Learning Not to Drown (2 page)

“Oh, Clare. I don't think so.” She answers so quickly, like she didn't even listen to what I asked.

Still. An “I don't think so” isn't a complete no.

I try again.

“But, Mom.” The knife slices effortlessly through the garlic. I stop to reposition my fingers out of the way.
“I've gotten a ton of brochures from different schools. It's confusing. I really need to see what's out there in person.”

“What about your summer job and saving for college? Don't you think that is more important?”

I knew she was going to say that.

“I called Lucille Jordan and talked to her. She says that if we choose the right time, I can have two weeks off. And if I pick up extra shifts, it won't really affect how much I earn this summer.”

Mom looks down at my cutting board. “The garlic needs to be little bit smaller.” Then, “And how much would this trip cost you? Transportation, food, lodging?”

“Ms. P said they're still working out all the details, but it won't cost too much. I don't have to worry about hotel rooms since we'll just get an extra cot for me. And she's driving, so I'd just have to pitch in for gas.”

Mom wipes her hands on the kitchen towel. “Clare Bear, I just don't see the point. There are perfectly good colleges within driving distance of here. Your money will go further if you live at home. Get your AA from the community college, like Peter. Then look at universities for the last two years. It's smarter, Clare. Don't waste your hard-earned money on a trip looking at schools we can't afford.” Her voice lowers at the end, edging on compassion. I frown. It
is
logical. Financially the smartest thing to do is to stay at home and go to the local CC. I swallow that thought and hold it for a moment, allowing it to swirl inside me. I feel queasy. Almost instantly. Living at home until I'm twenty.

I just can't do it.

I need to go on this trip. I need to get away. One last try. I take a second to compose my thoughts. Ready.

Riiiinnng.

Interrupted.

Mom hands me her wooden spoon. “Keep stirring the rice—when it's golden, add the chicken stock.” She reaches for the phone.

Maybe I can ask Dad. Maybe he could convince Mom. Yeah, right. It'll be canned lecture 101 about how there's a perfectly good school forty-five minutes away.

“Yes, I'll accept the charges,” Mom says.

It's Luke. It has to be. Who else calls collect?

The rice has turned from white to yellow, some of the grains already golden brown. Careful not to spill, I stir the chicken stock in as my mother's voice, suddenly bright, cries out, “Luke? Hi!”

I tap her on the shoulder and quietly say, “I want to say hello.” She nods. Then points my attention to the stove. Individual bubbles slowly start to rise up though the rice. Boiling now. I stir it one last time and turn the heat down, covering the pan.

“A few days early? That's wonderful! So I'll be there to pick you up on the twenty-seventh.” Back to slicing, I grab an onion, smiling. It sounds like we'll be seeing Luke sooner than expected.

“What do you mean?” Despite Mom's even tone, the vein in her forehead has surfaced. I catch her eyes for a second. She turns to face the wall, as if that will keep me from hearing the rest of her conversation. Pretending
not to listen, I cut into the onion, letting the eye-burning odor release.

“Luke, I think it's best if you come straight home. Who is this friend you're planning to stay with?”

I slice quickly, then stand back to give my eyes a break.

“What kind of work?”

There's nothing left to prepare for dinner. Wanting to stay nearby, I wash the cutting board and knife, fidgeting with drying it longer than I need to, taking in as much as I can from our kitchen side of the conversation.

“Yes, the job sounds like a good opportunity. But, Luke, don't you think it would be best to be with your family, not this so-called friend, who you don't know anything about?” I want more information. I want to hear Luke's voice and find out from
him
all the details. Cautiously I tap Mom on the shoulder. She waves me away.

I take two steps toward the living room and stop to listen as she says, “Fine. When will we see you?” She sighs. Pauses. “Stay out of trouble, and get home as soon as you can. I love you.” Another pause. “Good-bye.”

Before I even think to stop her, she hangs up the phone.

“Clare. Get back into this kitchen.” Her tone is sharp. “I did not say you were done helping me with dinner. Do you think these dishes are going to do themselves?”

