The Girls of No Return (2 page)

 

It wasn't going to be pleasant. This much I knew. I had spent the previous weekend packing according to a glossy list that the Alice Marshall School had sent in one of their brochures, the pamphlet entitled
Nuts and Bolts and Other Necessities
. The first page had a little disclaimer, stating that nuts and bolts were not actually allowed at the school. It was a figure of speech, the pamphlet said, and then it went on to list other items that were also prohibited. The usual suspects: guns, ammo, knives, cigarettes, drugs, fireworks, bows and arrows. (That one made me pause.) And then more things that I couldn't bring with me: candy, short skirts, stilettos (as if I owned any), combat boots, graphic T-shirts, tools and hardware (which explained the nuts and bolts comment, I guess), a computer and cell phone, and — this one was the worst — my iPod.

It was completely demoralizing, and I said so, yelling down the hall and into the kitchen, where I knew my dad and Terri were drinking their coffee. Terri yelled back that it wouldn't be the biggest loss, seeing as how I'd had my iPod taken away the previous week anyway. I slammed my door. Then I opened it and slammed it shut again, just for good measure.

There were two more lists, one much longer than the other, on the next page of the pamphlet. The first list (the longer one) included all of the things that I absolutely had to bring with me.
We Ask That You Bring Only the Exact Amounts Listed
, the pamphlet said.
Storage Space Is Limited, and We Frown Upon Excess
. “We frown upon excess”? I felt like I was on my way either to boot camp or high tea with the Queen Mum. Regardless, it was pretty stringent for a place that cost at least half of my dad's salary.

So it was up to me to choose which five T-shirts, which three sweaters, which two pairs of shorts, and which three pairs of jeans (
Of a Boot-cut or Straight-leg Style, Not Tight or “Skinny”)
I would bring. I'm not exactly a clothes hound, being more partial to hooded sweatshirts than glittery halter tops, but even I found the list to be restrictive. Into the bag went my four favorite gray T-shirts and a black one, three of my hoodies, and both pairs of jeans (I didn't have a third). I ignored the suggestion about shorts. To this sad collection I added seven pairs of underwear, six pairs of socks (I assumed that on the seventh day we would all go barefoot), my plastic rain poncho, a knit cap of my dad's that I quietly pilfered from the hall closet, a fleece jacket, tennis shoes, flip-flops, and the new hiking boots that Terri had bought for me the week before. I tossed in a swimsuit, the tags still attached, even though I knew there wasn't a chance in hell I'd be putting it on. It all barely filled my backpack. Bug repellant, a flashlight, my headlamp (also new), and sunscreen finished the list.

I looked at my backpack. It was one of those hiking packs designed for long treks in the Andes or along the Appalachian Trail. My dad had said something about doing some hiking up at the school, and this pack was one of the necessities on the list. I picked it up with one hand. It was heavy. If they thought I'd be carting this monster around on my back, they were in for some serious disappointment.

I decided to bring as few items as I could from the second, shorter list.
Recommended Items
, it said.
For Personal Enjoyment and Downtime
. The pamphlet suggested books, journals, letter-writing materials, and playing cards. Enough diversions for a retirement home. I threw in the purple journal that Terri had left on my pillow that morning. (I knew it was from her because my father, at least, would never choose a book with a unicorn prancing across the cover.) No need to throw in paper for letters, I thought. There was no one to write to. I looked at the list again. Aside from Solitaire, there weren't many card games I could play alone. And I definitely didn't intend on sitting around with some other lame, damaged girl, playing Speed or War or some shit.

I walked over to my bedside table and opened the drawer, pulling out the mess of loose paper and pens that I kept stuffed in there. At the bottom, underneath a copy of
How My Body Works
(guaranteed to prevent anyone from looking further), I found my pack of cigarettes and my X-ACTO knife. I wedged them both into one of the hiking boots, with a sock stuffed in for good measure. I quickly unpacked the clothes and put the boots in the very bottom of the bag before piling everything else on top again. I finished by cramming my sleeping bag in, and then I stepped back and looked at the pack. I was already looking forward to Downtime.

