Wreath (6 page)

She pushed her hair back with a black headband and pulled on a pair of track shorts and a T-shirt she had found in the backseat of one of the cars. The shirt looked almost in style—
vintage
, it would be called by fashionistas—and only had one small hole under the arm.

Walking past nearby vehicles, Wreath found a large utility truck with big side mirrors and surveyed her appearance, satisfied that she looked pretty good for someone who hadn’t had a bath in days. Her hair wasn’t shiny but her dark eyes had a hint of sparkle, and her skin was smooth and clear.

Her pack slung over her shoulder, she headed for the state park, mentioned by the lady who’d given her the ride and the subject of a brochure from the Not-So-Welcome Center. The park claimed to be “spacious” with a swimming area, cabins, trails, and, most importantly, showers. Sticking to the edge of the woods, a thrill ran through her when she found the entrance road, tree-lined and peaceful. A runner sprinted down into the park, waving at Wreath as she zipped through the gate.

The spirit of the moment encouraged Wreath, although she had not expected to encounter others so quickly.

Trying to look as though she, too, was out for a little exercise, Wreath was put off by the large sign at the entrance, demanding all visitors register at the office. The jogger had not stopped, so maybe she could slip by.

But Wreath didn’t like to disobey rules.

Three or four rental bikes and a soft drink machine sat out in front of the office, which looked like an old-fashioned log cabin. A bulletin board held announcements and business cards for everything from babysitting to dirt work. She wasn’t sure she knew what dirt work was, but maybe she could get a job babysitting.

She looked down at herself and wondered if anyone would trust her with a child.

Probably not.

With a deep breath, she stepped inside the building that looked like an old-fashioned log cabin from the outside. A TV mounted in the corner was the first thing to catch her eye, a weather report on its screen.

A cute boy about her age, dark hair covering his eyes, sat behind the counter, reading. He looked startled when she walked in, and Wreath hoped she did not stink. He wore clean khaki shorts and a dark green state park polo shirt and looked like one of those rich kids who get the plum jobs. When he laid his book down, Wreath noticed it was one of her favorites, a novel she had reread a few months back.

“Day pass, please.” Wreath tried to sound as though she did this all the time. She laid a precious dollar bill on the wood surface.

“Great day for a hike,” the boy said, writing the date in black marker on a yellow cardboard pass.

Wreath ignored him and studied a trail map tacked to the wall.

“Visiting someone in the area?” he asked.

“No,” she said and turned her back on him to inspect a glass case of souvenirs and camping supplies, items that might come in handy over the next few months.

“Not much for talking, are you?” The boy drummed his fingers on the counter.

“Not much,” Wreath said. She turned and took the pass that he held out, unzipped her pack, and tried to stuff the piece of paper around the items she had brought with her.

“Enjoy your walk,” he said, still friendly despite her rudeness.

Wreath had only gone a few yards when she heard someone yell at her.

Panicked, she stopped and thought about running.

“You dropped this.” The boy held out a tiny bar of soap that Big Fun had brought back from a cheap motel on an oil field cleanup trip. Wreath felt her face flush and took the soap with mumbled thanks.

She had to get over her skittishness if she was going to make it for the next year.

She walked a step or two and turned to give him a small wave. He waved back and smiled.

The encounter made her feel rotten. After snakes and lizards, she hungered for conversation, but she didn’t know how she was supposed to act around people in Landry.

Heading down a trail, she pretended to inspect a disc golf course and strolled through a picnic area. She sat at one of the tables and pulled out her notebook and a ballpoint pen from the glove compartment of one of the abandoned cars.

In large letters, she dug the pen into the page and wrote.

The words surprised her.

Although she had never lived anywhere long enough to get close to people, she missed her long talks with Frankie, who in many ways had acted more like a girlfriend than a mother. She didn’t think she could go a whole year without talking to anyone other than herself.

She remembered Clarice, who had given her the ride, and how good chatting had felt, like a cool cloth on her sweaty forehead.

REASONS TO TALK TO OTHERS
, she wrote at the top of a page.

REASONS NOT TO TALK
.

She tapped the notebook on the table. Ever since third grade, putting thoughts on paper helped Wreath sort things out. She was always surprised at how the plusses and minuses of life clashed and connected. She was lonely because she didn’t have anyone to talk to, but talking to that boy made her think about all she was missing.

She stowed her journal in the pack, checked the zippered pouch, and jogged past a swimming pool, closed for cleaning; past camping sites, where big new motor homes were set up with party lights and welcome mats; and past a screened picnic pavilion. Stopping with an effort at nonchalance, she did a few stretches she had learned in PE class, acting as though she exercised every day. As she bent to touch her toes, she swiveled her head to see if anyone was in sight.

Satisfied that she was alone, she turned down a sidewalk and into a brick restroom. Its windows were high, letting in pale light that only slightly improved the dim bulbs on the ceiling. The smell of mold was strong, but the floor was clean. As advertised in the pamphlet, the facility included two showers, although they did not have curtains or doors, which brought a moan from Wreath. She looked around for a way to lock the main door and stepped outside to see if she could find a rock to jam against it while she took a quick shower. Only a few pebbles and a lot of pinecones lay on the ground, and, other than a squirrel scampering up a nearby tree, the area was still. Feeling the sticky grime on her arms and legs, she decided to take her chances.

With another quick look, she hurried back into the bathroom. She stripped out of her clothes and jumped into a shower.

