Honeysuckle Love (8 page)

“Goddamnit,” she said angrily. She was glad Beatrice wasn’t around. She tried hard not to curse around her sister, believing that as stand-in mother she wasn’t allowed to. But she said the words silently in her heart or out loud when she was alone, and figured she was going to hell for it among other things. She didn’t take her sister to church. They didn’t pray or do any volunteer work to help others. Beatrice questioned her belief in God and wanted to conduct séances every night until the electricity came back on. She was aching to, she told Clara.
Oh yes
, Clara thought.
I’m going straight to hell. I’m the worst parent in the world
.

“So it’s a goddamnit situation, huh?” Evan asked approaching Clara.

Clara whipped her head around to see the green-eyed boy staring down at her, the sunlight catching the pale blond highlights in his hair. He had his hands in his pockets, his bag thrown carelessly over his shoulder looking stress-free. As usual.

“I can’t find my keys. I’ll be late for work,” Clara said. “I’m sorry you heard me say that. I shouldn’t say that word.”

“No you shouldn’t. You’re too pretty to say something so blasphemous,” Evan replied, and Clara decided in that instant that she would never say “goddamnit” again.

She blushed, and he saw.

“May I help you find them?” he asked.

“They’re either in my purse or book bag, neither of which you’re allowed to go through,” Clara replied then looked at him bewildered. She couldn’t believe she said that to him. It was snarky and rude and it made him laugh hard.

“I’m sorry,” Clara said quietly.

“For what?” Evan asked still chuckling. “And I don’t want to go through your purse anyway. Women’s purses scare me.”

“Why?” Clara replied. A grin broke out on her face.

“There are
things
in them, if you know what I mean,” he said winking at her.

She didn’t know if it was because she was outside in the sunlight, emboldened by nature, or simply delirious because he came to talk to her again, but in that moment, Clara was not Clara.

She plunged her hand in her purse and pulled out a tampon.

“You mean like this?” she asked waving it in front of his face.

“Clara Greenwich!” he said grabbing the tampon and shoving it back in her purse.

Clara giggled and shook her head. She watched as Evan’s face went bright red with embarrassment and felt mildly sorry for him.

“Is there nothing sacred left in the world?” he asked, smiling down at her.

She thought instantly of her desperate need for money and all of the things she was willing to do to get her hands on it. Her face fell and became serious again.

“No,” she said softly. “There isn’t.”

Evan fidgeted nervously. He was worried that she regretted pulling out the tampon and didn’t want her to. He liked seeing her that way—playful and happy.

Clara dug around in her purse some more until she finally located her keys.

“Clara—”

“Success at last,” she interrupted, but she didn’t sound happy about it. “I better go.”

Evan sighed and reached down to pick up her book bag. He handed it to her, and she threw it carelessly in the back seat. He wished he could have just five more minutes with her.

“See you later,” Clara said climbing into her car.

“I’ll be seeing you, Clara.”

***

She watched the two girls hovering around a rack contemplating the dresses displayed on it. She wasn’t at the register today. Instead, she was in charge of the dressing rooms and was in the process of hanging up an assortment of clothes she gathered, clothes that were thrown about haphazardly because the customers didn’t care. They knew someone would come behind them to clean up their mess.

She hated being in charge of the dressing rooms. It was heartbreaking to watch the girls walking into the rooms holding mounds of clothing items—new, trendy clothes that she couldn’t afford. They looked so eager, so happy to be trying on something new, coming out of the rooms in their shirts and dresses to stand in front of the large three-way mirror. They would scrutinize themselves, turn around and examine their bodies from all angles, say stupid things like, “God, I’m so fat!” when they were really the prettiest, luckiest girls Clara had ever seen.

Clara looked at the dresses draped over her arm and scowled. She walked towards the girls to hang them up on the rack.

“Oh my God. Tell me you’re carrying a size 0,” one of the girls said.

“Um, I don’t know. Let’s see,” Clara replied. She flipped through the dresses, and sure enough, there was a size 0. She pulled it out for the petite brunette.

“Oh my God! Oh my God! I fucking love you!” she squealed holding up the dress. “Isn’t this the most gorgeous dress you’ve ever seen? I mean, not like evening wear gorgeous, but looking-hot-at-school gorgeous.”

Clara nodded as she hung the rest of the dresses on the rack.

“Oh my God. There’s no way Evan won’t notice me now,” she continued. “Bye bye weird girl in the cafeteria. Hello sexy,” she said laughing.

Her friend nudged her hard. “Ouch!” she said irritably. “What the hell?”

Her friend motioned to Clara who had moved on to another rack but could hear every word. “That’s the weird girl,” her friend whispered.

“Huh?” the petite brunette replied. She looked over at Clara, her eyes going wide with recognition, her mouth turning up in a nasty grin. “Oh. My. God.”

“Come on, let’s go,” her friend urged, taking the brunette by the arm.

“Get off!” the brunette snapped, yanking her arm away.

“Brittany, don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Brittany asked following Clara to the dressing rooms.

“I’d like to try this on,” she said to Clara who stood at the entrance organizing stacks of clothes.

“Sure, go ahead,” Clara replied.

Brittany started walking towards an available room then stopped abruptly and turned around. “What did you and Evan talk about at lunch the other day?”

Clara looked at her confused. “I’m sorry?”

“You know. At lunch,” Brittany said. “When you paid him to walk over to you to talk to your sorry ass. What did you end up talking about? Or were you just pretending to talk? And how much did you pay him?”

Clara was dumbstruck.

Brittany strolled over to Clara and stood within inches of her.

