Authors: Loretta Ellsworth
“Uh-oh. Management,” Roxie murmurs.
The car slows down and stops next to our group. At this point I'm tempted to drop my sign and run off into the ditch. The only thing that's stopping me is Halle. She would probably think I'm weak and gutless. I stand behind Eddie and peek around him.
The darkened window rolls down and everyone backs away except for Halle. She approaches the car. Her bravery makes me feel like a spineless slug. But her daffodil voice breaks slightly when she speaks.
“Hello, Daddy.”
“But we're not doing anything wrong!” Halle's voice bounces off the hot pavement and carries back to the rest of us huddled near the side of the road.
“I'm going over there,” Eddie says. He throws down his sign.
“No.” Gina pulls him back. “It's
her
dad.”
We inch closer. I can't make out Mr. Phillips's voice, but Halle's shoulders droop and her face is flushed when she turns back to look at us.
“We're not holding up a sign advertising who I am,” she says hotly and points at us. “They all have relatives here. The whole town does!”
Gina takes a step back. “Why'd she have to say that?”
Finally, the car pulls away. Halle turns and straightens herself. “We have to go,” she says in a flat voice. “Now.” Eddie doesn't object. He takes one look at Halle's face and puts down his sign as though his anger has disintegrated into the warm pavement.
The mood in the van is church quiet. The signs rest in a pile at my feet on top of a half-eaten container of fries. Eddie's mumbling something to Gina, but I can't hear him over the noise of the engine.
It's selfish to be thinking of myself now, but I can't help it. I'm relieved we weren't arrested and that Eddie didn't do anything rash like throw his sign at the Cadillac. The only person in trouble is Halle. She said her dad worked at Wellington Mines. But management? From the looks of that Cadillac, he's in
upper
management.
I have a fantasy relationship with my own father. In my mind he takes me fishing even though Mom doesn't remember him ever doing that. It's that Andy Griffith thing. He brags about me and protects me and he can kick Dink's butt. Of course this fantasy keeps me from seeing him as human with flaws, of which Mom assures me he had plenty. And it keeps me from understanding how Halle can be so rebellious toward her father.
But I want to understand. I turn around. Halle is staring straight ahead like she's in a coma. I'm surprised she hasn't stared a hole into the headrest in front of her. “So, that was your dad?” I ask her.
Roxie rolls her eyes.
Halle answers without turning her gaze. “Yes. The big bad wolf is Daddy.” She looks at me and her eyes are defiant. “Now you know the truth about Halle Phillips. She's a fake.”
“No you're not,” Roxie objects. “You can't help what your father does.”
“But I live with the enemy. I should give back every stitch of clothing he ever bought me, and the dance lessons, and the flute. I should live on the streets instead of living with him.”
Seems a bit drastic, but then again, we moved to Minnesota to get away from Dink. Though I doubt that her dad is the same rank of enemy as Dink.
“You don't have to move out to be yourself,” Roxie says. “Just be true to your beliefs.”
“And tell your old man we're not giving up,” Eddie shouts from the front. “We'll be back.”
“Yeah,” Gina says. “He can't stop you from protesting. It's your right and your duty. Stand tall and brave, girl.”
I want to say something encouraging to let her know I understand how she feels. But the truth is that I
don't
understand. Being true to myself has never been an aspiration of mine. I yearn to be someone different, so that ten years from now Dink will be a faint memory and the past won't be a constant intrusion.
“What about you, Baxter?” Halle's eyes flash a challenge, but I'm not sure what that challenge means. Is she asking me to be part of this group? Or does she want to know how I feel about her situation?
Would Halle be saying this if she knew who I was? I feel guilty because there isn't anyone who's more of a fake than me. I work hard at being a fake. And today it actually helped. For a few hours, Dink has retreated from my mind. So have the intruding memories. That alone is significant. Maybe this is what Dr. Anderson meant when he said that leading a full life can help curb the isolation I feel. This is the first time in a long time that I've felt part of something. Even if it is the Mental Club.
My reinvented self hesitates but the truth forces its way out. I moved here to find a lost love and a new life. Like Gatsby, I believe in that green light.
“Count me in.”
“So unlike you, Baxter. You could have at least called.” Mom is digging through a box of odds and ends. She's looking for an ashtray, an openly symbolic piece of ceramic that I made in second grade before I was anti-smoking. Her voice isn't angry, though. She seems almost pleased that I screwed up.
“Sorry. The meeting lasted longer than I expected. I got home at 4:55; before you, but after the cable guy.”
“Well, next time ⦔ She doesn't finish. Maybe saying it out loud will jinx it. I've found a place to go that isn't a research facility and people to hang out with who don't wear white lab coats. To her, it's a sign of a normal teen life.
She stands and gives up on the box. “Don't get me wrong, I'm glad you took our talk this morning to heart. But the Environmental Club? What made you choose that?”
