Honeysuckle Love (6 page)

“I’ve already found one,” Beatrice said.

Clara sat up feeling the beads of sweat trickle down between her breasts. She tried to catch them with her shirt, but they soaked into her bra faster than she could dab at them.

“Where?” she asked.

“I went to some houses on Oak Tower Trail the other day,” Beatrice said. “I knocked on some doors and asked if they were looking for someone to walk their dogs. I said I could do it every afternoon after school, but they don’t need me that much.”

Clara’s mouth hung open in disbelief.

“Close your mouth, Clara,” Beatrice said. “I have three clients. Isn’t that what they’re called? Clients?”

“You what?”

“I told the ladies I would have to ask my mom first, but since she’s not here, I guess I have to ask you.” Beatrice paused for Clara’s response, but Clara said nothing. “Here’s my schedule. On Mondays I walk Mrs. Johnson’s dog. On Tuesdays I walk Mrs. Peterson’s dog. And on Thursdays I walk Mrs. Levine’s dog. The ladies worked it out. They are going to pay me five dollars each for a thirty minute walk. So if I’ve done my math correctly, and I know I have because it’s simple math, then that’s fifteen dollars a week.”

“Bea . . . I . . . you . . .” Clara stammered.

“Will you let me? I met the dogs and they’re sweet, and they like me,” Beatrice said. “And the ladies are nice. I mean, they talk to me like I’m a little kid, but I don’t mind. Money is money.”

Clara walked through the cafeteria doors thinking about Beatrice’s statement: Money is money. She was right. No matter where it came from or how one got it, money was money. And they needed money if they were to ever get the electricity back on. Clara feared when the weather turned cold; she thought she could have the bill paid off by then, but what if she couldn’t? How would they stay warm? Would the fire be enough?

She noticed him looking at her and tried to ignore him. She went through the line pulling food items onto her tray. In that moment nothing looked appetizing because she knew how she would have to “pay” for it. And she didn’t want Evan seeing. Suddenly she felt guilty for making Beatrice use the card. Was her sister experiencing the same shame now?

Clara stood in line surrounded by impatient, hungry students. She readied her card; it was partly hidden in her hand, and she hoped the cafeteria worker wouldn’t say anything. She didn’t consider the possibility that anything would go wrong once the card was scanned, but what if it did? What if it showed an error, and Clara would be told that her mother would need to contact the state about her free lunch qualifications? What if the students around her heard the exchange? They would laugh at her.

She wanted to die. When it was her turn at the register, she thought about abandoning her tray and running for the bathroom.

“Well?” the lunch lady said.

Clara handed over the card automatically. The lady swiped it, gave it back to Clara, and called, “Next.”

Just like that.

Clara shoved the card in her pocket and walked her tray to a corner table. Her usual spot, hidden on the outskirts of the room where she would go unnoticed, exactly the way she wanted it. The only problem was that today Evan had a perfect view of her. He sat at a table in the popular section of the cafeteria. He conversed with his friends all the while keeping his eyes on Clara. She grew increasingly angry wondering how she was supposed to eat with him watching her.

She pulled a novel out of her book bag and started reading. She knew to give herself a few pages and then she would be absorbed in the story, forgetting all about Evan’s stares and her attempts to look pretty while she ate. She read about the heroine—a haughty, beautiful woman whom the men adored. They worshipped her.
To be that vain and desirable
, Clara thought jealously. She wondered what the heroine must have felt to know she wielded so much power.

“Hi, Clara,” she heard him say.

She looked up from her novel and forced down the tater tot she was in the middle of chewing. It made her throat ache on the way down. She looked over at the table Evan had just left noticing a few of the students looking in her direction. They were clearly confused as was she.

“Hi.” It came out as a question.

He sat down across from her. “What are you reading?”

She couldn’t understand what was happening. Why was he talking to her? Why did he come over to her table knowing it would cause a mild scene? His friends were still staring, gawking now that he settled himself on the bench across from her to have a conversation.

“I don’t know,” she replied.

Evan smiled. “You don’t know what you’re reading?”

“A book.”

“I figured.”

“I think I have to go now,” she said shoving the paperback novel in her book bag.

“Lunch isn’t over yet,” Evan pointed out.

“I guess not,” Clara replied. She looked down at her partially-eaten food. She was still hungry, but there was no way she was eating in front of him this closely. Absolutely no way.

Evan reached over and plucked a tater tot from her tray. “You mind?” he asked as he popped it in his mouth.

Clara shook her head.

“I noticed you read a lot,” Evan observed.

It was true. Clara did read a lot. Reading was her favorite hobby, a form of escape. With reading she could be anyone, anything, and for the time she was absorbed in her stories, her social anxiety disappeared. She was brave and adventurous and clever. Like Beatrice.

“Does Beatrice read like you do?” Evan asked.

“Yes,” Clara replied. “Maybe not as much. But yes.”

“I figured she did. She sounds very smart. And you can’t be smart unless you read,” Evan said.

Clara nodded. She didn’t know what else to do.

“I should read more fiction,” Evan went on. “I read a lot of manuals and textbooky stuff. It’s kind of nerdy. I guess I’m a bit of a nerd.”

He paused for a minute and smiled at her showing his perfectly straight white teeth. She instinctively ran her tongue over her own feeling the slight crookedness of her left incisor folded a little over her front tooth. She remembered a dentist once referring to it as a “kicked lateral.” She didn’t like the way that sounded as though somebody kicked her in the teeth and then laughed about it.

“I should read more fiction,” he repeated. “And I work at a bookstore.”

Clara stared at him. He popped another one of her tater tots in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully.

“Maybe you could recommend some books to me?” he suggested after a moment. “Do you mind?” he asked picking up her milk.

