From Where I Watch You (5 page)

I better make enough money for that plane ticket soon.

Fourteen-Year-Old
Carrot
Kara

I pass Katy Morgan’s locker, and a Playgirl magazine falls at my feet. “Kar-a McKin-ley!” Katy squeals, looking around the entire hallway. She points at the magazine and then wags a finger at me. “Who knew she was such a perv!”

It’s the first week of high school and I ignore her because I always ignore Katy.

But when I look up, there they are. My friends. I expect them to put Katy in her place, or at least stand next to me, or something. But both of them act like they don’t even know me. Gaby stares right at my face, and Jen stares at the floor and neither of them does anything about Katy and her friends laughing at me.

And then I hear a voice behind me.

“You’re such a bitch, Katy.”

Noelle Butler is an even bigger bitch than Katy. Me and Jen and Gaby always thought so, and Gaby was always coming up with new rumors to spread about her.

Noelle picks up the magazine, sticking it in Katy’s face.

Katy backs up, flinching, while Noelle runs her finger in circles around the guy’s crotch on the cover. “Kara doesn’t even wear lip gloss. And, Katy, why the fuck are you carrying this around? I thought you were into girls.”

Noelle sticks the magazine into her backpack and strolls away, leaving Katy pale-faced and everyone’s mouths hanging open.

Noelle didn’t talk to me again until December. Things changed when I skipped class to go to the mall and saw her cram a T-shirt from Hot Topic into her purse. Two days later I caught her smoking weed in the bathroom on the far end of campus, where I went for privacy.

“God, you’re like my ugly shadow these days.” She inhaled long and slow, keeping her eyes on me. Then she blew a cloud of smoke in my face. “Get the fuck out of here.”

The next day I saw her waiting for the school counselor. She stared at me as I sat down and tried to focus on one of the stupid posters in the office.

“Why are you in here?” She asked. “Does your Mom always have her mouth on a bottle or a dick that doesn’t belong to your father, too?”

I said nothing, because she’s gross, so I waited quietly for my turn with Ms. Phillipe. She replaced the old counselor in November and it was December and I guess she’d gotten to the M section in her case file reading. Damn.

“Oh, I know. Your sister’s death is fucking you up right? I’ve heard. Don’t sweat it. We’re only stuck here a few years and as long as we can party it’s all good.”

I still said nothing.

“Kara?”

Pretty Ms. Phillipe looked like she just graduated from college and smiled way too much to be working in an urban public high school. I hated her already.

“Hmm, says in your file that the last counselor was quite concerned about you, and how you’re dealing with your sister’s death, or rather, how you aren’t dealing with it.”

I wish I could’ve seen my notes from the last counselor—from here they looked endless, even though we didn’t talk very much. I’ll bet it said I was at risk, cutting, eating disorders, suicide . . .

“I hated my sister. She was horrible.”

“Well that’s an unusual reaction to someone dying.”

“Do they teach you that in counselor school? No one handles death the same way. Maybe you were absent the day they covered that.” I looked down, staring at my fingernails because I didn’t usually talk to authority that way. I tried to make up for it. “My sister wasn’t normal and you don’t know how horrible she was to me.”

Ms. Phillipe adjusted her scarf and I saw the flush of red at the base of her neck. “It’s just that—”

The phone rang, cutting her off. She answered and told whoever was on the other line that she was “Melanie Phillipe, School Counselor” and she sounded so proud saying it, I wonder if it was her first time using the school phone.

Her eyes locked on me, and even though she’s puny, I sensed trouble.

“Oh. I’ll send her right out.” She hung up. “That was your mother. She’s here to pick you up for your, um, appointment with the gynecologist.” Ms. Phillipe looked at me as though maybe I wasn’t just dealing with Kellen’s death but maybe I was a slut, too. Her face was red and she looked away.

When I got outside, I knew for damn sure Mom was not taking me to the gyno. And she wasn’t in the office.

