Ana of California (23 page)

“They're out the door.”

“I get them in a minute. Can you take that box to the pantry for me on the way out?”

“Sure. Wait, who did she think I was?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Waitstaff? Cleaning? Dog sitting? All of the above?”

He went back to his work, so Ana picked up the box and made her way out of the kitchen, mentally kicking herself for not changing out of her farm clothes before they left the house. She opened a door to head back down the way she came, but found herself in a different hallway altogether. Not wanting to bother anyone back inside the kitchen, she continued walking, figuring the pantry must be behind one of the several doors lining the hall. There was a humming noise coming from farther down, so she followed it to one of two doors, choosing the larger of the two, which she pushed open gently with her foot.

“That's the laundry room,” said a voice behind her. “The kitchen is over—”

She turned around, startled. “Hi,” she said, glass jars in the box wobbling.

“Hi,” he responded with confusion.

“Why are you always sneaking up on me?”

“I'm not. This is my house. What are you doing here?”

“I'm making a delivery but got lost in your castle.”

Cole's face broke into a faint smile, his eyes intense. An old soul, she thought.

“This is so weird . . . seeing you in my house. You haven't really spoken to me much at school.”

“I know, it's even weirder for me. Your mom seems . . . in control of the party.”

“You met my mom?”

Again his face shifted. Ana couldn't tell if it was amused horror or composed rage.

“I did,” she said. “She asked me to put on a uniform.”

“She
what
?”

It was definitely composed rage, Ana decided. Cole looked down the empty hallway and then walked past her and pushed open the door leading into the laundry room, holding it open for her to follow him in. For some reason, her feet shuffled forward, even though her head shouted that she needed to go, needed to get back to Emmett and the truck.

“Cole, I've got to—”

“Wait,” he whispered before shutting the door, taking the box from her, and putting it up on a counter. They stood in the bright white room, a washing machine moaning between them, neither one of them saying anything. “My mother told you to put on a uniform?” he asked, his voice teetering on the edge of explosion.

“Um, yes.”

“Okay, I'm confused, though as you can see, I'm also wearing a uniform.”

She looked down to his striped tie and buttoned-up shirt tucked into tailored black trousers, his normally messy hair combed slightly to the side. It was the opposite of his dark jeans, gray T-shirt, and faded jacket look. Still, he wore it well.

“You dress like this at home?” she asked.

“Only on Thursdays—kidding—just when my mom is
having one of her cocktail parties, and usually only when I'm in trouble. Don't tell anyone at school I'm wearing this tie.”

“Or what? You'll tell people your mom tried to hire me as your butler?”

Cole's hand reflexively floated up to his face, and his fingers, covered in scratches, squeezed his forehead. “I don't know what to say other than I'm sorry,” he said, barely making eye contact, walking to the other side of the small room. “My mom is a lunatic.”

“It's fine—”

“No, it's embarrassing and wrong and typical.”

“It's an honest mistake.”

“Is it, though? She has a way of putting everyone to work, so don't take it personally. But really, I'm just . . . I'm so sorry. I apologize on her behalf.”

“It was worth it just to get to see this house, which is . . . well, it's resplendent. But I'm sure you know that. Where do you keep the dragons?”

“Tonight they'll be released into my mother's lair,” he said, tilting his head down to meet her eyes. “Where have you been, Cortez?”

“Around.”

“You've been avoiding me at school, and I haven't seen you in the enchanted forest.”

“Enchanted?”

“I'm running with the theme here . . .”

“I told you,” she said. “I'm not supposed to be back there.”

“I kind of hoped you'd go anyway.”

“Why?”

“Because I'm not supposed to go back there either, but I went,” he said, taking a step closer, “hoping you had too.”

It may have been the confined space or the size of the
washing machine spinning at full speed, but Ana had to remind herself to breathe.

“I thought we were maybe becoming friends,” he continued.

“I have a friend, her name is Rye; you have a friend and his name is Jim. Do you see where I'm going with this?”

He sighed. “What did Rye tell you?”

“Nothing. But what's going on between you two? Seriously. And what's the deal between your family and the Garbers?”

“It's a long story . . . two different long stories. Minor tragedies, really.”

“I want to hear them.”

“If I tell you, you might not want to . . .”

“To what?”

He leaned over and pressed his lips to hers. She'd had no time to react, so she gave in. It was a soft kiss, both of them holding back and surprised by what was happening.

“Sorry, I had to,” he said, pulling away.

“Stop apologizing,” she whispered, pulling him back.

The door swung open, hitting the wall, grazing Ana's shoulder.

“What in heaven's name is going on in here?”

They both turned around, shocked at the sight of Nadine Brannan, eyes wide and mouth agape in a silent scream.

“Mom, don't freak out.”

