Chapter Twenty-Six
Columbia High School looks worn out. Overused. In the weeks I’ve been gone, it’s as if the bricks and cream-colored paint have a ton more chips and the gray cement sidewalk picked up dozens more dings. The whole place looks tired, like it’s way older than its years. Or maybe that’s me projecting my life on the walls, windows, and doors of the place.
Mom drives toward the lot near the front door. Ruby’s window and taillights are fixed, and Officer Rodriguez put her bumpers back on for free. In the damp Oregon weather, Ruby’s spots of exposed metal would rust, so Mom bought some cheap red paint at an auto store and sprayed them. Now Ruby’s got splotches of red that don’t quite match the rest of her body—scars she’ll carry for the rest of her life, like Mom and Meg and me.
Our family’s scars aren’t as visible as Ruby’s. No one can see that our innocence is gone. People can’t look at us and know we carry a distrust in humanity so deep it breaks our confidence.
We have other scars too. Bad dreams. Anxiety. Worries that we’ll be torn apart and separated forever. Time will help, but no amount of time will erase the fear of being homeless and vulnerable.
Mom’s story came out in pieces. Maybe she thought she was protecting us, or maybe she couldn’t face telling us the whole ugly tale.
The mechanic offered to pick up Ruby at 7-Eleven and deliver her back at the end of the day. It was a perfect solution, but when he brought Ruby back with the window and taillights fixed, he asked Mom to drop him off. She should have texted me, but she was in a hurry and almost out of cell time, so she got into the car.
Mom fought, but like me, was no match for his strength. She made mistakes, a ton of them, but I understand why—she was hungry, exhausted, and living in a state of constant stress. The abuse of Mom’s body is healing, but her internal scars will be harder to survive.
The mechanic is in jail, caught that same night by a squad car down the street from the garage. Knowing he is locked away should relieve us, but his arrest brings its own set of worries. At his trial, Mom and I have to sit on the witness stand, look into his eyes, and relive every ugly detail of our capture. We have to admit to our vulnerability and mistakes and hope a jury puts him in jail.
Mom parks Ruby in a visitor’s space near the front door. I watch the rain sliding down the windshield in wiggly little rivers, but I’m not ready to get out of the car. Driving up to Columbia reminds me that I am a different person than the one who went to school here.
I turn to Mom and suck in a long, slow breath, pulling air deep into my body. “I might be a while.”
Mom nods. The sorrow in her eyes clashes with the soft beauty of her face. “Take your time, baby. Meg and I will be fine.”
I reach across the car and squeeze Mom’s knee, my eyes never leaving her face. She gives me a tight little smile and lays her one good hand over mine. Her other pokes out of a sling, holding her broken arm against her chest. “Go.” She nods her head toward the school.
I step out of the car and stand in the rain. Water drips onto my head, sliding in cold streams down my face. Today is our first day back as a family. The first day we can move forward into a life together, inch by tiny inch.
Again I was naive, thinking that once I found Mom, the three of us would be back together. That didn’t happen. Mom left the garage in one ambulance, and Meg and I went in another. A caseworker stayed overnight with us at the hospital, but we didn’t get to see Mom.
The next day, Meg and I were taken to a foster home where we lived with an old man and woman who fed us, gave us a place to sleep, and included us in their Thanksgiving and Christmas celebrations. They lived too far from our schools, so we worked on homework sent to us over the internet.
The old people were kind and caring, but Mom wasn’t allowed to come to their house. After she got out of the hospital, she lived at the Mission in the women’s dorm. We only saw her four times in all those weeks.
Meg and I would probably still be in that foster home, separated by red tape and good intentions, if Officer Rodriguez hadn’t found us a room in a home for women and children. We can only stay for six months, but that will give Mom time to save money for an apartment.
I walk through the parking lot and go inside. Before I clean out my locker, I stop at the office to do paperwork. No one hugs me and says they’ll miss me like the office workers did for Meg at her school. This is high school. Kids come and go; people care, but there are too many of us to keep track of. By the time I finish the transfer papers, it’s first lunch and the halls are busy with kids.
I head toward my locker. My week with Jack seems like a lifetime ago. Like I was a different person when I knew him; like he was just a make-believe boyfriend and not real-life flesh and bone. Maybe he was. Maybe I’ll get my stuff from my locker, head right back to Ruby, and let our romance stay that way—a beautiful story, a fairy tale that kept me trudging on when life got too tough to handle.
Jack rescued Meg from the alley that night. I am forever grateful to him for that, but the first days Meg and I were in foster care, he texted and called me all the time. He didn’t understand why we couldn’t live at his house or why there were no apartments that people like us could afford. Jack offered us money from his parents and begged me to take it. I wouldn’t. In some ways, these last weeks were more confusing for Jack than me.
Asking him to stop calling and texting felt mean and unfair, but I needed time to sleep, eat enough food to feel normal, and curl up in front of TV reruns without pressure from anyone. Meg and I needed to read every children’s book in the foster home, be safe in our own little bubble, and let the outside world move on without us.
I head down junior hall, turn into my locker bay, and stop with a jolt. A girl behind me growls about paying attention, but all I can do is stare. My locker is covered in sticky notes. Pink. Yellow. Neon green. A rainbow of messages stuck all over the door.