“Kara, dear,” the secretary called out to me. “Your mom is outside in the car. Please tell her next time to come in and sign you out. That’s school policy but I’ll let it slide this time.”

When I walked out to the front, Noelle stood there.

“Let’s get coffee? It’s right next to your gynecologist’s office.”

She smiled, just a quick flash, and then it was gone, and I stood there wondering if I should go back to math class or to Ms. Phillipe.

Then I saw Gaby walking and she stared at me like she didn’t recognize the best friend she ditched.

I nodded. “Yeah let’s go.”

We spent the rest of the school day drinking lattes and gorging on donuts and making fun of Ms. Phillipe and the other faculty we hated. We never said one word about my sister and it was the best day I’d had in a really long time. I made it back in time to get the bus and she disappeared with some guy into the smoker woods.

6. Glaze and add sprinkles.

..........................................................

Charlie Norton walks by, smiling at me as he heads back to the kitchen. I’m hoping he didn’t see me follow him to church.

I only notice Noelle has come back from the bathroom when I get a Snowflake Sugar packet in the eye. One of her eyebrows is arched. I catch her sideways smile. I’m caught.

“Well, well. Such a smile there, Miss McKinley. Is that who I think it is? Is that uh . . .” she taps the table with three fingers. “What’s his name? Charles Norton the Third? Charlie? The guy who fell off the Hill freshman year?”

“Uh huh, yeah, it is. He’s my mom’s new dishwasher.”

Noelle is ready to interrogate. “So why are you red, Kar? Ahh, you still want to lose it to Charlie Norton, don’t cha?”

“Bite me, Noelle. God, you’re worse than a guy. Do you think about anything else besides sex?”

She shrugs. Fortunately we’re both distracted by a woman sniffing and holding a tissue to her eyes. She latches onto Mom and lets out a big sob. My mother’s arms wrap around her, a weird stranger, like she’s family. Mom says something about the glory of God and all that crap she likes to serve up as a free side dish these days.

Before my sister died, my mom was a straightlaced, no-nonsense, black-and-white, successful defense lawyer. Today she’s a full-fledged Holy Roller and we’re practically poor.

Mom dances over. “See how the Savior blesses us with all this good we are doing?” She kisses my cheek and Noelle’s forehead before disappearing into the kitchen.

I hear a loud “Praise, Jesus!” from behind the kitchen door. The “Hallelujah!” that follows sounds like Charlie’s voice.

I roll my eyes while Noelle smiles.

“I love your mom, Kar.”

I stretch my hands out in front of me. My cuticles are stained with three different shades of food coloring. I tear open the sugar packet Noelle threw at me and sprinkle it on the table.

“Okay, back to Charlie.” Noelle props an elbow on the table and rests her chin on her palm. “You want him. Your face is red and your eyes have that lusty, glazed look.”

I use the edge of the packet to push my tiny sugar pile into a neat line while I try to ignore Noelle. “Shut up, No.”

She cracks her knuckles. “Such a crab today, Kara. Maybe you need to eat some sprinkles, too. I know you want Charlie Norton, Kar. You’ve been saving yourself for him for years.”

“Why do you have to be a bitch about everything?”

“Can a day ever pass without you calling me a bitch, Kar? I’m just trying to help you get some. Mason and Charlie used to be friends. I’ll find out if he’s seeing anyone.”

I pick up my bag. “Are we ten years old? Why don’t you pass him a check-the-box note, too.”

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. Hey, come and visit me at work? Mason’s working tonight.” She takes a sip of her latte.

I stand up without a word and walk to the apartment door.

“Just trying to help!” I hear Noelle call out after me.

UPSTAIRS, I PULL BOOKS
out of my bag and stack them on the bed. My math book misses the pile, sliding off the bed and crashing to the floor, and suddenly I see the purple droplets and bloody-red flecks on an envelope poking out from under the book. Breath catches in my throat. Carefully I use two fingers to push the book aside, revealing the whole envelope.

