The Patron Saint of Butterflies(49)
Eventually I decide to take a shower, something I can’t remember doing recently, and count to a hundred and twenty as I soap myself up under the running water. At Mount Blessing, showers are limited to three minutes tops, since hot water is so expensive. This morning I will limit it to two minutes. The line my waist string has left behind is deep red, almost purple. I make a note to find another one as soon as possible.
After the shower, I brush my teeth for a long time, guiltily relishing the taste of the Vanilla Mint toothpaste. I slide into a clean pair of underwear, a new peach bra Nana Pete insisted on buying for me, my old jeans, a long-sleeved black T-shirt, and then, finally, my robe. I press my face into the sleeves of the robe and inhale. The material has a familiar smell to it, like shoe polish. I have to get back home.
Still squeezing the water from my hair, I come out of the bathroom to find Honey seated on the floor. She has the TV on. Three guys dressed only in wide white pants are dancing on the screen, as loud, thumping music pulses in the background. A girl wearing a black bra and shorts is writhing around on the ground like she has poison ivy.
Honey gives me a quick glance and then looks away again. “You don’t have to wear that robe out here, you know,” she says, flipping the channel.
“I know,” I answer, heading over toward Benny, whose eyes are glued to the television. “I want to.”
“Hey, check this out!” Honey says. I sit down on the bed, directly in front of Benny’s line of vision. “I think this guy just made a glass of zucchini juice!” Benny grunts and moves to the side.
“Don’t look, Benny,” I order. “It’s a sin to watch TV. Just close your eyes.” But Benny doesn’t listen. He struggles to sit up in the bed, pushing me away from him with his good hand.
Honey turns around. “Oh, for crying out loud, let him look. It’s just some idiot making juice.”
I ignore her. “Benny. Come on. Let’s go in the bathroom and get washed up.” But he continues to angle his way around me, even elbowing me so hard in the ribs that I lose my breath. “Ow!” I yell. “Benedict Little!” I can see Honey put her hand over her mouth, stifling a laugh. It’s a good thing, too, because I turn on her then, all fury.
“Turn. Off. The. TV.” Honey giggles again behind her hand. “I mean it, Honey.”
She opens her mouth to object and then seems to decide against it. Pointing the remote at the TV, she flicks off the screen. A snorting sound comes out of her nose.
“Go ahead and make fun,” I say, stuffing my dirty clothes back inside my backpack. “You won’t be laughing in the end.”
Honey gets up slowly from the floor. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Think about it.” I turn so that she is talking to my shoulder.
Honey grabs my arm and spins me around. “Hey.” Her voice, low and steady, frightens me all of a sudden. “You listen to me, Agnes, because I’m only going to say this once. I don’t ever want to hear again—or even listen to you insinuate—that I am going to hell because of stuff like watching TV. Or because of anything I do, for that matter. You got it?”
I stare into her glowering eyes. “Just because we’ve left Mount Blessing doesn’t mean you have to throw everything about it away. It’s like you don’t even care, Honey.”
“I care, Agnes,” Honey says. “I care more than you will ever know.”
“About what?”
“About the things that matter. About you. About Benny and Nana Pete.” She pauses. “You’re so freaked out all the time about all the little things that might be tripping you up on this path of yours to heaven that you forget to stop and look around once in a while at the things that count.”
“Oh, like what, listening to stupid songs on the radio? Or watching that garbage on TV?”
Honey’s eyes flash black. “Like taking the time to realize that your grandmother over there is putting her life on the line for us.”
I toss my head. “Well, no one asked her to. Especially not me.”
Honey takes a step away from me. Even I can’t believe how awful that just sounded. I turn away so that I don’t have to face her anymore, but I can feel her eyes burning into my back. Just then, Nana Pete comes out of the bathroom.
“Onward, tr—” She stops midsentence, noticing Honey and me. “Everything okay here?” I hear a swishing sound as Honey snatches something off the floor.
“Everything’s fine,” she says. “Let’s just get out of here.”
HONEY
Nana Pete turns back on 15 South. We drive until we see signs for Washington, D.C., and Virginia and then hit a road called I-270, which we stay on for hours. She starts off strong, driving as if possessed, trying to make up for all the missed miles from yesterday. Staring down her own tunnel of vision, she taps her thumbs along the top of the steering wheel, hearing a beat all her own. A few hours later, though, she seems to have fallen into some sort of trance. She doesn’t hear me when I ask her if she’s hungry, and when I ask her a few minutes later if she’s tired, she just gives me a strange look and shakes her head.
Maybe I’m worrying too much. I pull out my butterfly notebook and try to draw one of the Clouded Sulphurs I saw outside of the hospital, but Nana Pete keeps swerving in and out of traffic so sharply that my pencil darts all over the page. Her doggedness at not letting the speedometer fall under eighty-five is really starting to freak me out. I am just about to say something when I notice that her shoulders are sagging like two weighted logs in a pond. Her skin is a pale, ashy color and tiny beads of sweat, like pearls, have broken out along her forehead.