“Excuse me. What are you doing in here, young lady? I
specifically
asked you to change and head to the study. This is unprofessional and intolerable behavior. Please get your—”

“Mom, please. She's a friend of mine from school . . .”

“She's our employee for the evening, Cole.
You
I will deal with later.”

“Ana!” Emmett called from down the hall. “Ana Cortez!”

Nadine backed out of the laundry room looking as if she'd seen a ghost.

“Emmett.”

“Nadine.”

“What are you doing here?” she asked, confused.

“Dropping off Abbie's delivery. Now I'm looking for Ana,” Emmett said.

“Who's Ana?”

“My friend you just tried to put to work,” Cole said.

“I'm here.” Ana squeezed past Cole and Nadine into the hall.

“Where have you been?” Emmett asked.

“They've been in my laundry room,” Nadine said.

“Hello, Mr. Garber.” Cole extended his hand. “We've never met before, but I'm Cole Brannan; I think you already know my—”

“I know exactly who you are,” Emmett said, softening his voice in a way Ana thought odd and brimming with unspoken meaning. Even though there was visible sweat pulsing at his temples, he took Cole's hand and shook it. “What's going on?” he said, turning to Ana.

“It's just a misunderstanding. I was making Abbie's delivery, and I think things got mixed up in the kitchen.”

“Indeed,” Nadine said, looking at Emmett. “Does she belong to you?”

“She works—she lives with us, yes. We need to get going, let you get back to the party. I hope all is . . . I hope you're doing well,” he said, putting his baseball cap back on. Ana was amused to see he'd removed it, as if in a holy place. “Abbie sends her best. Ana, shall we?”

Ana followed Emmett, but paused in the hallway.

“It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Brannan,” she said, even though Nadine continued to glare at Cole. “Your house is spectacular.”

“Mm-hm” was the only reply.

“Again,
we
apologize,” said Cole. “I'll walk you out.” He started toward her, only to stop with the squeeze of his mother's manicured hand.

The washing machine buzzed.

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

 • • • 

E
mmett remained silent on the way back to the farm. Bruce Springsteen filled the truck with a quiet lament. Ana couldn't figure out what was louder or more “on fire,” The Boss or her boss. Impulsively, she turned down the music.

“I'm sorry for whatever I've done to make you mad. I didn't have a choice. When I walked in she—”

“This has nothing to do with that.”

“If you're mad about Cole and the laundry room, I can explain—”

“No need. Nadine made it clear as will I. There will be no more of that. I asked you to make the delivery and come straight back to the truck—”

“But I got lost—”

“I know I'm not your parent, but you are our responsibility while you're staying with us. We will not tolerate that kind of behavior in our house, as I'm sure Nadine doesn't allow it in hers. I'm not sure what was going on and, frankly, don't care to, but I don't want you seeing that boy again.”

“That'll be tough since I see him at school every day . . .”

“Ana,” Emmett said, raising his voice and making no effort to tone it down. “I think you know what I mean.”

She kept her mouth shut, staring out the window at the dark trees.

“
No retreat, baby
,” Bruce sang. “
No surrender.
”

I
t was a late-September morning, everything still covered in dew. Ana rubbed her hands together and angled her headlamp back up into the tree as she continued clumsily picking the figs off the lowest branches. She couldn't seem to find a rhythm like she did on other trees, her mind seesawing from her troubles catching up with schoolwork to being ignored by most of her fellow classmates. And try as she might to control it, her mind continually wandered to Cole Brannan, reliving the kiss over and over until she barely remembered the details. It had been too quick, she decided, as compared with the only other kiss she'd had more than a year ago in one of the group houses. She hadn't expected that one either, nor had she reciprocated.

She glanced at the watch Abbie lent her, squinting at its worn face.

“
He terminado
, I'm finished,” she said, shaking the basket full of picked fruit, eager to get back to the house and
get to school. She waved to Vic and Rolo, who were on a ladder working higher up in the tree, their usual conversation on mute. She walked across the fields to Manny, who waited at the sorting tables under the tent, his breath visible in the lone overhead light.

“How's that tree looking?” he asked as Ana heaved her basket up onto the table.

“Almost clean. I think they'll have it stripped within the hour.”

“Good. How are your hands?”

“I'm surviving. I don't know why you guys think I can't handle it. It's not like it doesn't get chilly in Los Angeles sometimes and it isn't like this is an arctic tundra.”

Manny gave her a look.

“Yes, my hands are fine,” she said.

“How's school? You never talk to me anymore, always running here, running there. I know you're busy, but how's everything going?”

“Well, I think.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“That's all you've got? I know there's more swimming around in there. Don't tell me you're keeping only Vic and Rolo in the loop.”

“I'm doing what you all told me to do—diligently doing my work, going to school, paying attention, doing my homework, keeping my mouth shut, coming back to do more work, going to bed early—on repeat.”

