Wreath (14 page)

“That’s good to know,” Faye replied. “I thought it was just me.”

“These old buildings remind me of my students. They’re a challenge, and you never know from day to day what the challenge will be.”

“You teach school?”

Julia was surprised her landlady didn’t know that. She had lived in the apartment for the whole two years she’d been in Landry.

“High school. Civics and American history.”

“Sounds interesting,” Faye said, although Julia couldn’t tell if she really thought so or not. “Although I confess I never was a fan of those subjects. I liked art and English and gym.” The woman stopped. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. That was rude.”

Maybe Faye was human after all. “Not to worry. I don’t like those subjects either,” Julia said. “I’m waiting for an art class to open up. Are you an artist, too?”

“An artist? Me? Heavens, no. I prefer sewing. I haven’t picked up a paintbrush in twenty years, other than to paint the trim in the bathroom.” Mrs. Durham was definitely flustered. “Are you going to the gym?”

Julia was confused. “Does Landry have a gym?”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t know,” Faye said. “It’s been longer since I’ve exercised than since I painted. I think there’s a dance aerobics class at my church.” She said the word
dance
with the slightest hint of a frown.

By now Julia had walked to the bottom of the steep wooden steps, and she and Faye looked at each other as though they were speaking foreign languages the other didn’t understand.

“You have on your exercise clothes,” Faye said. “I thought you were going to a gym.”

“Oh … I’m off for my morning run, but I’m getting a late start. Had to prepare for a computer course I’m required to take. I like to use computers for graphics and art projects, but this is about research and timelines.”

A completely lost look passed over the other woman’s face. “I thought teachers got summers off.”

“I need a special certification, so I have to take this course. School starts at the end of the month, so I need to do it now.”

“I hope you get paid for it.”

Julia raised a brow. “No pay. Just six hours a day in a classroom. Fun, huh?”

“Sounds delightful,” Faye said. “I think I’d rather work on the hinges on this back door.”

The two laughed awkwardly.

“Nice visiting with you,” Julia said. “Better run.” She waved, and the woman turned without a farewell and headed back into the furniture store.

While Julia jogged, her feet slapping against the steaming street, she thought about the unusual encounter with her landlady, who rarely stepped foot out of the store. The few times Julia had caught a glimpse of Mrs. Durham, she was alone, lips pursed and mannerisms jerky, as though she wasn’t comfortable in her own skin. Today she had seemed different. She said she liked art.

Maybe Julia had misjudged her, the way people in Landry misjudged her art.

Chapter 14

W
hen Frankie got stressed out, she always said she was about ready to climb the walls. Wreath wished she lived in a house so she could do that right now. The carpeted sides of the stifling Tiger Van closed in on her and increased the anxious feeling she had. She held her watch up to her ear and shook it, wondering if the battery had died.

She had eaten stale crackers for breakfast and mixed fake citrus flavor into a small amount of water, aware, as always, of how heavy bottled water was to lug back from town and how yucky the pond water was.

While she ate, she looked over her recent notes.

Underneath, she had listed her work duties:

That list was so paltry that Wreath added a few more duties this morning.

WHAT ELSE CAN I DO?!?!
She scrawled the letters in huge print across the page, sideways. She was creative, according to her former teachers, and smart. Surely she could do something else for Mrs. Durham.

She’d have to come up with better ideas if she was going to keep her job and maybe get more hours. Faye wasn’t the type to put up with fit throwing, for sure, and somehow Wreath didn’t think she’d hire her back again if things went badly.

Worrying about money always made her feel like she needed to throw up, yet counting her money had become a daily ritual. After she counted it, she entered the amount in her journal. Part of the money was now hidden in a small plastic sack near the back of the land, ready to run at a moment’s notice. The rest she carried with her.

Using a wet towelette to wash off, she pretended she had a luxurious shower. She’d slipped back into the state park a few more times to take a real shower, avoiding that guy named Law. Wreath dressed, put on a red plastic headband she’d found in a travel trailer, and hoped the furniture lady wouldn’t frown at her appearance. The clothes were not only out of style, but worn and faded.

Looking at her watch again, she tried to figure out what to do for the next couple of hours before she went to work.

To work.

Fine furnishings? Not a chance. But the job provided a reason to hang out in town, helped her meet a person or two as “the girl who just moved here,” and paid for food and water.

She wished she could tell Frankie about the job, get advice about how to deal with a grouchy boss. Frankie had told her about plenty of those kinds of bosses through the years, but she’d always made the stories fun. Wreath couldn’t summon up a fun image of Mrs. Durham, although the woman could be decent when she wanted to. Sometimes she reminded Wreath of herself, as if the death of Mr. Durham had permanently smashed her heart.