I scoot back up to my bed, my fingers digging into the quilt until they hurt. Did the envelope slip out of my math book or did he leave it here?

Mom keeps her keys on a hook in her kitchen office that’s open to everyone who might wander back there. Suddenly I’m certain. He was here. He came into my room.

I leave everything on the floor and go back to the front door. Maybe if I re-enter and focus I’ll notice something off. The Oriental rug covers half of the scuffed wood planks in the living room. The tiny coffee table holds a half-dead candle and Mom’s coffee mug from this morning. The tiny kitchen has dishes drying in the bamboo rack, and the tile counter is wiped clean like always. The bathroom and Mom’s room look untouched.

Back in my room, my hands shake as I pluck the envelope off the floor.

I look around at my room through a stranger’s eyes. A few dirty clothes on the floor, a bowl with ice cream residue in it from last week. Did I leave the closet door open? I never do; a childhood habit born of fear. I rush to the closet. Everything seems normal and untouched. One of Kellen’s dorm boxes sits on the floor.

I rip open the envelope and sit down on the bed. This note is only one word:

Competition?

So he knows about the contest, but how could he? I’m being stupid; of course he knows. He’s watching. I can’t breathe. I have to get out of here.

I run downstairs, wondering whether I should tell Mom he was in our apartment. I’m standing in the doorway, practically out of breath with my heart pounding, watching Mom flutter around the café, complimenting this person, touching that person, smiling constantly.

Why is she like this? These people are strangers!

She’s so weird and she’s making a fool of herself.

But she looks happy.

She twirls by me with a plate of food. Tilting her head to the side, she smiles and stares at me in that way she has, waiting for me to say something.

Just like I had to wait for her to speak to me, all those times I caught her staring out the window. Staring but not seeing the pumpkins rotting on the neighbor’s porch. Not seeing the living daughter waiting for her mom to acknowledge the fact that she still breathed and needed her.

“Just a minute, sweetie, I’ll be right back. Looks like you need to tell me something.” Mom raises one eyebrow at me, and then she’s off, parking the sandwich plate in front of an old guy. Mom leans down to him, pinching and then kissing his cheek. She’s beaming when she gets up and heads back behind the counter.

I should tell her about the notes. I should tell her about everything.

I can’t tell her.

I can’t handle her getting upset ever again.

I won’t worry her with any of it because she can’t handle it. She’d make me quit my job and my leash would get even shorter—she’d probably make sure I have a chaperone walking me to school and then it would be goodbye contest for sure. It’s better to keep her in the dark and deal with it on my own. So I leave. Outside, the Ave crawls with college students from Seattle Pacific University. The crowd suffocates me and my eyes flick to every face that passes, looking for eye contact that holds more meaning than it should.

A FEW MINUTES LATER
I’m sitting across the street at The Teakettle, drinking one of their overpriced tea lattes. Here, the tables are full of college kids with laptops and teapots and tea cozies and mismatched cups and saucers. Most of the customers are girls, which makes me feel safer.

Halfway through my tea I’m calm enough to sift through my notebook full of design ideas for the contest. I can’t stop thinking that he was in my room and I don’t know what to do about it. Maybe I should tell Noelle. But I know I won’t.

COOKIE DECORATING IS AN
art, even though people have always teased me about it. I think Noelle understands, but she never misses an opportunity to give me shit over it.

He was in my room.

I sketch a cookie and try to focus. My drawing takes the shape of a fabulous high heel shoe I saw in a store window last week. Since I won’t wear them, I turn them into cookie art. I take inspiration from everything—clothes, nature, people, and pop culture. Holidays, too.

Mom sold out of my last holiday cookie, my glittery silver skulls. When I showed her she gasped and said they were Satanic and grabbed a napkin to cover them up. Not fast enough though. One of her customers saw it and ordered three dozen for her kid’s Halloween party and Mom made an extra trip to church afterward.