A pair of brown eyes. Here's the part where I have to lie. There's no way around it, I've decided, so I've been rehearsing since I got home. The key is to keep my voice even so Mom buys it. I repeat part of a lecture I heard while flipping through the channels on TV last year. “The impact of environmental choices affects us all. More than thirty-eight species of dragonflies have been identified in northern Minnesota. They have very specific habitat requirements, and disturbances in those habitats from water pollution, changes in shoreline vegetation, or changes in forest cover may cause them to disappear.”
Mom frowns. “I didn't know you were into dragonflies.”
“Neither did I. I'm trying something new.”
“Hmm. I guess I can't complain. But how did you get home? You must have missed the bus.”
“Eddie gave me a ride. He's a senior and the president of the club.”
“Oh, maybe next time I can meet him.” There it is again. Her voice fills the room with promise.
“I also got offered a job,” I tell her. “Just a few afternoons and weekends helping bale hay.”
Mom's eyes widen. “You know how to bale hay?”
“No. But how hard can it be? I need some money of my own to spend.” And I've decided that Brad is right. Halle's not going to be won over by a few green jelly beans.
“What about schoolwork? What about the C-minus?”
“Not a problem. I can handle it.”
She twists her mouth sideways and makes a weird face. It's her thinking pose. “I suppose. But you'll have to find a ride and if your grades don't go up you'll have to quit.”
“I can ride there with Brad after school a couple days each week if you can pick me up later. And it's just a temporary job.”
“Are you sure you're my son? This morning you didn't want to do anything, and in one day you've joined a club and you have a part-time job.” She shakes her head in disbelief. “Well, I guess it will be good for you. All this fresh, North-Country air.” Then she goes outside to have a cigarette. She doesn't even see the irony in it.
It strikes me when she leaves; how easy it was to lie to her. I've avoided telling lies my whole life, felt that it was against my nature. I imagined my tongue bursting into flames like a vampire caught in bright sunlight. But I'm standing here without any burns or gashes and only a tiny bit of guilt to bother me. Nothing I can't handle.
Lies are easier than secrets. No one forgets a secret, not even people with average memories. Secrets are heavy. They're anchors that weigh a person down; the longer you keep them the heavier they become. And that thought sends me to my closet once again to check out my guitar case. I gave the guitar to the Salvation Army years ago.
“You're gonna love this,” Dink said. “I always wanted one when I was a kid.” He took the guitar out of the case and tuned the strings as he held the pick on the end of his tongue. Then he strummed a few chords and belted out a horrible rendition of Willie Nelson's
“On The Road Again.”
I was eleven years old and couldn't have cared less about a guitar. It was an expensive one, with a solid spruce top. It was a bribe; a week later he asked me to help him at work.
But what irked me was the fact that he bought me something that I had absolutely no interest in. Dink didn't bother to find out what I'd like, even for a bribe.
I run my hand through the money, thinking about Dink's scam. It wasn't anywhere near as good as the scam he pulled on Mom. He got her to fall for him, to want a future with him, to let him live with us. There isn't near-enough money here to make up for what he did.
It's 8:50 and Halle hasn't shown up for school yet. I'm consumed with worry because I don't know anything about her dad. What if he transferred her to another school or locked her in her room?
The events from yesterday replay in my head: the darkened windows of the car as it pulled up next to us, the sound of Halle's voice as she spoke to her father. But nothing gives me a clue as to where Halle is today.
When Mr. Feege asks if anyone remembers the sample math problem he posted on the board yesterday, I'm so preoccupied with Halle that I raise my hand and recite it verbatim. Everyone stares, including Mr. Feege. He'd used a calculator to get the answer yesterday.
“I wrote it down,” I say, pointing at my notebook. Luckily, no one notices that it's just scribbled writing, most of which is Halle's name in various fonts.
At 10:57 I catch Roxie in the hall between classes. “Halle wasn't in class. Have you seen her?”
She shakes her head. “She's not at school. I haven't talked to her since yesterday.”
Roxie notices the frown on my face. “I'm sure it's nothing,” she says in a whispery voice. “Halle cuts class sometimes.”
But when Halle doesn't show for our tutoring session, I can't shake the feeling that something's wrong. I use one of the computers and search the local white pages for Phillips. There are two listed in Wellington: one near downtown, and another on the outskirts. Both are about two miles from my house.
I write down the addresses and wait until Mrs. Algren is finished talking to another student before I approach her. She has curly, dark hair and kind eyes that light up whenever someone walks into the library. I show her the paper with my writing on it.
“Mrs. Algren, at which address would a wealthy owner most likely live in Wellington?”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Is this your roundabout way of asking me where Halle Phillips lives?”
My neck flushes hot. Even if I tried to lie about this, she'd know.
She nods. “Thought so. Her older sister used to belong to our book club and I gave her a ride home a few times. She lives on Willow Way, the second address.”
“Thanks.”
“If you see her, tell her I just got in a new book she'd enjoy.”
“I will.” And like that, my mind is made up. When I get off the bus at 3:02, I turn in the opposite direction of our house. There's a crisp breeze in the air that makes my nose run. Leaves are falling from trees, littering yards and sidewalks and clogging up gutters.
I follow the street signs, walking down Illinois Avenue. My memory is nonselective, a human Xerox machine as I pass through neighborhoods.
