Chapter 9 - An Unexpected Ally
I didn't get in.
My hand was on the door handle of the Subaru’s passenger side, but my sneakers felt like they were set in concrete on the driveway asphalt.
You don't just leave your life when you're twelve.
You have a locker with pictures of your dog from three years ago. You have a pre-algebra quiz on third-period Thursday that you studied three nights to pass. You have three pairs of jeans that actually fit your hips and a succulent on your windowsill that will die if someone doesn't pour two tablespoons of tap water into the dirt by Friday.
"Lily?" Sarah’s voice came from the driver’s seat. The engine was already idling, sending little puffs of white exhaust into the cold air.
I let go of the handle.
"I can't," I said.
Sarah looked at me through the open window, her blue eyes narrowing. She didn't look angry; she looked like someone who had just calculated the weight of an anchor and realized the chain wasn't long enough to reach the bottom.
"You don't have to stay here and take this, Lily," Sarah said.
"I know," I said. "But my stuff is in there."
"It's just stuff."
"No," I said, looking back at the open garage door where Dad was still standing like a statue. "The stuff in the back of your car was Mom's. The stuff in my room is mine. If I leave now, they'll put it in trash bags before the bus even gets here."
Sarah stared at me for ten seconds. The engine hummed between us.
Finally, she shut the ignition off.
She stepped out of the car, slammed her door, and walked right back into the garage past my father without looking at him.
"Sarah!" Dad shouted, following her up the wooden steps into the laundry room. "Where do you think you're going?"
"I'm staying until Sunday," Sarah said, her voice echoing from the kitchen. "I paid for a round-trip ticket, Tommy, and I'm not spending seventy-five dollars on a change fee because your domestic arrangements are built on toothpicks."
By eight o'clock, the house had settled into an armed truce.
Karen had locked herself in the master bedroom with the blinds drawn, refusing to come down for breakfast. Dad had left in his truck without saying goodbye to anyone, his tires chirping on the asphalt as he pulled out of the driveway fifteen minutes earlier than his usual commute.
Sarah sat at the kitchen island with her laptop open, drinking black tea from Mom’s old yellow ceramic mug that she had retrieved from the back of the pantry.
Ava and I sat on opposite sides of the bus stop bench on Slaughter Lane.
The wind had picked up from the north, blowing dry brown pecan leaves across the asphalt in scratching circles.
Ava didn't have her lavender jacket on today. She was wearing an old, oversized black windbreaker that looked like it had belonged to her father in Dallas. Her hands were buried deep in the pockets, her shoulders hunched against the chill.
"She’s going to divorce him," Ava said.
She didn't look at me when she said it. She was staring straight across the street at the new gas station where a concrete mixer was backing into a dirt trench with a rhythmic, high-pitched beep.
I didn't answer.
"My mom," Ava repeated, her voice thin as tissue paper. "She told her sister on the phone this morning that Tom is weak. She said he doesn't know how to handle his family and that she’s not going to spend five years being treated like a second-class citizen by his sister."
"Karen isn't a second-class citizen," I said. "She has the master bedroom. She has the kitchen. She has everything."
"She doesn't have his money, Lily," Ava said, turning her head toward me. Her nose was red from the wind, her eyes watery and small. "You think she’s so rich? Her dad cut her off three years ago when she left my dad. That’s why we were living in Round Rock. The oil money went to her brother."
I looked at Ava. The wind caught her hair, blowing thin brown strands across her mouth.
"Why didn't you just tell her you didn't want the dress?" I asked.
Ava let out a ragged breath that sounded like a dry cough.
"Because if I don't take what she gets for me, she tells me I’m ungrateful," Ava whispered. "She spent three days before Halloween telling me that I looked like a stray dog in those cat ears. She said people at your school were going to judge her because my costume looked cheap. She didn't want the dress for me, Lily. She wanted it so people would look at *her* daughter and think she was doing a good job."
The yellow school bus appeared around the curve of Escarpment, its air brakes hissing as it slowed down for the turn.
Ava stood up, her sneakers scuffing the pavement.
She reached into her windbreaker pocket, pulled out a small, crumpled bundle of purple fabric, and held it out to me behind her hip so the other kids waiting at the stop wouldn't see.
It was the silver belt.
The satin was stained near the buckle with what looked like Dr Pepper, and one of the small metal snaps on the back was pulled loose from the fabric, but it was there.
"I found it under my bed," Ava said, looking down at the curb. "She told me she threw the whole thing out, but she only threw the dress into the big trash can by the side of the garage on Sunday night. The truck already came for it yesterday."
I took the belt from her hand.
The satin felt cold, stiff from the sugar stain, but the silver stitching along the edge caught the flat November morning light.
"Thanks," I said.
May you like
Ava didn't answer. She climbed the three ribbed-rubber steps onto the bus, showed her ID card to the driver, and walked all the way to the back row without looking at Madison or anyone else.
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