Next morning, Mom is all snappy business.
“Up,” she says in the doorway. “I want to be on the road.”
I blink from the bed. Sacramento. “I am not going.”
“I’ve reconsidered that. Now hurry. I’ll drop you at school.”
I stumble around the room picking what’s closest to wear. Dark T from yesterday. Jeans from yesterday, puddled on the floor. I slide on flip-flops.
Mom yells for me to come.
I circle for my backpack. It’s under the bed, and I drop to grab it. Behind the backpack, the shoes peek out like hopeful dogs, dusty, waiting. I don’t want them now.
The kitchen door slams.
I run for it—slap-slap—not caring if the noise wakes Danny.
Danny. Mom never reconsiders anything. I check their room. Empty.
He’s in the truck with her. Mom is at the wheel.
I step to them through wet grass. “What’s going on?”
“Danny’s coming with me to Sacramento,” Mom says.
“He is? Why?”
She starts the truck. “Get in, Angelyn.”
Danny’s like a lump. Like some robot she steers.
“I am not sitting three in a seat with you and him.”
“That’s right,” Mom says. “You’re not.”
The cab is stuffed with their gear.
“You don’t mean I should ride in the back.”
Her lips quirk. “Yeah. I do.”
The bed is unlined. Cold metal speckled with yard waste.
I cross my arms. “That’s not fair.”
“Life isn’t,” Mom says.
Danny looks across. “That’s right.”
I look back. “You’re pissed at me? Why? This is all her.”
His face purples.
“Don’t talk to him,” Mom says.
I step away. “I’ll take the bus.”
“No, you’ll climb in.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Your choice,” Mom says. “I drop you at school or report you truant.”
The miles go by faster on the outside. I sit against a wheel well, backpack between my knees. Inside, Mom talks to Danny, gesturing one-handed. About me I am sure. The wind tugs my hair and flips it in my eyes. I shut them for protection and against the sight of the two in front.
In town I can hear them—my name mentioned—and I press hands to ears. My hair feels rough. I try to work fingers through and can’t.
I stick an arm in the backpack, feeling for a comb. Nothing.
“Shit,” I say, and brush back tears.
“Nice hair!” some kid calls from a sidewalk near the high school.
Mom drives past the auditorium. I see Steve’s group ahead by Ag.
Pride aside, I scrape the cab window open.
“Mom, turn back. I’m fighting with those kids.”
She drives on. Danny looks between us.
I crouch at the window. “Please.”
Mom says, “Don’t ask me for anything.”
“Oh.” I sit on my heels. She steps on it, and I fall. Mom swerves and stops the truck. I roll up on hands and knees. We’re parallel to the Ag building. Steve, JT, Jacey, Charity, and the others line the sidewalk.
“I hate you,” I say. Quiet.
Mom says, “Get out.”
I swing a leg over the side. Cold in T and flip-flops, I drop to the ground.
“Hate you!” I scream it, reaching for the backpack.
She jerks the truck forward. My fingers scrape the strap. Mom swings into a U-turn, speeding off with Danny like they’re a pair of kids.
I’m left there, nothing in my hands. Shivering. So embarrassed.
Something hits me on the butt. Something light, thrown hard. It skids into the street. A purple plastic comb.
“Fix your hair, bitch,” Charity says.
I stare at the comb. Afraid to turn.
“That’s not right.” Steve is talking. “Angelyn, are you okay?”
“Totally.” I try for sarcastic. It comes out strangled.
“She looks homeless.” Charity again.
“Shut up.” It’s Jacey.
I turn.
Everyone is staring. Charity is closest, off the sidewalk.
I look at Jacey. “Got something I can use?” I mime brushing my hair.
She digs in her purse. “Hang on.”
“You don’t have to help her,” Charity says.
Jacey pulls out a brush.
Steve sticks his hand out. “Give it here.”
Pulling a face, she hands it to him.
With a tiny shrug, I start to leave.
Steve says, “Don’t run.”
I check traffic. “Who’s running?”
“I’ll brush your hair.” He’s closer.
I whirl around. “No way.”
“Come on, Angelyn,” Steve says.
“With them watching?”
“Yeah.”
“Forget it.”
He comes the rest of the way. “Who else is going to do it?”
I look up at him. “No games.”
Steve grins. “I want to be your hair boy.”
It’s hard not to grin back. “My what?”
“I’ll show you.” I let him turn me.
Steve sets the brush at my hairline. He pulls it back. I flinch with a snag. He stops himself and starts again, slowly. By the time he’s done a section—the brush pulled clean to my shoulder blade—I’m breathless.
“Guess it was bad,” I say, touching what Steve’s made smooth.
“Like Mrs. Frankenstein,” he says.
“Well, keep going.”
He does. The bristles tickle as the knots unravel. I’m smiling with it. Moving with him. With the brush.
Traffic picks up. Kids and teachers coming to school. Heads turn passing us. A bus comes by. My mother isn’t driving it. Yet.
Steve does the last bit. I’m tingling. Then it’s him, not the brush, Steve’s fingers working through my hair. Pulling out the waves. His fingers on my scalp.
I shake myself.
“Steve, thanks, huh?”
He wraps an arm around my waist. The other above my chest.
“I missed you, Angelyn. Really missed you.”
“Let me go,” I say. Stiff.
He pulls me in. Swirls his hips, dancing me in place.
A kiss to my neck. “I don’t want no girl but you.”
I roll my shoulders wildly. “Let go!”
Steve freezes.
“Bad touch!” one of the guys says from the sidewalk.
“How could there be with her?” another says.
The rest are laughing.
Steve opens his arms. “Bitch.” Ragged voice.
I stumble forward, bare toes on the pavement.
“Bitch!” he calls as I cross the street.
“Bitch!” when I’m on the other side.
It follows me.