. . . .” He glances at the mother, who shakes her head firmly. Lennon quickly says, “Or, you could just come here to visit Maria.”

The girl considers this thoughtfully while the mother gives Lennon an enthusiastic thumbs-up. His face relaxes into a warm smile. I haven’t seen him smile like that in a long time. It’s sweet and boyish. Unexpectedly, a hollow ache wells up inside my chest.