Grace (31 page)

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Authors: T. Greenwood

BOOK: Grace
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Crystal wondered if she'd made a mistake not accepting Mrs. Stone's offer for an open adoption. She tried to imagine what her life would be like if she had agreed to this arrangement. If she'd just gone off to UVM like she was expected to, living so close to her. Would there be weekend visits? Would she sit in their beautiful living room full of books and thrift-store furniture and poetry, watching as Grace crawled across the floor? Would she be allowed to hold her, to smell the heady scent coming from the top of her head? To feel the tiny flutter of her heart against her chest? Who would she be to Grace? Who was she without her?
She worked. She worked and worked and worked. Forty, fifty hours a week. She spent nothing, saved every penny. She stood in line at the ATM with her paychecks, watched as the balance grew. It was all she knew how to do.
The woman, the one with the child named Grace, kept coming into the Walgreens and Crystal said nothing, even as her rage grew. Crystal watched her as she pocketed Life Savers, tea lights, greeting cards. She studied her as she pilfered packs of gum and aspirin, magazines and ballpoint pens. It both angered her and fascinated her. She watched this other Grace, oblivious, dancing in the aisles.
One morning the woman came in and went straight to the film counter, where Crystal was going through prints that had not been picked up, making calls to remind people to come in and get them.
“Brr.” The woman shivered. “It's like January out there and not even Halloween yet.”
Crystal nodded. The little girl was bundled up in a ratty pink jacket with a furry hood framing her face. Her cheeks were flushed red, her nose runny.
“Do you guys offer a discount when you have a lot of rolls? Like a coupon or something?” the woman asked.
“We have specials sometimes. Let me check this week's flier.” Crystal reached for a flier from a stack behind the counter and thumbed through it quickly to see if there were any specials. “How many rolls do you have?”
“
A lot
. They're my son's. He's got like thirty rolls, though, so I only brought about half of them. See?” She opened up her purse and Crystal peered in, wondering how many stolen things lay beneath the mountains of film, stunned by her willingness to reveal the contents of her purse.
“I could maybe talk to my manager and see if we can get you a discount. If you leave the film here, I can just call you and let you know.”
“That would be awesome. He's really into this photography thing, but it costs so much to get the film developed. His birthday's coming up, and I thought it would be nice to do this for him.”
“That's cool,” Crystal said. Grace, the little girl, was twirling down the aisle where the walk-in coolers were, leaving tiny muddy footprints on the linoleum.
“Hey, would it be okay if I gave her a lollipop?” Crystal asked.
“Sure,” the woman said.
Crystal came from behind the counter and grabbed a couple of Tootsie Pops from the display. “Grace?” she said, the word too sweet on her tongue, and the little girl turned around. She smiled at Crystal, and she felt her heart bottom out. She bent down to her and said, “Your mom says it's okay for you to have a treat. Do you like cherry or chocolate?”
“Chocolate,” she said and reached for the lollipop. Her tiny fingers closed around the stick and Crystal felt light-headed.
“You okay?” the woman asked.
Crystal stood back up, steadying herself. “Yeah. I'm fine. I think I just forgot to eat breakfast.”
After they were gone, she followed the pattern of those tiny footprints with her own feet until the place where they ended at the door where her mother had scooped her up.
T
revor's days were spent dodging and scheming; his life was like an elaborate game of hide-and-seek where he was always It. He pictured Ethan and Mike, counting, giving him just enough time to hide before seeking. Stalking. After two months back at school, they were still just as relentless and intent.
On the Friday morning before Halloween, he woke up panicked. He'd dreamed about being in the locker room again, the stink of his own excrement waking him. But as he opened his eyes, afraid that he'd soiled the sheets, that his bowels had once again betrayed him, he realized it was only the smell coming from the backyard. From Pop's garbage, which he stacked in disgusting piles against the side of the house.
“Do you like my costume?” Gracy asked. She was up already, twirling in an elaborate pink dress. She was wearing a sparkly tiara and plastic high heels.
“Who are you?” Trevor asked.
“I'm
Aurora,
dummy,” she said. “Sleeping Beauty. What are you gonna be for Halloween?”
“I'm too old for that,” he said, but then he thought maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea. If he wore a mask, something to disguise himself, he wouldn't have to hide. He could walk through the halls like any other kid. He could be invisible.
“Hey, where's that Jason mask?” he asked. “Is it in your dress-up box?”
“I don't like that one. It's scary!” she said.
But then Trevor was up and digging through the cardboard dress-up box in the closet. He found the hockey mask under a pile of Hawaiian leis and a fluffy black feather boa.
“Don't put it on, Trevor. I hate that!” Gracy was starting to tear up, but fighting it.
“I won't. It's just for school.”
“Are you going to be in the parade?” she asked.
Trevor shook his head. “Nah.”
She shrugged and jumped off her bed, snagging the edge of her skirt on the bedpost; he could hear the fabric ripping, knew that this would send her over the edge. “It's okay, we can fix it,” he said. His mother had given him a sewing kit a long time ago, in case he ever needed to sew a button on. He'd shoved it in his sock drawer and forgotten about it. It was one of those things his mother did sometimes, offering him weird little trinkets he didn't really need. He went to his sock drawer and pulled it open. He barely had room for his socks anymore since the rolls of film had been piling up.
The film. Where was his film? There must have been thirty rolls of film, and now there were only a dozen or so.
“Gracy? Did you take my film?” he bellowed. She was sitting on the edge of his bed, her tattered skirt splayed before her like a patient.
“What's film?”
And then it hit him. His mother. She hated his camera. She had been threatening to take it away from him. But he hadn't even done anything. Why would she do this? He thought about all those lost pictures. He felt that awful metallic taste in his throat. Acerbic and stinging.