“Those boys still bothering you?”

“I told you, I've got it under control.”

“And when are you having any fun?”

“Fun?” she gasped in mock dismay. “Fun isn't allowed
in the vicinity of Emmett Garber. You and I both know that.”

“But you've made friends, no? I saw you and Rye Moon on Main Street the other day.”

“Yes, she's pretty much it, along with this other kid Brady. Other than that, I'm just trying to figure out how everything works. High school's weird. It's a battlefield of contradictions.”

“I can't say I remember. Never really finished.”

“I'm just trying to stay out of trouble.”

“You say that as if you're worried.”

“Well, this is how it normally goes. . . . I start school, I go to class and try to avoid certain people, just kind of keep to myself and go to the library, and then something pisses me off or someone says something stupid and I just can't help myself.”

“Is someone bothering you?”

“Not entirely.”

“Is it something else then?”

“I don't know how to say this without its sounding complicated, but sometimes I'm homesick without ever really having had a home, you know? Not to dissolve into dramatics, but sometimes I see something or meet someone who reminds me of a person I used to know or a place I used to visit, and I remember feeling safe for a time. But that feeling eventually goes away, and there's nothing I can do about it. I remind myself that all I have is me; I remind myself of this every day because that's all I'll probably ever have. I'm never going to miraculously have some mom or dad worrying about my grades or getting into college or, just, you know, being concerned about my future. Not to diminish what I've experienced here so far, because it's been amazing,
and you and Abbie have made me feel very welcome, but sometimes it just hits me that I'm going to be on my own soon. It's not like it hasn't felt that way all these years, but I'm going to really and truly be alone without any other net or system to catch me or fling me to some other house or home or correctional facility. And maybe that's where I'm going to end up anyway—jail. My life has certainly felt locked and chained sometimes. What if this all goes away tomorrow because of something I do to screw it up? I'm good at screwing things up right when they're getting good. Maybe going back there is where I'm supposed to be anyway. I ask myself this question the most when I start to get settled somewhere. It's my legacy, and it's not like I still don't have some ties back there waiting to initiate me into a different kind of family, if I want it, to load the safety of a weapon into my pocket or strap it under my belt. It's written on my spine where I'm supposed to belong, and I can't seem to erase the itch that's always lingering there.”

Manny took a moment before responding. He couldn't tell if Ana was finished talking or looking out into the fields searching for more words. He had trouble finding his own.

“I can't begin to understand, and I won't pretend to know what you've gone through,” he said, “but you put a lot of pressure on yourself.”

“I know I sound crazy.”

“You don't, at all. Some things are out of our control,
mija
, especially where we came from and what we left behind. But we can choose how we react and how we move forward. You're not alone here.”

“I don't want to sound ungrateful or presume that this is going to last. It's only a job, right? But it's been—” She
stopped herself and inhaled, holding her breath for a moment before letting it out again. “It's been one of the best experiences of my life, in a while at least. I don't want to sabotage it. My abuela wouldn't want me to.”

“Then don't,” Manny said. “Simple as that.”

Ana glanced at her watch again. “I'm late. Gotta run. See you tomorrow, compadre.”

“See you,” he said.

She ran all the way back to the farmhouse, slicing through the incoming fog with Dolly chasing behind her. It felt good to push her heels into the damp dirt, to quicken her pace and outrun her thoughts, get the blood pumping it all out of her head. She kicked off her muddy shoes and banged them against the back steps while Dolly chased a roaming chicken back to its coop. She stepped into the kitchen in just her striped socks, glad for another hand-me-down, whomever's feet the socks had once warmed.

“We've got five minutes,” she said to Abbie, who was sitting at the kitchen table sipping a cup of coffee and reading a food magazine, a pair of reading glasses clinging to the edge of her nose.

“Breakfast's on the table,” Abbie said, not looking up.

Ana quickly laced up her boots and washed her hands before grabbing a waffle and taking a bite while standing against the counter.

“Have a seat,” Abbie said.

“No time.”

“Relax. Enjoy your breakfast.”

Ana sat down at the table and spooned some yogurt, along with some of Abbie's honeyed figs, on top of her waffle. She didn't know if it was the chill in the air, her chat with
Manny, or her lingering thoughts, but her chest was tight and stomach hollow even after finishing a second waffle.

“What are you reading?” she asked Abbie, knowing Abbie would never talk about Will Carson being the reason she was suddenly reading so many food magazines or why she had started talking about the Slow Food movement at the dinner table. She'd even asked Ana about food blogs, something she'd never seemed interested in but assumed high school kids knew all about.

“Oh, these gourmet magazines,” Abbie said. “It's good to be in the know—for the business, of course—but I'm tired of reading about shaved Brussels sprouts.”