I clench my jaw and return. Lower the dishwasher door and pull out the plates. The vein in her forehead is pulsating now. Any chance I had to convince her to let me go on the trip with Drea is now gone.

Mom pulls out a pan, then slams the cabinet door. She should be
happy
. Getting out early and a job lined up? Isn't that a good thing? Even if Luke can't come home right away?

She's angry enough that I probably should keep quiet, but she got to talk to Luke and I didn't.

“How's Luke?” I ask.

“Fine.” She drops the pan onto the stovetop. The clank echoes, filling the room.

“He's getting out early? That's good, right?”

“Yes.” She turns the burner on high; the flames shoot up, engulfing the steel in wisps of blue.

“When will he be home?” I dare to ask, stacking the plates as I put them away.

“Eventually.”

I'm tired of her one-word answers. “What kind of job did he get? Did he say when he was going to call back? I wanted to talk to him.” I pout.

“You can't have everything you want,” she practically yells at me. Olive oil and garlic and onions hit the pan, hissing from the heat. I clamp my mouth shut and start to load the bowls and cups piled in the sink, my own anger brewing. Mom could at least answer a few questions for me. “Speaking of which,” she continues, “you will not be going with Drea and her mother this summer. No ifs, ands, or buts. And don't even think of asking your father. The subject is closed. Finish the dishes and get out of my kitchen.”

My mother continues to bang cabinet doors and slam drawers shut as she cooks. One call from Luke
could have put Mom in a better mood, then maybe I could have convinced her to let me go on this trip. I feel my anger shifting from Mom to Luke. He set her off and ruined my chances.

On the way out of the kitchen, I make eye contact with Skeleton. He raises his hand in salutation. Just a little wave to let me know he's here. He's been watching. I ignore him and hurry to my room.

The ruckus in the kitchen slowly quiets to, at last, silence. I know the chicken is in the oven, the rice is simmering, the broccoli steaming. And I also know that Mom is now in the living room, standing in front of her Christmas ornament collection. Handcrafted by her father out of glass, silver, and crystal over open flame. Etched and tapped with fine details. Papa used the skills he had practiced for more than ten years to create the perfect five ornaments as a gift for Granny when my mother was born. And when Luke was born, Granny passed the gift along to Mom. She leaves them out on the oak bookcase to admire year-round, displayed on a graceful miniature silver tree. Just above eye level, the perfect height for Mom to be able to unhook each ornament with ease and meticulously shine it before gently rehanging each treasure. She looks insane when she does it—the ritual of laying out five different cloths and glass cleaners and vinegar, the tin of silver polish, the white gloves, the way the corners of her mouth tip up just slightly as her brow tilts down in concentration. Peter used to lick his fingers and leave a single print on each ornament. Then the two of us would bet each other
M&M's on how long it would take her to make them perfect again.

I know she is staring at all five ornaments now, noting the dust spots and smudges. She is checking her watch, maybe looking over her shoulder at the kitchen. The risk of ruining dinner will pull her away. But if Peter and I were to make a bet right now, I'd put ten M&M's down that the ornaments will be gleaming by tomorrow morning.

Sitting on my bed, I glare at the stack of college brochures on my desk. It's ridiculous that Mom won't let me go on the trip. She probably thinks that by keeping me home, I'll end up doing exactly what she wants: living here and commuting to Crappy CC or Shithole State. It's not going to happen. . . . But neither is the trip. No way will Mom change her mind. If Luke hadn't called, maybe I could have persuaded her. Or if he had called and said exactly what Mom wanted to hear: “I'm out early; I have a good job lined up and will be renting a house across the street from you, so you'll always know what I'm doing, and I've met a nice Catholic girl to marry and start a family with.” HA! Like
that
would ever happen.

My cell phone buzzes in my pocket. A text from Drea: “Still on?”

“As planned,” I text back, and toss my phone onto my bed. If Mom had said yes to the trip, I wouldn't have risked losing that opportunity by sneaking out tonight. Now . . . forget it. I'm going.