The cool water streamed down her hair and shoulders, washing away the filth. Frankie was big on cleanliness, and Wreath had gotten so gross she was ashamed. She liberally used the little bar of soap to wash her body and hair, and she scrubbed her skin with a ragged washcloth she had found in one of the trailers at the junkyard.

Watching the dirt disappear down the drain, she hoped the water might wash away the awful sorrow that clung to her. What-ifs had captured her emotions like a steel trap these past few days, and she longed to feel clean and fresh.

Wreath pulled her towel out of her pack, hurriedly dried off, and put back on her shorts and T-shirt. Clean. Dressed. Even the small accomplishments brought a big sense of relief. Combing her hair, she managed a smile as she surveyed her looks in the piece of metal that served as a mirror.

While she was deciding she looked pretty good, considering all she’d been through, the restroom door flew open. Wreath jumped, dropped her comb, and knocked her pack off the sink onto the tile floor.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” a woman in running shorts and a tank top said. Red-faced and sweating profusely, she walked to the sink and splashed water on her face.

Wreath picked up her comb and straightened her pack, realizing this was the jogger who had headed into the park in front of her. Casually messing with her hair, she sized up the distance to the door.

“Great hair,” the woman said. “If I tried to do that with this frizzy mess, I’d look like a mop on steroids.”

“Thanks,” Wreath said. Trying to appear disinterested, she studied the woman who had stuck her mouth under the faucet, giving her the look of a contortionist at the circus.

She looked younger than Frankie, in her early twenties, maybe, her body thin. With hair stuck under a ball cap and big blue eyes, she seemed in ways like a fresher version of Wreath’s mama. The way Frankie could have looked without the tiredness.

Frankie had been pretty, but this woman looked almost like a model, her legs shapely and tanned. People told Wreath she was pretty, but she thought her own looks were ordinary. She figured she must have gotten them from her dad’s family. She wished she could be as beautiful as this lady, like Frankie was before she got sick.

“You camping with your family?” the woman asked. Wreath barely moved her head, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

“I hope the mosquitoes aren’t eating you up,” the runner said. “They’re worse than usual this year, and there’s a junkyard across that road that’s a swampy mess.”

Wreath watched the woman enter a stall.

“I think I overdid it this morning,” she continued, talking behind the closed door. “Central Louisiana has it all today—heat, humidity, and bugs bigger than tennis balls.”

Edging toward the door, Wreath froze as the woman emerged.

The time had come to speak. “Are you camping?” Wreath asked.

“Never! I live in the lovely town of Landry. Right now I’m an artist.” She washed her hands and took off her cap to straighten her damp hair.

“An artist?” Wreath chalked this tidbit up to “getting to know cool people.” She organized her clothes in her pack as she spoke, trying to look nonchalant. “What kind of art?”

“You name it, I do it. Most of my commissioned pieces are for a fleur-de-lis or some sort of pink rose framed in gold.” She wrinkled her nose at the description and this time gulped water from the sink with a cup made from her hands.

“If you want to know the truth, I’m an art snob,” the woman said, stretching against the wall, pulling her calves and bouncing down to touch her toes.

“I do commercial projects because I need the cash, and people around here don’t have a very adventuresome spirit. For fun I paint huge canvases. Someday people will gush over my work and fight to hang my pictures in their homes. Their big, expensive homes.” She laughed.

“Oh,” Wreath said.

“I’d better get going. I have a workshop today, and they’ll have my head if I’m late again. I’m Julia, by the way. Enjoy your visit.”

“I’m Wreath.”

“Wreath.” The woman spoke the name like it was special. “Good to meet you.” She jogged toward the park exit, her cap flopping up and down, as Wreath exited the bathroom.

Strolling out of the facility, Wreath was surprised at how much she’d enjoyed Julia’s conversation. But Wreath couldn’t imagine telling a stranger about
her
dreams, about her own love of art and design, of her plans to go to graduate school and do something that mattered.

And, although she had enjoyed the visit, she would vary her shower times. She couldn’t afford to be seen too often by Julia the jogger or the good-looking clerk. The last thing Wreath needed was to get easy to follow. She remembered all too well how easy it had been for Big Fun to find her at the tourism center.

Rounding the far corner of the log building, Wreath couldn’t resist looking back. The boy from the office leaned against a split-log fence. He offhandedly waved and turned back toward the office as she walked through the gate.

“Have a good one,” he yelled.

She gave a small wave and felt a moment of happiness.

Attract no attention
, Wreath had written in her notebook that horrible first day. She was about to put that to the test.

When she wrote out her strategies before Frankie died, they seemed wise and organized. In real life, they felt awkward and stupid. She longed to go right back to the Tiger Van. But she had to have food and learn how to move around Landry without standing out. School would start soon, and she needed to look as though she had lived here for years.

Staying as far from the highway as she could without getting in the woods, she walked and walked, the efforts of her precious shower washing away in a pool of sweat. A few cars whizzed by but no one seemed to pay her any attention, and she tried to get a look at drivers without them noticing. Her feet ached the way they had after the long walk from Lucky to the junkyard, and her shoes rubbed through her worn socks. Her shoulders throbbed from the weight of the pack, and she shifted it to one side, moving her arms, which felt tight and tense.

The distance to town was a lot farther than she remembered from the ride with Frankie and Big Fun, definitely longer than it looked on the map. Seven or eight houses sat back from the road. The occasional dog ran down a driveway, barking fiercely but stopping about halfway. She thought of the sweet dog that lived near her old house, how he wagged his tail and licked her hand.