 

Now I wanted a cigarette. Desperately. I was surrounded by the clatter of the restaurant and the exuberant sounds of other people enjoying themselves, and I just wanted a smoke. It would look conspicuous, I thought, if I excused myself, walked out to the car, rummaged around in my pack before walking around the side of the building, and came back five minutes later with a breath mint in my mouth. My dad and Terri may be gullible and naïve, but they're not dead.

I sat on my hands and took a deep breath. One. Two. Three.

“Anyway,” my dad was saying, “we'll definitely see you on Parents' Weekend, and that's not too far-off.”

“September,” I pointed out, “is in three months.”

My dad smiled as though he'd caught me missing him before he was gone. “That's not so long, Lida.”

Not long enough
, I thought.

Terri looked toward the door. “Where is this woman?” she asked. “Do we even know what she looks like, this . . .” She rummaged in the pocket of her jeans, pulling out a slip of paper and reading the name. “This Margaret Olsen. How will we know her? How will she know us?”

“The sullen teenager you're sitting with might be a clue,” I said. I was feeling very helpful.

“Lida,” my dad said. “Please try. Just try up there, okay? Will you do that for me?”

I hated this.
This
is what happened near the end of every “conversation” I had with my dad.
This
was his ability to quietly — almost kindly, even — make me feel like an imbecile. Someone who can't get her shit together to save her life. Someone to be pitied, talked about in hushed tones, tiptoed around in case she gets pissed and does something drastic, like calmly pick up her water glass and drop it on the floor.

It shattered all over the rough wooden floorboards into shards the size of my palm, shards the size of my pinkie. A neat little river began edging its way toward my shoe.

“Jesus!” Terri was already out of her chair with a napkin, bending to mop up the water. She knelt next to me and dabbed at it fruitlessly. Her napkin was soaked. My dad just sat there, staring into his burger with a defeated smile on his face, like he'd just watched the tragic end of a movie that he'd seen twelve times before and was disturbed, but no longer shocked, when the heroine jumped off the cliff. The waitress was there too, with a broom and a long-handled dustbin, and she swept up the glass without looking at any of us.

“I'm sorry,” Terri kept saying to the floorboards. “I'm so sorry.” She was still just kneeling there, and she wasn't looking at anyone either, the soggy napkin lying like an embarrassing fact next to her.

“Nothing to apologize for,” said a new woman's voice. “Water over rocks. Things break and come together. Nothing can be counted on, as Lida has so effectively shown us.”

I nearly jumped when the husky voice said my name, and I looked up to find a tiny woman with a diamond stud in her nose, blond hair cut in a short pixie, and wearing a tank top and striped overalls that reminded me of a railroad conductor's uniform. She was shaking my dad's hand and saying “Margaret Olsen, nice to meet you,” even before I connected the voice with the woman. She looked like a sparrow but had the voice of a chain-smoker.

My dad, to his credit, took it all in stride. He glanced at the nose stud, but generally maintained eye contact as he stood and introduced himself.

“And this, obviously, is Lida,” he said, rocking forward on his toes once or twice. I couldn't tell if he was nervous or oddly proud. Maybe he was glad that I was “acting out,” in case this Margaret Olsen had any doubts about my placement in the school. After all, the Alice Marshall School didn't take your run-of-the-mill good kids, girls with high GPAs and carloads of well-rounded friends. A broken glass was probably part of the entrance exam, and I had clearly passed.

“Lida,” Margaret said, sticking out a delicate hand and grasping my own in a viselike grip. “Lida Lida Lida.” She shook my hand in time with the words. “A name for a flower,” she said, “or an exotic plant with medicinal properties.” She narrowed her eyes at me then, just a little, and I wondered if this shaman act of hers was just a charade. “What kind of properties will you have, Lida?” she asked.

I looked toward the door. I stared at the moose head just above it. I examined that moose head like it was a stained glass window. I did not reply.