Clara was beside herself. She thought she shook her head.

Evan took a long sip then placed it back on her tray. She watched him lick his lips.

“Don’t worry. I don’t backwash.” He grinned at her and stood up. “Clara, I’d like very much for you to recommend some books for me to read,” he said looking at the cafeteria clock hanging above them. “Fiction,” he clarified. “Will you do that for me?” He looked down at her, his cat eyes cutting into hers.

She was certain that he was being serious and teasing her at the same time. In that moment something floated down her chest to rest in her belly. Something shimmery and warm that made her excited. And terrified.

She nodded.

“Okay then,” Evan said. “I’ll be seeing you, Clara,” and he walked back to his table.

Clara was conscious of two things: first, the intense longing she felt to put her lips on her milk carton where his had just been, and second, the low voices passing by her that said, “He drank her milk!” The bell rang and she didn’t move. She knew she couldn’t. She shook so violently that she was afraid to pick up her tray and walk it over to the trash. She knew she would drop it by accident.

When the cafeteria cleared, Clara thought it was safe to get up. She walked her tray over to the receptacle, positioning it over the bin’s opening, and watched regrettably as the milk carton slid out of sight.

***

Clara sat on the couch that evening balancing her checkbook. Her bank account was dismal. She paid her cell phone bill and water bill leaving virtually nothing until her next paycheck. And she’d have to wait a week for it. She felt the rising panic and tried to force it down. She would ask for more hours at work. She was a good worker and was confident her manager would give them to her. The bulk of her next paycheck would go to the electricity. The property tax kept creeping up into the forefront of her mind, but she pushed it down. She couldn’t worry about that right now. Electricity was the most important thing.

She thought of Beatrice and her dog-walking plans. She really did not want Beatrice working, but she almost felt she had no choice. Fifteen extra dollars a week could go a long way in getting their electricity back on faster. Still, Clara felt ashamed that she could not do it on her own.

“Clara?” Beatrice asked, walking around the couch to stand in front of her sister.

“Yes?”

“You promised me that you’d let me know today if I can walk the dogs.”

“I did, didn’t I?” Clara asked. She closed her checkbook and looked at her sister.

“Well?” Beatrice said. She twirled her golden locks around her fingers and waited.

“Would you have fun walking those ladies’ dogs?” Clara asked.

“The most fun of my entire life,” Beatrice responded.

Clara smirked. “Are any of the dogs bigger than you?”

“Nope. They’re all small dogs.”

“Are they well-behaved dogs?” Clara asked.

“The best in the whole world.”

Clara considered something. “Bea, you know you’d have to pick up their poop.”

“I’ve been saving our grocery bags,” Beatrice replied.

“And you’ll only walk them in their neighborhood?” Clara asked.

“Of course!” Beatrice said.

Clara knew that Beatrice would be safe. Oak Tower Trail was a nice neighborhood complete with tree-lined streets, wealthy residents, and a neighborhood watch. She wasn’t really concerned for Beatrice’s safety. She just wanted her to be happy.

“The second you say that you’re tired of walking dogs, I don’t want you to anymore.”

“Clara!” Beatrice screamed and jumped on her sister.

“Oof!” Clara grunted feeling Beatrice’s arms go around her neck and nearly choke her.

“I love you, Clare-Bear!” she squealed into Clara’s neck. “And I’ll give you the money every Friday. I promise.”

Clara’s heart gave a small jolt. She felt the instant guilt of having her sister work for money that she had to turn over every week. Beatrice would become resentful, and rightly so, and suddenly the plan didn’t seem all that great.

“Bea?” Clara asked.

“Yes?” Beatrice replied pulling away from her sister. She stayed seated on her lap.

“What if you kept some of your money each week? You could use it for whatever you like. A new shirt or earrings or pencils?”

“No, Clara. You use all of your money for us, and so should I,” Beatrice said.

“But it would make me very happy,” Clara went on, “if you kept a little something for yourself.”

Beatrice looked up at the ceiling as she considered this suggestion. “Well,” she said, “how much should I keep?”

“How about five dollars? Is that too little?” Clara asked.

“No. Five dollars is very fair,” Beatrice replied. “But only
after
we have the electricity back on.”

“Okay then,” Clara said.

Beatrice climbed off her sister and walked into the kitchen.

“Do you have a lot of homework, Clara?” she called.

“No, why?”

“Do you want to come outside and play with me?” Beatrice asked.

Clara smiled to herself. “Yes I do,” she said as she walked into the kitchen.

Beatrice beamed and flew out the back door, Clara right on her heels.

Chapter 4

Another week passed, and Clara became accustomed to her new routine. She worked nearly every day after school then came home to get dinner started. If they used the wood stove, Clara would go out back to retrieve wood she started piling and keeping in a cool, dry place under the shed overhang. She learned very quickly that damp wood did nothing but smoke and stink up the house. She also learned that recently-cut wood didn’t burn as well as the older, dried out wood. She’d bring the wood in, start the fire, and then open the windows in the kitchen and living room to manage the heat.

Bath time in the evening was a long, tedious process. Clara would fill the tub with cold water from the faucet and then add two or three tea kettlefuls of boiled water. Waiting for the water to boil on the wood stove took forever, and Clara wondered how much longer the process would take when the weather got colder and she needed even more hot water for the baths. She thought the process would go much faster if they boiled water over the fire in the fireplace, but she was not ready to do that. The heat would be intolerable.

One night Clara almost suggested they share the bathwater, each taking turns and then switching out so that it wasn’t the same person who always had to use the dirty water, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask Beatrice. It felt humiliating, and the thought of bathing in Beatrice’s sullied bathwater made her stomach turn.