Castles On The Sand Part 6

"Okay, so, um-"

"I'm going to call it a night." She pushes past me to get to her room.

I stand with the bag of frozen peas and the unspoken comment on the tip of my tongue. After a moment, I put the bag of peas against my nose and sit down, resigned to the situation.

I stay home the next day and in the morning fill the bathtub with a few inches of water and spend hours giving myself a pedicure, then a manicure. My nails look so much better under a layer of opalescent lacquer.

Afterward I pad around the house, walking on my heels so that I don't smudge my toenails, and painstakingly make a sandwich with some cold cuts and bread that Mom got at a deep discount from the local grocer because they're past their sell-by date. It is not easy to make a sandwich with wet nail polish, let alone eat it. Mom bustles in to make her own sandwich and is out again in five minutes, leaving a plate with crumbs in the sink.

That afternoon I get so bored that I pick up The Book of Mormon and start to read. I've never read the Bible before, so I'm not sure how it compares. The story of a family fleeing Jerusalem goes on and on in the same theme. Two sons are good and do what G.o.d says, they get blessed. Two sons are evil and rebel, they get cursed. After the third iteration, I feel like I've had the point hammered into my skull, so I put the book down.

It's now two, and I'm bored stiff. The house feels smaller than ever. I go stare out the back windows at our yard, which we just leave to grow wild. A rickety fence does its best to hold out against the forest beyond it, and the dilapidated shed slouches in the corner, the door slightly ajar, the steady hum of Mom's potters wheel inside.

It's a relief when someone knocks on the front door. At least, I'm relieved until I open it and see Mr. Beale. He looks me over, his mouth pressed into a thin, puckered line. "I hear someone hacked your Facebook page."

"Yeah. It's no big deal. It was a joke," I say.

"Was it Kailie?"

I hate lying to people, but Mr. Beale gives me the jitters. "No. She wouldn't do something like that."

"You don't think?"

"I'm sure."

"How sure?"

"I found the person who did it. It's all good."

He looks me straight in the eye, then looks over the rest of my face. I take a deep breath, hold it, and meet his gaze. Just stare back, I think. Don't think anything. Don't worry about him finding out about Kailie. He won't, not if I just stare.

He looks away first. "You all right, then? Your face?"

"Just looks awful."

"Looks like it'll clear up in a week or so. You let us know if you need anything, all right?" That's the sort of thing the Beales say all the time, but no one takes them up on.

"Thanks. I'm all right."

He nods, as if confirming something to himself, and turns to leave.

I go get myself ready for work.

"I didn't think you'd be in," says Siraj.

"I would've called if I wasn't."

"Well, you and your exciting life. You sure you can remember to call?"

"Very funny." Only then do I see Kailie peer out from the shelves.

"My guess that someone is not supposed to be away from her home right now." He nods in her direction. "I am very insightful, did you know that?"

"Don't tell on her."

"What makes you think anyone would ask me? When does anyone ask me anything?"

"You're a librarian. People ask you to find books for them all the time."

"Even that, it's only three books. The dictionary, the thesaurus, and Fifty Shades of Grey."

I shake my head as I cross over to where Kailie is. "Thank you for not ratting me out," she says.

"Thanks for tras.h.i.+ng my page."

"I got mad, okay? You were really rude that one night you came by."

I could point out to her that the last time she came to my house, she dragged me out to one of her parties just so I could drive her home, but the urge pa.s.ses as quickly as it comes. "You okay?" I ask.

"Yeah, I'm fine. I just wanted to make sure you were too. I gotta sneak back."

"I'm good. Don't get caught."

Siraj watches her dart across the room, peer through the gla.s.s door, and then dart outside. "It's like an action movie in here."

"Well, the action sequence is over."

"I know. They do go fast. The good ones." He taps away at his computer as if he's just talking about the weather.

I stifle a laugh. Given the way my face is right now, it'd probably just hurt.

My resolve to stay home all week cracks on Wednesday. I don't have work on Wednesdays and the solitude drives me nuts, so on Thursday I head back to cla.s.s. Everyone turns to look at me when I step onto campus. I ignore the stares and just go to my locker, where I find Kailie trying to jam a folded up piece of paper in through the vent.

"What's that?"

"It's my apology note. It's too fat." She turns around and hands it to me. "Your face looks all right."

"Liar."