“He would never ever in a million years touch you. So try for somebody more in your league, okay?” she said. “A nobody, like you.” She dropped the dress on the floor at Clara’s feet. “I’ve changed my mind about this dress. It’s ugly. I don’t want it.” And she walked out of the dressing room breezily, her friend following behind.

Clara could hear the friend say, “God, Brittany. You’re such a fucking bitch.”

“Whatever” was the reply.

Clara bent down to pick up the dress. She held it up, looking it over, thinking that there was no way Brittany thought it was ugly. She just wanted to drop it at Clara’s feet because she knew Clara would have to bend down to retrieve it. She was one of those girls who enjoyed seeing other people bend down to pick things up that she threw at them.

Clara’s school was filled with girls like Brittany, and she couldn’t understand why girls who appeared to have everything—good looks, pretty clothes, nice cars—were so mean. Clara thought that if she had those things she would be the happiest girl in the world, and the world would know it because she would be kind to it.

She was only semi-aware of the tears running down her cheeks. She walked to the three-way mirror and wiped at her face, taking deep breaths and trying for control. She felt mildly angry with herself for allowing someone like Brittany to hurt her feelings, but she was sensitive. And she thought that was normal. Only a person with a callous heart would be impervious to Brittany’s words. And Clara’s heart was far from callous. It was tender and wounded, bruised by her mother’s abandonment and frightened for Beatrice. She had all the right in the world to cry, and so she locked herself in a dressing room and allowed herself five minutes to fall apart.

***

Clara plopped down on the couch that evening shrouded in darkness save for the few candles on the coffee table that emitted a soft glow. She felt restless as she watched Beatrice complete her homework, her sister’s little face screwed up in concentration as she worked the math problems on her practice sheet.

“Did you finish your novel today, Clara?” Beatrice asked feeling Clara’s eyes on her.

“Huh?” Clara replied distracted.

“Your novel. The one you’ve been reading,” Beatrice clarified as her pencil moved over the paper.

Clara pulled her mass of damp hair to the side over her right shoulder and ran her fingers through it. “Yeah.”

“And did it end happily?” Beatrice asked finishing her last problem, folding the paper, and sticking it in her math book.

“All of Thomas Hardy’s books end happily,” Clara said. “That’s why I read them.”

Beatrice considered this. “Clara?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you think we live an unhappy life?”

Clara felt the bullet sear her heart. She lost her breath momentarily.

“No,” she breathed. She could barely get the word out. She tried again. “No,” she said more firmly. “We live a very happy life, Bea. It’s happy because you’re in it.”

Beatrice smiled. “I was going to say that it’s happy because
you’re
in it.”

Clara couldn’t hold it in. “I want a boyfriend, though,” she blurted out, and then in a whisper added, “I’m lonely for one.”

“I know Clara,” Beatrice replied. She lay down flat on her back on the living room floor looking at the dark ceiling.

Clara felt the sting of tears in her eyes. “And it’s terrible because I like somebody at school that I have no business liking.”

“Why?” Beatrice asked.

“Because he’s too cool for me,” Clara said sulkily.

“Clara, there’s nobody in the world who’s too cool for you,” Beatrice replied. “You just need some more confidence. You’re smart and pretty and funny, but you don’t think you’re any of those things. You get that from Mom, you know.”

Another bullet to the heart. How could Beatrice be so perceptive at ten years old? She was always telling Clara the things she didn’t want to hear but knew were true. Beatrice was too wise for her age, and her wisdom pierced Clara’s heart. Clara
was
like their mother, she had to admit. All of the insecurities came from her mother who was so beautiful and wild and passionate when she wasn’t sad. Beatrice inherited the passion. Clara was afraid she inherited all of the bad things—the sad heart, the lack of self-confidence. But Clara also knew that she wouldn’t deal with those challenges the way her mother did. She refused to sink down into depression. She refused to touch alcohol. Never in her whole life would she touch alcohol. She would never be like her mother that way.

“What’s his name?” Beatrice asked after a time.

“Who?”

“The boy you like at school?” Beatrice clarified.

“Oh.” Clara sat silent for a moment. “It doesn’t matter,” she said and leaned over to blow out the candles.

Chapter 5

Clara flew out of bed in a panic at the sound of a loud knock on the front door early Saturday morning. She bumped into Beatrice in the hallway who also jumped out of bed in a hurry.

“Are they here?” Beatrice whispered. She didn’t have to specify. She knew Clara understood that “they” meant Child Protective Services. The fear pervaded her voice.

“I don’t know,” Clara said. “I don’t know what’s going on.”

Another loud knock, and Beatrice grabbed Clara around the waist.

“It’s okay,” Clara said smoothing her sister’s hair. She gently peeled Beatrice’s arms from around her body. “I want you to go back into your room for just a minute.”

Beatrice shook her head violently.

“Please, Beatrice,” Clara said. “I’ll be right in.”

Beatrice walked back to her room grudgingly, turning back to look at Clara once. Clara had never seen Beatrice look so terrified, and she never wanted to see it again. She turned to the front door when a third knock sounded.

Very carefully, Clara pulled back the dusty curtain that hung over a horizontal window running the width of the top of the door. She pulled it back a fraction and was just tall enough to see outside if she stood on her tiptoes. She let out a sigh of relief.

It was Ms. Debbie from across the street.

“It’s okay, Bea!” Clara called. “You can come out!”

Beatrice was already by Clara’s side as she opened the door for their neighbor.

Ms. Debbie was a formidable lady, dressed in a housecoat, hair in curlers as she pushed past the girls into the living room. She took a seat on the couch and waved the girls over. Clara shut the door and walked with Beatrice into the living room. They settled themselves on the floor in front of Ms. Debbie.