I walk forward and read Miss you and Miss you more and Really, really, missing you now. Over and over again, I read words telling me how much Jack cared, how much he wanted to share lunch, a quick conversation, or a lingering look. How much he wanted me to be safe.
I spin the dial on my lock, open the door, and pull out all my stuff. I pack my backpack full of papers, pencils, and half-filled notebooks. My textbooks get stacked on the floor until I get the last of my junk cleaned out. I slam the door and spend a long time staring at Jack’s sweet little notes before peeling each one off the metal, stacking them together, and tucking them into the front pocket of my pack. I pick up the stack of textbooks and head to the library to drop them off.
When I leave the library, I turn and head straight for the front door. Walking away is best for both of us. I just go. Clean and quick. Jack lives in a different world and has opportunities that I will never experience. Even if I qualify for a college scholarship, I’ll have to work long hours and save every bit of money I can for Mom, Meg, and me to be financially safe.
Once I’m out of his world, Jack can go off to college, play basketball, and meet girls that aren’t struggling to survive. And me? I will have beautiful memories and a stack of sticky notes to tell me that in my junior year of high school, one really nice guy cared about me.
I’m all the way back to the office before I slow to a stop. I may be poor, and I may be homeless, but one thing I’m not is a coward. I lived in a car, slept in a dumpster, and fought off a man with so little soul he could sell people into a life of horror. But now, when it comes to someone I really care about—someone who came to my rescue when I needed him—I choose to be wimpy and weak instead of brave, or at least kind. I’m slinking out of Jack’s life without even offering him a decent goodbye.
I turn and stare down the hall toward the cafeteria. Old fears assault me. I could walk back and see if he’s sitting at our table. But what if he’s hanging out with a bunch of his friends? Laughing. Talking. Horsing around. I can’t walk up to him in a crowd like that.
More fears hit me. Am I strong enough to handle Jack’s friendship, maybe even his love, without giving up on college, law school, and being President? And what about Jack? Can he handle the world I live in?
There are too many questions, too many unknowns in our relationship, but one thing I feel in the pit of my stomach is that Jack deserves a chance. He cares about me and Meg too. Everything he’s ever done, from the Saturday he bought us McDonald’s to the sticky notes he left on my locker, confirms that much. Not knowing what happened to us must be tearing him up.
I pull out my phone and type out a text.
I slide my phone into my pocket and walk out of the school. Meg sits in the back seat of Ruby and gives me a grin and that crazy two-handed wave of hers. Mom is watching for me too. Her good hand raises just enough. She doesn’t want to embarrass me, but she can’t help letting me know how much she loves me.
My phone dings in my pocket. I pull it out while I walk to the car and smile at Jack’s text.
I type and climb into Ruby.
Mom drives us across Eugene, over the I-5 freeway to Springfield and our new home. It is a plain two-story box of a house with a black, pitched roof, tan siding, and white trim. It’s no bigger than the others on the street, but to my little family, it’s a palace of the grandest proportions. We walk up to the front door, and Mom reaches out to press the doorbell. The roof of the small front porch keeps off the drizzle of a cold winter rain.
A woman in tight jeans and a crisp white shirt answers the door. “Rita Rollins?” The woman extends her arm to usher us in. “Come in. Come in.” She is a lot taller than Mom, but not much older.
We step inside. The front door leads to a large living room that is furnished in well-worn hand-me-downs. The tan couch sags, and the two green chairs don’t match each other or anything else in the room. One lampshade sits at an odd angle; the other one has a small rip in the side. The end tables are stained and chipped, but it is the most beautiful living room I have ever seen.
The woman holds out her hand. “I’m Allie, the resident assistant here.” Mom shakes her hand and introduces us to this stranger who will share our lives for the next few months. Allie throws her arm toward the back of the house. “Let me show you around.”
We follow Allie through a kitchen, where she explains how the residents take turns cooking communal dinners and cleaning up afterwards. She points to a small cupboard we can use for our own food. Meg giggles, puts her hand to the side of her mouth, and whispers, “For our bread and peanut butter.”
Upstairs, Allie shows us to the bathroom we will share, with its tub, shower, and toilet. The entire house has a lived-in quality, but at the same time it is spotlessly clean. Last—and best of all—she finishes our tour at a bedroom near the end of the hall.
Allie hands a set of keys to Mom. “The big one is for the front and back door, and the smaller one is for this room.” She smiles. “Move in and get settled. If you have any questions, my room is off the downstairs hall, first door on the right.”
Mom unlocks the door. We step into our room and look around in wonder, running our hands over the blue flowered quilts on the bunk beds and along the scratched tops of two mismatched dressers. We gaze out the window at bare limbs on a big maple tree and open the little closet that waits for the few clothes, toys, and shoes that we own.
“It’s beautiful,” whispers Mom. “Just beautiful.”
Meg twirls around in a circle. “And after we get my dollhouse and Mattie’s books from Darren, it will look just like home.”
Mom and I lean into a hug and gather Meg in with us. Tears run down my face, but this time they are not from fear or worry. This time, my tears are pure joy.