House number 1492, a gray rambler with white trim. A red Chevy van in the driveway, Minnesota license number XHA 418.
I avert my eyes and stare down at the pavement. Dr. Anderson said I need to make a conscious effort
not
to notice things; that way I won't remember them. But it's hard. I can't help noticing. It's the way my brain has always worked.
Most people think it's strange to have a memory like mine. But it's just as strange to me when someone can't remember where she placed her car keys fifteen minutes earlier or what assignment the teacher gave us two days ago.
After crossing the railroad tracks I stop at a convenience store. The shriveled hot dogs smell good and I'm tempted to buy one, but then I notice the grime on the rack beneath them. A burly man picks one off the rack and I see that same grime on the underside of the hot dog. So I buy a Gatorade and guzzle it, then make my way up a hill toward the outskirts of Wellington. Each step brings me closer to Willow Way and also closer to a panic-induced stomachache.
How will Halle feel about me looking up her address and coming to her house? Will she think I'm stalking her? I realize I have no idea how she'll react. The uncertainty slows my footsteps. Maybe I should turn around and go home. Maybe I should call her first.
I look up at the street sign in front of me. Willow Way. I turn and follow the narrow, curvy road of spacious brick homes that are three times the size of our townhome. They sweep out and down across a rolling hill. I've seen big homes before, but not in this town. Are all of them owned by executives at the plant?
At 3:50 I stand in front of Halle's house. One word describes it: colossal. It has turrets on each side and rounded windows. The lawn is meticulously landscaped with maple trees and bushes with satiny leaves that look as though they've been polished, unlike our house, which has an ash tree in front and a single rosebush in the back. A rounded driveway leads to the house, which backs up to a small lake. Behind her house I see a distant dock extending out from the sloping shoreline.
She's so out of my league. But even though I know it's true, I don't want to blow my shot at her, even if it's a slim shot at best. Part of me wants to leave. The other part insists on staying to find out if Halle is okay. On the side of the house are huge ground-floor windows, ones that I might see into if I walk past. Maybe I can get a glimpse of Halle and I won't have to knock on her door and come up with an explanation as to why I'm here.
My shoes leave footprints in the short grass. I try to look casual, not like a Peeping Tom, which is what I feel like. Knee-high bushes frame the windows. In between is a planting of flowers. I sneak around the edge of the bushes. My heart pounds with the thought of catching a glimpse of her, like a breath of air to hold me until tomorrow. My inner critic goes into overdrive: this is dangerous, maybe even creepy. But I don't feel like a pervert; I feel like a concerned friend. The driving force that brought me here is the result of eleven years of remembering Halle, of missing her in my life. I just have to know she's okay.
I pass two windows that are covered by blinds. I peek around the corner of the third window into a room that radiates opulence with its mahogany furniture and stone-carved fireplace. As luck would have it, Halle is there, sitting on an oversized chair. Her head is down and she's reading something. I can't tell what.
“Halle,” a voice calls. She looks up.
“In here.”
A man enters the room. His eyes are bright like Halle's, but they hold more intensity.
“I'm leaving for a meeting. Don't forget to load the dishwasher.” His voice is condescending, like she's ten instead of fifteen. He sounds like hot furnace air, and his voice crowds the room.
“I'm not going to stop protesting. Neither are my friends.”
“You don't tell me what you're going to do, young lady.”
“He was my grandpa,” she yells, and there are tears in her voice. “He was your dad. How can you not care?”
Her father shakes his head and rubs his forehead. “I don't have time for this.” He turns and leaves.
Her shoulders are shaking. She throws her book down. It's
Gatsby.
The garage door opens. I turn and catch my right foot on the bush. My body flies back onto the flowers, flattening them. “Ouch!”
Then I hear movement inside. I crawl toward the bush, away from the window. Halle's father backs the Cadillac out into the curved driveway and heads down the street.
I limp out into the street. I hope Halle's tear-filled eyes didn't see me. Her dad is a jerk for making her cry and acting like her opinion doesn't matter. And I know all about jerks.
“Come here, Baxter,” Dink called me over. He'd just moved in the week before. I still didn't know him all that well, but I knew I was starting to annoy him because he spent most of his time in his office with the door closed.
“What is it?”
I stood in front of him and he pulled up his shirt sleeve to show me his tattooed bicep: a blue gargoyle with red eyes and devil horns surrounded by orange flames.
Dink flexed his arm. The gargoyle's mouth opened wide, as if it were going to eat me.
“Gross!” I ran and hid under my bed. I could hear Dink's laughter in his office, his muddy water voice splashing across the carpet. I stayed under my bed until Mom got home from work.
I push up my coat sleeve and focus on my watch. The dials turn around and around and the memory eases.
I didn't always have this problem. The memories started intruding the week after I testified against Dink. They were vivid and sporadic, slamming me in the chest when I least expected. Maybe it was timing, Dr. Anderson had said. A certain age. But I knew it was Dink.
The street narrows at the corner and I hobble down Willow Way, favoring my left foot. I can't get rid of my own memories, but I can find something nice to do for Halleâsomething to make those tears a faded memory, at least for her.