"It's not as bad as it was Tuesday. I bet you the black eyes are gone in a week."

I unfold the paper and spread it out flat against my thigh. "What is this, a news report?"

"Yeah, it's been exciting around here."

I skim the words. "Carson threatened Jean-Pierre? Greeeeat, and then what? Tatiana and Belinda got into a fight? And then... what?" The page details all kinds of vigilante action against the people who hurt me. Jean-Pierre got his car keyed and Tatiana had her locker vandalized.

"Apparently if you get sweet little Madison kicked in the face, there's h.e.l.l to pay. Also, I wouldn't recommend tras.h.i.+ng her Facebook page."

"Oh whatever."

"Seriously. I thought I was going to get kicked in the face."

I look around and then step forward and hug her, publicly. "That should take care of the, like, two people who cared."

Jean-Pierre walks past then and slows his steps, looking at me.

I look away. Three days with no contact makes me a.s.sume we're over. If there ever even was a "we".

"Hey," he says.

Kailie ducks her head and darts off.

I avert my gaze from him, his beautiful eyes and lips that I can feel the ghostly memory of pressed against my own. "Hi."

"Listen, can we talk? After school, maybe?"

"If you want." I try to keep my voice casual.

"'Kay. I'll come by your house."

"I've got work."

"Okay, then can you meet me in the ditch for, like, five minutes?"

"Yeah, sure."

"See you then." As if copying Kailie, he also ducks his head and walks off.

The ditch is one of the coolest places to play if you're small enough to fit in the culvert, because that leads to a storm drain that's got little rooms branching off it. Not sure why there are rooms, but they beg to be turned into secret hideouts. The only problem is, if it rains you'll drown, but since that's never happened, generation after generation of elementary schoolers hang out in there.

At the mouth of the culvert are two boulders, just the right height to sit on, facing each other. They allow you to sit low enough that you can't be seen from the sidewalk, and when I get there after school, Jean-Pierre is already sitting on one. I jump down and sit on the other. High pitched kid screams and shouts sound throughout my subdivision. The elementary school kids all got dropped off by the bus half an hour ago, but none are close by.

"How're you feeling?" he asks.

"Been better."

"Listen, I didn't know whether I should come by or message you on Facebook or what."

"I think I'm done with Facebook right now."

"Well, yeah. Look, I knew it wasn't you, okay? I never thought it was you."

"Tatiana did."

"Well, now you know another reason I don't do girlfriends."

"So you can hook up with both me and Tatiana?"

"No. No way. I'm not like that. Tatiana thinks I should date her because she's all into this idea that black people should only date black people and so any white girl who hits on me is encroaching on her turf. Between her and my parents not wanting me to date at all..." he shrugs. "Tatiana and I have been over for months. I helped trash her locker."

"So when you say you don't want a girlfriend, what does that mean? Do you see other people or-"

"Who cares what he means? He's wasting your time," says a voice from up on the sidewalk.

I look up but the sun is in my eyes so I don't see who it is until he jumps down. It's the missionary, wearing jeans and his pea coat, his name tag still affixed to his breast.

"Hey," he says to Jean-Pierre, "I'm her big brother."

"Um, hi," I say. "What are you doing here?"

"Got a ride from Bishop Montrose. My mission's over and I've got an hour before I need to leave for Sacramento to catch my flight home."

"This is your brother?" says Jean-Pierre. "You've got a brother who's a Mormon?"

"Well... yeah. It's kind of a long story, and I don't actually know it."

"I'm John," says Elder Britton.

"You're a racist, cultist fanatic is what you are," says Jean-Pierre.

"I am not a racist."

"No, just your religion is. Are filthy black people allowed in your temples?"

"Yes, actually. That's why we've built some in Africa."

"Oh that's riiiiight. 1978. Keeping up with the times. The whole Civil Rights movement looked like it might catch on?"

"What are you guys talking about?" I ask.

"Ask your brother." Jean-Pierre shoots him a look of pure loathing.

"Yeah, okay," says Elder Britton, "can I just ask what exactly you were saying to my sister when I got here?"

"Mind your own business."

"I'm her brother, so it is my business."

"Ooooh, the protective vibe."

"Yeah, something like that. I see my sister with two black eyes and you saying you don't want her for a girlfriend, I'm gonna want to know what's going on."

"This is between me and her."

"Did he hit you?"

"No." I spit the word out. "How stupid do you think I am?"