My dad chuckled anxiously. “Never knew her to be shy,” he said.

Terri was standing by now too, assiduously brushing at the knees of her pants. “I'm Terri,” she said, holding out her hand to Margaret. “Lida's stepmother.”

Margaret nodded. “I see.” She angled her body so that she was standing slightly between me and my dad and Terri, and said in a low voice, “I'm not sure that we received all of Lida's personal information in her application packet. I don't mean to pry, but her mother is . . . ?”

“She's dead,” I said.

Margaret turned toward me, so she didn't see the expression on my father's face. He opened his mouth and closed it again.

“I'm sorry,” Margaret said.

“Don't be.”

There was a long, awkward pause. My dad tried to catch my eye, but I looked away.

Finally, Terri broke the silence. “Well,” she said, “as you can see, Margaret, we are quite done with lunch.” She smiled at Margaret knowingly. I wouldn't have been surprised if she had winked.

“Ah,” said Margaret. “Well. That's good timing. I have Bea waiting outside.”

“Oh,” said my dad, opening his wallet and throwing a few bills on the table. “You should have said something. We don't want to keep her waiting.”

“No, we don't,” said Margaret. “She's a temperamental old thing.”

We trooped outside to the dirt parking lot in front of the diner. Across the street, I could see that the town's only store, a pawnshop, was open for business. Other than that, the street was quiet. Mountains rose up on three sides of us. If this was going to be my nearest post of civilization for the next year, things were looking grim. It had taken us a good six hours to drive to Hindman from our house in southeastern Idaho, and as far as I could tell, the school was still miles away. This was not the kind of place you'd ever hitchhike out of.

We stopped in front of an old station wagon, rusted and black with a thick yellow stripe running around it. “What say you, Bee?” asked Margaret, and I got it, and smiled, and then erased the smile with a shrug.

“Ah,” said my dad. “So this is the official school vehicle.” He didn't look especially pleased. “I would have expected a van or bus.”

“Oh, we have those, sure,” said Margaret. “But I had some errands in town.” She waved vaguely in the direction of the deserted street and patted the car. “Anyway, I thought I'd drive Lida to school in style. Less room to get lost in.”

“Well. I see,” said my dad, even though it was clear that he didn't.

“This should be everything,” said Terri. In the approximately five seconds that we had been standing next to Bee, she had managed to bound over to our car and bring my bag back with her. “I'll just put it in the back, then?”

“I'll miss you too,” I said sarcastically.

Terri gave me a look like I had just slapped her. She set the bag down heavily on the dirt and ran a hand through her hair. “It's a long drive, Lida,” she said. “I didn't want to keep Margaret waiting.”

“Sure,” I said. “Whatever.”

Margaret slammed shut the back door of the station wagon and dusted her hands on her overalls. My bag sat in the backseat like an overweight child. “Farewells take many forms. Luckily, we have lots of chances to practice in this life.” She smiled at my dad and Terri, and rested one hand lightly on my shoulder. “Lida, it's time to go.”

My dad walked over and engulfed me in a bear hug. I kept my shoulders stiff, but I didn't push him away.

“Be good, Bun,” he said. “We'll be talking soon.” He stepped back and looked up at the sky, blinking.

“Lida,” said Terri, moving toward me. “I'll —” She stopped when she saw my outstretched hand. She shook it. Neither of us looked at the other.

Margaret opened the passenger door for me. “It might be hard to believe,” she said, “but in the grand scheme of parent-child farewells, you are all behaving with impeccable decorum.” She shook my father's and Terri's hands. “Lida will be safe and healthy at Alice Marshall,” she assured them. “She may even be happy. That piece is up to her.” She turned and smiled at me. “Ready?”

I nodded. I looked once more toward the dusty diner in the dusty town, the street that seemed to go nowhere at all, the pawnshop where people traded in their old hopes for chances at new ones. I took it all in, and then I looked at my father and Terri.

“Good-bye,” I said to their foreheads. And then, in one fluid motion, I slid into the car and slammed the door shut.