“Mom?” he hollered, stomping down the hallway to the kitchen.
“She's not here,” his father said. “She went into work early so she can come to your parade at school.”
“Did she take my film?” he asked, feeling his hands clenching and unclenching.
“What are you talking about?” his father asked. He looked tired, purple half moons under each heavy eye.
“Nothing,” Trevor said, eyes stinging.
His father drove them to school. Despite the frigid air, Trevor asked to ride in the back of the truck. The leaves had already turned to fire and then ash. The branches were bare now, gray arms reaching toward the sky. It looked like they were asking for something, pleading with the heavens. He could taste snow in the back of his throat, the cold, sharp taste of winter.
He hopped out of the back of the truck as soon as his father pulled up in the drop-off lane, and reached into his backpack for the Jason mask. Scanning the crowd of costumed students funneling into the building, he put the mask on.
“Take it off, Trevor!” Gracy cried. “I don't like it.”
Ignoring her, he grabbed her hand. “It's just a mask, Gracy. It's just me.”
As they made their way to the school, he felt, for the first time in a long time, as though he belonged. Monsters, vampires, princesses. No one looked like themselves. Everyone was someone else, and he thought how cool it would be if Halloween were every day. If every day he could put on a costume and transform himself into somebody different. If he could hide in other people's clothes, inside other people's skin.
“Bye, Gracy!” he said, but she was still pouting. Still mad.
Everybody was distracted. Nobody was listening to the teachers. Even Mrs. Cross's voice from the speakers in the corner of the room barely registered over the excited din of the kids. But by the time third period came around and Trevor had art, everyone seemed to have calmed down a little bit. The novelty of the costumes had worn off. And once he was safe inside the art room, he took off his mask.
Angie sat down next to him. “What are you supposed to be?” she asked.
Trevor shrugged. “Nobody.”
Her hair was in two braids secured at the top of her head with flowers and ribbons, and she had penciled between her eyebrows. “I'm Frida Kahlo,” she said. “Obvi. Is that your mask?” she asked, pointing at his mask, which was sticking out of his backpack. “I guess it's kind of cool, kind of retro anyway.”
Mr. Franklin made them spend the entire period sketching a stupid pumpkin he'd brought in. He projected a Winslow Homer painting on the screen,
The Pumpkin Patch,
but with the lights on, it was hard to even see what they were supposed to be looking at. Mrs. D. would never have done it this way. And about two minutes into class, the projector cut out.
“I can fix it,” Trevor said. “There's an extra power supply in the darkroom. That's all it is usually. There's a short in that one.”
“Great,” Mr. Franklin said and sent Trevor to the darkroom to retrieve it.
Trevor couldn't stop thinking about the rolls of film. His mother wouldn't have destroyed them. At least he didn't think so. But not knowing where they were made him anxious. It was like she had stolen his journal. Inside those plastic canisters was his entire life.
In the darkroom, he searched for the power cord in a box of other cables. He'd managed to sneak out a whole bunch of stuff since school started, and luckily Mr. Franklin hadn't noticed that any of it was missing. He had gallons of chemicals now. They were safe in the caboose, but now the weather was starting to turn, he worried about them freezing. He knew he'd have to act quickly, before winter came. He found the cable, tangled like a snake in the other cords and wires, and his eyes fell on the timer. He didn't have his backpack, though. He'd have to wait until lunch when he was alone.
Mrs. Cross came over the loudspeaker just as everyone but Trevor was getting ready to go to fourth period. “Good afternoon, boys and girls. Just a reminder that the Halloween parade and costume contest will be starting in five minutes. Participation is mandatory, unless you have a note from home excusing you. When the bell rings, you should line up, and your teachers will take you out to the blacktop. After the parade, you should all go to the cafeteria for lunch. We will announce the winners of the costume contest during lunch period.”
In the past, the parade had been optional, though almost everybody except Logan Monroe, who was a Jehovah's Witness, participated. Last year Trevor had spent the hour with Mrs. D.
Trevor went to Mr. Franklin's desk. “Can I hang out here during the parade?”
“Do you have a note from home?”
Trevor shook his head.
“Sorry, buddy. There's nothing I can do for you. You heard Mrs. Cross.”
Outside it was freezing. Trevor had forgotten his gloves, and so he shoved his hands in the pockets of his coat. He put the Jason mask on, scanning the crowd through the plastic slits. So many masks. Ethan and Mike could be anywhere.
They marched around the blacktop, parents of the younger kids drinking coffee, taking pictures, and waving like idiots. He could see his mother standing alone near the basketball hoop. With the mask on, he wondered if even she would recognize him. He thought about his film again, and his whole body shivered with anger.
As the first graders marched past the judges' table, Trevor looked up and noticed that it was starting to snow. Just a few flakes here and there, but it was definitely snowing. He wished he had his camera. Mrs. D. had shown him a book once about a man from Jericho, Vermont, who was the first person to photograph snowflakes. She even had a print of one of them. It was like seeing the skeleton of a snowflake, its bones.
The entire crowd seemed to notice the snow all at once, and the little kids squealed, sticking their tongues out to catch the falling snowflakes. By the time it was the eighth graders' turn to march, the snow was coming down lightly but steadily, and the sky was completely white.
He recognized Mike right away, in a zombie mask, because of his Patriots jersey, which he hadn't taken off since football season started. But he couldn't locate Ethan among the crowd of werewolves and mummies and monsters. He felt like an idiot as they circled the blacktop, and he hated Mrs. Cross for making them do this. He hated the whole school for putting him on parade like this. The parents were laughing, pointing, as they marched and marched and marched, like prisoners sent out to march in the cold.

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