The Accidentals(8)

That’s true. But it’s not the whole truth.

“Well, good for you. Claiborne is a nice town. I went to college there.”

Of course I know that already. It says so right on Wikipedia. “It looks nice in the pictures,” I say lamely.

He stops. “You’ve never been there?”

“Not since I was a baby. Then after I applied… It wasn’t a good year to travel.” My mother spent the winter lying on the sofa, getting thinner and losing her hair. But I hadn’t panicked, because the chemo seemed to be shrinking her tumors.

He sucks in a breath. “Right.” We continue along the walkway. The baseball team is practicing, but the bleachers are empty and shaded. He walks over to them and sits down, so I sit too. The ball players are engaged in some sort of complicated throwing drill, balls flying everywhere. Every few seconds the coach blows his whistle.

“Rachel…”

It’s wild hearing him say my name. His speaking voice has the same rough timbre as his singing voice, and I’ve been studying the sound of it since forever.

“I can’t even imagine the year you just had. And I can’t decide whether it’s rude to ask you to tell me about it, or rude not to ask.”

There’s no way I can talk to Frederick about my mother’s death. I can barely think about it myself. So I say nothing.

“But I do need to ask you about this place you’re staying. Do you feel safe there?”

I don’t look at him. “It’s not dangerous. It’s a little gross, but nobody is trying to hurt me. And I’m the oldest one there.”

“How is it gross?”

I look up at his face for half a second, but it makes me nervous. “It’s just dingy. The kids that live there are depressing.”

“But they leave you alone?”

“Pretty much. They go through my things when I’m not around. I was going to try to get more of my stuff out of our house. But now I think there’s really no point. I had my own bottle of shampoo, and it disappeared. Things like that. It’s just…little stuff.”

“What if you had a trunk that locked?”

“It’s not allowed.”

He rubs his chin. “Well, that sounds craptastic. And you probably don’t feel like yourself.”

“Not really. No.” As far as I can tell, I’m never going to feel like myself again, and it isn’t the group home’s fault. “It’s a lot of small humiliations. Free lunch tickets. Not enough minutes in the shower.” I finger my hair. It’s shaggy and terrible.

“What’s happening with your place on Pomelo Court?” he asks.

His mention of our house startles me. Of course he knows where we lived—he’s been sending us a check there every month. He can probably rattle off the zip code.

It’s just that he’s never once stopped by.

I realize he’s waiting for an answer. “Um, one of my mother’s friends is taking care of things. Mary.”

“Mary…” he repeats. His eyes are a warm shade of gray. That’s something I never could quite tell from pictures of him. “Is this someone you trust?”

“Well, sure. She was Mom’s best friend. She runs a salon in South Eola.”

“Okay,” he says, his face thoughtful. “Look. The social worker and the lawyer tell me that until you turn eighteen in a month, there are only little things I can do for you. If you need to find your stuff, or hit your friend Mary’s salon for another bottle of shampoo, I can help with that.”

I put a hand to my stringy hair. “I would love to see Mary.” In fact, I should have thought to visit her myself. “She’s probably working, though.”

He shrugs. “So, let’s go. If she’s too busy to talk today, you can go back tomorrow.” He stands up, and I follow him.

I used to be the sort of person who found answers to problems. Now I’m somebody who life leads around by the elbow.





Chapter Three





Back at the car, Frederick opens the back door and slides across the seat. I get in next to him.

The driver turns around to look at us, and I recognize him. He’s the man who’d smiled at me from the car in Hannah’s parking lot yesterday. “Hi, Rachel,” he says. “I’m Carlos.”

“Hi, Carlos.”

“Where to?”

“East Washington Street?”

“Gotcha.” He reaches for a GPS on the dash, although I could have told him where to go. “Hey, boss,” he says, handing a phone over his shoulder to Frederick. “It’s been dancing the Macarena.”

“That’s unfortunate.” The car slides away from the curb while Frederick scrolls through messages on his phone. Then it rings in his hands. He taps the screen and puts the phone to his ear. “Henry. What now?” He listens for maybe two seconds before cutting Henry off. “I know that chaos makes you twitchy. But I’ve been your easy client for a decade. You’ve never bailed me out of jail, or FedExed me to the Betty Ford clinic, right? But for once I really need your help, and you act like I owe you something.”

I stare out the window, feeling like an eavesdropper.

“I don’t have answers for you yet. And I understand that I’m going to look like an asshole before this is over. But it is what it is. I have to go now.” Frederick ends the call.