Abbie had taken to wearing her hair more loosely and naturally in the past few weeks, Ana noticed, the effect of which made her seem infinitely younger.

“Are you working on some new stuff for The Bracken?”

“They're hounding me for some sort of ‘cider collaboration,' as Will calls it.”

“That sounds fantastic! Not that I've tried your cider, but it's one of the most popular products, right?”

“I like to save it for special customers.”

“But he is a special customer, right?”

Abbie looked over her glasses at Ana, who continued chewing with a giant smile. She put down her magazine.

“I liked the river drawing you were working on last night,” Abbie said. “The one with the bits of music coming out of the water? I found it sparse and ethereal.”

“It's still a work in progress, but we've been doing life drawing in class. I just finished a pen portrait of Brady with graffiti lettering underneath. I tried to make it look like a Renaissance painting. I think it's one of my best pieces.”

“Sounds intriguing.”

“His mom hates it, and Mrs. Darnell thought it was too ornate and literal. I thought it was clever.”

“Trust your instincts, not the critics . . . I probably shouldn't say that,” Abbie said.

There was a honking at the front of the house. Ana popped up and grabbed the lunch bag sitting on the edge of the counter, throwing it into her backpack along with her sketchbook. Abbie walked her to the door and waved to Rye.

“Be careful,” she said, reaching out for Ana's shoulders but patting only the sides of her arms for a second. “I've triple-checked with Della that Rye is a good driver and she insists she is, but if you feel unsafe, call me immediately.”

“Okay . . . thanks.”

“And, listen, I haven't discussed this with you yet, but I have a phone meeting with Mrs. Saucedo tomorrow to discuss your progress. It's not a big deal, but I want us to sit down and talk.”

“That sounds ominous.”

There was another honk, this time long and sustained, Rye faking a yawn while looking at a nonexistent watch on her wrist.

“We'll talk after school,” Abbie said. “I'll see you at The Bracken.”

“Looking forward to hearing more about the joys of salsafry.”

“Salsify?”

“Face it, my version sounds way better.”

 • • • 

R
ye cranked the stereo as they made their way out of the farm in her black VW Beetle. “Isn't this the sickest and sweetest car ever invented?”

“The answer to that question is a resounding yes,” Ana said, meaning it because she'd never seen a car that actually looked like its given name nor one with a bumper covered in stickers with slogans like Not Your Average Angry Girls Club and The Radical Notion That Women Are People. Ana strapped herself in. “You must be the only person in Hadley with a convertible,” she said.

“Used convertible, but I have no intention of taking the top down. I like subverting its purpose.”

Ana drummed her fingers against her knees in rhythm to the music, watching the farmland roll by out the window. It was her first time hitching a ride with someone her age, let alone someone with her own car.

“Let's chat,” Rye said, turning down the music. “In honor of fully embracing best friendship and doing the whole ride to school together thing, I think it's time we have the whole sharing of deepest, darkest secrets moment. We need to know right up front that we've got each other's backs.”

“I don't really have anything to tell . . .” Ana said, her mind going over the words “best friendship.”

“You're hilarious,” Rye said. “I'll start. I work at my dad's store most days after school, as you know. It's punishment and the only way I'm able to have this car. In my time there, I may or may not have stolen something—one thing, maybe a few things—that I consider collateral for having my free time taken away from me.”

“What did you take?”

“I'll save that for the next month of our friendship, something to look forward to. Now you . . .”

“Honestly, I don't have anything to share.”

“Then I'll prompt you. Tell me something insane about
L.A. Do you even know how cool it is that you lived there? Tell me about one of your foster homes.”

“It's not what you think it is.”

“Go on . . .”

Ana took a moment before answering. It's not that she didn't want to, but more that she didn't know which story to reveal, which secret to tell.

“I don't have anywhere else to go, when I get back.”

“Why?”

“Because I'm in the foster system.”

“I know that . . .”

“The last place I lived ended up not working out in the most spectacular of ways. That's why I'm here. It's not just an internship. If everything goes well, I can emancipate myself when I finish the job on the farm, which means I have to get a real job and go to school, but maybe get to live in assisted housing, which is kind of like a halfway house. The alternative is I get placed in a group home, which is not where any sane person wants to be.”

“Why don't you just stay here?”

“It's up to my caseworker to decide, or Abbie and Emmett, I guess.”

“So, you get to live with Emmett and Abbie, work on the farm every day, and then you maybe get to go live wherever you want on your own in L.A.?”

“It's not as easy as that . . .”

“Not to say it isn't difficult, because I'm sure it is, but oh my God, you are the luckiest person I know! I work a job and go to school and have to live with my parents, who are infuriating, but I still have to graduate, go to college, and
then
be given my freedom, which is like a hundred years from now.”

“That doesn't sound so bad.”

“You don't know the half of it. So, you're really, truly going back to L.A., then?”