Finding a spot of shade, Wreath sat down in a lawn chair she’d rescued from a rusted-out RV, careful to shift her weight away from the broken webbing. She pulled out her journal and started a fresh page.

She groaned at the last entry.

Life had seemed hard with her mama sick and Big Fun hanging around, cussing and drinking, but she’d take it back in a minute. Frankie hadn’t believed in feeling sorry for yourself, though, and Wreath could almost hear her mama fussing.

Something stung her ankle, and she looked down to see that her chair rested next to a fire ant bed, a collection of the insects stinging her ankle. She jumped up, knocked the chair over, dropped her journal in the mud, and hopped around trying to brush them off her legs, yelling all the while.

Her loud voice surprised her. She so rarely talked anymore that it almost sounded like a stranger’s.

She grabbed her pack and pulled her bike out of an old van where she had hidden it, feeling as though ants still crawled over her.

Jumping onto the seat, she rode hard into town, giving the pedals everything she had, tired of wobbling. Her lungs hurt and sweat ran down her body, causing the seat of her shorts to feel damp, but she pedaled harder and harder.

Hurtling past dense trees, Wreath bumped her way toward town. The route was rough, the pavement full of potholes and rutted-out areas. The shoulders were narrow or nonexistent.

An occasional house, trailer, or run-down wood building was set back from the road, usually with a junky front yard. A station wagon was pulled near the front door of a weird brick building that looked like an apartment. In the back of the car there was a mattress, and the seats were filled with clothes, dotted with garbage bags.

All in all, Wreath thought, it didn’t look like those residents lived much better than she did.

She slowed at the entrance to the state park, considering whether to turn in and look around. She needed a shower but was afraid of seeing the boy again. Wreath hated to admit how much she longed to see Ranger Boy, in his green shirt and khaki shorts. She would have thought he only worked a day or two a week if she hadn’t seen that lousy trailer where he lived. She certainly had misjudged him. With that mink-brown hair and muscular build, he looked rich. But he couldn’t afford a guitar.

With thoughts of Law in her mind, Wreath glanced at the entrance of the park longingly.

Instead of the boy, the artist, Julia was her name, jogged slowly out of the park, sweat flying off her body. Hoping the woman didn’t see her, Wreath kept pedaling, but Julia raised her hand in a friendly wave. Wreath took one hand off the handlebars and gave a half wave back, as her pack slipped and the bike headed toward the ditch.

A car sped by as Wreath swerved onto the shoulder and spun in gravel, straining to maintain her balance. Giving up, she pulled over and planted her feet on the gravel.

Julia jogged steadily toward her. “You okay?” she huffed, running in place and gasping for breath.

“I hit a rock.” Wreath shifted, hoping the woman would move on. “I’m fine.”

“I’ve been thinking about you. Everything all right?” Julia said. “Anything I can do for you?”

“Everything’s good,” Wreath said, feeling an extra trickle of sweat pour out from under her arms. She tried to make eye contact instead of shifting her eyes away.

“Your family still camping?”

“Camping?” Wreath thought for a moment. That’s what happened when you started lying. You couldn’t remember what you’d said, what was real. “We’re staying with relatives. My mama liked it so much she’s moving us here.”

“I’ll see you at Landry High, then.” She gave a wave and headed off.

Landry High? What was that all about? Julia didn’t look old enough to have a kid in high school. Wreath rolled the shoulder she had wrenched when she’d nearly wrecked her bike. Could Julia be a teacher? She looked younger and in better shape than any of the teachers Wreath’d had in Lucky or any of the other towns where they had lived.

Wreath constantly weighed whether something was good or bad when it happened. This encounter could have raised suspicions, one more connection with a Landry resident. What if she had a class under Miss … she didn’t know her last name. She hoped she didn’t get her, because Julia raised too many questions. She might even look at Wreath’s files.

She had said she had just been thinking about Wreath. That sounded dangerous.

Maybe it was time to move.

“No,” Wreath said out loud. She couldn’t. She had to make this work if she was going to finish high school.

She watched Julia move out of sight, thankful to see distance between them. When the woman was nearly around the corner, Wreath climbed on the bike, her feet on the gravel, feeling as though ants were crawling up her legs, and decided to go to the library to clean up.

As soon as she entered the cool building, she perched on a small bench in the entryway and pulled her journal out of the pack, sad to see that its cover looked worn. She fished around for her pen and made a small entry.

Dear Brownie, don’t take this too hard, but I have something to share with you. Life stinks
.

Chapter 15