Only five hours. Five hours until I'm out of here. I hate this house and I hate my mom and I hate Luke
for calling at the wrong time.
Wrong place at the wrong time.
Luke is always in the wrong place at the wrong time. My fingers tap on my knees, little spikes of angry energy. Even watching my fish tranquilly swimming circles in my aquarium isn't doing anything to calm me down.

To quiet my hands I grab a half-knitted beanie from my bedside table and squeeze the skein of mohair yarn. Snow white to contrast with Skye's black hair. I loop the yarn over the needle and start a new row of stitches. I'll be done with hers by tonight, which leaves just Drea's and Omar's to go. It's weird, knitting hats when it's so hot, with Beanie Day so many months off. But I need to get them done now, so I can knit blankets with the leftover yarn for the kids at the shelter before the temperature drops.

The needles make a quiet click as each stitch slips off, reminding me of Granny sitting in her rocking chair when Papa was in one of his moods. Clicking and rocking—a little island of calm making something beautiful.

Click. Click. Click.
I cast off the final stitches, then go to my bookcase and grab the
Knit Slouchy Beanies
magazine I picked up at a yard sale for the pattern I'm sure Drea will love. And there was one in there that Luke might like too.

Luke. Luke will not be coming home immediately. Disappointment instantly swirls, overtaking any anger I had left. It's been so long since I've seen him. Close to four years. Couldn't he at least come home for a visit? Just a quick one? Then start his new job?

I know I'm being selfish. If Luke came home, he
could lose his opportunity. He's twenty-nine years old. He'll need to make money. Need the structure of a schedule, as my father always says.

Any job is important, but with the
right
job maybe he'll stay out of prison, Skeleton will go away, the whispers will stop, and my favorite memories of Luke will snap together perfectly with the present, making a picture I can see and understand. It sounds impossible, but I have to hope.

With the right job, this time it could be different.

Luke didn't have to work anymore, so we stayed at the lake late, wading into the water after the lifeguard had gone home. He carefully led me by the hand toward the forbidden side, the swamp.

“Mommy doesn't want me to go over here,” I said, clutching Luke's hand tighter, feeling my toes sinking deep into the mud. “And neither do the lifeguards. They blow their whistles whenever anyone gets too close.”

“Do you know why they don't want us over here?” Luke bent down, his nose touching mine.

“Because we'll drown,” I told him, looking down at the water, embarrassed. “I still can't swim.” Most of my friends could at least dog-paddle.

“You can't?” Luke asked. His mouth dropped open, like he was shocked by this information. “Well, wanna learn right now?”

“In the swamp?” I crinkled my nose. “Yuck.”

“Okay. Later. But quit worrying. I won't let you drown.” Luke gave my hand an extra squeeze.

“The truth is”—Luke led me farther into the swamp—“the best frogs are on this side of the lake. If you wanna
win the Frog-Jumping Contest, this is the place to get 'em.”

“Oohhh!” I
did
want to win. I wanted to get the first-place trophy, and the free tickets for the games booths, but mostly I wanted to be in the parade, riding in back of Lucille Jordan's fancy convertible. Mandy Jordan took all her friends for a ride on her birthday. Not me. I wasn't invited to her party. Mandy's friends said it felt like flying and that they were like movie stars. I wanted to try it too. And I could . . . if I won the Frog-Jumping Contest.

Looking around, Luke pointed out different frogs, sleeping in the muck.

“Which one is the winner?” he asked me.

I scanned the mud. Pointed at the biggest frog I saw.

“Shhh.” Luke signaled with one finger against his lip. Cautiously he lifted the frog out of the mud and into my hand. Its body was soft and slimy, and it didn't even try to get away. I watched the space under its chin get big and small, big and small. It was cute.

Once we'd waded back to shore, I carefully set the frog down on the grass. He took an instant gigantic leap, racing toward the lake. “Let's name him Speedy!” I said as Luke swooped in to pick him up just before the water's edge.

He was fast! We could win! But as I put Speedy in my beach pail, adding some reeds from the lakeside, a rock, and some muddy water, I remembered Mom.

“Won't Mommy be mad? You know she doesn't like animals.”